‘Really?’ Sam said, allowing Ed a little time off-piste. He would be worried about Bev too.
‘Talk about making the best of yourself,’ Ed continued. ‘QC before 40, Lord Justice before 60. Trial judge for the Great Train Robbers, presided over the inquiry into the Aberfan mining disaster. What a legal brain. Those sentences for the Train Robbers? Thirty years. Was that because they’d robbed the establishment? And those poor children at the school in Aberfan. I wasn’t much older. My mam told me all about it.’
Sam decided that was enough of memory lane.
‘So, Priest’s nickname?’ she asked.
Ed nodded. ‘Given before political correctness and touchy-feely snowflakes took over the Job. When name calling was just having a laugh and something that had to be put up with.’
He took another mouthful of tonic water.
‘When the school of thought was, if you can’t put up with having the piss taken out of you in the office, how could you cope with being slagged off on the streets.’
He put the bottle on the table next to him.
‘Did he know my suspension was bogus?’
‘He had to,’ Sam said. ‘The Deputy wouldn’t countenance it without him being involved. Appleton thought it was real. Priest knew it was bogus…’
‘What?’ Ed asked, staring at Sam, her face deep in thought.
‘If Priest is bent, why didn’t he tip off Pullman and Campbell?’
‘No need,’ Ed said. ‘I don’t think Harry Pullman knew who Priest was. Harry would have bartered him into the deal when he was running scared from the Skinners if he had known, especially if he thought Priest could track him down for the Skinners. He never mentioned Priest. He was convinced I was suspended. That wasn’t an act, where he knew the real bent cop was Priest.’
Ed stood and stretched, arms above his head.
‘But Campbell? He’s different. That could have been an act,’ he said.
He dropped his arms, put his hands in his pockets.
‘Let’s be right. If he was in on it, he knew Tara was setting up Pullman.’
Sam was still trying to see Chris Priest as corrupt, the scale of the damage he would have done over the years, the fall-out when he was exposed.
Christ he’d risen to be in charge of Professional Standards. He was the Deputy Director of Intelligence before that…. ‘Come on then. What’s his nickname?’
‘For one year, back in the day, the fat, bent bastard was called Pugsley.’
Chapter 59
Tara Paxman was now travelling north on the M6, heading for the junction that would see her join the A66 east.
The pale blue lights of the instruments were relaxing, but she was concentrating. She did not want to be stopped for speeding and she needed to think through her next move.
She had already made one massive mistake tonight which could have been catastrophic. A stupid oversight, speaking with Parker and then putting the phone in her pocket without thinking, a sub-conscious slip that could have ruined everything. Summers hadn’t said anything. No doubt hoping the police would track her phone.
Tara let a smile become a broad grin.
Problem solving was never an issue, no matter how little time she had.
Her self-preservation was born out of necessity, but ingenious even if she did say so herself. Thinking on her feet was second nature.
She turned the temperature down two degrees, a cooler setting would help keep her alert, and settled back into the seat.
Why did so many men fall for the three-card trick?
Flick, flutter, flash.
Flick your hair, flutter your eyes, flash anything that grabbed their attention.
Her lecturers fell for it all the time.
She had stood by the pub door, waited for someone suitable to go to the toilet, then walked into him.
Flick, flutter, flash: do me a favour; I’ll have a drink with you; let’s see where it goes from there.
It had been so easy; he couldn’t wait to take the phone; couldn’t wait to get to his car.
She wondered if the police had stopped him yet, grinned again as she conjured up the moment.
Imagine if it was armed police.
What did they call him? Welsh name. Didn’t matter. She laughed out loud, pictured him shitting it.
And the police? She wished she could have seen their faces when they pulled him over, discovered the phone.
She thought of Lester Stephenson and the smile faded.
It had been her grandfather’s idea to burn the car.
‘It’ll give the police something else to think about, buy you some time. My wife’s dying. I was going to leave that life behind, stop looking over my shoulder, enjoy my remaining days abroad with you and Marty, but that’s not happening now.’
