Informant

by Susan Wilkins

  Shifting his bulk awkwardly in his chair, Mayhew sighed. He didn’t need to read it, he’d got the gist. ‘Can’t imagine how they ever came to the conclusion it was safe to let him out.’

  ‘Well let’s see if we can gain some insight into their thinking, since they’ve chucked him back in our lap.’ Turnbull flicked briskly through the pages until he found the passage he was searching for. ‘Ah, here we go. Listen to this. ‘“And we feel that the general attitude demonstrated by Phelps, particularly in the mentoring of younger offenders, provides ample demonstration of his determination to relinquish the criminal lifestyle.”’ He slapped the document down and sighed. ‘Where the hell do they get these people and what planet are they living on?’

  Turnbull got up, scanned the rooftops out of the window as though some clue might be found out there.

  Mayhew scratched his head and cleared his throat. ‘Well you know what they say, silver lining and all that.’ He caught his boss’s eye and deduced from his expression that Turnbull hadn’t tumbled to the obvious benefits that might accrue from the turn of events.

  Mayhew allowed himself several seconds of private pleasure; a small smile hovered on his lips. ‘I was just thinking, a power struggle in the Phelps clan can only make them more vulnerable. Things get heated, risks’ll be taken, mistakes made. With any luck we’ll get Sean back inside and we’ll nab Joey.’

  Turnbull appeared to ponder this. What most people didn’t realize about him was that he loved to perform. Fooling people was an art but you didn’t have to be an actor. There was plenty of scope in other professions and Turnbull had built his early career as a detective on his talent for playacting. Letting suspects, or indeed fellow officers, assume he was an arrogant fool ensured they would lower their guard and underestimate him. And with his current scheme it was crucial to keep Mayhew off the scent.

  Turnbull allowed very little to emerge that revealed the inner man. His great strength had always been that he’d never stopped learning. He watched, he listened, he was always reading faces, analysing motives. He knew that every man – and it was men that mostly interested him – had his own secret vanity, the private story he told inside his own head to bolster his ego.

  In the case of Bill Mayhew it was the belief that under his bumbling exterior he was the smart one, the real detective. Turnbull knew this about his subordinate and used it to manipulate him. Playing on his vanity, allowing him to believe he’d thought of something Turnbull hadn’t, was how he squeezed the maximum effort out of Mayhew. It kept him slaving all hours, doing the donkey work, it also kept him quiescent when Turnbull took the credit.

  He put on his sincere, honest face, as if Mayhew’s words had come as a revelation. ‘Good point Bill. Joey’s not about to step aside, is he, just because his cousin’s got out?’

  Mayhew smiled sagely, concluded he might be on to a winner. ‘There’ll be trouble. I’d bet my pension on it. Couple more surveillance teams boss, we could tighten the net on them – might get a result.’

  Turnbull exhaled noisily, started to pace the room. He was warming to the role. ‘Bloody budget cuts! How the hell am I supposed to mount an effective operation on a bloody shoestring?’

  He rubbed his knuckles over his well-shaven chin, glanced at Mayhew. The fat little DCI was sitting there, oblivious as usual to Turnbull’s real agenda. Too easy really. Now it was time to go fishing.

  ‘How’s Bradley getting on with Karen Phelps?’

  Mayhew shrugged. ‘It’s a game of patience.’

  ‘What’s Armstrong playing at? Can’t she get things moving?’

  ‘She’s come up with a promising notion of her own. Thought I’d let her run with it.’

  Turnbull frowned. ‘Is that wise?’ He’d suspected something was afoot. ‘She strikes me as a bit too pushy for her own good.’

  Mayhew blinked at him a couple of times. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained boss.’

  Turnbull fixed him with an appraising stare. Now they’d got to the nub of it. Mayhew was plotting. He was hoping to present Turnbull with some kind of stunning breakthrough, proving to himself yet again that he was the real detective, forced to work for a stupid, power-hungry boss. When Mayhew was on this tack he occasionally came up with something useful. In a nanosecond Turnbull had the entire situation sized up. He gave Mayhew a benevolent smile. ‘Just keep me posted Bill.’

