by Wes Markin
Yorke looked down, forcing back a smile.
‘You mean the disorganisation?’ Johnson spoke quickly. He lifted a pile of papers from one of the office chairs so Yorke could sit down.
‘Among other things,’ Willows said, looking him up and down before raising an eyebrow.
‘Have you ever heard the expression that one man’s disorganisation is another man’s organisation?’ He raised an eyebrow back at her.
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘That’s because I made it up. True though.’
‘Debatable.’
Yorke put a hand on Willows’ arm. If it wasn’t Jake, it was Willows. Both knew how to rile an interviewee. Again, he panged for Gardner. ‘Let’s get on with this. I’m sure Mr Johnson is very busy.’
‘I’ve always got time for important matters such as these.’
Yorke and Willows sat down.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ Johnson said.
‘No thank you,’ Yorke said. ‘I’d just like to talk to you about the two men I phoned ahead about.’
‘Herbert and Douglas?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’ve been my clients for years.’ He stood behind his office swivel chair with his hands on the back of it.
‘We’re aware of that,’ Yorke said. ‘We were hoping you could share some information.’
‘Of course. I’m an open book.’ He swivelled his chair.
‘Could you sit down, please, Mr Johnson?’ Willows said.
‘I can, but I fidget. I’ve got a diagnosis of ADHD. I took my Ritalin ten minutes ago, but it can take a bit to kick in. Shame cocaine is illegal. Believe it or not, a burst of that really settles down the hyperactivity.’
Yorke didn’t really know how to respond to this, so he didn’t. ‘Just talk me through your duties to Herbert and Douglas.’
‘What you’d expect,’ Johnson said, slipping into his seat. ‘Accounts and tax returns. They have me monitor spending, and budgets.’
‘How does that work when they’re in prison?’ Yorke said.
‘Their income now comes from interest on one or two investments, and several pension schemes. Balancing their books is a lot easier than it used to be.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, they used to earn from multiple investments. And I mean, multiple.’
‘And you have records of all these investments?’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t be doing my job very well if I didn’t.’ Johnson was tapping his fingers on his desk as he spoke.
‘Can you prepare a list of all these sources?’ Yorke said.
‘Of course, but it’s all available to you at HMRC anyway. Whatever I provide to you will match up identically with their records. I’m not a lawyer. There is no confidentiality agreement in place. I offer full disclosure to the tax office, and I offer full disclosure to you. It’ll be with you by the end of the day.’
Yorke looked at Johnson’s tapping fingers. The hyperactive accountant took the hint and stopped.
‘Whet my appetite,’ Yorke said. ‘Tell me about some of these multiple investments.’
‘Off the top of my head, Riley’s Running Shoes, Prior’s Electricians, Luigi’s Pizza, Prime Lighting … there’re more. Many more.’
‘And when these companies grew, Herbert and Douglas declared their income to you?’ Willows said.
‘Yes. It’s my duty to report tax evasion, so I ensured that they were very thorough.’
‘Were Young Properties one of their sources?’ Yorke said.
Johnson laughed. ‘I don’t think they’d be using my services if they had shares in that company! No, all of their investments were from small businesses.’
Yorke could hear the tapping of the accountant’s feet. When were those meds going to kick in?
‘The next couple of questions are really important, Mr Johnson, do I have your complete attention?’
Johnson smiled. ‘Contrary to belief, detective, ADHD is not about the lack of attention, it’s about the difficulties in regulating attention. If I’m interested, you have my complete attention. And believe me, I’m interested in this conversation.’ He moved his affirmation in time with his tapping feet.
‘Did Herbert and Douglas ever invest in the same company?’
Tap-tap. ‘Not that I recall, but as I said, you’ll have that list of all of their investments by the end of the day.’
‘Herbert and Douglas must’ve had a lot of money in order to invest in all of these companies – where did it come from?’
Tap-tap. ‘They’d already made their money long before they came to me. You’d have to track further back, I’m afraid.’
‘You handle all of their expenditure now. What are they spending it on?’
Tap-tap. ‘Not much. Maintenance of their properties. Herbert had been giving money to Janice before … the tragedy.’
‘Is there much money?
Tap-tap. ‘It’s not to be sniffed at. We’d all like to be on the receiving end of that inheritance.’
I might be, Yorke thought. ‘How would you feel if I told you that we suspected Douglas and Herbert of being involved in organised crime?’
Tap-tap. ‘Not much.’
‘Even if I told you that we suspect that Janice Edwards was murdered by Herbert’s employers for skimming money?’
Johnson stopped tapping. ‘It sounds very far-fetched.’
‘You stopped tapping,’ Willows said.
‘Sorry?’
‘You stopped tapping your feet.’
‘The Ritalin must have finally worked its magic.’
Yorke sensed blood. ‘Does it in anyway concern you, Mr Johnson, that Herbert’s employers might come here to look for the skimmed money?’
Johnson leaned back in his chair. His expression darkened. ‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘I don’t know what you need, Mr Johnson, that’s the problem. And without more information, I’m no closer to figuring out what.’
