His mind went back to the day that June when a weasel of a man had approached him outside a bookies, after he’d dumped five hundred quid on the last race of the day bringing his losses to over a grand, money that he had no idea how he was going to pay. The man hadn’t given his name, just asked if he would like to wipe what he owed and foolishly he’d said yes, starting a much bigger game that he couldn’t get out of, his role in it to help the man’s friend inside Mahon Prison run a little business of his own. To smuggle in drugs so that Derek Smyth and his crony could deal them, and later, to help import their supplies at the docks. His lowest point had come when he’d started helping, dealing the filth on the street himself. All for money, all for his gambling habit and the risk taking that he’d become addicted to.
Jerome Tomelty shook his head dolefully, looking at where he had ended up. He’d heard about Pojello’s death that afternoon, soon after it had happened, so now he was on his own. It left him with a dilemma; was there any point picking up tonight’s shipment if there was no-one left alive to deal it inside? Also, someone had objected very badly to Smyth’s and Pojello’s little enterprise and they must have guessed there was an outside man, so on the off-chance that they didn’t have his name he shouldn’t take the risk of advertising it by taking delivery of tonight’s drugs.
On the other hand... it was a big shipment; enough to set him up somewhere warm for life. The fact that the policeman was even considering carrying on with the venture said everything about his desperate need for risk.
While Tomelty was ruminating and drinking, Craig and his men were secreting themselves around the cargo mooring points at Belfast Docks and waiting for the harbour policeman to clock-on for work. Forty-five minutes later there was still no sign of him and they were watching as their suspect ship pulled into its safe harbour and anchored, and then as its crew dropped the gangway to the dockside and men readied themselves to unload the cargo crowding its deck and hold.
Craig watched the sailors intently for a minute and then whispered beneath his breath.
“That bearded guy at the end, Liam. The young one.”
Liam rearranged his long legs, seeking respite from the pins and needles numbing them in their cramped hiding place.
“I’d be far better off being short, you know.”
Craig ignored the moan and repeated his words, this time receiving a, “Aye, he looks suspicious. Like he’s waiting for someone. Look, there, he’s checking out the end of the harbour.”
“That’s the direction Tomelty will come from, if he turns up at all now.”
The D.C.I. peered at him through the darkness, trying to assess his expression. “I bloody hope you’re joking, boss, because if I’ve been stuck here all-”
“Do I sound like I‘m joking? Tomelty should have been here ages ago. I think someone’s tipped him off.” He pulled a radio from his pocket and pressed the button, listening for a moment before complaining, “The reception’s rubbish here. Keep your eye on that crewman. I’m shifting over there.”
After a ten foot shuffle and some knob twiddling he found a better signal and radioed Andy White. He was hunkering behind a car with Max Harding , who’d insisted on coming along with his officers not trusting anyone else to lead.
“Andy, get to Harbour Police Headquarters and check if Tomelty came on duty. He should have been here by now and we’ve a sailor acting as if he’s expecting someone who hasn’t turned up. Radio me back once you know.”
Fifteen minutes later several containers had been unloaded and Liam, who’d donned the night-sights that he always carried in his boot, along with half of the local toyshop in case his kids got bored on long trips, was convinced that their lookout was hovering around one container in particular. He was just about to semaphore Craig with the information when the radio crackled quietly to life.
“Marc. Marc?”
Craig answered in a whisper. “What have you got, Andy?”
“Tomelty didn’t turn up for work. He must have got suspicious.”
Craig went to say, “Damn” but then stopped himself, thinking quickly. Tomelty’s no-show wouldn’t be a complete tragedy if they didn’t make it one.
“OK. Give me Harding.” He heard the radio being passed across. “Officer Harding, we’re pretty sure that we’ve isolated a contact from the ship.” He saw Liam motioning suddenly and said, “Hang on”, mouthing “what?” at his deputy and then following the direction of his pointing finger to a large green container.
Giving a thumbs-up, Craig whispered into the radio again. “And possibly even some contraband. How would you feel about leading a spot inspection?”
Even though no-one could see him in the darkness Harding preened himself and gave his hair a pat before replying, “I’m good with that. OK, for procedure I need you to confirm the name of the vessel, where you believe the contraband’s located and describe the possible contact.”
Craig shuffled across to his D.C.I. and passed him the radio, to relay the container number and the rest. When he took it back it was to delegate.
“Andy. Would you run this bit? Everyone’s armed in case things get nasty. We’ll hang around till you’ve cuffed the suspect and the ship’s captain then we’re heading to Tomelty’s house to see if he’s still alive.”
“Sure. I’ll call you with whatever we find.”
Ten minutes and a lot of scuffling and shouting in Slavic languages later and their bearded lookout was on his knees in cuffs, with the ship’s older, and Craig thought, bewildered looking captain, although of course that could have been an act, similarly constrained by his side on the dock. By the time the murder detectives left, the rest of the crew were being herded into a safe area and the cargo seized, and all without a shot being fired.
After twenty more minutes Craig and Liam were in Jerome Tomelty’s small living room, the harbour police officer still breathing and seated opposite them, having summoned up enough common sense from somewhere not venture to the docks that night in search of his last big deal.
