by Hayden, Mark
Either the Chief had stated it directly or she had worked it out for herself, but Rodgers definitely knew that her boss was implicated in the investigation.
‘I’m sorry you got dragged into this,’ said Tom.
‘Don’t worry: it’s my job to help you get on with your job. That’s what media relations are for. Among other things. Perhaps if you could give me a general outline of what you’re looking into.’
‘No.’
She smiled again, folding her hands in her lap, leaning forwards slightly and pointing her knee at him. ‘Most of the work I do is off the record or anonymous,’ she said. ‘When you watch the news, and it says A police spokesperson commented… then that’s me. We make sure that the media are supportive, not intrusive. A little co-operation can go a long way.’
‘I agree completely. That’s why I’ve already briefed the Lambeth press office. I suggest you point all the journalists in their direction. It’ll save you a lot of bother’
She must be used to this, he thought, judging by her reaction. Nicole Rodgers kept smiling and stood up. ‘That’s good to know,’ she said. ‘Of course, if you get anywhere with your investigation then it will become our business as well. You’ll need to keep me in the loop when that happens.’
It was Hayes who spoke next. Rodgers had positioned her chair so that her back was to the detective constable, who had been making mutinous faces over her shoulder. Hayes opened the office door and said, ‘Don’t worry, Nicole. We’ll get there.’
When Rodgers had left, Tom said, ‘From the look on your face, you’ve got previous with her.’
‘Too right, I have. She was all over the enquiry when I complained. She offered herself up on a plate to every bloke she spoke to.’
‘Not your type, then.’
‘You’re harassing me. I could complain.’
‘I know. It’s a growing sign of your maturity that you won’t.’
Hayes sat down and tapped her hands on her knees. ‘Now that we’ve got some breathing space, what are we gonna do?’
‘There’s only one thing we can do,’ sighed Tom.
The Coroner’s office had been in touch. They were finally releasing Patrick’s body for burial. The Coroner himself called to explain that he was signing the death certificate as Natural Causes. He had said: there may or may not have been aggravating factors on the day – an argument, perhaps, in the van, and it was entirely possible that his pills might have made a difference, but when it came down to it, Mrs Lynch, there was no evidence of anything but a heart attack. She could nominate a funeral home to call at the hospital any time from tomorrow and could someone call into the Coroner’s office for the paperwork?
‘Yes. Of course. Thank you.’
Helen called in after work, and Fran broke the news. They started to talk about the funeral and what might happen, when Lizzie appeared at the living room door.
‘Are you alright, love?’ said Fran.
‘Were you talking about Dad?’
‘Yes, love. I’ll explain it to you later. When Helen’s gone.’
Lizzie accepted this in silence, as she seemed to have accepted everything since Pat disappeared. ‘Can I watch the local news?’ she said. ‘We might want to go out at the weekend, and I want to see the weather forecast.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Helen. ‘Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?’
‘No. I’ll manage.’
Fran showed Helen to the door as Lizzie switched on the television. Fran went back and sat next to her daughter, putting her arm around her and pulling her in. Lizzie put her head on her mother’s shoulder, and Fran nearly missed the next item on the news.
That detective, Morton, was on the screen. Fran grabbed the remote and pressed Live Pause. She backed up, raised the volume, and watched it again. So, he was back and he was still digging.
Leaving her daughter to watch the weather forecast, Fran went to call James King. He could break the news about the Coroner’s decision to Hope and Theresa. She also wanted to pick his brains about how to approach Inspector – sorry, Chief Inspector Morton.
It was the morning after his appearance on the TV news, and Tom was not happy about anything. Leonie was still snowed into Sussex, and he was fighting the traffic as he headed into Birmingham without a proper breakfast.
For the second time this week, he pulled into the MCPS Headquarters and signed in to reception. Under Destination in the visitor’s book, he wrote Command Conference Room. On the third floor of the building, Evelyn Andrews was waiting at the lift. Her expression was five degrees colder than the outside temperature.
