Time To Go
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
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31
32
33
Acknowledgements
Detective Caelan Small Series
Copyright
For Mum.
9 December
As Lot 9 arrived on the stage, the auctioneer stepped back from his podium and dabbed at his brow with a yellow silk handkerchief. His face was red, his suit stretched to capacity. He was supposed to have retired, but the promise of a significant regular cash boost to his pension had lured him back into the game. Once a month, he put on his best clothes, shined his shoes and lied to his wife.
Nothing new there. He lied as easily as he breathed these days. He had to. They had him trapped between knowing too much and disappearing too easily. They also knew he was desperate for money, which helped them keep him in his place. Standing here under the lights, sweating, shuffling, hating and loving it all in equal measure. Eyes glazed, feasting, trying to hide the tremor in his voice as he described the lots being paraded in front of them.
If he was honest, he knew there was no need. The punters all knew what they were here to bid on, had made their choices from the wares on offer days before. Depending on the lot, they might even have been offered an opportunity – try before you buy. His talents, the lyrical descriptions and the way he knew how to ignite the bidding into a battle of will and wits – wasted. He was wasted here.
If he closed his mind to the facts, the old excitement still fizzed, though. Allow the audience to gawp at each lot, then haul their attention back to himself. It wasn’t easy, but he had a job to do, after all. He didn’t have all night. An envelope of used twenties and a grubbier soul each time he left the building. Payment, and payback.
He could live with it. He had no choice.
Stuffing the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket, he licked his lips, ran a hand over his moustache and smiled.
‘Shall we start the bidding at eight thousand pounds?’
* * *
In an office above the auction room, a man sat watching proceedings on a monitor. The room was in darkness, the glow of the screen the only source of light. He was invisible to those in the room below, and none of the people placing bids knew his name. The auction’s location was a closely guarded secret, vital information that would allow the bidders access only revealed at the last moment. It was better that way, for everyone. If you knew nothing, you couldn’t grass. It was a lesson he had learnt early, at his father’s side. His dad had gradually grown to trust him, a little more each year, but the old man had still kept some secrets close. He didn’t know for sure, but he had probably taken some to his grave.
There was a tap on the office door and he stood, strode over to open it. The man who stood there looked apprehensive.
The click of a lighter, the flare of a flame. He took the offered cigar with a nod of thanks as it was lit for him.
‘Auctioneer looks nervous,’ the other man said, waving a hand towards the stage.
He sat back down, squinting at the screen. ‘Looks the same as always to me.’
‘We can trust him, though.’
It wasn’t a question. ‘We know where he lives, where his daughter and grandkids live.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘Same thing.’
A pause. He waited, putting the cigar between his teeth so that both hands were free. Just in case. He nodded towards a chair.
‘You’ve men here?’ the other man said as he sat down.
‘Men?’
A quick jerk of the head. ‘You know. In case something goes wrong. Someone gets… rough.’
He laughed. ‘Rough? They wouldn’t dare. Bid, pay, get out. They know how it works before they come in.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Pay.’
He took his time replying, blowing smoke into the air and leaning back in his chair to cross his legs. ‘Don’t know. It’s never happened.’
‘It hasn’t happened yet.’ Definite emphasis on the final word. Shifting in the chair, one knee bouncing. The other man was nervous – he knew the signs. He sat up straight, his hand moving swiftly to his pocket.
‘If you’re having second thoughts—’
‘I’m not,’ the other man said quickly. ‘It’s just… the Albanians.’
‘What about them?’
‘They’re…’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like working with them. Cut-throat bastards.’ He glanced at the monitor, the auctioneer still speaking, pointing, nodding. Lot 9 displayed under a spotlight like a prize.
‘They’re businessmen, like us, buying and selling.’ He nodded at the scene in front of them. ‘You’d better watch your mouth; they’re on the front row. Like I said, if you’re having second thoughts…’
He set the cigar in the ashtray at his elbow and reached to turn on the desk lamp with his left hand, the right unlocking a drawer and removing a gun. It lay on his palm, squat and ugly. Threatening. He didn’t raise it, didn’t even look at it. Just held it. The other man gulped, swallowed, knowing he was looking at a weapon that had already killed. ‘I’m not, I swear,’ he said.
‘Then why mention it? Why ask?’
‘It’s just… I’ve a lot of money invested in this scheme.’
‘Scheme?’ He chuckled. ‘You make it sound as though we’re robbing schoolkids of their lunch money. Scheme. Fucking scheme. A scheme is a gamble – might come off, might explode in your face. This isn’t a scheme, it’s a business, and it works.’
‘You know what I mean. I’m risking everything.’
He thrust his chin forward, getting in the other man’s face. ‘Because you owe me. I didn’t have to work with you, you know.’
Raised hands, wide eyes. ‘I’ve never said—’
‘You’ve caused trouble.’
The other man swallowed. ‘Not intentionally.’
He turned the gun over in his hand, watching the light glint on the barrel and then skitter away. ‘You can back out if you want to,’ he said.
