Informant

by Susan Wilkins

  Kaz considered this. Part of her really wanted to tell him, tell him everything, come clean. That feeling of release, she craved it more than any drug. And in a bizarre way she felt he would understand. But that would be mad, he was still a cop.

  ‘Oh I dunno.’ She put her hands in her pockets. ‘I’ve spent time with him, watched him. He thinks he’s special. He don’t care who he hurts. No conscience. That’s the definition of a psychopath, in’t it?’

  ‘Pretty much. But you didn’t used to think that about him.’

  Kaz shot him a combative look, a glimpse of the old Kaz. ‘You don’t know what I used to think.’ Then she shook her head savagely and her tone became tinged with grief. ‘Truth is I din’t used to think. Period. I’m stupid. He’s my little brother. Or he was.’

  They walked on for a few moments in silence. Bradley could see the entrance to the tube up ahead. He turned to look at her and realized she was crying. She made no sound. She seemed cocooned in her own misery. He sensed that any offer of comfort would be an intrusion. They reached the station and turned to face each other. He smiled awkwardly. ‘I’ll say goodbye here because I need to make a call.’

  She nodded. Then abruptly she grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard.

  ‘I’m sorry PC Mal. If I could do the right thing . . . but I want to escape. I have to escape. I know I’m as bad as him. Probably worse.’

  He drew her gently towards him, wrapped her in a hug and she didn’t resist.

  ‘No you’re not. You have got a conscience. Sometimes running away is the smartest thing to do.’

  He didn’t want to let go, but he didn’t want her to feel trapped. As he released her he took a step backwards. ‘You going to be okay?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m planning my exit. Mike comes through, I’m going. You won’t see me for dust.’

  He smiled, reached out for her hand, drew it to his lips and kissed it. ‘Take care.’

  She nodded, turned on her heel. He watched her pass through the ticket barrier and disappear.

  He stood alone on the pavement feeling very flat, which made no sense. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do. He told himself he was being foolish. He’d drunk one pint in the bar, but he really felt he needed another. Probably another three or four if he was honest. He noticed there was a pub across the road. As he started to walk towards it he scrolled through his phone to Nicci Armstrong’s number and rang it. She picked up on the third ring.

  ‘Bradley, where the fuck are you?’

  ‘I left a message for you, something I had to do. How’s it going?’

  Nicci was sitting alone in the corner of the police canteen trying to decipher the date stamp on a fruit yogurt. The choice had been this or a couple of tired sandwiches.

  ‘I come out the interview room thinking you’d gone to the bog, but no, you’ve buggered off back to London. Where is your head Bradley? Stuck up your arse yet again?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Promise I had to keep, it was important. Did you get a statement out of Leysa?’

  ‘Sort of. Now we’ve got Turnbull on the phone throwing his weight around, arguing with Cheryl’s boss about who’s the lead on this. And I’m stuck in the middle. On my tod.’

  ‘Thought Mayhew was coming down.’

  ‘You walked out on me. I went out on a limb for you with Cheryl Stoneham. I don’t know why I bothered.’

  Bradley sighed. ‘Nic, I wouldn’t have gone if it hadn’t been important.’

  ‘Yeah, important to you. I’ve got a life too y’know. I had to phone up my ex-mother-in-law who hates my guts and beg her to babysit Sophie. I’d like to be able to keep a few promises myself, especially to my own kid.’

  Bradley was approaching the door to the pub, it looked Victorian with hints of neo-gothic tracery in the window arches. He got a glimpse of the ornate tiled and mirrored interior, it was pretty quiet and the prospect of drinking a beer alone in peace was all he could think about. But he needed to finish the call first.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry and I’ll—’

  As he stopped a couple of feet from the threshold a large bloke barged straight into the back of him sending the phone flying from his hand and clattering to the pavement. Nicci heard a loud crack in her ear as it hit, then the line went dead.

  ‘Bradley?’

  Now the fool had dropped his bloody phone, she couldn’t believe it.

  In confusion Bradley turned to apologize but a fist slammed into his gut knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over gasping and hands grabbed him from behind. Before he could even get his breath two men were dragging him across the pavement. A black BMW X5 was pulled up kerbside, rear door open. They chucked him on the back seat and as he struggled to sit up someone leant over from the front passenger seat and coshed him. For a brief instant he thought he recognized the face, then everything went black.

