Breathless he spoke into his radio. ‘PC Evans to control.’
‘PC Evans go ahead.’
He remembered the ABC of radio procedure as preached by his older colleagues years ago - accuracy, brevity, clarity.
‘Naked body at Spikers factory. Face covered in white powder. Deceased believed to be Billy Skinner.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Christmas party was in full flow and so was the beer and lager, the revellers of an older cut but not a blue-rinse perm or Velcro fastening in sight.
The back room of The Ship was bouncing, men of physical stature in suits, smartly dressed women, all discussing the good old days and how modern policing was fucked.
Ray Reynolds was holding court.
‘Not a man under 5’10” in the old days, men who joined when minimum height restrictions were enforced, before the bloody PC brigade kicked off about ‘heightism’ and the tiny tots flooded the force.’
For emphasis he held his right hand, palm down, against his hip.
‘Christ half of the latest recruits look like they could audition for fridge magnets.’
The group burst into laughter, even though they’d heard it all before.
Ray Reynolds sipped his pint and looked around. Some of the assembled throng were in their seventies, but many were in their fifties, people who joined at 19, 20, 21 and retired after their 30 years’ service, all bonded by a lifetime in ‘The Job’.
Through the cranked up speakers George Michael was singing Last Christmas, the four staff crammed behind the tiny bar handing over pints quicker than George’s lover gave away his heart.
Ed Whelan walked in. Sam had told him to take an hour out, show his face at the party. He’d worked with a lot of them, signed up with some, and would have been retired himself by now if he hadn’t left and rejoined.
‘Still hard at it Ed?’ Ray Reynolds shook his head. ‘Bloody dinosaur like you. How the hell do you cope?’
Reynolds looked like most people would imagine a senior detective to look like; neatly cut hair, navy blue suit, red tie, shiny black shoes.
Ed shook Reynolds’ hand and turned down the offer of a pint.
‘I’m working. Just popped in to see a few of the old faces.’
Reynolds followed Ed’s eyes as he scanned the room.
‘Surprised you’ve got time to pop in at all, what with Billy Skinner missing.’
‘Missing presumed dead,’ Ed said, having to raise his voice above the racket.
‘We can all hope,’ Reynolds beamed. ‘Sam Parker must be due another promotion.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘They didn’t look like that in my day mind, more’s the pity.’
Ed let that go while the group around them, hanging on Reynolds’ words like backstage groupies, nodded in eager agreement.
‘I’d say she deserves to step up,’ Ed said. ‘But who knows what goes on in the head of the Chiefs?’
‘Fuck all if they’re still like they used to be,’ Reynolds said, the man on a roll.
The laughter could have come straight from a can.
‘Anyway I’m surprised you managed to make it,’ Reynolds said now. ‘You’ve got more dead bodies than Agatha Christie. Anything on the one up at Bill O’Grady’s old place?’
‘Jeremy Scott?’ Ed said. ‘Nothing. It’s like it said in the papers. Charred body found. The only thing we kept back was the fact we believe there was three there.’
Reynolds raised his glass.
‘Still on the beer then,’ Ed grinned.
‘You know me,’ Reynolds priming another one liner. ‘When I want a cocktail I’ll order lager. So three? Sounds interesting.’
Ed put his hands in his trouser pockets, widened his stance.
‘Three pairs of boots and three sets of dungarees burnt out in a brazier by the garage. Took the lab ages to piece them together but they seem convinced. Other than that, nothing.’
Ed shrugged his shoulders and continued.
‘No sightings around his house, total dead-end at the minute. But you all know how it is, suspected paedophile found dead and it’s a case of, who gives a fuck?’
Nods all round. They knew the score.
‘When I saw it on the TV I thought Sam’s got some job on there,’ Reynolds said. ‘Still I suppose for some there’s a sense of justice. Scum like that deserve everything that comes their way. Sure you don’t want a drink?’
Ed took his hands out of his pockets, said he was fine.
‘Nothing on the two up at the abattoir?’
