Crossing The Line

by Catriona King

“And dead.”

  Archibold nodded. “There’s always that. And it might happen yet, but if it does it’ll be an accident. Pojello’s not the suicidal type; he loves his family too much. They’re hard working people and really shocked at how he’s turned out. He’s got an engineering degree you know.”

  Given what they’d just heard about drains the words made Craig’s ears prick up.

  “We’ll come back to that, but just one thing before Liam goes on. You say Pojello’s not suicidal, but is there any chance Derek Smyth was?”

  “None. He was just biding his time till he got out.”

  Craig waved his deputy on again.

  “OK, so if Pojello’s so quiet, what about the assault on his sheet?”

  Archibold looked surprised. “That’s news to me; I’ve seen no signs of violence from him at all. I’d like to know the circumstances around that because it’s not the man I know.”

  It backed up the information that Davy had passed on.

  “OK. So who does he hang about with in here?”

  The guard’s answer was prefaced with a sigh. “His gang. The BMs. It stands for The Baltic Militia. There are about ten of them here, all from The Baltics, mostly Latvia. Although the militia part’s mostly exaggeration as far as I can tell. None of them were carrying guns when they were nicked, I checked.”

  Both detectives sat forward, interested. “So what are these BMs into then?”

  The question made Archibold smile. “In here? Strutting about, mouthing off and getting dodgy tattoos as far as I can see. The amount of cling film those guys nick from the kitchens to cover their fresh ones I’m surprised that the governor isn’t handing them a bill. What they get up to outside D.C.I. Hamill would be better placed to tell you than me, but my guess is it’ll be protection rackets mainly. They’re hefty lads.”

  Craig signalled to cut in. “Does Pojello ever associate with other gangs?”

  The warder looked sad. “Depends what you mean by associate. The Lithuanians are devout Catholics so there’s a religious connection there with some of the Republicans. But the Republicans don’t like drugs and Pojello loves them and most of the other addicts in here are Loyalists.”

  Liam shook his head despairingly. “So Pojello mixes with Republicans because of his religion and Loyalists because of his habit. He’s an equal opportunity lag. Does Pojello have any specific Loyalist mates?”

  “He did, but he’s dead now. It was Derek Smyth.”

  Craig frowned at the revelation and asked a question. “Is there any overlap between The BM members and the far-right gangs?”

  Archibold shook his head emphatically. “No. I’ve heard of that mix with the Eastern Europeans but never the northern ones like The BMs. Although... as the Loyalists and far-right hang out together, the shooting galleries are basically a melting pot.”

  ‘Shooting gallery’ was a term sometimes used to describe an area where people took IV drugs.

  Craig waved his deputy on again and rested back in his chair.

  “What can you tell us about Pojello and the drone drop in May?”

  The guard chuckled. “I heard that he went away empty handed. I wasn’t here then, but when Pojello was caught and sanctioned for it the word was that he was just an addict wanting to get high.”

  “Nothing more? He wasn’t planning on dealing?”

  “Oh aye, he was probably planning on doing a bit of that too. There’s a lot of kudos attached to being the one who holds the sweeties inside a prison. But my understanding is that the drone was really small so it wasn’t carrying much, so even if the drop had been successful it wouldn’t have given Pojello a lot to deal.”

  Small enough to pass through a drain?

  Liam was sceptical. “Unless it was just a practice run?”

  It was a very good point and made Craig sit up straight again.

  Archibold shrugged.

  “Security was tightened up after it so there haven’t been any drops here in my time. And I’ve never heard Pojello described as a drug kingpin, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He looked thoughtful. “I can tell you that what you found in Derek Smyth’s cell was the biggest stash found here in the past year.”

  Craig wasn’t convinced. “That might just mean they’re good at hiding stuff. Has there been any increase in the number of addicts around?”

  The guard shook his head. “No. Just the usuals like Smyth and Pojello.”

  “Not Jimmy Morris?”

  Archibold sniggered. “God no. He’s a fitness freak, one of those ‘I have the body of a very skinny but muscular God’ types. The man’s never out of the bloody gym.”

  Another drain they had to make sure got checked.

  “Mind you, he smokes as many cigs as he can find. I’ve never understood that.”

  He laughed at the incongruity of a gym bunny smoking, but the detectives had seen it before when Aidan had still been smoking twenty a day.

  Liam had another question. “If Morris was Decker Smyth’s deputy what exactly did that mean in here?”

  “Nothing much, except you saw them together a lot. I always got the impression that Joyboy didn’t like Smyth because of his drug habit and Smyth thought Joyboy was beneath him, but the UKUF powers that be had insisted they pair up.”

  Craig turned to his D.C.I.. “Which means they most likely had access to each other as needed.”

  “I see where you’re going. You think Morris would’ve been in and out of Smyth’s cell.” He looked at the guard. “Was he?”

  “Oh, aye, a lot. Although Joyboy would’ve disappeared any time the drugs came out.”

  “Which means he could have known where Smyth kept his stash.”

  “Maybe. But addicts are protective of their goodies, so my guess is that Decker would have kept moving it around. Joyboy mightn’t have known exactly where it was in the cell.”

  Or else he might have.

