‘You have one: James.’
‘He was.’
I carried on reading.
Carrick arrived at the rectory about half an hour later – he lives fairly close by – and admitted that Joanna having decided to have an early night the invitation to have a dram had appealed, a lot.
‘It’s not just about whisky,’ I warned him as both men came into the living room, Patrick having answered the door.
‘It never is,’ the DCI lamented. ‘When people lure Scotsmen with strong drink they usually want them to dig out their skein dhu and polish up the claidheamh mór.’
‘Do you really have a claymore?’ I asked.
‘Regrettably, no.’
‘Dad has his great-great-great-uncle Bertram’s sabre that he used when he fought alongside General Gordon at Khartoum,’ Patrick observed when they each had a glass in their hand.
‘Did an English sword save him against spears?’
‘No.’
‘Thought not.’
‘Have you questioned David Bennett?’ I asked.
‘He wasn’t at home and a neighbour said he thought he’d gone away. If he doesn’t turn up very soon and has done a runner I shall put out a warrant for his arrest.’ He surveyed Patrick appraisingly. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I need insider knowledge from snouts, undercover people and all relevant parties as to where women, including Alexandra Nightingale, are being kept prisoner, having been very recently moved from somewhere else, by people running some kind of vice ring.’
‘She’s being held captive?’ Carrick said in astonishment.
‘It would appear so. She rang her one-time boyfriend from a derelict building in Woolwich. It’s being searched now and, like the place in Boyles Road, there are signs of recent habitation and discarded women’s clothing.’
Carrick turned to me. ‘You thought she was running something like that.’
‘It looks as though something’s gone horribly wrong.’
‘Could it be a con though? – the woman appears to be a real besom.’
‘Even I can’t imagine she’d go to the lengths of getting inside a potentially dangerous building due for demolition just to get her ex in a flap.’
‘Greenway says wait until forensics come up with something, perhaps Monday,’ Patrick put in. ‘If they know that the police aren’t far behind them these people might kill the evidence and take the first plane out.’
‘Do we know anything at all about them?’
Patrick gave him what information there was about Stefan Jabowitz, aka Steven Harris, adding that nothing was known about the man who attacked me at Boyles House, the other man called Fred who worked there nor anyone else who might be involved.
‘Trying to sort this out yourself is all very well but you’re not working for MI5 now,’ James pointed out soberly.
‘Sorry, I’m really fed up with people saying that to me. Richard Daws recruited me for SOCA because he thought I had something to offer. Greenway’s lost sight of that fact.’
‘He might actually be dead worried that you’ll overdo it and be ill again.’
‘Ingrid said that, but I’m fine now. Are you going to help me, or not?’
‘It’s a while since I trod the streets of London.’
‘I’m sure your buddies up there still keep you abreast of events in case any scumbags head for the West Country.’
Carrick took an appreciative sip of his single malt. ‘Getting on the phone right now wouldn’t be a lot of use and I don’t have mobile numbers for the people I’m thinking of, who might not even have mobiles anyway. We’d have to go there and drag them out of their rat holes, those who are still alive and not in prison or helping with enquiries, that is.’
Patrick looked at me.
‘This is your operation,’ I said.
‘I was going to say that I don’t think you ought to come with us.’
‘No, this time I’m quite happy for you to go without me,’ I replied, not entirely truthfully. ‘You can both watch out for one another. I shall be here if you need me to do anything.’
‘We can take my car,’ Carrick said. ‘Unlike SOCA advisers I can’t afford a big posh motor.’
‘Are you sure?’ Patrick asked him. ‘I’d have a problem driving yours but you could drive mine.’
‘A Range Rover’s too conspicuous for the places we’re going. It would be gone as soon as we’d turned our backs. D’you want to set off now?’
‘After an hour’s kip perhaps.’
‘I shall need to go home for some rough gear and to tell Joanna.’
Then, after exchanging sorrowful glances they both sighed and carefully poured the rest of their whisky back in the bottle.
I went to bed, for some reason needing to distance myself from what was going on. The only way I can explain this is to compare men like Patrick – and James for that matter, who worked undercover when he was in the Vice Squad – to cats; when you let them out they go to the wild side. This does not usually manifest itself when we work together although on the occasions when it has, when events have turned very nasty indeed, it can be the stuff of nightmares. It is perfectly true that the presence of women has a gentling effect on their menfolk but, frankly, they do not necessarily want it. Not if they are to get the job done. Therefore, I did not want to be around when Patrick collected an overnight bag from the Range Rover and put into it anything else he might need because he would be that other person, the one with the murderous glint in his eyes.
That he was upset by what appeared to be happening to Alexandra I found perfectly understandable, it would be ghastly for any woman. It was a relief not to feel remotely jealous about Patrick’s decision, my only reservation being that if it did turn out to be a hoax then I would indeed yearn for her boiled-down bones to be fed to hyenas.
They went: I heard Carrick’s car return and then depart again. Selfishly, I was rather hoping they would achieve something meaningful before the weekend was out or I would have some difficult explaining to do to Commander Greenway. At this point I must have dropped off to sleep for I awoke with a start, nerves jangling, when the phone rang at just after midnight.
