Killer Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  One particular passenger further down the train held a whole series of conversations at ten-minute intervals throughout the journey that consisted solely of ‘Pete? Can you hear me?’ Apparently Pete never could.

  Mariner was distracted too, by the view from the window. For several miles the track ran parallel with the sluggishly moving M6 through the vast conurbation of the city, before finally the houses dwindled and the scenery opened up into rolling countryside. Mariner watched the dead brown winter landscape, the skeletal silhouettes of the trees bordering rusty furrowed fields, and thought about what Anna had said about moving to the country. In many ways he could understand her thinking. He loved being out in the open country for an afternoon, a day or even weeks at a time. But part of the attraction was the contrast with his everyday life. He knew from talking to colleagues that the life of a country copper would be very different, enmeshed as it often was in the politics of a self-absorbed community. He liked the pace, breadth and diversity of his present job, and he’d miss that. There were some aspects of country living that he’d love, but there were plenty of others that he’d hate.

  * * *

  From Euston, Mariner took the tube to West Brompton and the Earls Court hotel that he’d booked in an anonymous, multi-storey concrete tower. It would do very nicely as a base for a couple of days. He checked in and deposited his things in the clean but space-efficient room, then went straight back to the underground where he bought a one-day travel card. He caught the Bakerloo line to North Wembley, riding on the hope that the O’Connors hadn’t moved in the last six years.

  Joseph O’Connor had lived in a drab council maisonette on the sort of estate that required constant police presence. Having already gleaned the street name from the newspaper piece, Mariner had got the house number from the electoral register. He rang the bell, as a background beat of reggae music bounced around the stairwell from the flat next door. There was no reply. He was just considering his next move when a woman appeared at the end of the walkway, weighed down by two Netto carrier bags. Certain that he recognised her from the press photograph, Mariner moved swiftly away from the door and stepped out of sight to watch her go in, just to make sure. He gave her a few minutes in the house before he went back and tried the doorbell again.

  Close up, Sharon O’Connor was a pretty woman, made youthful by black ringlets that fell to her shoulders, and green eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.

  ‘I wonder if I could talk to you about your husband,’ Mariner said. He hadn’t really thought through what he’d do if she was hostile towards him, but he was used to improvising. Since he wasn’t here in an official capacity, he hoped to avoid using his warrant card, though doubtless it would have got him in without question, as it had with Eleanor Ryland. Sharon O’Connor must have had a whole procession of police officers ringing her doorbell over the last few weeks. One more wouldn’t make much difference. But in the event, the only creativity required was the simplest of white lies.

  ‘Are you a reporter?’ She asked, more from curiosity than concern. And she could be forgiven that assumption. Today he looked more reporter than copper in khaki chinos and leather jacket.

  ‘No. My name is Tom Mariner. I’m Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s nephew. I’m trying to make sense of what happened that night.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad that at last somebody is,’ she said, the northern Irish accent still strong. ‘I get sick of reading that bullshit in the papers. Come in.’

  Compared with the outside environment, the inside of the O’Connors’ flat was immaculate, but then Mariner recalled that O’Connor had been a painter and decorator by trade. Over the fireplace and on the pure white walls of the living room there were photos of O’Connor, Sharon and their three children in happier times. The kids would be back at school now, the holidays over.

  Mariner followed her through to the kitchen where she began unpacking the bags, transferring tins, packets and jars to the pine cupboards.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs O’Connor. It must be hard.’

  ‘It’s not so bad as you might think,’ Sharon O’Connor said, candidly. ‘Joseph spent quite a lot of time working away over the years, so I’ve had to get used to managing on my own. I’ve got a cleaning job at the offices of an insurance company. Doesn’t pay well, but we have a laugh, the girls and me. They’ve been great since Joseph . . . you know. Sometimes for a few seconds I even forget he’s dead. The thing I miss most is the car. I never learned to drive.’ She stopped what she was doing. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re just being pragmatic.’

  ‘Am I?’ she smiled. ‘I might be if I knew what that meant. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She nodded back towards the living room. ‘Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’

  Minutes later she came in with two mugs, eyeing Mariner closely as she passed one to him. Maybe she could see the likeness too. ‘Were you close to your uncle?’

  ‘Not really. I’m doing this on behalf of my grandmother, Eleanor Ryland. What did you mean about the press? Doesn’t sound as if they’re your favourite people.’

  She was resigned. ‘They write such crap. Joseph was never into drugs in the first place, and if you knew him you’d understand that. They keep saying the shootings were his fault because he’d gone back to his criminal ways, but Joseph never had any criminal ways.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  She gave him the kind of hard stare that indicated how tough she could be. ‘I’m his wife—’ Not ‘was’ but ‘am,’ Mariner noted. ‘—The only mistake Joseph made, years ago, was to make friends with the wrong people. He was too trusting.’

  ‘How did he get involved?’

  She stared into her mug. ‘The simplest way in the world. We’d just moved over here from Ireland. Joseph was keen to get established. Someone gave him the name of a fella that he said might put some work Joseph’s way.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Man called Terry Brady. He owned a few amusement arcades locally and wanted them doing up. Someone had told him that Joseph did a good job, and they were right. He was conscientious and a good worker. After a bit Brady asked him to do his house, too. It’s a big place somewhere out in the country, then he started offering Joseph other work, errands and things.’