Ed shook his head and shrugged.
‘Same story,’ he told Reynolds. ‘Everybody’s been diagnosed with ‘who gives a fuck syndrome’.’
‘Let’s go downstairs to the cellar,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t trust Ray Reynolds not to come back.’
Stuart McFadden walked behind the bar and down the steps, head low.
He paused at the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The shove in the back catapulted him forward.
‘Fucking hell Harry.’
McFadden regained his balance, straightened, and turned around.
‘Alright Stu.’
Harry hit the light switch.
Luke and Mark Skinner emerged from the dark corners of the cellar nearest the door.
Harry took two steps to his left and leaned against the whitewashed wall.
Luke and Mark blocked the door, the only exit unless McFadden could magically drill through walls.
With nowhere to run he stood still, faced his captors and waited.
‘You’ve been a naughty boy Stuart,’ Luke said. ‘Harry here has told us all about it.’
McFadden glanced at Harry then settled his eyes back on Luke, his face blank. He needed to think quickly.
‘So where’s my father?’ Luke said.
‘Your father?’ McFadden indignant. ‘I don’t know what shit this idiot’s been feeding you, but I’ve nothing to do with Billy going missing. Remember, it was him,’ he nodded towards Harry, ‘who your dad thought was skimming. Since when did he become Mr Fucking Trustworthy?’
Luke looked at Harry and then Mark and then back to McFadden.
‘Since he filled us in on your telephone call about Mat.’
McFadden felt his heart rate increase but he could still walk away from this. It would be his word against Harry Pullman’s, his king ‘checked’ but ‘mate’ a long way off.
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
McFadden tried to relax, keep his voice calm and controlled.
‘Harry said you were up at Seahouses and that you blew our kid’s caravan up,’ Luke said.
McFadden stepped backwards and leaned against the cellar wall.
‘I can’t remember the last time I was at Seahouses, and I don’t know shit about any caravan.’
Luke told him it had been on the morning news but McFadden said sorry, he hadn’t seen the news, hadn’t made a call to Harry or anyone else, sensing he was taking back control.
‘I came in here for a pint and what did I find?’ McFadden said.
‘What?’ Luke said, watching him.
‘Your man here deep in conversation with a certain Ray Reynolds.’
Luke and Mark exchanged a look.
‘Is that true Harry?’ Luke said.
Harry Pullman looked like a punter who realised he had been shouting home the wrong horse.
‘Now hang on,’ he said. ‘Don’t try shifting this onto me. Reynolds was in here for a pint. He’s always in. And he’s retired.’
‘Fuckers like him never retire,’ Luke said.
McFadden liked more and more where this was going, turned the screw when he saw the chance.
‘How many times over the years did your dad say Reynolds must have a good informant because he was always getting close?’
Harry Pullman lunged forwards. ‘You cheeky bastard!’
Mark grabbed him around the neck and pulled him backwards.
‘C
alm down Harry,’ Luke said. ‘Nobody’s accusing you of being a grass...not yet anyway...but I need to see your phone, quick look at the call register.’
Harry Pullman was watching his plan unravel faster than smelly stuff off a particularly well-polished stick.
‘It was an unknown number,’ his voice getting ragged. ‘Jesus you’re not believing this fucker?’
McFadden grinned, made another move, feeling like a Grand Master going for the kill.
‘Maybe Harry went to this caravan I’ve never heard of...’
Harry Pullman lunged forward again and this time Mark didn’t stop him, the punch knocking Stuart McFadden to the floor.
Mark stepped forward and pulled Harry away, McFadden pushing himself up, wiping the trickle of blood off his lips with the back of his hand and grinning.
‘Big protests from the copper’s nark.’
Harry lunged again but Mark pulled him back.
‘Settle down Harry,’ Luke said.
He turned his attention back to McFadden.
‘So you’re saying you didn’t ring Harry this morning?’
‘I didn’t ring him.’
‘And you’re saying you never went to see Mat in his caravan?’