Johnson ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. ‘I don’t really know what to tell you.’
‘Well, let’s see if this helps, Mr Johnson. Have you heard of The Dancer?’
Johnson went pale. ‘A myth … he doesn’t exist.’
‘Oh he exists alright,’ Yorke said. ‘He’s wanted in connection with the murder of Janice Edwards.’
Johnson looked like he was about to throw up.
On the way back to HQ, Yorke checked in by phone with Robinson at SEROCU.
‘George Johnson, wow,’ Yorke said, ‘not sure they get any dirtier than that.’
‘Oh they do, believe me.’
‘Is that ADHD thing for real? He doesn’t sit still.’
‘He played that card, did he? Not sure. We think he spins in circles to hypnotise his interviewer into thinking everything is fine.’
‘It didn’t work. And everything is certainly not fine. There’s been a lot of dirty money laundered through small businesses over the last couple of decades.’
‘Multiply that by thousands and you get an idea of the scale we have to deal with.’
‘Don’t envy you your job.’
‘Love it or hate it. Marmite. As you can see, a head for numbers comes in handy. So, did you get anything useful?’
‘He’s panicked about The Dancer. He’s pleading ignorant to knowing that anything untoward was going on with his clients.’
‘Despite their obvious connection to the most corrupt outfit since the Corleone family. It’s laughable.’
‘He’s sending over a list of all the businesses Wheelhouse and Firth have invested in. When that arrives, I’ll see what I can draw up.’
‘Forward it to me too. Might be an idea for me to conduct a second interview especially now he’s rattled. We can serve up all kinds of pressure.’
‘Sounds like a plan, but he shut up shop. He thinks he’s on the hitlist. He’s run to his mother’s house.’
‘Even better. We could try and get him to deal. You’ve done well, Mike.’
‘A matter of time. We’re working on a few things here which I’ll catch up with you about later.’
After hanging up, Yorke turned the wipers up higher. The rain was coming harder now; the ash cloud was getting its first serious test. He looked at Willows. She was gazing out the window, deep in thought.
Yorke wondered if she was thinking about George Johnson, the corrosive accountant, or that kiss she’d shared with Lorraine Pemberton.
With surgical gloves on, Borya thumbed through a copy of QX he’d found on his target’s bed.
He had no sexual interest in the naked men but was curious to observe their toned bodies. He preferred definition, rather than bulk, so he flicked through until he found a picture of a blond man spread-eagled on the bonnet of a sports car. Borya estimated 5% body fat. The man was lean.
He looked through other images, avoiding anything too sexual, and then cast the magazine aside. Most of the men were shaved, but not shaved enough for his liking. He wouldn’t trade in his own body for any of theirs.
Beside his target’s bed was a framed photograph of his family. He stood alongside his wife and his twin daughters in front of the Sydney Opera House. From reading his target’s profile, Borya knew that one of his twin daughters had died from meningitis four years ago. He also knew that the tragedy had destroyed the marriage. His remaining daughter, and wife, had emigrated to Sydney, Australia where her family had originated from.
Leaving Borya’s target in a great deal of pain.
He felt the beginnings of an erection, so he turned the photograph face down. Now was the time for focus, rather than distraction.
He spent some more time exploring the house, adjusting to his kill zone, and learning more about his target. He learned that the condemned man had asthma, enjoyed cycling, loved action movies (probably the muscular heroes), was a member of a gay hook-up site, read comic books and once had a terrier.
He also discovered that he was on high doses of antidepressants.
Pain. Lots of it.
Ignoring another sudden rush of arousal, Borya instead reached for a glass bulb that the target had left beside the living room lamp. He held it up and had an idea. An idea that would teach his target to throw his rubbish away and keep a clean home.
One last lesson before the man in pain died. Yes, that sounded good.
Borya put the glass bulb down and started to undress.
12
ON THE CORRIDOR leading to his office, Yorke bumped into Parkinson. ‘Are you waiting for me?’
‘No, Mike, but I’d like an update on the accountant.’
‘You may be overseeing Tagline now, Luke, but could you still address me correctly?’
‘Could I get an update on the account please, sir?’
‘Of course.’ Yorke filled him in.
‘How soon could you have the report typed up, sir?’ Parkinson said.
‘Probably by the end of the day.’
‘No sooner?’
‘I was hoping to catch up with Wheelhouse again before the accountant sends his data over.’
‘No need,’ Parkinson said, ‘I’ve assigned Moss and Blanks. Could you type up the report please? You can present it at briefing tomorrow morning. I’m shooting early. I’ve got something to follow up on before I head home.’
‘What exactly?’
‘I’d like to keep this one quiet until it pans out.’
‘Interesting leadership style.’
‘Come again?’
‘Well, the best leaders act with transparency.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me. This department has a successful track record.’
Parkinson did his best to look bored. ‘I’ll let you know, sir, if the lead comes to anything. The report, please?’ He smiled and strolled off down the corridor.
Piss off, your days are well and truly numbered.
There was a file on Yorke’s desk which hadn’t been there earlier. When he opened it, and looked inside, his hands began to shake.