  Nicci Armstrong sat in the canteen and opened her yogurt. This was dinner and come to think of it lunch too. She was irritable with hunger. All she wanted was to be at home with Sophie. She thought of ringing Bradley but what would be the point? He was probably in a bar somewhere half-cut and that’s why he’d trashed his phone. Cheryl was right, he didn’t give a toss about her. Had she gone soft on him because he had a pretty face? Make it all right for the boys so they’ll like you? It felt as though she’d been doing that her whole life and it never worked. Tim had always been at his most charming when he was feeding her a pack of lies. She knew relying on men was a hiding to nothing. And they always stuck together. In the end Bradley was still Turnbull’s boy, he’d get the credit for the bust, she’d be ignored. Well sod that. Bradley could cover his own useless arse from now on.

  66

  Bradley came to with the side of his face pressing against rough concrete. He could smell engine oil and brick dust. His arms were pinioned behind him, firmly bound with duct tape at the wrists. He looked up into a bright fluorescent tube that hung on a chain overhead, beyond that was an arched ceiling of bricks. A face loomed over him, young, unfamiliar.

  ‘He wake up boss.’

  The place was chilly, a draught of evening air wafting in from somewhere. A voice floated over his head, which felt extremely sore.

  ‘Stick him on that chair Tol.’

  He was lifted bodily, plonked on an orange plastic bucket chair. The frame of the chair swayed as he landed awkwardly, arms trussed behind him. A figure stepped from the shadows: Joey Phelps. It had to be. Seconds after he’d come to his senses Bradley had realized this. He was in big trouble.

  ‘You know who was the last person to sit in that chair?’ Joey smiled, but his eyes remained cold and blank. ‘Your mate Marlow.’

  Bradley focused on Joey. If there was any chance of getting out of this alive, fear wasn’t an option. He adopted a chatty tone.

  ‘Never met him personally. Before my time.’

  Joey nodded thoughtfully. ‘I always liked him. We had some laughs. But then he was put in to lead me up the garden path, wasn’t he? Like you been doing with my sister.’

  ‘Only met her the once, when you were both interviewed in Southend.’

  Joey rolled his neck around, flexed his shoulders. Bradley got the impression this was all a ritual, the build-up, and Joey was enjoying himself.

  He gave Bradley a quizzical look. ‘Oh, come on Mal, don’t lie. I’ve even texted you back on her phone. How long you been shagging her?’

  Bradley gave him a broad confidential smile. ‘I’m not lying. I’ve never shagged your sister. Truth is I would’ve liked to. She’s fit. Just never got the chance.’

  Joey held out a hand in Tolya’s direction. Tolya gave him an iPhone. Joey swiped the screen with his middle finger, brought up the video and held it in front of Bradley’s face. ‘Take a look at this.’

  The short video sequence was of Bradley and Kaz outside the tube station. It had been filmed from across the road. Their voices were inaudible, drowned out by the general noise of the street. But it was all there, standing clos
e together, her grabbing his hand, the hug, the final chivalrous kiss.

  Joey grinned. ‘Nice touch that, kissing her hand. Girls like that stuff, don’t they?’ The smile faded. ‘I reckon you been shagging her more or less since she got out the nick. You was there at the hostel – saw you leaving her room meself.’

  Bradley took a deep breath. ‘Okay . . . I’ll admit that was the brief. Get close to her, get it on with her. But she turned me down Joey, every step of the way. That’s the God’s honest truth.’

  Joey shook his head slowly and wearily. Then his fist shot out landing a lightning blow squarely in Bradley’s face. Bone cracked, Bradley cried out as blood gushed from his smashed nose. He had to spit in order not to choke.

  Joey leant his head to one side. ‘You really think I’m fucking stupid, don’t you? Well I’m not. I’m gonna ask you again, how long you been shagging my sister?’

  He stood in front of Bradley, balanced and easy on the balls of his feet, readying himself to deliver a second punch. But the door to the lock-up creaked open and Ashley appeared.

  Joey turned towards him, annoyed. ‘Well . . . where is she?’

