SHADOW CRIMES a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  ‘Because it’s possible he isn’t who he claims to be, and this place is just a front. That’s all I can tell you about it at the moment, Millie. But there is something you can tell me. Have you met anyone else since you’ve worked here? He must have other people for the days you’re at college.’

  ‘Yeah, but we don’t ever meet. They must be part-time as well. There was one guy who I took over from. He stopped because he was getting ill and couldn’t work anymore. It was him that showed me round when I first started, and I never saw him after that. He told me he used to work in the prison over at Portland till he retired because of his health. He only did a day or so here as a favour to Mr, er, Brown.’

  At this, the woman seemed almost to jump. ‘Did he tell you his name, this man?’

  ‘Tony, I think. He never told me his last name.’

  The superintendent woman was silent. It looked like she was thinking.

  ‘Did anyone ever talk about holidays in Spain?’

  Millie wondered if she should be talking to the police like this, telling them stuff she’d found out during her days here. But it wasn’t to do with the business, was it? What harm could it do? ‘Yeah. He’s got a villa out there.’

  ‘Who? Your Mr Brown?’

  ‘Yeah. He said if I played my cards right, I could have it for free, take a week’s holiday. No chance of that now, is there?’

  * * *

  “Mr Brown” arrived some ten minutes later and stood in the doorway, his mouth agape.

  ‘What the fuck?’ was his first comment. He turned on Millie. ‘Why didn’t you let me know, you stupid cretin?’

  ‘I tried to. You didn’t answer your phone.’ Her voice quavered.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  Lydia intervened. ‘Here’s the search warrant, Mr, er, Brown. You’ll see everything’s in order. No need for you to harangue your staff.’

  On the other side of the room, Sophie sent a text message to Barry Marsh, who was waiting in the incident room with a communications technician. The single word, “Now!”

  When it rang, the shop owner already had his phone out, and was jabbing furiously at the buttons. He looked at it in surprise and pressed answer, seemingly unaware that the room had fallen silent.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said, and listened. ‘Yeah, but I can’t talk just now. Things are hectic. Call me again later on. Who are you?’

  Still listening, he wheeled slowly around to face Sophie Allen, who was moving towards him.

  ‘What? Who?’

  He lowered the phone and stared from it to her.

  ‘William Mapps, I’m arresting you on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Detective Constable Andrea Ford. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  He stared for a moment longer, open-mouthed, then made a dash for the door. Lydia and Jimmy were ready and waiting. Lydia, a martial arts enthusiast, looped her arm around his neck and forced him to the floor in an arm lock, ready for Jimmy to clip the handcuffs on.

  Chapter 36: Bluster

  Wednesday Afternoon

  In addition to Wyke Trading, William Mapps owned two other businesses in the West Dorset area: Chesil Procurement, a specialist supplies company, and a security agency operating under the name of Picketline Security. The first claimed to be leading experts in sourcing unorthodox items in a hurry. “You Need It? We’ll Source It!” was the company motto on its publicity material and website. The company office was half a mile away from the Wyke Trading shop.

  Picketline Security operated out of a small office on the outskirts of Weymouth. Its expertise was extensive, if the company flyers were to be believed. It offered advice across a range of security needs and employed security personnel on short or long term hire.

  Both were of great interest to the police team. The first was exactly what Lydia was seeking in her investigation into prison smuggling: expertise in procurement and supply. And the second? Those intimidating characters she’d been faced with in the Bournemouth bar a couple of weeks ago were exactly the type some organisations would want as security personnel — people who would quell any potential trouble just with their appearance and manner.

  In addition to his three local companies, Mapps was also involved in the running of Dorset Trading Supplies, the company that had first aroused their interest. It quickly became apparent that the company was just another front for Chesil Procurement. Both businesses shared the same trading address. The whole operation was a labyrinth of interlocking connections. It would take several days to search through the paperwork at the three sets of premises, although they found very little at the Wyke Trading shop, and the team finished there within two hours of Mapps’s arrest. The shop had been left in the care of the forensic team, and Millie was sent home, having been forewarned by Lydia that she’d be needed later for a formal interview and to make a statement.

