by Faith Martin
At this point, Gareth moved away from the driver’s door and moved around the front of the vehicle so that he could stand beside his companion. She wondered if he’d done so because he was worried about them being overheard, for several officers that she recognized from Traffic chose that moment to pour out of the building and swarm vaguely in their direction.
Again, there was nothing particularly suspicious about that. Not everybody liked to have an audience to their conversation. Even so, Hillary found herself observing them even more closely, and after a moment or so, she realized why. There was something very tense about the stranger. Although she was too far away to see his facial features clearly (damn, she really was going to have to get her eyes tested soon!) she could tell by his body language that, whatever it was they were discussing, it was no idle chat about football or the weather. And the more she watched, the more she could tell that the stranger’s tension was transferring itself to her colleague, for Gareth Proctor was beginning to look distinctly unsettled as well.
At one point, Gareth reached out and put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. The other man accepted the gesture, but shook his head at whatever it was Gareth was saying.
A friend in need? Satisfied that whatever had the two men so engrossed was almost certainly none of her business, Hillary finally continued on into the building.
But her mind, as ever, was still stubbornly and actively seeking out answers, and turned almost inevitably to the ex-soldier who’d been murdered in Reading. It annoyed her that her mind kept returning insistently back to that case. It wasn’t even her case — hell, it wasn’t even in her area!
But once she got back to her office it took her a while to drag her mind back to the case that was hers. Once she’d managed it however, she diligently typed up her report on the interview with Dr Timothy Durning, then printed off a hard copy and took it through to the communal office to place it in the Murder Book. A quick glance through that document informed her that nothing noteworthy had happened while she and Claire had whiled away the hours stuck in traffic, and with a sigh of relief, she quickly checked her emails, then called it a day.
When she got back out into the car park, Gareth and his intense friend had left. She hoped, whatever the crisis had been, they’d managed to resolve it.
* * *
The next morning, though, Hillary still had the little conundrum stubbornly on her mind, and when she made her way downstairs and saw that Claire had yet to arrive while Gareth was already at his desk, she made a snap decision to try and appease her curiosity. Resolutely ignoring what curiosity was said to have done to the proverbial cat!
‘Hello, Gareth, everything all right?’ she asked breezily from the doorway.
‘Yes thank you, ma’am. I’ve read your report about Dr Durning.’
Hillary nodded. She was beginning to take for granted his work ethic. ‘He’s a slippery one all right,’ she said. ‘We got caught up in that road traffic accident on the motorway on the way back.’
‘I thought you might have. I heard about it on the radio on the way home. It sounded bad,’ Gareth said sympathetically.
‘Yes,’ Hillary said grimly. In her early days in uniform she’d done her fair share of attending RTAs. It wasn’t something she dwelled on. ‘When we got back, I thought I saw you talking to someone in the car park,’ she went straight to the point, watching him closely. And saw a definite flicker of unease cross his face.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said promptly. It was, she was sure, a reflex reaction — an obedient response to an officer’s question that was nevertheless meaningless and was designed to give nothing away.
‘Your friend looked as if he had a lot on his mind,’ she said casually.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘He looked as if he might be ex-army too?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘An old friend then?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Hillary hid a smile. Gareth Proctor might have had a lot of practice at dumb insolence, but two could play at this game.
‘Does he have a name?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Gareth said — but didn’t quite dare leave it at that. ‘Jason Morley, ma’am,’ he tacked on reluctantly.
Hillary nodded. Having got what she wanted — a name — she let him off the hook. ‘I want to go back to Michael’s parents, now that we’ve met all the main suspects and witnesses in their son’s case, and go over things with them again. I want you to come with me this time. It’ll give you a chance to observe them, and perhaps pick up on something I miss.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he agreed with far more enthusiasm.
Hillary nodded, smiled, and left.
After she was gone, however, Gareth Proctor watched the space in the doorway where she had been with a slightly troubled frown. Why had his boss been so curious about Jason? Not that he wasn’t worried about him as well.
When he’d gone out to the car park yesterday he’d been surprised to see his friend waiting for him by his car, and had expected Jase to ask for a lift to the local. Instead, he’d asked him if he could keep some papers and a few items for him. It was an unusual thing to ask, and naturally he’d wanted to know what they were. His mate had been deliberately vague, saying only that he wanted Gareth to keep them for him for a few weeks. Something about the way Jase refused to look him in the eye rang deep alarm bells, and he’d tried to find out if there was anything wrong.
And somehow Gareth hadn’t believed his disclaimers that he was worried about the burglary rate in the area surrounding his new flat.
The result of it all being that he was now in possession of a large padded, sealed envelope back at his flat (which he’d hidden behind the towels under the kitchen sink), and a gnawing feeling that Jase was up to something. And since he hadn’t been able to persuade his friend to confide in him, he could only hope that it wasn’t something illegal or stupid. Or both.
* * *
In her office Hillary Greene sighed over her inability to just let things go, and phoned an old college friend who was still in the armed forces, and asked her to dig up anything she could on one Jason Morley, Gareth Proctor, and the murdered soldier in Reading. She thanked her and agreed to pay for a meal the next time they met up, and hung up the phone hoping that nothing would come of it.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough on her plate already.