‘What caravan?’ McFadden told him. ‘I didn’t even know he had a caravan.’
Luke kept his gaze on him for seconds that seemed like minutes in the sudden silence.
‘So,’ he said at last, shifting his eyes, turning them on Harry Pullman. ‘If Stuart didn’t ring you Harry, how the fuck do you know about Mat’s caravan?’
Where McFadden was cool, Harry’s gaskets were blowing, his voice desperate.
‘I don’t know anything about a fucking caravan!’
Luke had done his own checks, been in touch with the site and confirmed a caravan there was in Geoff Mekins’ name. He was surprised him and Mat had managed to keep it under wraps.
‘One of you two definitely knew,’ he said now. ‘That’s a fact.’
The knock on the door was loud. Mark opened it and two heavies, both Luke’s muscle, squeezed sideways into the cellar.
‘Nobody leaves,’ Luke said.
The two suited men nodded and stood with their hands clasped in front of them below the waist. They looked like they could have been in church.
‘So who’s lying?’ Luke said.
The door was pushed open again.
‘Both of the fuckers.’
The owner of the voice was hidden behind the two suits but
Harry Pullman and Stuart McFadden didn’t need to see a face.
The suits separated and the voice stepped between them.
‘Alright Harry, alright Stu.’
It was the turn of the brothers to grin.
All three of them.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ed Whelan felt his mobile vibrate, took it out of his pocket and saw Sam’s name on the screen.
He stepped outside The Ship, answered the call.
‘Bloody hell it sounds like you’re outside a nightclub,’ Sam said, picturing something more high-season Salou that Seaton St George. ‘Do me a favour and move away from the door. It looks like they’ve found Skinner.’
Ed began walking, already sure Skinner was dead by the tone of Sam’s voice.
‘He was naked, tied up and covered in what looks like coke,’ Sam told him. ‘Anonymous call. He’s up at the old Spikers factory. Did you get a lift down there?’
Ed said yes, said nothing attracted the Black Rats more than a police party.
‘I’ll pick you up in ten,’ Sam ended the call.
Ed walked back into the pub and said his goodbyes.
‘You off already?’ Reynolds caught him on his way back from the gents. ‘No rest for the wicked.’
Ed gave him a ‘something-like-that’ look, told him to look after himself, and stepped outside.
He heard the voice before he saw the owner.
‘Fucking hell, Ed, it’s shit when we can’t even have a pint in our pub because of you retired bobbies.’
Carol Pender, Seaton St George’s all-peroxide-blonde, stopped in front of him.
Ed noted the December weather hadn’t been high on Carol’s priorities when she chose her outfit, the short yellow leather jacket and brown felt mini-skirt a courageous call, not to mention the huge yellow-hooped earrings.
The only concession to the cold was her footwear, but that was just luck. Carol liked her black cavalier thigh high boots, liked the effect they had on the men she would catch having a stolen look.
By her own admission she needed to be eye-candy; if she couldn’t get testosterone pumping through their blood what was the point?
Ed had known her and her family for years, Carol through prostitution, the male line through a compulsion to end every drinking session with a fight.
Ed thought Carol had been off the game for years. Looking at her now, maybe she had just stopped getting caught.
‘I’m not retired Carol. How’s things?’
‘Can’t grumble,’ she tugged at the boots one after the other. ‘You’ll be busy with those three nonce murders are you? Good enough for them. Should do that to all the kiddie-fiddlers if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t,’ Ed wishing Sam would get a move on.
Carol put her hands in the pockets of her jacket.
‘Ed, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t do it to them if you got the chance,’ she glanced around, leaned in close, and dropped her voice. ‘Anyway, who the fuck got Billy Skinner? I couldn’t believe it.’
She backed away satisfied nobody could hear or see her.
‘Good enough for that bastard as well.’
She took a packet of menthol cigarettes out of her fake leopard fur shoulder bag, allowing the long hooped gold chain to dangle against her boots. She put the unlit cigarette to her lips. ‘I mean setting up them traffic lights. How good was that?’