Tara wiped away a tear. He had given his life for her.
Tara was following as he sped along The Struggle, saw the Jag crash through the wall, fly through the air and cartwheel over the field.
She had walked towards the twisted metal, crushed roof, shattered glass. She didn’t check on Lester, hidden amongst the exploded airbags. He had made her promise not to look.
She lit a marine distress flare, stolen from Bill Redwood’s boat, threw it into the car and ran away.
Once the car ignited, she dropped the yellow Ocean Safety container holding the rest of the flares by the roadside.
She was already driving towards Bowness-on-Windermere before the emergency services had been notified.
She had come off the M6, driven towards Kirkby Stephen, a small market town in the Upper Eden Valley. She had pulled over, checked her phone for a signal, and made the first call to the number ending in 683. The Man.
He seemed to answer before it rang.
‘You okay?’ he said, no hello or other greeting.
‘I’m fine. We’re on our way now. We’ll see you at the airfield at six.’
‘What car are you in?’
‘In the Jag. With Lester.’
‘What about the Golf?’
‘Still on the car park. Never had to use it. Everything went off just as planned. Maybe Parker’s not as good as everybody thinks she is.’
‘Put Lester on the phone.’
‘He’s in the bushes. Toilet visit. You know what these old men are like.’
‘I’ll see you at six,’ he said.
Tara had replayed the conversation. Had he believed her? Why wouldn’t he? Still…
She had made another call.
‘Marty, it’s Tara.’
‘Everything okay?’ Marty Irons, disgraced detective, convicted criminal, timeshare king.
She snatched up a breath and began to cry.
‘No Marty. It’s not. Lester’s dead.’
Through her fake tears she had told Irons what had happened.
‘How did they get onto you?’ he had demanded.
‘Pugsley. Pugsley’s betrayed us. We need to get out quicker than planned.’
Wednesday 4th November
‘It wasn’t her.’
Barry Harrison closed the hotel room door behind him and leaned against it, facing Sam and Ed.
Sam glanced at her watch. 12.10am.
‘The phone was given to a lad called Rhys McKenzie. That’s who we pulled.’
‘Bev’s not coming back,’ Sam said quietly, sitting down on the bed.
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look that way. Two bodies in the car. Burnt beyond recognition. Both in the front seats. Clothes disintegrated. Not yet known whether they’re male or female.’
Sam clasped her hands together, focused on the wall.
‘I guessed that. If Bev’s phone was on the move, and Tara and the driver were in the car, Bev would have contacted us.’
Harrison continued. ‘They’ve had a better look in the car. The front seat passenger has their hands cuffed behind them. They look like police issue rigid handcuffs.’
Sam and Ed said nothing. They knew what that meant.
&n
bsp; Ed walked to the window, stared into the darkness, heard Harrison saying it was too early to be sure how the fire started but small fragments from a marine flare had been recovered.
‘Jesus,’ Sam said, moving her gaze from the wall to the carpet. ‘They throw off an incredible amount of heat.’
‘Over a thousand degrees centigrade according to the Chief Fire Officer,’ Harrison said.
‘Anything else?’ Sam tried to push away an image of the inferno.
‘A yellow bottle with more flares in it, on the verge near where we suspect the car left the road. We’ll make some inquiries tomorrow with boat owners and Chandlers to see if any have been stolen.’
Sam stood, spoke quietly.
‘We’ve had a guy on a yacht killed. I’ll check with his daughter. They may be off his boat. Is it the square-sided bottle with a red screw top lid?’
Barry Henderson scrolled through the photos on his phone, showed the picture of the bottle to Sam.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘Anything else you think we should know about from the scene?’
‘The Brigade crow-barred the boot. Looks like metal jerry cans in there. We’ll know much more when we can get it into a forensic bay. It’s covered by a tent for now.’