* * *
Larry Spence looked around the small basement space in a little café just off St Ebbes, his pale blue eyes thoughtful. Down here, there was room only for a trio of tables, each bearing just two chairs. Designed as an over-fill for the bigger, better lit room on street level, he doubted many people came down here by choice. So when he’d stepped in and ordered and paid for his coffee at the till, he knew the waitress had been surprised to see him disappear down the stairs with it.
Even though the breakfast rush had passed, and the morning coffee rush was yet to begin, there had still been the odd customer or two seated at tables upstairs, which was no good for his purposes. He wanted to be sure of a place where he could conduct his bit of business in complete privacy. Which was why he’d chosen the unprepossessing café as a meeting place to begin with.
At six feet tall, the small moulded plastic chair he was sitting on wasn’t very comfortable, and if he shifted around he tended to hit his knees on the bottom of the cheap tin table, which was annoying.
In his mid-thirties, he had what one ex-girlfriend had jeeringly described as ‘dirty’ blond hair, worn long enough to touch his collar. A more delicate shade of blond adorned his lower face in a rather fine beard though, which he wore to disguise what he knew was his worst feature — a weak chin.
He was dressed in Armani. He wore a gold Patek Philippe watch. His cologne was imported from Paris. He looked like a bored businessman, or maybe an academic who was dressed for a job interview.
He certainly didn’t look like the now-undisputed criminal kingpin of the city.
He gla
nced at the pricey timepiece on his right wrist and absently noted that his guest had two minutes to go before becoming officially late.
Larry wasn’t particularly worried that he might be wasting his time. When he’d ‘bought out’ Simon Newley’s business from his grieving but subservient widow, he had been slightly surprised by some of the more exotic and esoteric items that the old codger had handled. He had also been alternately amused and annoyed by the old man’s habit of referring to his regular clients only by a nickname.
Consequently, the only thing that he currently knew about ‘Teddy Bear’ was that Newley had been dealing with him for over ten years, on an irregular basis, and that Teddy Bear only dealt in gold items. Very old gold items.
Which had been more than enough to pique his interest. For although the vast majority of his wealth came from his stable of girls, drug-runners, car thieves and extortionists, Larry liked to think of himself as a man of some refinement. He might have grown up in Oxford’s seedy underbelly, but he prided himself on having crawled out of it. He now lived in a very nice white-painted mansion in the north of the city, overlooking the golf club. He drove a very fine Aston Martin.
And acquiring a punter who dealt in a very niche line of old and golden artefacts appealed to his sense of self-worth and vanity.
When he’d heard on the grapevine that tentative inquiries were being made about who had taken over Newley’s business and had finally received an anonymous phone call asking if he was interested in ‘specialized’ gold items, he had instantly arranged a meeting.
Although Larry knew from Newley’s impeccable records that Teddy Bear’s business was never spectacular — usually involving sums of around ten thousand or so every time they did business — over the decade or so, that had added up.
And, besides, it intrigued him. For, try as he might (and he’d put the word out everywhere on the street), nobody seemed to know just who this Teddy Bear was, let alone what his game was. Unlike the vast majority of Newley’s clients, whose identities (and dodgy dealings) had been far easier to discern.
The caller had used a pay-as-you-go mobile when contacting him (Larry had, of course, checked) and had been distinctly wary during their negotiations to meet up today, so as he sipped a surprisingly good cup of no-nonsense black coffee, Larry was half-prepared for Teddy Bear to be a no-show.
But even as he mused on the thought of a wasted journey, he heard feet coming down the wooden stairs, and a moment later a man appeared at the bottom, looking around carefully.
Since Larry was the only one there, the stranger’s eyes rested on him and stayed. For a long moment there was one of those strange periods of time when everything but nothing happened simultaneously. Neither of them spoke, or moved, or made any indications of any kind. And yet judgements were made, various thoughts chased each other around, and by some kind of tacit, mysterious process, decisions were being made.
On Larry Spence’s part, he decided at once that he was indeed dealing with Simon Newley’s long-term client, Teddy Bear. And that Teddy Bear was not an undercover cop, someone working for a rival gang, or someone from the criminal classes. Nor did he suspect he was armed, either with a concealed knife or anything else of interest — which was always good to know, especially since he’d left his regular ‘minder’ with the car.
On the whole, Larry was pleased. It meant that his prospects for sealing a lucrative bit of business within the next ten minutes were pretty high.
On the part of Teddy Bear, he decided that Larry Spence was indeed the same Larry Spence that he’d been busy researching for the last few days. Namely, an Oxford born-and-bred criminal, who had fingers in most of the nasty pies that proliferated in the city. He was probably armed with a shank of some kind, slipped up that pristine sleeve of his, but didn’t look as if he intended to use it. And he didn’t have any of his usual bully boys concealed in the small basement area.
All of which meant that his prospects of continuing to do a nice bit of business now that Newley was no longer available looked promising.
Larry Spence watched as the stranger slowly approached the table and smiled diffidently. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asked politely.