  The police team split into three. Lydia, along with Rose Simons and George Warrander, visited the procurement agency, while Jimmy and Rae moved to the Picketline Security premises. Matt Silver was to visit Mapps’s home, along with a forensic team. Matt, now a senior DCS, was relishing this rare opportunity to take part in some action, something he hadn’t been able to do for years. His and Sophie’s unease about how far the rot had spread within the local CID unit meant that they couldn’t use any local detectives, so Rose and George had been co-opted. Local detectives were still being sent out to visit boatyards and marinas in the search for the boat used in Andrea Ford’s murder. They interviewed neighbours, and followed up lines of enquiry from previous statements. They were also given the task of checking whether Mapps kept a boat anywhere.

  Sophie and Barry interviewed Mapps, and at first they got nowhere.

  ‘This is outrageous,’ Mapps’s solicitor blustered. ‘It’s ridiculous bringing in my client like this for a few book-keeping errors. As to your allegation of involvement in murder, that’s just laughable.’

  Sophie looked across the table at the red-faced, corpulent lawyer. ‘I’m not laughing, Mr Simpson, nor is anyone on this team. Murder is the tragic and unwarranted ending of someone’s life in a ruthlessly premeditated way. In this particular instance, one of my officers was tortured before being killed. We have a witness to her abduction. We have a phone number for one of the people involved, someone with the name of Bill. We rang that number and your client replied, confirming that the number was his. We have other evidence of his involvement. No, nobody is laughing, as you so insultingly put it. Stick to your role, Mr Simpson, and stop acting. The situation doesn’t warrant it. The best advice you can offer your client is to come clean and tell us everything he knows.’

  The lawyer sank back into his chair, his brief moment of drama brought to an end. Sophie knew this type of lawyer well, and they rarely caused much concern. They were full of superficial bluster with little substance. The more effective ones knew their stuff and kept quiet. They were the ones to watch.

  ‘So, where were you on the evening of the Monday before last, the eighteenth, Mr Mapps?’

  ‘I was having a meal in the New World Bistro with a friend. We were there until almost eleven, discussing business. He’ll vouch for me.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Osman. Simon Osman.’

  Sophie struggled to keep her expression impassive. So this was the scheme. The two suspects would give each other an alibi. Too bad that Osman had turned his back on his erstwhile comrades and gone to the police. Clearly Mapps didn’t know about it yet.

  ‘Is that the same wine bar that DC Ford visited just before she vanished?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. I don’t know her. All I can tell you is that Simon chatted to a blonde middle-aged woman for a few moments on his way to the bar. She was sitting in an alcove by herself. Could that have been her? He told me her name when he returned to our table, but I can’t remem
ber what he said.’

  ‘What did you both eat?’ Sophie asked.

  Mapps looked vague. ‘Chicken, I think. We shared a bottle of wine.’

  ‘How did you pay for the meal, Mr Mapps?’

  ‘Cash. I gave my half to Simon and he paid the bill. I think he paid the whole lot by cash.’

  ‘What did you do when you left?’

  ‘I dropped into the Highland Bar to see if any of my friends were there, but they weren’t. I had one drink then went home. I got in at about midnight.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for any of this?’

  ‘Not once we left the New World. Simon can vouch for me there.’ He sounded confident.