‘I now realise that you should have given me a warning before our little chat on Tuesday. They’re all waiting for you.’
Tom leaned in to whisper in her ear. ‘If we hadn’t had our “little chat”, Mrs Andrews, you’d be sitting next to Niall Brewer this morning. Be thankful for small mercies.’
She pursed her lips, but said nothing, and led him round the corner to the conference room. He paused in front of the door and took a deep breath. Then he walked in.
DCC David Nechells, ACC Malik Khan, and Niall Brewer were seated together behind one table. The Chief was at one side, and a chair had been put out for Tom in front of the table. He wasn’t having that.
He said Good morning from the threshold and then took off his coat. He took a second table and placed it at an angle to the three suspects and put a chair behind it. Tom was now facing the Chief and the others were lined up at the side. They all got the message.
The Chief began the proceedings by standing up and going to the door. ‘It’s not my place to witness this,’ he said. ‘You all know the drill, and you all know that you cannot be compelled to attend an interview with DCI Morton or anyone else from CIPPS. Over to you, Chief Inspector.’
That was really not useful, thought Tom, but Nechells corrected his assumption after the Chief had gone.
‘What he means,’ said the DCC, ‘is that we are all expected to see you if we don’t want our careers to be blighted.’
Khan managed a wry smile, ‘He put it to us like this: How many times have you told a suspect that if they’re innocent, they’ve got nothing to hide. Now let’s get this over with so that we can all get on with our work.’
Nechells and Khan were radiating hostility to him so strongly that it would probably register on a Geiger counter. He could live with that. They had both been the subject of complaints during their careers and both been completely exonerated. Brewer was sweating heavily.
Tom gave notice that an investigation had been convened and that they would be required to give witness statements. He concluded by repeating the Chief’s assertion that they could not be compelled to attend an interview. He passed letters to them all and said that he would be in touch. As Nechells and Khan received their letters, they stuffed them into their pockets and left the room with great purpose to demonstrate that they had better things to do with their time.
Brewer sat in his place and opened his letter, quickly scanning the contents. Tom locked his briefcase and put on his coat. He adopted a conversational tone. ‘It’s Thursday today, Mr Brewer. There are a few more files to look through, and I’m going back to London for the weekend. Just in case the weather gets worse, and I’m late on Monday, shall we say Tuesday morning? Ten o’clock at BCSS.’
Brewer folded his letter back into the envelope.
‘I’ll confirm that in writing,’ said Tom.
The radio in Clarke’s Land Rover only worked up to about sixty miles an hour; after that, the vehicle’s various knocks, rattles and roars made listening impossible. For that reason, he was bowling along in the slow lane of the motorway at fifty miles an hour listening to Classic FM. His passenger was not amused.
‘Can’t you put something else on? Or go faster?’ said Joe Kirkham. ‘This music’s rubbish.’
‘It helps me relax and bear the strain of the journey.’
‘We’re only going to Manchester. We’ll be there in half an ho
ur.’
‘Don’t you dare retune the radio on the way back,’ said Clarke. ‘It took me ages to find this station.’
‘I’ll turn it off, then.’
Clarke completed Joe’s misery by singing along to the Ride of the Valkyries. At the end of the music, Joe said nothing about helicopters, despite Clarke having given him a potted history of his RAF career: Apocalypse Now wasn’t as popular as it used to be.
They finished their journey at an anonymous industrial unit to the west of the city. Clarke left his Defender and passenger around the corner and walked carefully over the icy pavements. He had a large lump of titanium in his left leg. The laws of physics said that the blood vessels surrounding it should keep the metal exactly at body temperature. It didn’t feel like that: it felt like his rod and pins were connected directly to a deep freeze.
He found the address and went into the tiny office of a small company supplying parts for commercial vehicles. He checked – there were no cameras. ‘Are you the man for the van?’ said the only person around – a woman with two coats on. He didn’t blame her.