It was a signed statement from the late Tom Davies – the man wrongly convicted of murdering Yorke’s sister, Danielle. Yorke had never seen the statement before.
He felt the room sway. He took deep breaths to try and steady himself.
In the statement, Davies admitted that the drug overdose had been forced on him by the real killer, William Proud. Proud had meant to kill Davies to make the frame-up easier. Proud had not expected his scapegoat to recover.
Yorke collapsed in his chair.
This statement had never been officially logged, but someone had kept a copy. Who? Was it the same person who’d left it on his desk?
However, figuring that out was the least of Yorke’s problems. The most pressing issue was the signature of the interviewing officer at the bottom of the statement.
Yorke put his head in his hands.
Parkinson was connected to the death of his sister.
Yorke tailed Parkinson.
In movies, Yorke always wondered how the pursued never cottoned onto the pursuer. Knowing this, Yorke was prepared to confront Parkinson out in the open if he was spotted. Still, if possible, it’d be better to find out where this vile little man was going.
As they entered Tidworth, Yorke conceded that there must be some truth to the tailing he’d seen in movies, because Parkinson was yet to notice him despite their thirty-odd minutes on the road.
They passed the Rising Sun, a notorious pub riddled with drugs and prostitution. He doubted they pulled a good pint of Summer Lightning in there. He doubted they pulled a good pint of anything.
Parkinson turned off down a dingy street that was familiar to Yorke. It was filled with a row of Edwardian houses. Some of which were squats, housing up to seven or eight people. The last time Yorke had been here, it’d been during the Christian Severance case, and they’d been interviewing sex-workers.
What you up to Parkinson?
Ahead, Parkinson pulled up alongside a boarded-up house. Yorke drove past, turning his head away as he did, so as not to be caught out. In his rear-view mirror, Yorke watched Parkinson bypass the boarded-up house, and then opt for the property next door.
Yorke parked, and then looked in his wingmirror. A young lady welcomed Parkinson, and then admitted him.
Are you seeing prostitutes Parkinson?
If that was the case, Madden’s assignment to get him out of the force was going to be quicker, and easier, than they’d first anticipated.
Yorke readied his phone to take photographs when Parkinson emerged. He didn’t know how he could use the photographs exactly but presenting them to Joan Madden would be as good a place as any to start.
Parkinson was only in there for five minutes. Technically, long enough for sex, but Yorke doubted it. He was the type of guy who’d want to get his money’s worth when exploiting someone.
Yorke took a burst of photographs through his wingmirror, before switching camera setting to film him driving past. He could easily have been rumbled at this point, but it was worth the risk. This footage was solid gold.
After Parkinson was out of sight, Yorke exited his vehicle. The rains from earlier had stopped, but the sky was still overcast from the ash cloud, and the darkness of evening wasn’t far away. He felt like he was wading through gloom as he approached the house. Here was a place of exploitation, and tragedy. He’d visited it once before, and he hoped that the revelations hidden behind that door weren’t as disturbing as they’d been back then.
The same young lady who’d admitted Parkinson answered the door. She was heavily made up and chewed gum. ‘Can I help you?’
He showed his ID. ‘DCI Yorke, ma’am. Can we talk?’
She chewed harder. ‘I don’t understand. I just saw the other one.’
‘Sorry, what don’t you understand?’
‘You know?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why it takes two of you?’
‘Two of us to do w
hat?’
She stopped chewing. ‘Why did you say you were here?’
‘Just to talk.’
She stood aside and let him in. Last time he’d been to one of these brothel-squats he’d expected squalor before discovering tidiness and order. This time was different in only one way. It came with the tang of citrus air-freshener.
‘What’s your name?’ Yorke said.
‘Helen.’ They came into the lounge. ‘Listen … I do what I’m told.’
‘By whom?’
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and spat the chewing gum into it. ‘I really don’t want to talk to you. I think you should come back another time.’
These brothels were a long-standing project of Vice. Vice worked with a charity called Second Chance to help the workers. This industry was being managed and contained, rather than being torn to pieces. Yorke would not be flavour-of-the-month if he became destructive here.
‘Ma’am, I don’t want to bother you. I know what happens here, and I’m not here to create any problems for you, or whoever you work for. All I want you to tell me is why my colleague was here moments ago.’
She walked over to a bin in the corner of her room and dropped in the tissue-wrapped chewing gum. ‘For money. That’s all I know. My boss gives it to me, and I give it to your friend when he comes.’
He’s not my friend. ‘How often does he come?’
‘Once a week. Either him, or another fella.’
Yorke felt his heart up-tempo. ‘Describe this other fella to me.’
‘Big. Strong-looking. A lot nicer than this one. Polite with me, you know?’
There were plenty of polite, strong-looking men in the police.
‘A shaved head. Talks to me sometimes. Been having marriage problems.’
Yorke felt sweat crawling down his back.
He took a deep breath. He couldn’t bear to entertain these thoughts. Not with everything else going on. Not right now. ‘What is the money for?’
‘I really don’t know. Honestly. I’m told to pay. That’s all.’
‘How much?’