  The DCI smiled and as he rolled out of the door Turnbull took out his phone. He scrolled through the contacts list and gazed out of the window. The day was fine, blue sky and a few scudding clouds, which suited his mood. The fact that Bradley appeared to be getting nowhere was entirely predictable. And Armstrong was pursuing her own agenda instead of backing him up. Another useful piece to the jigsaw. Turnbull smiled to himself, it was all progressing quite well really.

  He pressed call and was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Duncan, it’s Alan Turnbull. I think it’s time we had lunch again. Perhaps invite Marcus Foxley . . . ?’

  28

  Nicci Armstrong had been up since six, making Sophie’s packed lunch, putting some washing on. Her ex, Tim, had agreed to come over and take their daughter to school, although, as usual, he made it clear what a big favour he was doing her. Even so, Nicci still didn’t get away until nearly nine. She picked up Mal Bradley at Finsbury Park tube and they headed north. Bradley wasn’t much of a travelling companion, dozing off in the passenger seat as soon as they passed Brent Cross. Weary and in need of a coffee, Nicci took the slip road and pulled off the motorway into Northampton services.

  As she manoeuvred into a parking slot, Bradley woke up.

  ‘We there?’

  Nicci huffed. ‘I wish.’

  They zigzagged through the windswept car park and made for the coffee shop.

  While Bradley queued at the counter, Nicci sat down and sent her daughter a text. Sophie was eight; having a mobile on in school was forbidden and it was possibly frying her child’s brain anyway, but Nicci was a divorced mother trying to hold down a career and remain emotionally connected to her child. Just keeping all the balls in the air was a daily challenge. Tim’s idea of fatherhood was taking Sophie off on a jolly every other weekend with his new girlfriend. They went to Alton Towers, canoeing at Center Parcs. Sophie was rapidly developing the notion that fathers were fun, whereas mothers were for everyday and stopped you from watching telly, texting your mates after bedtime and doing the stuff you really liked.

  As Bradley approached with the coffees, Nicci pointed her camera phone at him.

  ‘Make a funny face.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For my daughter. I’m sending her some pictures, telling her what I’m up to.’

  Bradley put one of the coffee cups down, took the other and carefully balanced it on his head, pointing to it while wearing a gormless expression, index finger several inches from the cup.

  Nicci snapped him. ‘Very good. Thanks.’

  ‘I do party tricks for my nephews and nieces.’ Bradley rescued the cup from his head, sat down.

  Nicci typed under Bradley’s mugshot: ‘My coffee arrives.’ She pressed send and smiled warmly at Bradley.

  ‘She’ll like that.’

  ‘Didn’t even know you had a kid.’

  He did know. But it seemed too good an opening to pass up, a way to get beyond the professional facade and the fuck-you attitude that Nicci Armstrong cloaked herself in.

  She put her phone away. ‘I don’t tend to advertise the fact – bad for one’s promotion prospects.’

  Bradley sipped his coffee and frowned. ‘What, nowadays? Strikes me everyone has to fall over backwards to be politically correct.’

  Nicci laughed. ‘Oh poor Bradley, how hard it is to be a bloke.’

  He grinned back, gave his coffee a stir. ‘I know you think I’m a complete twat Sarge, but my parents love me and maybe a couple of mates.’

  She gave him an arch smile. ‘Perhaps I’m a sad old hag who doesn’t respond as she shou
ld to your gorgeous looks and your lovable boyish charm.’

  Bradley reddened. His face settled into a scowl. ‘If you want to know, I hate all that. Always have.’

  ‘Oh boo hoo. Get over yourself. So Turnbull’s trying to pimp you out – happens to women officers all the time.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it right.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. But I haven’t noticed you striding into Turnbull’s office and telling him to stuff it. ’Cause you think it’s your fastest route up the greasy pole, don’t you?’

  Bradley gave her a sidelong glance. She made him feel adolescent and transparent, whereas in reality there was only six or seven years between them.

  Nicci started to laugh. She gave his arm a pat. ‘You’re right. I do think you’re a twat, but . . . I’m getting used to you.’

  What she could’ve said was that he was nothing like Alex Marlow. She missed Alex’s acerbic take on the world, the cynical banter they’d shared. Bradley couldn’t begin to compete. But she’d come to the conclusion that was a good thing.