  ‘Couldn’t find her. Went to her place, back to your place. Phoned her – she’s not picking up.’

  Joey took a couple of strides across the floor until he was right in Ashley’s face.

  ‘One fucking thing I give you to do and you can’t fucking do it!’

  ‘She’s disappeared Joe. So’s Glynis.’

  ‘They haven’t disappeared. What are they, fucking ghosts? It’s just you’re too stupid to find them.’

  ‘Well where else d’you want me to look?’

  Joey started to pace. He flung his arms in the air, jabbed his finger in Bradley’s direction. ‘I wanted this sorted out, now, tonight. How am I supposed to do that without her here, eh?’

  He glanced at Bradley, walked over towards him. ‘Where’s she gone? Tell me.’

  Bradley’s mouth hung open, it was the only way he could breathe. With some effort he raised his head and looked Joey directly in the eye. ‘I don’t know. You can beat me to death here and now, but the answer’ll still be I don’t know.’

  Joey swivelled on his heel. ‘Aaww fuck this.’ He stormed towards the door. ‘I’ll find her myself.’ He shot a glance at Tolya. ‘Tie him up properly, I don’t want him going walkabout.’

  The door slammed behind him. Bradley felt the solid knot of tension in his stomach start to loosen; for the moment at least, Joey was gone.

  67

  Marko Dimitrenko sat at the table in the interview room. His gangling frame and rounded shoulders had the effect of making him look more downtrodden than he really was. The lawyer took the seat beside him. They’d only met half an hour previously, but he was Joey’s man, a top professional; this was what Joey had always promised and indeed Neville Moore seemed to fit the bill. He’d immediately taken charge of the situation. He knew the senior cop, a rather stout, middle-aged woman; they’d exchanged pleasantries. Marko simply assumed the lawyer was bribing her and the interview was for the sake of appearances.

  Cheryl Stoneham switched on the tape deck, went through the usual round of identification: the suspect, his lawyer, herself and her colleague, DS Nicci Armstrong. Then she asked Marko whether he wanted an interpreter present.

  Marko felt this was a deliberate insult, designed to unnerve him. He stared at her coldly. ‘I can speak to you in Russian, English, German or French. You choose.’

  Stoneham gave him a tight smile. ‘I’ll take that as a no then.’

  Neville Moore inclined his head and sighed. Nicci watched him. He was working hard at giving the impression that this was all a big misunderstanding.

  ‘Chief Inspector, my client is a highly educated man, an academic in his own country, and he wishes to offer you his full cooperation.’

  Cheryl Stoneham exchanged a glance with Nicci. ‘Well we’re jolly pleased to hear that Mr Moore.’

  However a sixth sense was telling her the lawyer was looking a little too smug. He had something up his sleeve.

  Neville turned to Marko. ‘Did you write out the formulas?’

  Marko huffed, all this police nonsense was making him impatient. He wanted to get home, see what damage these idiots had done to his lab. But most of all he wanted to see Leysa. He pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. The paper was covered in chemical formulae, strings of equations and numbers written out in a small, neat hand. Moore pushed the sheet across the table in Stoneham’s direction.

  ‘This is to assist your forensic laboratory in their analysis of any substances seized from Dr Dimitrenko’s premises.’

  Stoneham considered the hieroglyphics in front of her, showed the paper to Nicci. ‘And the point of this, Mr Moore?’

  Neville smiled, he always liked this bit and it didn’t happen often. But pulling the rug out from under the police was, for him, great sport. ‘Dr Dimitrenko is a scientist, a research chemist, and he is proud of the fact that he has produced an entirely synthetic compound to replace safrole, the oil that is the primary precursor of MDMA.’

  Stoneham fixed Marko with a hard stare. He was sitting now with arms folded, a look of arrogant disdain on his face.

  Nicci stepped in. ‘So Dr Dimitrenko, you admit that you’ve been trying to manufacture MDMA, an illegal class-A drug?’

  Marko just glanced at Neville Moore, who smiled at Nicci and inclined his head.

  ‘No Sergeant. He categorically denies that. As you know the Misuse of Drugs Act has been extended by order to cover various chemical compounds: MDMA or Ecstasy and more recently Mephedrone. But what my client has created is an entirely new product outside of these definitions and neither a Class-A or Class-B drug within the meaning of the Act.’