Craig was armed with the knowledge that already one hundred kilograms of imported drugs, most of them medications that were household names had been seized from the ship, with more still being discovered, although sadly the Latvian sailor who’d been on look out wasn’t giving anything or anyone up and the ship’s captain was protesting his complete innocence of what had been going on.
Why couldn’t people just make their job easy for once? But no, the man standing in front of them was also trying for innocence, this time definitely fake, telling them a sad tale of how he’d been feeling too sick to go to work that night, an illness that appeared to have no signs or symptoms since Tomelty didn’t even have the wit to fake a cough.
Liam wasn’t having it.
“So why didn’t you call in sick then? Instead of just not turning up.”
The harbour policeman tried to look contrite but it was a struggle aborted by a smirk, him having worked out a minute after they’d arrived that the detectives were there on a fishing expedition and so far had nothing but their suspicions to actually link him to any crime.
Craig knew it too, although he was still hoping that the sailor would squeal or Davy would work some magic with the phone providers and produce an incriminating text or snippet of a conversation between Tomelty and Derek Smyth.
Truthfully he wasn’t holding out much hope of it; they didn’t yet live in a blanket surveillance state, which was good, or bad, depending on your position, and even if they’d found Tomelty’s mobile number on Smyth’s SIM, without hearing what had been said by the men it wouldn’t have proved a thing. Unlikely as it sounded, Derek Smyth could simply have been calling his old prison guard occasionally for emotional support, although he knew that any suggestion of such a thing would see Liam doubling up.
A second smirk from Tomelty irritated Craig so much that he curled his fists.
“Don’t look so smug, Officer Tomelty. Just because we don’t have the evidence to arrest you now does
n’t mean that we won’t find some soon.”
But Tomelty was a man who felt as if he’d been given back his future so nothing that Craig could say was going to drag him down. Although...
“And remember that your two partners, Pojello and Smyth, are dead, and whoever ordered them dead is still out there, so I wouldn’t be making any long term plans.”
Craig knew that the words wouldn’t elicit a confession but he did get rewarded by a satisfyingly loud gulp that made Liam smile.
“Aw, is diddums worried now, is he? Would you like us to protect you from the nasty men?” The D.C.I. crossed his arms. “OK then, we’ll protect you. All you have to do is confess that you were smuggling drugs into the country and giving them to your two mates to deal inside Mahon while you did the same out here.”
A brazen smile on the harbour policeman’s face was all Liam got for his trouble, although Tomelty was thinking again about taking a lengthy trip abroad, especially now that they’d got his contact from the ship in custody. After another minute’s stand-off, Craig ended the discussion with, “We’ll be back when your sailor friend talks,” then he turned on his heel and headed for the front door, not even bothering to tell the harbour cop not to leave the country; if Tomelty wanted to do it then he was quite sure that he’d find a smuggler’s route.
The most frustrating thing was that unless the sailor gave up Tomelty they couldn’t arrest him, and no judge would issue a warrant based on what they had so they couldn’t search his house and car; the man could have had ten kilos of coke and a pile of drones stuffed in his kitchen cupboard and they might never know.
Craig’s frustration needed an outlet, so without even asking if Liam wanted to go with him he drove to the nearest late bar, where the two detectives hammered the booze hard until it closed.
****
Garvan’s Bookies. Wednesday. 7 a.m.
“Bastard!”
It was unusually bad language from Hugh Bellner, at least as far as Rory McCrae was concerned, and it made him simultaneously press himself back against his seat and rush to his own defence.
“We waited fer Tomelty, honest, but he jest niver turned up. I went along in the van myself.” He gave a disgruntled snort. “Sat fer so many hours in the freezing cold, I almost got a chilblain on my ass.”
“Screw your cold, and screw you!” The Lithuanian lurched forward across the desk. “I needed that delivery. More than that, I need Tomelty’s imports and contacts at the docks for the future.”
McCrae tried for a reassuring smile, which emerged like rictus. “But sure, we can lift Tomelty any time an’ give him a good hidin’, an’ he’ll be eager as anythin’ to help us out. Tammara’s another day.”
Bellner was tempted to slag him about the Scarlett O’Hara rip-off and then decided that actually his idea wasn’t bad. But it was an idea that would have to wait until that evening’s trial in the clubs was over. Then he would know the likely demand for his new product and force Jerome Tomelty to smuggle for them in bulk.
****
Craig’s Office. Wednesday. 10 a.m.
“There was no coke or heroin, Andy?”
Andy White scrutinised his fellow D.C.S.’ face, wondering where Craig’s perennial tan had disappeared to. In fact it hadn’t gone anywhere; it was just buried beneath his grey hangover pall.
“No. Just tabs, hey.”
Craig acknowledged the answer with a weak smile, any more than that requiring energy that he didn’t have.
The Dungiven man went on. “So, I got on to the Pangea lads and we’re liaising with customs on supply routes later this week, so that should please Flanagan, hey.”