  She pulled a file out of her bag and slapped it on the table.

  ‘Right, I don’t plan to drive nearly two hundred miles for nothing. So let’s work out how we’re going to put the screws on this fucker.’

  The driveway up to Woodcote Hall was long and winding, some of the magnificent horse chestnuts dotted across the park were already showing the first golden tinges of autumn. Nicci followed signs to the car park, which took them through an arch into an old stable yard at the side of the building.

  They were kept waiting about fifteen minutes in an oak-panelled library until a nurse in a pale mauve tunic appeared and ushered them through into Doctor Iqbal’s office. Iqbal was writing, he capped his Mont Blanc fountain pen, rose from behind his desk and offered his hand. He was a slight figure, the suit was tailor-made, charcoal grey with a discreet stripe. He peered at them from behind the narrow rectangles of his rimless glasses as he motioned them to the two chairs placed in front of the desk.

  ‘You’ve had a long drive. Can I offer you coffee?’

  Nicci smiled. ‘We’re fine. Thank you for sparing the time to see us Doctor Iqbal.’

  Iqbal spread his open palms. ‘I fear you’ve come a long way for nothing Sergeant. As I said to Detective Chief Inspector Mayhew on the phone, Natalie Phelps is currently undergoing our intensive detoxification programme. Her mental state is extremely fragile. Any kind of police interview at this stage could easily tip her over the edge into psychosis. I really can’t risk it.’

  Nicci inclined her head and continued to smile. ‘We do understand your position Doctor Iqbal, but this is potentially a murder investigation.’

  ‘And I would love to help.’ Iqbal sighed. ‘But it’s my duty to put my patient’s interests first.’

  Bradley pushed back in his chair, letting it scrape the polished wooden floor as he got to his feet. He didn’t get to play bad cop that often, usually he was the young sympathetic one. Shoving both hands in his pockets, he eyeballed the doctor.

  ‘I’m sure you would love to help. But the thing is, Joey Phelps is paying you a shedload of cash to keep his sister under wraps, isn’t he? Also he’s not a bloke you’d want to cross.’

  Iqbal puffed up his chest and adopted an expression of horror. ‘If you’re suggesting—’

  Bradley rested both knuckles on the desk and leant forward. He was right in Iqbal’s face.

  ‘Joey Phelps is a gangster, Doctor Iqbal. Currently under investigation for several murders including that of a police officer. What do you think is going to happen when it comes out that you’re involved with him? Possibly even aiding and abetting his crimes? A full-blown media shit-storm is going to engulf this place and your high-priced clients, your pop stars and bankers – they’ll be running for cover. Best-case scenario? One of the regulatory bodies closes you down and you go broke. Want to hear the worst?’

  Iqbal was a small man, but he had some backbone. He glared straight back at Bradley. ‘This is intimidation, pure and simple. I shall be reporting you to your superiors and contacting my lawyers.’

  Bradley returned his hands to his pockets. ‘That’s your privilege sir.’

  Nicci cleared her throat. ‘I apologize Doctor Iqbal. We have no wish to intimidate or even upset you. My colleague was merely trying to make you fully aware of the serious situation you’re in.’

  Iqbal blinked at her, got up from his desk. He was feeling decidedly hemmed in. He strode over to a side table, picked up a water carafe and poured himself a glass.

  ‘I’m merely attempting to fulfil my duty of care to a very vulnerable patient. I have no involvement in any criminality. And I refute the suggestion most strongly.’

  Nicci and Bradley exchanged a covert glance. They had him on the ropes. Bradley strolled over to the window, folded his arms and gazed out. Nicci got to her feet and faced Iqbal.

  ‘Doctor Iqbal, no one expects you to be able to vet the families and connections of every patient you try to help.’ She spread her hands wide. ‘But when we come to you and tell you that you are dealing with a serious and dangerous criminal, we expect your full cooperation.’

  Iqbal sighed, replaced the glass on its tray. ‘I’m not lying to you. Natalie is in an extremely poor state.’

  ‘And we wouldn’t dream of subjecting her to a police interview.’