‘Back out?’ Eyes wider still. ‘No, I—’
‘But think of everything you’ll be throwing away. The money, the respect. The opportunities.’ He slipped the gun back into the drawer and locked it. ‘I’ll say it again – the money.’
‘Yeah, all right. I get it. I’ll shut up.’
‘Make sure you do. I need to concentrate.’
He clicked the lamp off again as Lot 9 sold for eighteen thousand pounds.
Smiling, he did a couple of calculations. He’d reckoned they’d made over a hundred and fifty grand already, and the night was still young.
His phone rang and he tutted as he glanced at the screen.
‘What?’ He listened, puffing on the cigar. ‘What are you talking about?’ Another pause. ‘All right, the more the merrier. Stay where you are. I’ll be down soon.’
‘What’s wrong?’ The other man was worried.
He turned to him, smiling. ‘Nothing. Just a few special guests.’
‘Guests? What are you talking about?’
‘You’ll see.’
1 December
If this were a film, she would hear footsteps behind her. They would grow closer; she would hurry, soon break into a run. Eventually she would stumble, turn her ankle, and he’d be on her. As it was, at first, there was no more than a vaguely unsettling awareness.
The lecture theatre had been too warm, the muggy atmosphere and droning tones of the guest speaker having a soporific effect. Lucy stumbled out into the street, tired and hungry, not relishing the forty-minute walk home in the freezing December darkness. She carried a tote bag of books, her laptop in a shoulder bag designed to look like it was carrying nothing more valuable than a shitload of lecture notes. Couldn’t be too careful, not in London. Not according to her mother, who had her own wild ideas of danger, mostly conjured up in her own mind.
She started walking. The people she passed looked as weary as she felt, hurrying along to the station, to the bus stop, desperate to get home, get warm. Eat, sleep, wake tomorrow and do it all over again.
She was passing Warren Street Underground station when she became aware of the first nudge of unease. She couldn’t have said what had alerted her, but she felt a tiny rush as her heartbeat quickened, her senses sharpened, her eyes beginning to search for danger. Her phone was in her jeans pocket and instinctively she felt for it. Still there. There were people around, a group in front of her waiting to cross the road. She increased her pace but the lights changed, and by the time she reached the crossing they were well ahead again. She waited, wanting to look behind her, to see if there was someone there. It was a ridiculous thought; of course there was. This was London – when were you ever alone? But this was different. She could feel eyes on her back.
Pretending to check the traffic, she glanced around. There were people behind her now, looking at their phones, their watches. They were all watching the lights, urging them to change so they could cross, resenting having to wait even for a couple of minutes.
That was when she saw him.
Standing by the entrance to the station, wearing dark trousers and a black coat with the hood up. Arms folded, feet apart, face invisible. Couldn’t have looked dodgier if he’d tried.
She turned back. Maybe she was paranoid, seeing and feeling threats when there were none, but it wasn’t the first time she’d felt as though she was being watched. Recently, it had happened several times.
She hurried across the road with everyone else, picking up her pace. Determined not to be rattled but feeling it nevertheless, she kept moving.
Another crossing. Again she had to wait. She turned again, looked back. He was there, head down, now no more than twenty metres away. The coat was baggy, all his clothes plain and unidentifiable. Lucy licked her lips, her mouth dry.
She’d already been warned.
1
6 December
‘You’re wasting your time. I’m telling you nothing, I’m not agreeing a deal with you. Take these off,’ James Mulligan raised his cuffed hands, ‘and let me go back to my cell.’
Across the table, Detective Chief Inspector Tim Achebe raised his eyebrows. ‘You realise that if we do that, you’ll be locked up for the rest of your life?’
Mulligan glared. ‘Yeah, yeah. Better than being dead, isn’t it?’
There was silence until Jen Somerville, Achebe’s sergeant, sitting beside her boss, said carelessly, ‘Is it?’
‘Marginally.’ Mulligan pouted. ‘Things can happen to a person that are worse than death, you know.’
They did. Achebe said nothing, just watched him. In his grubby grey sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, his auburn hair unwashed, James Mulligan was a less than impressive sight. He had been arrested six weeks earlier when a botched drug deal had resulted in three men, including Mulligan himself, being shot. One had died, but Mulligan’s bullet had gone clean through his thigh. He’d lost some blood but had never been in serious danger. That had come later, once he’d been released from hospital and into the prison system. Now, three beatings and an attempted riot later, they were trying to get him to talk again, and failing.
He looked from Somerville to Achebe. ‘Is one of you going to speak? I’ve said all I’m going to, so get your fingers out of your arses and take me back to Belmarsh.’
Somerville tutted. ‘Is that any way to talk to people who are trying to help you?’
‘Didn’t your mother teach you manners?’ Achebe folded his arms.
Mulligan smirked. ‘You know, she never said a lot to me at all.’ He spoke in a high-pitched screech: ‘Get your thieving hands out of my purse. I don’t know who your father is, so stop fucking asking.’ Reverting to his normal voice, he raised his eyebrows. ‘You know, the usual.’