  Stoneham picked up the sheet of paper. Her colour was rising. ‘By product you mean a new designer drug that replicates the effects but isn’t the same formula as the rest of the poisonous crap that’s out there?’

  Moore held out his open palms. ‘The law is an imperfect tool Chief Inspector. But what you have seized and what Dr Dimitrenko has created is a perfectly legal high as a full chemical analysis will show.’

  Stoneham shoved her chair back and got up. She was steaming. ‘Yeah, until it kills some fifteen-year-old kid in a club!’

  Moore knew he’d won, Stoneham’s uncharacteristic flash of temper was ample evidence of that. But he smiled politely. ‘That’s merely speculation. Legal highs are part of the recreational life of millions, much like alcohol. Now . . . since my client has broken no laws I presume he’s free to go?’

  Stoneham swallowed a bitter riposte and fixed him with a cold, hard stare. ‘No. We will be holding Dr Dimitrenko until his immigration status can be confirmed.’

  Marko stared at her in disbelief. He turned to Moore. ‘What? What’s this crap? I need to go home, see my wife! Now!’

  Stoneham leant over the tape deck. ‘Interview concluded at twenty fifteen.’

  She switched the machine off, glanced at Marko. ‘Your wife has been helping us with our inquiries and will also be handed over to the UK Borders Agency.’

  Marko jumped up, flung back his chair.

  ‘No, you cannot hold us.’ He rounded on Neville. ‘Just pay her, pay her more!’ He glared at Stoneham. ‘How much you want?’

  Neville’s eyes closed. He placed his hand over his face in disbelief then glanced up at Stoneham with a beseeching look. ‘I apologize Chief Inspector. There are as you can see some cultural differences here that need ironing out . . .’

  Stoneham returned the look, now the boot was on the other foot. It went some way to making up for this shambles.

  ‘I understand that Mr Moore and I’ll leave you to explain the facts of life to your client. But if I have anything to do with it he’ll be deported.’

  Nicci followed Stoneham out of the room. The DCI stomped down the corridor straight into the women’s toilets. She slapped the door of the nearest stall. ‘J
esus H. Christ on a fucking raft!’

  Nicci exhaled. ‘They could be trying to pull a fast one. Baffle us with science. When the lab actually analyses the stuff they could still decide it’s MDMA.’

  Cheryl sighed, shook her head. ‘I know Neville Moore. He’s a slick operator, never sticks his neck out too far.’

  She ran the tap, cupped her hands and filled them with water. She splashed it on her face.

  ‘What really gets to me is that arrogant bastard thinks I’m bribable. I’ve been in this job a long time, seen my share of nasty villains. But this one, he really doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong, does he? He wants to go out in one of our vans on a Saturday night. Scrape up some of the kids that are full of booze and pills made of fuck knows what. Haul them down to A & E and hope that pumping their stomachs’ll save their lives.’

  Nicci put her hand on Stoneham’s shoulder and patted it. ‘I’m sure we’ve got enough of a case for deportation. That’ll shut up the shop for now.’

  Stoneham turned to her. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t do this in front of you. You’re the junior officer, but you’re holding it together. I’m the one blowing my stack. I really thought we had them. I’ve been chasing Joey Phelps a long time.’

  Nicci gave her a weary shrug. ‘He’s not your average villain. Somehow he always manages to slip the noose.’

  68

  The taxi cruised sedately up the winding drive to Woodcote Hall. Kaz had caught the last train of the evening to Leeds and checked into an anonymous-looking hotel in Bishopgate Street close to the station. She’d set her phone alarm to wake her at seven, grabbed coffee, fruit and a croissant at the station buffet and taken the Wharfedale Line to Ilkley. As the train climbed up out of the Aire Valley, Kaz had eaten her breakfast and communed with the sheep. Being out of London, out of Essex, in a very different landscape felt odd at first. But it also finally brought her some relief, made her realize how much she wanted to feel free. She thought about New York and the prospect of a life far away in a place where Joey couldn’t follow her. Well, he could follow her, but Kaz felt that taking on America was beyond even Joey’s inflated ambition.