‘That’s me.’
‘This way.’
She led him into the warehouse, where a small van was sitting. True to his word, the owner had removed his logos from the side and had taken the vehicle to be re-sprayed white.
‘Take a look,’ said the woman, handing him the keys. ‘But if you want a test drive, you’ll have to wait until my husband gets back.’
‘Is it okay to start her up?’
‘Sure.’
He knew enough about vehicles to check the obvious things, but no more. After a quick inspection, he started the engine and peered carefully under the bonnet. There were no unnerving noises. He switched it off and took out a wad of cash.
Back in her unheated office, the woman counted the money and handed over the spare keys and one part of the vehicle logbook.
‘I need a name and address to send to Swansea,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, they’ll think we still own it.’
‘Of course. I’ve written it down for you to copy out.’ Clarke offered her a piece of paper with a fake name and fake address on it. He took it back when she was finished. His fingerprints wouldn’t be on the document now.
‘Do you mind if I just check a couple of things over before I leave?’
‘Sure. Let yourself out. I can close the warehouse door from in here.’
In perfect solitude, Clarke put false plates on the van, raised the shutter and drove back round the corner. Joe had turned the Land Rover’s engine on to keep warm.
The young farmer got out to look at Clarke’s new transport and made admiring noises.
‘Where did you say you were going?’ he asked Kirkham.
‘The Trafford Centre. It’s not far from here.’
‘Oh yes. Shame we couldn’t have brought Kelly.’
‘She’ll get her chance before Christmas. It was our first wedding anniversary not so long ago. I couldn’t afford to get her much. This is a bonus.’
‘I take your point.’ Clarke handed over a hundred pounds. Joe was going to drive the Defender back to Ribblegate Farm – after some shopping.
‘Thanks,’ said Joe, pocketing the cash. ‘Are you sure you haven’t got any other jobs lined up? You pay much better than farming does.’
Clarke hesitated. He had an appointment on Tuesday with the men who would turn his US dollars into used Bank of England notes. It could be dangerous, and an extra pair of hands might be very useful.
‘Not at the moment, thanks, but you’ll be the first to know if I do.’
Was it the secrecy of his operation that stopped him press-ganging Joe? Or was it the sight of Kelly, Natasha and the baby at the breakfast table this morning? He didn’t know. Having driven the whole way from the Fylde without smoking, he reached into his pocket and took out his cigarettes, and a thought struck him.
‘Actually, Joe, there is one thing you can do for me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘When you get your present for Kelly, can you get something for me?
‘Yeah. Sure. What is it?’
‘I’ll write it down.’
He jotted some instructions on an envelope and passed it over with some more cash. Joe looked at the note and was clearly overcome with curiosity. Conrad lit a cigarette and winked at him.
Before being sent down, Mina had no idea that women prisoners were allowed to wear their own clothes. It was only a casual chat to the dock warder at the hearing which made her realise that she should make plans. Her face alone, both the colour of her skin and the damage to her jaw, would make her stand out, and she had no wish to do that. Her bin liner of personal possessions ran almost exclusively to black – leggings, tops, underwear and trainers.
When it came to today’s interview, she had to borrow. To prevent bullying, there were regulations about ‘borrowing’ clothes, but most of the women found a way round them. Mina would have liked to borrow a sari and tunic – but of the two Asian women closest to her size, one of them was a devout Muslim, and the other was a lifer who had murdered her own child before attempting suicide. Mina was not keen to be associated with either of these women. In the end, she swapped her Clinique moisturiser for a powerfully-coloured print tunic belonging to a much taller woman. On Mina, it came down to her knees.
Dominic McEwan gave her a briefing. The interview would be conducted by DI Fulton from the City Police: also present would be Frazer Jarvis from the Bank of England and a man from the CPS.
‘And you’re sure of this deal? They won’t go back on their word?’ asked Mina.