Ed’s interest perked up.
‘You’ve got your ear to the ground,’ he said. ‘Who do you think’s behind it?’
She lit the cigarette, put the bag back on her shoulder, and adjusted the gold strap.
‘There’s nothing Ed,’ blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth so it missed him. ‘Plenty of people guessing, talking shit. This one’s behind it, that one’s done it. Nobody’s got a clue. And you know yourself if nobody knows, it’s usually an outsider.’
‘Possibly,’ Ed struck again by the way things had been kept under the radar.
‘You seen Linda then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Linda Pritchard, little Miss-Prim-and-Proper,’ she spoke through a spluttering cough. ‘My arse!’
Ed said: ‘You know her then?’
Carol tapped the cigarette, tugged at the boots again.
‘Course I do, not that she’d let on,’ here words battled through another cough. ‘So do you.’
Ed furrowed his brow, shook his head, said he had only met Linda Pritchard on Saturday.
‘Some detective you are,’ Carol swapped the cough for a wheezy laugh. ‘Mind she’s had her teeth and tits done since you knew her.’
Ed was baffled, shrugged again.
‘Linda Avery,’ Carol said, like a conjuror pulling silk scarves from her sleeves. ‘Former escort and Billy Skinner’s one time bed warmer.’
It came to Ed in a rush and he kicked himself, stunned he hadn’t remembered.
‘The hair,’ he said. ‘It’s longer, darker.’
This time Carol went from cough to laugh and back again.
‘Get lost,’ she gasped. ‘You’ll have been too busy staring at her tits to notice her hair. Not that I blame you. They look good, but so they should. They’re years younger than the rest of her.’
Now Ed realised what was wrong in the house. It wasn’t the family photographs or the obnoxious granny; it was the fact that a one-time escort was living in relative grandeur with descendants of the judiciary. That’s what he couldn’t put his finger on. It was all wrong.
He smiled. Hue and Cry were right. He wasn’t looking, Linda found him.
Sam Parker pulled up alongside them.
Carol bent down, looked at Sam, and quickly stood up, brushing her skirt straight. ‘Still pulling the lookers Ed?’
‘She’s my boss.’
Carol said ‘yeah right’ as Ed opened the passenger door.
‘If you hear anything, give me a shout,’ he told her. ‘I might even get you a couple of drinks.’
‘Yeah that’s right up your street,’ Carol shot a look at Sam. ‘Get a girl pissed.’
She walked away, raised her arm and waggled her hand.
‘Friend of yours?’ Sam asked as Ed settled into the seat.
He tugged on the belt, clicked it in place.
‘Carol? Known her years. Ronnie Pender’s daughter. Rough diamond and on the game back in the day. I always got on alright with her.’
Sam put the car in gear and drove off.
‘It looks like it,’ the smile getting one back in return.
As they drove Ed told her about Linda Pritchard and her past, still chewing himself that he hadn’t twigged.
‘Can Carol be trusted?’ Sam asked him. ‘She looks a dangerous woman.’
Ed grinned. ‘I know, trust me I know.’
‘You haven’t have you?’ Sam said, glancing at him.
Ed kept eyes fixed on the windscreen.
‘Course not. Anyway, who’s at the scene?’
Sam decided it was best to let it drop.
‘Uniform. Tommy Evans.’
‘Tommy Evans? Young blond haired lad?’
‘He’s got about ten years in,’ Sam told him.
‘That’s what I mean, young. Good lad. He’ll do it by the book.’
Sam pushed the indicator stalk and turned left.
‘I think he got a bit of a shock,’ she said. ‘Not every day a uniform finds the head of a crime family naked and covered in white powder.’
When the investigation talk stopped, the silence felt only mildly uncomfortable.
Ten minutes later the pool of vomit outside the factory told them just how shocked Tommy Evans had been.
‘Everything alright Tom?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes boss,’ his face a strange shade. ‘Nothing’s been touched in there.’
Angels and Apostles Page 23