Larry affably waved at the chair opposite him. ‘Feel free.’
Teddy Bear sat down. He appeared slightly nervous, but that didn’t worry Larry. Most people who knew who and what he was were nervous when around him.
‘Didn’t we speak on the telephone yesterday?’ Teddy Bear made the opening gambit. He was wearing a well-cut suit in navy blue with a plain white shirt. Not Armani though, Larry noticed with a satisfied inner smirk. He was freshly shaven, and to Larry Spence looked distinctly ‘soft’.
As a thug who’d grown up fighting and clawing for everything he wanted, he knew a man who’d become used to the finer things in life when he saw one. What’s more, Teddy Bear definitely struck him as belonging to that smug, privileged breed who were used to living the good life and not doing much work to earn their life of ease.
But while he might instinctively despise the other man on that basis, he also scented opportunity, and was careful to allow nothing of his feelings to show on his face.
Just where and how did Teddy Bear come by his nice little golden trinkets? That was what he most wanted to know. And if he was a middleman for someone else, he wanted to know the name of his client. The geese that laid the golden eggs were always his favourite kind.
‘I believe we did speak on the phone, yes,’ Larry agreed casually. ‘A matter of gold, wasn’t it?’
His potential new income source nodded vaguely, and looked around. The room was still reassuringly empty.
Teddy Bear, aware that he’d asked the waitress in the room upstairs for a coffee, and that she might come down with it at any moment, leaned back slightly in his chair. ‘You inherited Mr Newley’s . . . er . . . business, I take it?’
‘I did,’ Larry acknowledged, all at once feeling rather amused by the situation. The more time that passed, the more certain he became that he was dealing with a total amateur. A so-called ‘respectable’ citizen who, for some reason, found himself being forced to take a bit of a walk on the wild side in pursuit of that most desirable of all things — money.
And he was even more intrigued than ever. How was it that this rather insignificant specimen had gained access to such a store of precious gold items? According to old Newley’s books, Teddy Bear’s transactions always followed the same pattern. He would turn up at Newley’s shop with a small variety of ancient gold artefacts for sale to a ‘specialist’ buyer. Meaning, of course, a collector.
And Larry, since taking over Newley’s business, was learning more and more about collectors. They were an odd breed — absolutely obsessed with whatever it was that they coveted, and prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to add to their collection. It had somewhat surprised him just how big a network of greedy collectors Newley had acquired over the years. And all of them desperate to pay Newley for all sorts of guff.
Who’d have thought that silly old geezer Newley to have had such nous?
In Teddy Bear’s case, he had always insisted that whoever Newley sold to, they had to agree that the items would not be put on display (even in a private residence) or — naturally — appear as an asset in their tax audits. Which led Larry to believe the items had been stolen, and would appear on police lists as being hot.
This, of course, hadn’t worried the various collectors Newley had approached in his role as agent for Teddy Bear one little bit. They only cared about adding to their hoards.
Newley had dealt with coin collectors, sometimes with jewellery aficionados, even collectors of ancient weapons, on Teddy Bear’s behalf.
All of which suggested to him that this unlikely and distinctly soft specimen now seated opposite him was either a very canny thief or — far more likely in Larry’s opinion — had inherited a collection of stolen items. A collection that he had got into the habit of selling off in bits and pieces in ord
er to live the good life.
Larry took it for granted that part of Teddy Bear’s reason for doing business this way was to avoid coming to the attention of the police’s art and antiquities squad, while also depriving the tax man his rightful share.
One thing was for sure — Larry was going to find out just where this ripe pigeon stashed his treasure. While that old plodder Newley might have been content to sell on bits and pieces and take his cut, Larry wasn’t. He smelt money — gold in fact — and he was damned well going to have it all.
But he had to be careful. First, he must lull this punter into a false sense of security. Sell on one or two pieces for him maybe, let him think that everything was fine, and that things could go on as they had before in Newley’s day.
But he’d make arrangements to have the mug followed and put a proper name to him. Then he’d have him watched. It shouldn’t take that long. And then, one dark night he’d have his boys snatch him and persuade him to give up his secrets. His boys were good at that. And who could Teddy Bear complain to? The police? Hardly!
Larry smiled amiably. ‘So, do you have something for sale?’ he asked indifferently.
‘Yes. Not on me, of course.’
Larry shrugged. ‘Of course not!’ he said, his tone indicating that such a thought would never have crossed his mind. ‘Perhaps you might just be able to give me a description of what you want passed on though, so that I can contact the right people?’
Teddy Bear nodded. ‘We’ll start with a ring — about a thousand years old.’
‘Gold, of course?’
‘Yes. Gold.’
Larry nodded. ‘I don’t see any problem with finding a buyer for that,’ he promised.
‘I want a good price,’ Teddy Bear said flatly — and with a certain amount of bite that Larry hadn’t expected.
Then both men stiffened as they heard footsteps coming down the stairs. The two exchanged mutual, speculative looks of mistrust, but it was only the waitress with Teddy Bear’s order of coffee. She placed it on the table in front of him, and cast Larry a speculative look.