  Sophie looked him in the eye. ‘No, Mr Mapps, Mr Osman hasn’t vouched for you. The exact opposite in fact. There is absolutely no evidence that you were in the wine bar that evening. However, we have several reliable witnesses to the fact that Mr Osman was there, as was Andrea Ford. We also have witnesses to the fact that they left just before ten. Just the two of them, together. That was verified by the staff on duty. No one can recall seeing you there. It was a cold Monday in January and a quiet night. I have a complete list of everyone who was in the wine bar that evening and every sale that went through the till. There were no men sharing a meal and a bottle of wine, just couples. As I said, we know Simon Osman was there but he only bought two rounds of drinks, each of two double brandies. One for him and one for Andrea Ford. No food, though. They chatted for nearly an hour before leaving. Those facts check out with the statements from staff and other witnesses, and with the till transactions. Your story is exactly that. A story. Complete fabrication. So tell me the truth.’

  Mapps looked shocked. ‘I have nothing further to say.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll end this interview now and resume in a few hours when you’ve had time to mull things over.’ She turned to the lawyer. ‘Mr Simpson, I suggest you keep yourself available. More evidence is accumulating as we speak.’

  * * *

  Sophie had been somewhat optimistic when she’d made that last comment to Mapps’s lawyer. But damning material did indeed turn up at one of the search locations.

  The first person to phone in was Lydia, at the Chesil Procurement office. After they finished with the office’s legitimate business records, they moved to a cabinet half hidden in a dingy, locked cupboard. There they struck gold. The contents were exactly what Lydia would have expected to find in her prison investigation: orders for the kind of miniaturised phones, tools and weapons that could be hidden easily once inside a prison. In a separate drawer, Rose Simons had found a contact list, made up of unknown names along with telephone and bank account numbers.

  ‘Drug suppliers,’ she’d said at once. ‘I bet that’s who they contact for their supplies of spice and all the other junky stuff. Look at the coded nicknames. Just the kind of thing these creeps use.’ She jabbed her finger at one of the names. ‘Snakebite. I lifted him last week, in Dorchester. That’s his number. What a result.’

  ‘I thought they only dealt in cash,’ Lydia said.

  ‘The ones who deal to individuals do,’ Rose said. ‘But cash means you need to meet the person face to face, and that’s always a risk. The advantage with using internet banking is that you never have to even see the nasties you’re supplying the stuff to. You make a payment online, the dealer drops the goods at a prearranged drop-spot — done.’

  ‘So, these bank account details could be gold dust? We can hand them over to the drug unit once we’ve finished?’ Lydia said.

  Rose smiled at her. ‘Exactly. But choose your moment. Don’t share too soon because you don’t want their big boots stomping all over your neat and tidy investigation. I never said that, by the way.’ She winked at Lydia.

  Chapter 37: Quarry

  Thursday Morning

  The following day was cold and blustery, with squally showers driving in from the west. Lydia climbed out of her car and stood beside Jimmy, who was carefully scanning the quarry. This was the third such site they’d visited this morning. None of the others employed anyone with the name Leary, nor did the staff they’d spoken to know anyone of that name in Portland, either in the quarries or anywhere else. Despite the lack of progress, Lydia had decided that they should carry on working their way down the list. There were, after all, only another two to visit. Maybe their assumptions had been wrong and their man worked in a completely different industry — a flour mill or cement works? It was just that in this area of Dorset the quarry option seemed the most obvious one to start with. Quarrying of Portland and Purbeck stone was an important part of the local economy.

  She joined Jimmy at the quarry edge. Bare sheets of rock, with occasional tufts of greenery, vehicle tracks across the quarry floor, a single parked truck, but no one in sight. They tramped towards the small huddle of portakabins near the entrance, their shoes already covered with a film of dirty grey residue, although there was little dust. The rain that had been falling on and off since the night before had turned it into a slimy grey mud. They climbed the few steps to the closest cabin, the one most likely to be an office or sales desk. It certainly looked the part, but there was no one about, even though a light was on, a jacket hung on the back of one of the chairs and several documents were spread across a desktop.

  ‘Well, there’s someone around somewhere,’ Lydia said. ‘Maybe they’re out at the workface. Shall we have a look in the other cabins?’

  The second building appeared to be a storage shed and was also empty. The last looked to be a small toilet block.