  Iqbal’s gaze met Nicci’s. ‘Well, what do you want then?’

  A small smile spread across Nicci’s face. She inclined her head. ‘This is a delicate situation for you and for us. We mean Natalie absolutely no harm. We simply want to get to know her, easily, gently, we want to gain her trust and we want you to help us do that.’

  Iqbal scrutinized Nicci’s face. Now he was curious.

  ‘So you would meet her not as police officers, because that would frighten her?’

  ‘That’s the last thing we want.’

  Iqbal pondered, his restless fingers strayed and he started to rearrange the glasses and carafe on the tray.

  ‘And if I facilitate this, it would be an . . . entirely confidential matter between us?’

  Nicci moved towards him. Her tone was gentle and reassuring. ‘If and when the case comes to court Joey Phelps will never know that we got to Natalie through you. We were thinking that perhaps I could pose as a volunteer, maybe a former patient that you’ve treated, who comes back on an occasional basis to help out?’

  Iqbal backed away from Nicci and took refuge behind his desk. He removed his glasses, took a tissue from the box at his elbow and started to polish them.

  ‘This really is most unethical you know.’

  Bradley turned from the window and strolled back to his chair. Iqbal gave him a wary look, but Bradley smiled. ‘Thing is Doctor Iqbal, Natalie probably witnessed her boyfriend Jez Harris being murdered by her brother. Once she gets clean and sober enough to remember that, what are you going to do with her? You can’t help her with that. In order for her to be protected and to really recover and find any kind of life for herself, Joey needs to be behind bars. That’s what’s in your patient’s best interests.’

  Nicci nodded. ‘DC Bradley’s right. The ethical choice here is the one that’ll achieve the best result for Natalie.’

  Iqbal glanced from one to the other. He knew he was snookered. If he didn’t cooperate and the papers got wind of his connection to Phelps he would indeed be facing the media shit-storm Bradley had promised. Phelps had paid him well, but not enough for this.

  Woodcote Hall was a leading addiction facility, known for its results and its discretion. Many of its clients came from the families of the great and good. Moreover the equity fund that backed Doctor Iqbal would take a very dim view of any adverse publicity. These were things a man in his position had to take into account. Natalie was a sad and difficult girl, damaged and full of self-loathing. He felt for her, as he did for all his patients. But at the end of the day she was one patient. He had to act for the greatest good. And maybe if her brot
her went to prison it would help her.

  Iqbal leant back in his chair, steepled his fingers, a gesture he hoped would make him feel he had regained control of the situation. He stared straight at Nicci. ‘The fact of the matter is Sergeant, I’ve only met Joey Phelps a couple of times. He describes himself as a businessman, something in the City. I was totally unaware of any criminal connection. Obviously, now you’ve explained the situation, I wish to give you my full cooperation. And I think your scheme does offer a way of helping Natalie, whilst of course maintaining the strictest confidentiality, which is essential to our work here.’

  Nicci gave him a deferential nod. ‘That goes without saying.’

  She smiled, glanced at Bradley, then back to him.

  ‘I think we understand one another Doctor Iqbal.’

  29

  Kaz had been waiting in the coffee shop for over half an hour. She clicked on her phone for the umpteenth time. It was five minutes later than the last time she looked. Helen had warned her she might be late, she was in court, but hoped they’d break early for lunch. Ordinarily Kaz would’ve settled down, got out her sketchbook and used the time to explore all the visual possibilities of the place, but today she was too jittery.

  Sean’s release from jail had thrown her totally off balance. The party had ended badly. Joey had stormed off, Ellie berated Kaz for not stopping the fight sooner. Sean himself had sat slumped on the kitchen floor, mumbling more threats, swearing to ‘teach that little prick a lesson he won’t forget’. When Glynis tried to drag him to his feet to take him home, he landed her a heavy punch, which sent her flying. They left him in the kitchen to sleep it off.

  Kaz had taken Glynis to the massive upstairs bathroom and bathed the gash on the back of her head. She’d caught the edge of one of the worktops as she went down. She sobbed hysterically, perched on the side of the Jacuzzi. It was several minutes before she could manage to speak.

  ‘What am I gonna do? He’s gonna fucking kill me . . .’