  Craig smiled; Joyboy Morris was growing more interesting by the minute.

  “Liam, can you think of anything else we need to ask before we let the sergeant go?”

  “Just one thing.” He stared hard at the man opposite. “Did you just step into a natural vacancy or was the other guy moved to get you in?”

  Archibold smiled at the implication. “You must think my boss has a lot more clout than he has. No, Jerome Tomelty, that’s the warder I replaced, had wanted to leave and join the harbour police for ages...”

  The mention of the harbour made both detectives twitch and Craig began to make mental notes of issues he needed researched: Jerome Tomelty’s job at the harbour police, Joyboy Morris’ position in UKUF, existing drones small enough to pass through drains, Filip Pojello’s engineering skills, and who else on the outside but McCrae could be mysteriously pulling the strings.

  Brian Archibold was still speaking.

  “If D.C.I. Hamill did do anything to get me in here, he might just have had a word in the ear of the Bulkies’ chief officer to speed up Tomelty’s move...”

  Bulky was an affectionate nickname for the Harbour Police, given to them by the young children who’d once played around the docks in the early part of the twentieth century because of their imposing size.

  “...but there must already have been a vacancy. They couldn’t have kicked someone out of their job there just to squeeze Tomelty in.”

  Craig was just getting ready to wrap up when there was a quiet tap on the door. He motioned Archibold into the corner behind it and then opened it a crack, relieved when he saw George Royston standing there and not their next interviewee.

  “I’ve got something you need to see, Superintendent. Please come with me.”

  Craig nodded. “I’ll join you in your office in a minute, Governor. I just need to wrap up here.”

  Wrapping up entailed him returning to the room to thank Brian Archibold for his time, as well as entreating the man to watch his back just in case someone put two and two together and realised he was a cop.

  A short tim
e later the murder detectives were knocking on the governor’s office door and they were surprised when he opened it and walked out past them, beckoning them to follow. After five minutes of speeding through corridors where inmates parted like the Red Sea as soon as Royston appeared, causing Liam to murmur, “You should get some of whatever he has, boss, and you might get less cheek from the team,” they arrived at a high-ceilinged workshop so large that they couldn’t see its back wall, which made Liam wonder which part of the building they were in. He hadn’t thought the Victorian pile big enough to contain such a place, unless...

  As his mind drifted off to Tardis-like speculation, Craig gestured to a row of aprons and goggles suspended from pegs along one wall.

  “You’re well equipped, Governor.”

  Royston turned to face them with a look of pride on his face, although it was tinged with a hint of embarrassment and they were about to find out why.

  “This is our Trade Hall. We teach a variety of things here: metalwork, woodwork, plumbing and so on, and we’ve had many men leave as qualified carpenters, electricians, even a motor mechanic or two. We vet the inmates who are allowed in here very carefully. We trust them...”

  As his voice quietened and his face sagged Craig nodded in sympathy.

  “And someone has betrayed that trust. Show us what you’ve found, please.”

  As the governor moved to do so he added all the caveats that Craig had expected. “We can’t be sure this is... well, you understand it might just be...”

  When they reached an area near the back of the substantial space they saw the stripped-down chassis of a car elevated several feet off the floor on a hydraulic ramp. Craig moved closer and peered into the dug-out mechanics’ pit beneath it.

  “That’s where the man stands when he’s working on a car?”

  The governor nodded glumly. “Yes. I had this car raised so that I could show you something.”

  “A drain?”

  Another nod.

  “The initial search of the drains revealed nothing obvious anywhere in the kitchens, showers or gym. They all checked as clear and none of their grates had been tampered with.”

  He gestured glumly towards the pit. “Then I remembered hearing that there was an old drain here many years ago that had been moved.” An embarrassed blush tinged his cheeks. “It wasn’t marked on the plans I gave the searchers because that version was drawn afterwards.”

  Royston pointed straight into the pit. “When the building was still a workhouse the original drain was down there, but when it was decided by an earlier governor to introduce mechanic training and dig a pit he had an accessory drain opening installed over there.” He pointed to the far side of the hall. “For accessibility.”

  His blush deepened. “In an attempt to be helpful I very foolishly gave the search team our more modern building plans for their searches, not the older version showing the original drain that your analyst had sent through.”

  More modern plans that no-one had bothered lodging with Belfast’s Planning Service or Davy would have found them as well.

  Royston walked across to a hanging control switch and pressed a large green button, raising the hydraulic ramp further until it was at head height.

  “We need to check down there, of course, but,” he patted his ample stomach, “it’s probably best if one of you does that.”

  An immediate, “Oh no, you don’t” and a shake of the head from his deputy told Craig that he was going in himself. He slipped off his jacket, handed it to his second and lowered himself gingerly into the pit, not out of caution but in the knowledge that his shirt might get covered in oil and it had been a present from Katy only a week before.

  Once inside the sunken space he abandoned all caution and hunkered down, trying not to think about the two tons of steel dangling ominously above his head.

  “Does anyone have a torch?”

  “Oh aye,” Liam held open his suit jacket pointedly, “cause I’m always hiding a bloody big one in my pocket just in case.”