‘I’ll get you details of Bev’s dentist,’ Sam said, eyes glazing over.
‘Thanks,’ Harrison said, looking down at the carpet, relieved Sam had brought the subject up without him having to ask. ‘That would help.’
Ed turned around: ‘It’s a long shot, but the jerry cans may be filled with aviation fuel.’
Harrison’s eyes flicked between the two detectives while Sam told him about the airfield.
‘There’s nothing we can do here,’ she said. ‘We’ll head off, go to the airfield. We’ve got a lift coming.’
‘Will you keep me posted?’ Harrison asked. ‘Under normal circumstances I’d send someone with you, but I haven’t got the staff.’
‘Of course. We’ll need to link in with North Yorkshire. That’s why we’ve got a lift coming. I wanted a car fitted with comms.’
‘Thanks. Obviously if you get Tara, arrest her on suspicion of murder.’
Sam nodded. ‘Don’t you worry about that…can you tell me about Bev’s phone?’
Harrison outlined the interview with Rhys McKenzie.
‘She used the phone to speak to me, after I’d spoken to Bev,’ Sam said. ‘It’s just a case of whether she deliberately kept it knowing she was going to send us on a wild goose chase…’
‘Or?’ Ed jumped into the pause, seeing where Sam was going.
‘Or she made the best of a bad job,’ Sam went on. ‘She inadvertently put the phone in her pocket after talking to me then had to come up with a plan.’
‘Shows she’s resourceful,’ Ed said.
‘Resourceful’s the least of it,’ Sam said, locked on a memory, her and Bev sipping Tanqueray gins and giggling like schoolgirls, grading the young barmen one to ten. ‘She’s a cunning bitch.’
Chapter 60
Where to?’ Shane ‘Tucky’ Walton asked, as Sam and Ed got into the car.
‘Head to York,’ Sam said, stretching her legs across the back seat, the dashboard digital clock displaying 1am. ‘Ed will keep you right.’
‘We need to end up on the old A19 into York. Your call how you get there,’ Ed said.
Shane nodded, face blank.
‘I’ll direct you to the airfield when we’re closer,’ Ed said.
Sam leaned her head on the offside rear door, closed her eyes.
‘Turn the heater up please,’ she said.
She couldn’t sleep in cars and tonight would be no different. But she needed a few minutes; focus on the job in hand, forget about leaving Bev behind, alone and scared in a place she didn’t even like, the end horrific beyond belief.
Except she couldn’t forget.
Sam bit her lip, pleased that those in the front couldn’t see her tears, hoped that Bev was dead before the car was torched.
They drove in silence.
Shane had driven towards Pooley Bridge, now he took a left towards Dockray.
‘Am I allowed to know what’s happening?’ he said at last. ‘Why are we going to an airfield near York?’
Ed opened the glovebox. ‘Is there a phone charger in here?’
Shane dropped his hand into the driver’s door pocket. ‘Use mine.’
‘Cheers,’ Ed said, putting his phone on charge. ‘We’re going to York because I think the plan is to get Tara abroad. I also think a bent cop is being whisked away.’
Shane gripped the wheel a little tighter, eyes fixed on the headlight beam and the narrow road.
‘Tara?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I thought she was on our side?’
‘So did we.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Driving to the same airfield I hope,’ Ed told him. ‘Only she’s got a head start so you need to get your foot down.’
Shane wanted to drive faster but it was impossible on the poorly-lit, twisting roads. Putting them all in a ditch would help nobody. He’d accelerate hard when he hit the A66.
‘What happened then?’ Shane said.
‘Everything went to rat shit when we all met on the pub car park.’
Ed told him everything from meeting up to Tara being driven away.
‘Now you know as much as we do,’ Ed said.
Once they joined the A66 the speedometer needle headed right.
Sam sat up, leaned forward inbetween the front seats, turned to Ed. All that mattered now was justice for Bev.
‘Tell me more about Chris Priest. What was he like when he joined the CID?’