  ‘I wonder if we should visit the last quarry on our list and then come back to this one,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Okay. But I’ll need to use the loo before we set off. I’m bursting. It’s that second coffee I had in the last place.’ Jimmy opened the door to the toilet building and went inside.

  Lydia looked around at the desolate scene. She began to feel increasingly uneasy. Why was there no one in sight? Here, in the bowels of the quarry, she couldn’t be seen from the road. Even their car would be hidden from view. Yet anyone standing up on the edge of the quarry would be able to see her easily. Nothing moved up there apart from a few birds, scudding across the grey sky. She turned up her coat collar and stamped her feet. Why was Jimmy taking so long? She walked back to the small office building and went inside, deciding that she might as well wait in relative warmth. A large week-to-view calendar was pinned to the wall, with a few scribbled notes in today’s box. Someone called Jane was at a doctor’s appointment from mid-morning, due back at noon. Another note stated that Paul would be collecting a new van this morning from a dealer in Dorchester. No wonder the place seemed deserted. But surely there should be others about? Lydia glanced at some of the documents on the desktop. The topmost one seemed to be a covering letter for an invoice from the stores manager, ready to be signed. The name on the bottom was E Taylor. That sounded familiar, but from where? Lydia frowned. She moved to the window, thinking hard and, as a particularly hard flurry of raindrops hit the glass, she remembered. Taylor was the third name that had been mentioned at the army barracks. She looked out at the other two cabins, now really worried. Where on earth was Jimmy? He was taking forever in that toilet block. She hurried to the door and stepped outside. As she did, an indistinct shadow just at the periphery of her vision began moving towards her. She lurched sideways and so avoided the worst of the heavy blow that came her way. Instead of hitting her head, the crowbar caught her on the shoulder, and she stumbled against the waist-high balustrade at the top of the steps. Instinctively, she lashed out hard with her left leg and felt it connect with her assailant’s body. With luck she’d given herself a few vital seconds. Despite the blazing pain in her upper arm she half-jumped, half-toppled across the timber safety rail, and hit the ground running, dropping her bag in the process. In order to escape whoever had attacked her, she was forced to run away from the car, away from the buildings, away from Jimmy and into the depths of the quarry. She glanced back. I
t was him, and he was only a few yards away. Mr Angry from two weeks ago in the pub, Tonto Leary, suspected psychopath and extreme racist thug. Holding a crowbar in one hand, he limped after her, his face distorted in pain and rage. She turned and ran, ignoring the phone ringing in her pocket. Her Taser was still in her bag, dropped at the portakabin.

  * * *

  Back in the incident room, Sophie had finished discussing with Barry and Rae the possible connections between Mapps, Boulden, Osman and the late Liam Fenners. Where did Tonto Leary fit into it all, and why wasn’t his name turning up anywhere? Moreover, why hadn’t they come across any mention of the other suspect in the army pilfering operation? What had been his name? Taylor? Sophie made herself a coffee and returned to her desk to look again at the list of names. Why would anyone be called Tonto? Clearly it was a nickname, and had stuck with the man for some reason. His real name would be something else entirely. But what if his surname was also a handle? Her mind ran over some of her past cases where false names had been used. And then she realised. Tonto Leary was an anagram of Eton Taylor. Eton Taylor was the man who’d served with Fenners and Boulden in the logistics corps but who’d managed to avoid being caught thieving. How had the officer who’d spoken to Lydia described him? A psychopath of the first order?

  Sophie called to Rae and told her what she’d discovered. ‘See if you can find out if anyone with this name works or lives in Portland.’

  It took Rae precisely four minutes. ‘Both. He lives in a small terraced house in the town and he works as stores manager at the Greenjack Quarry.’

  Sophie turned pale. ‘Christ. That was the next one on Lydia’s list. They’ll be there now.’ She called to Barry. ‘Grab your coat. Quick. Lydia and Jimmy could be in danger!’