Somerville sketched a yawn. ‘Yeah, poor you. No wonder you ended up a criminal when you had such a terrible childhood.’
Mulligan tried to point at her. ‘You can be a wee bitch when you put your mind to it, can’t you?’
She beamed. ‘You’re learning.’
He scowled. ‘But you’re not. We’re done. It won’t work. Take me home.’
‘Home?’ Achebe’s nostrils flared. ‘An eight-by-six cell with a stinking toilet in the corner and the most psychotic cellmate you can think of in the other bunk? What do you reckon, James?’
Mulligan said nothing, making a point of ignoring him.
‘How’s your sister?’ Somerville asked suddenly.
Mulligan’s eyes narrowed. ‘My…?’
‘Sister, you remember. Girl who grew up in the same house as you.’ She sat back in her chair and gazed at the ceiling. ‘Lucy?’
Mulligan leant towards her. ‘Is this some kind of—’
‘Postgraduate student at the University of Westminster, isn’t she?’ Somerville inclined her head, checking with Achebe, who nodded, playing along as they had agreed earlier.
‘I believe so. Studying cyber crime and forensics,’ he said. ‘Already holds a degree in computer network security.’
‘Wow.’ Somerville looked suitably impressed. ‘Clever girl.’
‘Very clever girl,’ said Achebe. They both beamed at Mulligan like proud parents.
‘She’s twenty-fucking-four,’ he spat. ‘Hardly a girl.’
‘Don’t tell me you respect her?’ Achebe smiled. ‘I thought women were pieces of meat to you?’
Mulligan glared at him but stayed quiet.
‘Still,’ Somerville tipped her head to the side, ‘a subject like that could come in handy.’
‘We always need geeks,’ Achebe nodded. It was true.
Mulligan’s expression darkened. ‘She wouldn’t work for you lot. Never. Not if you begged her.’
‘What’s wrong, James? Scared we’ll poach her? Wouldn’t look good for you, would it? Your smart-arse little sister, working for the Met?’ Achebe grinned at him. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t already asked her to do some work for you. Hacking, fiddling around with CCTV cameras? Sneaking into other people’s bank accounts?’
Mulligan’s eyes blazed, but when he spoke, he was calm. ‘Leave her out of this. She’s never been involved in any of my business activities.’
Somerville laughed. ‘Is that what we’re calling them? Business activities?’
‘Whatever you say, they’ve made me more money already than you’ll earn in your entire life.’ Mulligan folded his arms.
‘Congratulations. You must be proud of yourself. Now you can enjoy spending it.’ Somerville widened her eyes in an exaggerated double-take, gazing around at the grimy walls and the barred window. ‘Oh no, wait.’
Mulligan tried to applaud, the handcuffs making it impossible. ‘Well done, love. Oscar-winning, that was.’
‘Your sister’s doing well for herself,’ said Achebe. His tone had changed, serious now. Tired of playing games.
‘Don’t you think other people will have noticed that?’ Somerville asked, backing him up.
‘What do you mean?’ Mulligan’s eyes flicked between them. ‘What are you bastards up to now?’
>
‘We’re concerned about Lucy.’ Achebe leant forward, resting his forearms on the table between them. ‘We want to keep her safe.’
Mulligan glared at him. ‘Really? Good of you. Safe from what?’
‘The two men who worked for you, the brothers? Albanian, not a brain cell between them?’
‘Yeah, I remember them.’ Mulligan allowed himself a smile. ‘Been spilling their guts, have they?’
‘You know they have,’ said Somerville. ‘Couldn’t wait to tell us everything they knew in return for some time off their sentences.’
‘Really.’ A sneer. ‘Won’t have taken long. No loyalty, some people. No balls.’
‘They say you were cooking your own crack, James. That true?’
His cheeks flushed. ‘None of your business.’
‘Come on, we know you were. We’ve been in all your properties, remember, including your cookshop. Your fingerprints all over the pans, DNA everywhere. Have to say, in a way, we were disappointed. We thought we’d brought in a major dealer when we arrested you. Then we discover you’re a one-man band.’ Achebe’s expression was intentionally sorrowful. ‘Not exactly Walter White, are you?’
Mulligan managed a grin. ‘Even he had to start somewhere.’
‘But we still think you can help us.’ Achebe gave the other man a hard look. ‘We need to put away the people you were working with. Otherwise we can’t promise your sister will be safe.’
‘I’ve already told you, no chance.’ Mulligan leant back in his chair, focusing on the door. He raised his voice. ‘Is anyone out there? I want to go back to my cell.’
No reply. Achebe folded his arms, waiting. Mulligan lifted his chin, pressing his lips together, making a show of staying silent. Achebe didn’t care. Let him make them wait. He’d agree in the end, the DCI was certain. When he knew, when he was aware of what was really going on.
Once they’d told him his sister had already received death threats.
* * *
In the observation suite, two people were watching the detectives wrestle with James Mulligan.
‘We’re getting nowhere fast.’ Assistant Commissioner Elizabeth Beckett began to push back her chair. ‘I don’t have time for this, Ian.’
Time To Go Page 1