‘Quiet. Didn’t have informants. Didn’t arrest burglars.’
Ed tilted his head, looked up at the roof lining.
‘Did he belong?’ he pondered aloud. ‘Was he dynamic enough to be a 1980s detective?’
‘What do you mean?’ Sam said.
Ed looked at Sam.
‘Different times Sam. Different expectations. The go-getters were the glory boys and everybody was expected to be a go-getter, expected to run informants, but it didn’t work out like that. Not everybody could. Chris Priest couldn’t. Didn’t fit the go-getter profile.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He was never the centre of attention. Never the one other detectives were jealous of because he’d been the one behind a really good job.’
Ed turned back to face the windscreen, the car zipping along the quiet carriageway.
‘He was the type who in the Christmas party debrief would never be mentioned. He was a grey man at a time when CID offices were filled with colour.’
Sam shuffled, sat back; Shane concentrated; Ed looked over his shoulder.
‘Some older detectives definitely believed in ‘noble cause corruption,’ he said. ‘Using dirty means to achieve noble ends. The academics even came up with a name for it, called it ‘Dirty Harry’ syndrome.’
Irons and his bent pals weren’t interested in ‘noble ends’ for the department, Ed knew. Everything had been for personal gain...the tip offs, stealing cash from prisoners, burgling premises. They had been a law unto themselves.
Ed was back in the CID room, the rivalry infectious.
‘All the time you’d see the office superstars trying to outdo each other, getting information on burglaries, robberies, recovering stolen property, making arrests,’ he said. ‘They’d have competitions who could get the most TICs.’
Offences ‘Taken into Consideration’ weren’t charges but that didn’t matter; accepting a TIC meant it went on the punter’s record and was a no-fuss way of scratching unsolved cases from the crime log.
‘Priest on the other hand would grab a theft report from the pile we’d get off the gas board. Breaking into gas meters and stealing the cash was just what happened in those days in some communities.’
Ed remembered how Priest would work... arrest the householder in the morning, get a quick admi
ssion, charge and bail them to court, prepare the file in the afternoon. Job jobbed.
Sam leaned forward again.
‘If you’re right, how did he become involved in corruption?’
‘No idea,’ Ed told her, stomach twisting when he thought about the corruption inquiry that had thrown the whole CID office under a cloud of suspicion, everyone tarred with the same dirty brush.
He turned away, breath fogging the passenger window, and watched the air-con melt it away.
‘Irons and his cronies had taken thousands of pounds,’ he spoke again. ‘So every detective in that office thought they were being followed, lifestyles under scrutiny, bank accounts being checked. Everyone was paranoid, whispering in corridors because we thought the office was bugged.’
‘And you think Priest was involved?’ Sam still couldn’t see it. ‘Christ he’s that clean he squeaks.’
Ed turned around to face Sam again.
‘That’s how people melt into an organisation and get away with it. I can’t even remember if Priest was ever interviewed by Complaints.’
Ed thought about Chris Priest and remembered another nickname, this one whispered behind his back, spoken with a crude laugh when the after-match pints were flowing.
‘Priest the Beast,’ Ed said it out loud.
‘Priest the Beast?’ Sam thrown again.
‘Always going on holiday to Thailand,’ Ed said. ‘You know how the thinking goes...single, middle-aged bloke, trip after trip to Thailand, must be a sex tourist after young ones. So Beast, as in paedo, rhyming with Priest.’
Sam shook her head, a veil of disgust on her face.
‘I’ve heard that’s all a load of bull.’
Shane had been silent behind the wheel but now he spoke up.
‘Paul Adams told his best mate that Priest always went to Cuba. Never set foot in Thailand. That’s just a ruse.’
Ed was about to argue the toss when Sam told him to contact the North Yorkshire control room, give them enough advance warning to call out whoever they needed.
Sam sat back, closed her eyes again, contemplated the new information about Chris Priest as the car sped further east.
Lies That Blind Page 32