  ‘Errands?’

  ‘Joseph had an old transit. Sometimes he helped out with moving machines, that sort of thing. The money was decent for easy work so he’d have been stupid to turn it down. Sometimes he collected money for them from the arcades. They gave him a big cash box that Joseph would give to the arcade managers. They’d disappear and put in the cash, bring it back to Joseph and he’d drive it over to Brady’s for banking. Sometimes it was a lot of money so of course they told him to be careful. When Joseph got stopped by the police it was a real shock. He had no idea what he’d fallen into.’

  ‘He really didn’t know that he was carrying fifty thousand pounds worth of heroin?’ Mariner said.

  ‘Of course not. All he did was pick up the cash box for Brady as usual. How was he to know that this time it had drugs in it? He hadn’t a clue that Brady was involved with that shite.’ Sharon O’Connor was either incredibly naïve or loyal to her late husband. She didn’t strike him as being naïve.

  ‘I know that’s what he said to begin with,’ said Mariner. ‘But then he changed his mind and pleaded guilty to possession with intent to supply. What happened there?’

  ‘He was scared. Joseph was skilled with his hands and he was a sweet, kind man, but he wasn’t clever, and he had trouble finding the right words at the best of times. It wouldn’t take long for anyone to tie him in knots. And by that time Marvin Jackson had been released without charge, so Joseph was the one left holding the baby.’

  ‘Marvin Jackson?’

  ‘Brady’s associate. He was in the van with Joseph. He was arrested but because he wasn’t driving he said he was
just along for the ride and the police must have swallowed it. They told Joseph that owning up would be better for him in the long run, and he trusted them. You should have seen the state he was in. Being in police custody was killing him. I was pregnant with our Kieran at the time and Joseph would have said anything if he thought it would get him out of there quicker.’

  What she said was consistent with what Mariner had read about the appeal: along comes Sir Geoffrey Ryland and proves that O’Connor has been traumatised by the whole experience and his confession elicited while he was under severe stress. He had been coerced.

  ‘Joseph was set up,’ Sharon O’Connor drank the dregs of her coffee. ‘Mr Ryland promised us that he’d get the bastards who did it, and that they’d get what was coming to them. He said he’d make sure of it. And now it won’t happen, will it?’

  She was probably right. ‘Did Joseph agree to do anything to help, like testify against Jackson?’

  ‘With what? At the time he had no idea what was going on. When Mr Ryland got Joseph’s conviction overturned he wanted to put all that behind him. Prison terrified him so he steered well clear of trouble. That’s why it’s so ridiculous to think that he would have got involved in anything this time around.’

  ‘The police have a witness who says he saw Joseph talking to Brady only a few days before the shooting,’ said Mariner.

  ‘There was nothing to stop Brady talking to Joseph, was there? The man drinks in the same pub. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

  ‘So Joseph couldn’t have got caught up in anything else?’

  ‘When he got the job as Mr Ryland’s driver he had too much to lose.’

  ‘How did he get the job?’

  She shrugged. ‘After Joseph was released, Mr Ryland phoned him up and asked him if he’d like to do it, as long as he passed all the security checks.’

  ‘And did Joseph like the job?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘He loved it. Sir Geoffrey Ryland saved Joseph’s life. He wouldn’t have done anything to put him at risk.’ What she said made perfect sense.

  ‘The papers hinted that you were in financial difficulty. Is that true?’

  She glared. ‘They’ve got a bloody nerve. We may have overstretched a bit on the kids’ Christmas presents, but doesn’t everyone?’

  One more thing intrigued Mariner. ‘Where did Joseph first meet Terry Brady?’

  ‘In the Sentinel, at the end of the road. Like I said, we had just moved here and the work wasn’t coming in as Joseph would have liked. He needed a job.’ Her voice caught and suddenly her vulnerability began to show through. ‘Now that was a conversation I wish he’d never had.’ There was a box of tissues next to where Mariner sat. He passed it across to her.

  * * *

  1910, the date carved in a brick above the door of the Sentinel, meant that the pub had stood guard over the street through several reincarnations, surviving the Blitz and post-war redevelopment. Fluorescent posters in the windows boasted steak lunches for £3.50 and a quiz night every Tuesday. Inside, the pub had not resisted change so well. What would originally have been a series of small snugs had been knocked into one cheerless barn of a room with wide-screen TV, fruit machines and a dartboard at one end, making it almost identical to thousands of city pubs across the country and a dismal, soulless place. The beer was all keg too, Mariner noted, so he settled on a bottle of Newcastle Brown.

  ‘I was looking for a man called Terry Brady,’ Mariner said to the barman, whose occupation strained at the waistband of his jeans. ‘I was told I might find him in here?’

  ‘You’re a bit late, mate. He left town a while back.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Spain. He’s got a villa out there. He occasionally comes back, but not very often.’