The murder detective gave a small nod and then winced at the pain that it caused him, closing his eyes for a moment to rest his alcohol-shrunken and dehydrated brain. It had been a while since he’d drunk as much as he had the night before but he’d needed it; he’d wanted to beat Jerome Tomelty to a pulp, the smug bastard, and he knew himself well enough to know that when he got to that point it was either get drunk or smash his fist into something, and he needed all of his fingers intact. It had been an irrationally strong reaction and in the light of day he’d realised that; Tomelty’s brief career as a smuggler was over now and in the great scheme of things he’d only been a tiny fish, but then maybe being evaded by such a minnow was exactly what had made him go out and get pissed.
When he reopened his eyes he found that his deputy had entered the room surprisingly quietly and taken a seat opposite. Liam’s disgustingly healthy looking countenance made Craig wince again, which encouraged the D.C.I. to boom, very deliberately.
“MORNING, BOSS. BAD HEAD?”
Craig’s response was a plea. “Please stop shouting.”
The volume didn’t decrease at all as Liam retorted with. “JUST MY NORMAL DULCET TONES.”
It made Craig add resentfully. “Anyway, why don’t you have a sore head too? You drank even more than I did last night.”
The Crossgar man patted his stomach smugly and answered in his normal voice. “Two pints of water before bed and an Ulster Fry this morning. It never fails to see me right.”
Craig waved him down before he was sick. “The healthy eating debate will have to wait. I’ve been thinking about something.”
Andy shifted forward in his seat. “And?”
“Right. So, say that Tomelty, Pojello and Smyth were running their operation inside and outside of Mahon. Dealing in simple tablets and some ten spots of coke and dope. Nothing fancy.”
Andy shook his head. “They were both killed by double-combos, so they must have been dealing those as well to have had them in their cells.”
Craig went to shake his head, but made do with saying, “No” to avoid the pain. “Like we said at the briefing Jimmy Morris put those there. He swopped them for their normal drugs and the print results Des gives us today will prove that.”
“But how did he smuggle them in?”
“God knows and we don’t have the time to speculate on that right now.”
Liam had been nodding since ‘swopped’. “Smyth and Pojello thought they were taking their normal diazepam to get high, or calm, or whatever effect the shit normally had on them, and whoever ordered their deaths banked on that. That’s why they made the combo look like them, and to do that they must have been briefed on the drug of choice by someone who knew the dead men’s habits.”
“Exactly. That reminds me, Liam, get onto Governor Royston now and ask him to order a prison-wide search for drugs. My bet is that there are no other combos in that prison, but I want to make sure.”
A minute later the D.C.I. was back from his call and ready to humour his boss.
“OK, that’s done. So, let’s agree that there’s someone outside the prison who got pissed-off with Smyth and Pojello and had them bumped off by Jim Morris. Maybe even two pissed-off someone’s, as per yesterday’s discussion, McCrae from UKUF, someone, probably Bellner, from the Baltic side. You think they’re definitely the ones involved in making the combos?”
Craig had made coffees in his deputy’s absence and his double-espresso was starting to help his head so he gave a, this time, surprisingly painless nod.
“Yes, so we’ll speak to Bellner later today. But right now the main question is...” He glanced at the other men. “Anyone?”
Andy volunteered the answer. “Where are they getting the raw materials and how are they making the drugs?”
“Yes, but the second question’s the more important one. The raw materials could be coming in on any of the supply routes that Pangea and Customs have already identified, or maybe even from grinding down existing products like street diazepam, but it’s the process of making the combo that’s the real skill. It could be a small operation happening in someone’s garage or it could be on a much bigger scale.”
Liam shook his head firmly. “Nope. Not big. Well, not yet anyway. They’ll keep it small until they’ve proved there’s a definite market for it, and the way to do that is to ge
t trial combos out to the street and clubs. They’ll keep them simple at first, and I don’t think the centre has to be liquid necessarily, although it’s a nice gimmick, but there’s nothing to stop them making the core a second solid drug at first. The trial would still work.”
Craig smiled. “You’re right, and it might be simpler to make. Either way, we need to check exactly what equipment and set-up would be needed. Liam, can you ask Aidan and Ryan to check that with Des when they go to the Labs. Meanwhile I’ll ask Jack to get some uniforms out to the local nightclubs to warn them that something’s coming down the line. Alice needs to send a memo to all the stations too.”
He stood up gingerly, waiting for his head to start aching again, but found that his hit of coffee seemed to have done the trick, although not so much for his balance. As he steadied himself with a hand on his desk Liam pursed his lips disapprovingly.
“I hope you didn’t drive here this morning, boss.”
“Katy dropped me off. My car’s still at the last bar we hit. But thanks for asking, Dad. You?”
“That’s one understanding w-”Liam stopped abruptly, watching Craig’s bloodshot eyes widen and allowing himself a moment to enjoy his terror, before jumping to his feet to demonstrate his sobriety and finishing the word, “-woman. And I drove myself in, thanks. I did a home breathalyser and I was grand.”
Andy grinned. “You must have a liver the size of a house to have cleared out that much booze overnight, hey.” Just how much it had been he had gauged by watching Craig.
Crossing The Line Page 34