‘You just answer the questions; leave the rest to me.’
She asked to go to the bathroom before it started and gave her hair one final brush to make sure it covered the scars, and then she was ready.
The first shock was DI Fulton. He was black. Mina hadn’t expected an inspector from the Fraud Squad to be from an Afro-Caribbean background, but why shouldn’t he be? His hair was short, curled close to his head and mostly grey, unlike his suit: that was a rather flamboyant blue. Fraser Jarvis and the man from the CPS (she never learned his name properly) were much greyer altogether although Jarvis was wearing a brightly-coloured tie.
Fulton gave her the Caution, but pointed out that she wasn’t under arrest. The interview was being taped, but not recorded on video. The prison was not equipped for that.
‘The most obvious question,’ began Fulton, ‘is why you are volunteering this information now, and why you didn’t do so at the time of your initial arrest. As my CPS colleague will tell you, that would have helped a lot, and might have reduced your sentence even further.’
This was a very good question and it had worried Mina since the subject had first come up. She could hardly say My secret boyfriend sent me a message. Because she was looking down at the table, the men didn’t see her smile when she thought of Conrad. She had been thinking of him a lot lately.
She lifted her head and brushed some of the hair away from her face. ‘That was because I didn’t know, then. When I was arrested, you had two people who knew the location – George and Adam Thornton. They didn’t tell you either.’
Fulton looked uncomfortable and didn’t respond to her comment about the Thorntons. Instead, he said, ‘So how come you know now?’
‘A simple coincidence,’ replied Mina. ‘George and Croxton used to make jokes about the money. They said it was “French” and that it “stank to high heaven”. I thought they just meant it was illegal.’
Fulton and Jarvis conferred for a second, and then Fulton asked her to continue.
‘After I started paying my debt to society, I heard one of the girls say something, and I put two and two together.’
‘Does this prisoner have a name?’
‘Who said it was a prisoner? It might have been a guard or a teacher, or anyone. I’m sorry, that’s for me to know.’
‘What did she say?’
‘It was a throwaway comment abo
ut some work she had done, and she mentioned the name of the printer who did it. Something made me think of the counterfeit money, and when I was given my current prison job, I was able to do some searching on the internet.’
The man from the CPS was appalled. ‘You get the internet in here? I thought that was strictly off limits.’
‘It is, but my prison work is at a computer with access to various benefit websites. It doesn’t take much to get unrestricted access, although it’s risky. Sooner or later they’ll find out, and I’ll be back in the laundry or the kitchen garden.’
Fulton spread his hands. ‘Okay, we can check on that, but it’s time to deliver, Mrs Finch. Who are they?’
Mina looked at Dominic, and he took his cue. ‘Is the deal still on? No record that it’s my client who provided the information. Release on licence from next June. Immediate transfer to an open prison of our choice and unlimited access to off-site dental treatment. At my client’s expense, of course.’
The three men moved back and started talking. Fulton and the CPS went back and forth for a few seconds and Jarvis shrugged. It was Fulton who came back to the table first.
‘This is completely conditional. If the information is useless, there’s no deal.’
‘Understood,’ said McEwan.
Mina took a deep breath. ‘Garlic. Garlic & Sons, Commercial Printers, North London.’
Fulton and Jarvis both wrote the name down. Mina waited until they’d finished. ‘There are a lot of printing firms within driving distance of Moorgate Motorhire, but I had a suspicion that it was about half an hour away and to the north. This firm has exactly the right profile to have gone into counterfeiting.’
‘Should we try this out with Thornton?’ said Jarvis.
‘Not if you want to catch them,’ said Mina. ‘I’m sure that Thornton would deny everything and then tip them off.’
‘She’s right,’ said Fulton, ‘and we’ve said enough in here.’ He terminated the interview, took the tapes out of the recording machine and passed one of them to McEwan. He held up the other one and said, ‘If your information is good, this goes in the bin. You have my word.’