‘Has he gone?’ Greenway asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’m learning, aren’t I?’
‘He has DCI Carrick with him.’
‘That’s good news. Don’t worry, if they’re not back by then I’ll get on to Carrick’s boss first thing on Monday and tell him I’ve requisitioned him for a job.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Dunno, I’ll find out. Please let me know what’s going on – the last person Patrick’ll contact is me.’
I found myself admiring Greenway enormously.
SIXTEEN
The next morning, having not really slept after Greenway’s call, I mentally consigned writing to a bottom drawer and threw myself into domesticity and innocent family matters, beginning by giving Carrie an unexpected day off. Perhaps Patrick had been right and I was trying to cut myself into too many pieces already, never mind taking on restoring a house.
‘I wish I could go with Unc— Dad on some of his assignments,’ Matthew said wistfully when he, Katie and Justin were having their breakfast. Vicky had woken early, as she tended to, been given a bowl of porridge sweetened with honey and promptly gone back to sleep on the sofa in the living room.
‘I want to!’ Justin yelled through a mouthful of boiled egg.
‘Don’t shout,’ Katie scolded. Lately, she seemed to have taken it upon herself to curb his noisier excesses. I found this quite amusing, and helpful, but made no comment – that’s what big sisters are for, isn’t it?
In an unfamiliar and happy mumsy glow I joined them with my buttered toast around the big farmhouse kitchen table saying to Matthew, ‘It’s not like the police shows on TV, not just exciting chases and always getting their man. Quite boring for most of the time really.’
‘I know. But I could help him. Someone
my age wouldn’t be noticed by crooks if I was watching a place. They’d say, “It’s just a stupid kid.” I can do stupid.’ And proceeded to look very stupid indeed, setting Katie laughing.
‘Tell Mum how you found out who had pinched Tom’s pens and stuff at school,’ she urged. ‘Just by staring at the boy you thought had done it until he panicked and threw them back.’
‘You just have,’ Matthew whispered. ‘It’s nothing to brag about.’
This shook me to the core. It had never entered my head that he was like his uncle. No, stupid me; he looks very much like him at that age, as family photos prove and while Elspeth always says that Justin is exactly like his father as a child, being noisy, a show-off and naughty, here was another version, the clever bit.
‘You have to be very good with people,’ I said. ‘Know when suspects are lying, be able to get to the truth, be sympathetic with victims of crime but a bit horrible to people you know are guilty.’
‘He went off with DCI Carrick last night, didn’t he?’ Matthew went on, raising an eyebrow questioningly in the direction of one of my pieces of toast. ‘May I?’
I gave it to him and got up to make some more. So he possessed that mannerism as well.
‘I heard a car and looked out. I like James,’ Matthew went on. ‘He did say I could call him James. I just wish I could have . . .’ His voice petered out unhappily.
‘They’ll have gone somewhere nasty,’ Katie said matter-of-factly. ‘Otherwise they wouldn’t have gone in the middle of the night.’
‘How do you know they weren’t driving to London for a rugby match at Twickenham this afternoon?’ I enquired.
Matthew shook his head. ‘There are no matches there today.’
‘You thought of that then?’ I went on to ask, hearing the incredulity in my tone.
‘Yes, we were talking about it this morning. We know James plays rugby. He’s going to coach me when I start playing, but it can’t be that.’ Matthew regarded me brightly. ‘So they went to London?’
‘I can’t discuss it with you, I’m afraid.’
‘That might have to be today’s mystery then,’ Katie announced.
‘You have mysteries?’ I said, feeling that showing an interest would mitigate my negative response.
‘We work on them most days,’ she answered. ‘But if they’re not solved quickly they can go on for weeks until we either get an answer or put them in the question mark file.’
‘Mysteries such as what?’ I wheedled.
Eyes bright with enthusiasm she said, ‘Did you know that the man who digs the graves with that machine thing has a girlfriend and they smoke pot in the hut in the churchyard where the grass-cutting tools are kept?’
‘No,’ I said evenly.
‘We think they do other things in there too.’
‘Katie!’ Matthew hissed.
‘And there’s a wholesale butcher’s delivery-man . . .’ She broke off and asked Matthew, ‘Wholesale? Is that right?’
‘Wholesale,’ he confirmed.
‘Who often parks his lorry by the pub, takes a whole load of meat in and comes out with crates of beer and several bottles of whisky.’
‘That must have a perfectly logical explanation,’ I said.
She was unabashed. ‘Right now we’re working on the case of the man in the black Mercedes who’s been just sitting in it at the top of the village.’
I went cold. ‘When did you first notice him?’
‘Just before you had your accident. Then he disappeared. But he’s back now, we saw him yesterday on the way home from school.’
‘I suppose you didn’t get the registration.’
‘We did. I’ll get the case file,’ Matthew said and left the room.
I must have looked at Katie a bit wildly for she said, ‘We’re very careful when we’re operating. Just stupid kids, hanging out.’
Matthew came back with a red folder, explained that they were colour-coded depending on the perceived degree of potential seriousness – only he didn’t use such long words – and opened it to reveal a single sheet of neatly printed information.