  Thankfully Royston came to the rescue, rushing across to a workbench and bringing a large one back.

  “Shine it down here, will you.”

  After a few seconds of the light being pointed everywhere but the pit’s base the governor found his bearings and followed Craig’s instructions to start at one end of the space and scan the beam slowly from side to side moving down. They were rewarded by a flash as the torchlight glinted off something that seemed far too bright to be in an oily pit. A quick inspection by Craig revealed that it was the edge of something metal on the ground.

  “Is there anything up there that I can scrape this dirt away with? And a cloth?” He glanced down at the black gunge already embedding itself beneath his nails and added, without much hope, “A pair of gloves would be good as well. Liam, there are some latex ones in my pocket.”

  As Royston went to look, Liam ran commentary, shaking his head.

  “Ach, stop being a big girl, you don’t need gloves. A wee bit of dirt never hurt anyone.”

  “Come down here then and I’ll make sure you get some.”

  Liam’s retort never hit the air because the governor returned with a flat metal putty knife and a roll of kitchen towel.

  “Sorry, I could only see the padded gloves belonging to the woodwork section, and you wouldn’t want to get those covered in oil. They cost us a fortune.”

  Craig’s response was an expletive, but he grudgingly took the tools and got on with the job, hunkering down again to alternately scrape and wipe away ribbons of dirt and oil until he had revealed six inches of silver-grey metal that formed the unmistakably straight edge of a grate.

  Further cautious wiping revealed a screw at one corner indented with bright scrapes and marks, saying that it had recently been turned several times by a sharp implement.

  Royston’s eyes widened. “They lifted the grate!”

  Liam concurred. Then he shook his head, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Man, you’ve got to hand it to these buggers. They’re inventive.”

  Craig’s voice emerged from the pit. “Pity they couldn’t put their inventiveness to a less criminal use.”

  “Thank you, Pope Marc.”

  As Craig laughed the governor sighed heavily, his voice acquiring a resigned tone. “The problem is that the men have too much free time to make mischief. We try to keep them occupied but there’s only so much you can do with encouragement, and we can’t force them to take part in activities.”

  Liam stared wistfully into the distance. “I always favoured chain gangs myself. Get them out there fixing the potholes. Lots of fresh air and the whole country benefits.”

  Royston gave a nervous laugh. “I’ll introduce you to their lawyers.”

  Craig was growing less and less happy about the car above his head so he reached up an arm to his deputy for help to get out. Liam gave it reluctantly, staring down at his own now oil-covered paws and then ostentatiously scanning the room for some Swarfega with a loud tut.

  “If my suit gets ruined I’m putting it on expenses.”

  Craig rolled his eyes. “And doubling the price that it cost you no doubt.”

  As his deputy went in search of cleanliness he turned to the governor.

  “We’ll need that car moved and the whole pit hosed down so we can see clearly, but I’m pretty sure that grate has been screwed off recently. We’ll need to check the threads to see how often, and get the drains snaked with fibre-optics to take a look inside.”

  Royston shook his head hastily. “I can certainly arrange the cleaning, but we’ve no fibre-optic equipment here.”

  Seeing that his deputy had found a sink and was holding a tub of something chemical looking in his newly pristine hands, Craig walked towards him, still speaking as he did.

  “Don’t worry about that, our forensic people will bring it. I want to see if there’s anything inside that drain to support the theory that it was the smugglers’ way in. I’ll make the call as soon as
my hands are clean, if you could arrange the other stuff and have the hall sealed off.”

  As the governor disappeared to arrange things, Liam held the tub out to Craig at arm’s length.

  “No offence, but you need a shower, boss. You smell like the inside of my petrol tank.”

  Craig didn’t waste time asking how he could possibly know that and set about his task, but getting any part of him clean except his hands and face, Liam having cheerfully pointed out that he’d managed to smear oil on his six o’clock shadow by calling him Blackbeard, was a lost cause.

  After a full minute of scrubbing he turned to his deputy for inspection.

  “Will I do for a couple more interviews?”

  Liam considered him like a head teacher would a particularly dirty child, and then gave a shrug. “Button your jacket up and you’ll be OK. Except for the smell. That’s really bad.”

  He didn’t duck fast enough to avoid the slap around the head coming his way.

  ****

  Cookstown. County Tyrone.

  By four o’clock the small group of police officers, headed by Fliss Kehoe, had managed to struggle through a translated conversation of such detail that Andy Angel had a sore head. But by the end of it they’d learned that the elderly Latvian leader, Andris Jansons, worked with his counterparts in the other communities to help their constituents get jobs, wade their way through the labyrinthan maze of housing and benefit applications, and most importantly to keep their young people safe.

  The community leader had been eager to help, and forthcoming about everything until they’d reached the question of drugs. At that point he had lapsed into silence and repeated head-shaking that had left them puzzled as to whether drugs just weren’t a problem in the community, or they were such a problem that he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

  They were back in the car before the local D.C.I. enlightened them.

  “That was sad. Andris couldn’t bear to talk about it because they lost two youngsters to drug overdoses last year, and in a community this small that really leaves a mark.”

  Andy turned towards her, looking for elaboration.

  “How young?”