  ‘When was the last time?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘December time, just before Christmas.’ And just before the shootings.

  ‘Are you the landlord?’

  ‘It’s my name over the door.’

  ‘Did you know Joseph O’Connor, too?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Have you any idea who it was told the police that Brady and O’Connor were in here shortly before Joseph O’Connor was killed?’

  ‘It was me.’ It was said without the slightest hesitation.

  ‘Do you have any idea what they were talking about?’

  ‘Oh, they didn’t talk. They weren’t even in here together for very long; ten minutes tops. They were both in my pub on the same night, that’s all.’

  ‘So they didn’t actually meet?’

  ‘Not that I saw. O’Connor left shortly after Brady arrived.’ Which put an entirely different slant on things.

  ‘And that’s what you told the police?’

  ‘Course it is.’ Uncertainty kicked in. ‘What is this? Why do you want to know? You a reporter or something?’

  ‘No, I’m just interested, that’s all.’ Mariner swallowed the last couple of mouthfuls of his beer and left the pub. From outside he phoned Flynn.

  ‘Can I come and see you?’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘I’m here anyway.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  Good question. ‘We’ve got a murder on our patch, possible suspect is an Albanian, except he’s disappeared back home. We’re looking at an extradition.’ It was all perfectly true.

  But Flynn was wary. ‘You couldn’t sort it out on the phone?’

  ‘You know, sometimes it can be easier to do these things face to face. Anyway, while I’m here I thought I might like to sample life in the fast lane — Special Branch.’

  ‘Oh sure. I’ll need to give you the password, though.’

  ‘Password?’

  ‘Yeah. The entrance to HQ is a disguised manhole cover to the left of Leicester Square tube station. You’ll need to knock four times — two short, two long — and give the code word. Then you’ll be admitted to our underground complex.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha.’

  ‘Okay . . . I’m in an office block on Bramhall Street, Vauxhall, behind the Prudential building.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘As you can see, this is where the glamour is.’

  Mariner was sitting across the desk from Flynn in an office remarkably like his own at Granville Lane, only Flynn’s was a generation younger, with an outlook over the solid concrete wall of the building next door. ‘So how’s it going, the Ryland thing?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘It’s going okay.’ Flynn was watching him expectantly. ‘How’s it going for you — the Ryland thing?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You went to see his mother.’

  Mariner should have known that on a high-profile case like this it would have been noticed. ‘My grandmother, yes I did. I wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘It’s not a good idea.’

  ‘She recognised me.’ Mariner couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘According to her, Ryland referred to me as recently as a month ago. It’s made me wonder why he’d do that. Perhaps he was in trouble or knew something was going to happen.’

  ‘Or perhaps it’s just a coincidence,’ said Flynn. ‘He was getting older. He’d just published his memoirs. Perhaps that churned up a few memories. Let’s not get carried away.’

  ‘Anyway, the point is that neither Sharon O’Connor nor Eleanor Ryland think that the killings were down to Joseph O’Connor.’

  ‘Sharon O’Connor? What do you know about her?’

  ‘Only what she’s told me,’ said Mariner. ‘She claims that Joseph never even agreed to carry Brady’s drugs the first time around. He was duped into it and then left to take the fall. There was no ‘arrangement’ for him to go back to.’

  ‘And as his wife, her view must be totally objective and unbiased. How the hell did you track her down?’

  ‘Her address was given in an early news report from when O’Connor was released. It’s there for anyone to see. A qu
ick check with the electoral roll and—’

  Flynn’s voice tightened. ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘It’s just . . . I’m in a difficult position here. This is my first big case—’ Flynn looked as if he was regretting passing on those photos.

  ‘—and you don’t want me pissing on your chips. I won’t. I just want the truth about Ryland’s death. Like it or not, thanks to you, he is part of my life now. But don’t worry, Sharon O’Connor doesn’t even know I’m a copper.’

  ‘You told her you’re Ryland’s son?’

  ‘Couldn’t quite bring myself to do that. I said nephew.’

  ‘Right.’ But Flynn sounded far from satisfied.

  ‘And, for the record, the O’Connors were not in financial difficulty.’

  Flynn shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘You think there’s more to this than meets the eye too, don’t you?’ Mariner said.

  ‘I told you. The chauffeur’s being followed up by others. All I’ve been asked to do is make sure there are no skeletons in the Ryland closet.’

  ‘Like me.’

  ‘Like you.’

  ‘Are you sure I’m the only one?’ asked Mariner.

  ‘Haven’t found anything else yet.’

  ‘So the guy really was squeaky clean. That’ll be a first for a politician.’

  Flynn stood up. ‘Let’s go and get some lunch. There’s a good little bar just round the corner.’

  They went to a Spanish Tapas bar that served passable continental lager.

  ‘You’ve got doubts though, haven’t you?’ Mariner persisted.

  ‘We need to get this clear. I had them, Tom. That’s all. At the start there seemed to be a steer in the direction of the chauffeur. It seemed a bit weird. But then when I looked, I could see why. There’s plenty of evidence from the scene that says O’Connor was the target.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing we’ve seen yet indicates otherwise.’