‘May I have a look?’ I asked.
He passed it over.
Noted down were the dates and times when they had seen it, where the vehicle had been parked, and the registration. Fantastically, there was also a description of the driver as he had got out of the car to stretch his legs.
‘This might be important,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘Is it all right for me to take a copy of it?’
They were delighted.
‘And you must promise me, really promise, that you won’t, under any circumstances, go near this car again or even watch it from a distance. If it does have a bearing on a case Patrick told me about then you’ll very likely risk the outcome of the investigation. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ they said in unison.
‘Promise?’
They promised.
‘We’d better make it the rubbish dumping in the lane job then,’ Katie was saying as they left the kitchen. ‘Look for names and addresses in it. Oh,’ she put her head around the door. ‘If we just happen to spot the car when we’re around do you want to know?’
‘Don’t happen to be anywhere near where it was. And wear my gardening gloves if you’re handling rubbish.’
Feeling a bit weak and picturing broken glass, used syringes, razor blades and tin cans, I glared at Justin who immediately stopped what he was doing, smearing spilt egg yoke more widely over the front of his clean-on teeshirt.
‘Ever seen Daddy do that?’ I asked grimly of him.
He nodded solemnly and then gave me Patrick’s lovely smile.
The description did not match that of the man who had attacked me in Boyles House so, whatever the truth of Alexandra’s past or present circumstances, she was a three-yob woman, at least. This one was fifty to sixty years of age, grey-haired but balding, of medium height and had appeared to be wearing a lot of gold jewellery. I sent the information listed on the sheet of A4, exactly as it was, to Greenway’s work email address, there was no point in bothering him with it at home. I knew that his mobile was never switched off except when he was on holiday, presumably taken on an Antarctic ice shelf, but was determined to contact him only as a last resort. Having access to vehicle records I set about finding out to whom the Mercedes belonged. Anything I found out could be relayed to Patrick.
The car was registered to one Romano Descallier, his address in Berkshire. I ran the information through crime records and discovered that this gaming club and wine bar proprietor – he owned several businesses in London – had served twelve months for demanding money with menaces in his youth but had since matured sufficiently to be charged with tax evasion, GBH, of which he was cleared on account of witnesses failing to turn up in court, a hit and run offence for which he lost his licence and served two years, culminating in driving whilst disqualified and assaulting a police officer. This case was still on the book as he had jumped bail.
‘So he’s another one who’s fallen through holes in the system,’ I muttered.
After checking on my family, Mark asleep in his pram in the garden just outside the window, Vicky awake but still on the sofa in the next room playing happily with her three Teddies, Justin in the dining room with me crawling around the floor with toy cars and spittily making all the sound effects, the elder two presumably picking over someone’s rubbish, I rang Alan Kilmartin.
Why did my heart still thump madly every time I heard his voice?
‘Did Alexandra ever mention a man by the name of Romano Descallier?’ I asked when we had exchanged greetings and I had told him that Patrick and the Met police were working on the phone call he had received from her.
‘Yes, she did. He was one of her clients.’
‘He may well be involved. Do you know what kind of staff she supplied him with?’
‘A butler, a nanny, I think, plus other people like gardeners and cleaners. It seems he was very fussy – a
lways sacking his staff on excuses that Alex said were downright flimsy.’
‘It doesn’t sound as though she liked him.’
‘He infuriated her but – and I might be quite wrong here – I think, on the quiet, she came to quite fancy him, perhaps on account of his being loaded.’
I filed that snippet away and said, ‘Do you know if she ever went to his house?’
‘We both did. We were invited to a Christmas bash one year.’
‘Look, I know you’re terribly busy but—’
‘I’m not, it’s Saturday and anyway there’s nothing pressing.’
‘Would you write down what you can remember about this man, his home, any family, everything you noticed, and email it to me?’
‘It might be easier for me to come over – that’s if you don’t mind. I can do you a drawing of the place and a rough plan of the room layout as well if that might be useful to the police. He insisted on showing everyone round – a complete poser if you ask me.’
‘Please do, but as Patrick’s parents have gone out for the day I have full charge of five children.’
‘Oh, I like kids.’
I then went into panic mode over what I could give everyone for lunch.
I need not have worried. From the moment he walked through the door carrying a large cardboard tube that contained sheets of drawing paper everything was in hand. First, we lunched on jacket potatoes with various fillings and salad followed by what was left of a large home-made chocolate gateau that Elspeth had won in a village raffle and had begged me to help them finish. Then, while I quickly tidied up, Alan Kilmartin spread a few sheets of paper on the kitchen table, together with some professional felt-tip pens in the most fantastic colours I had ever seen and got the three eldest busily designing their dream houses. Having already told me that his two sisters had babies he then dandled Mark, who had been squalling, on his knee. Vicky, bless her sweet little soul, was still having a quiet day, had eaten a large lunch and was, once again, asleep on the sofa.
We took our coffee, and Mark, into the dining room where I cleared a corner of my desk and Alan got to work.
‘How do you write in here?’ he broke off to ask. ‘There must be far too many distractions.’
Corpse in Waiting Page 19
