DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘So, why would Maitland murder a bystander? Why not grab Eames and torture Carter’s address out of him?’

  Rickman tapped the side of his glass with a fingernail. ‘Did you see the look on Eames’s face? Like he said, if he’d known it, he’d have given it up. He doesn’t know where Carter is, but Maitland must think he can find out.’

  ‘Killing the lad, though . . .’

  ‘I think Maitland used Michael Aldiss to send a message out to the rest of his crew — no second chances, no mercy.’

  Foster’s jaw tightened. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s the plan?’

  ‘I’ll talk to Dwight.’

  Foster was incredulous. ‘You’re not gonna give him the stuff Eames just told us?’

  ‘We’re supposed to be working in full cooperation,’ Rickman said.

  ‘I don’t wanna get in the way of a group hug or nothing,’ Foster said, ‘but if Eames gets wind of it, he’ll vanish like the froth on one of his cappuccinos.’

  ‘To paraphrase Ed Shepherd, there are others to protect. If someone else gets caught in the line of fire — if another Michael Aldiss dies because I’m playing political games — it’ll be my responsibility.’ Rickman got in the next bit before Foster could say it for him: ‘I know — if I lose Eames, I could have a lot more deaths on my hands.’

  Foster took another sip of beer. ‘Catch-22.’

  ‘Who was it said, “Knowledge is power”?’

  ‘Bacon,’ Foster said promptly. Rickman couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Well, don’t look so shocked — I was educated by Jesuits, you know.’

  That was Foster for you: a man of many parts. Rickman suppressed a smile. ‘Well, you’re my man on the inside. I want to know everything you know about Carter, Maitland and Operation Snowplough.’

  ‘Get another bevvie in,’ Foster said. ‘This could take a while.’

  Chapter 38

  The storm howled and shrieked outside the glass tower, rain sheeting horizontally against the windows. The wind and the angle of the glass sluiced the water sideways, sending frothy spume from the structure like salt spray from the prow of a ship.

  Rob Maitland watched it play like a silent movie, the clean-swept streets of the business district below scoured by brine sucked from the city’s port by a force-ten storm. A steel hoarding at the edge of some roadworks flapped and shuddered like card, teetered first on one edge of its splayed feet, then the other, building momentum, the oscillations growing larger and larger, like a child on a swing. Suddenly, the barrier fell, crashing onto a car parked next to it. The bonnet crumpled and the windscreen bowed and finally shattered, throwing beaded glass fifteen metres down the road. Exhilarating, Maitland thought.

  Reflected in the glass, he saw his hired meeters and greeters, clipboards clasped to their chests, hovering by the lift door. A new party had arrived, bringing with it a burst of excited chatter and cold air.

  Maitland had quickly realised that the fifty-yard stare unnerved the arty types — they found his stillness intriguing, but they needed the reassurance of an occasional smile. Maitland was prepared to oblige: this was power of a different stamp, and he had always been adaptable. But after an hour and a half, the smiling began to feel like a facial tic. He needed time out, and the storm proved a restful interlude.

  He had grown used to creating pockets of repose amid the paranoia and frequent violence of running a major drugs operation, so the clamour of this little gathering posed no problem. It was necessary merely to build a bubble of silence and seal himself within it. He was a still, calm presence amid the frenzy of networking around him.

  This ‘opportunity’ he had set up himself — and before his unfortunate arrest after the Dutch deal went tits up. He’d been tempted to cancel, but his PR consultant, little Billy Peters, had told him to hold his nerve. Press, TV and radio were all represented — in fact, the hike in his notoriety had brought a flurry of last-minute acceptances of his invitation. The chance to observe the suspect on his own turf was too tempting for ambitious local journos and seasoned national press to resist. So, here they all were: social commentators snouting for an inside view, TV producers and directors looking for their big documentary hit, press after the man behind the story.

  ‘Let ’em come,’ his agent had said. ‘We’ll rope them in with a tale of a reformed criminal and turn it into a rags-to-riches story — local lad made good.’ Billy Peters was in the business of reinvention. He had carved new life stories for his clients like a Hollywood plastic surgeon sculpted new faces and bodies. It was phoney, all of it, but as long as it looked good, and lasted long enough to fulfil their five-year plan to be famous and filthy rich, who cared?

  Maitland’s mobile buzzed in his pocket and he answered it with a curt, ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Boss? It’s me — Eames.’

  ‘Tommy.’ The Tank sounded nervous, which was good. ‘Got anything for me?’

  ‘A phone number — no address.’

  ‘What good is that to me?’

  ‘I swear to God, boss — it was all I could do to get that.’

  ‘Where d’you get it?’

  ‘Meg Carter.’ He heard Eames swallow, as if he wished he could take the name back.

  ‘Maybe I should pay Meg a visit, see if I can get any more out of her,’ Maitland said.

  ‘She doesn’t know nothing else, boss. You know what Bernie’s like — passwords on everything. He only gave her the landline number for life-or-death emergencies.’

  Maitland laughed softly, enjoying the irony.

  ‘It’s an Ormskirk number,’ Eames offered. ‘I checked.’

  ‘So you googled the area code. Am I supposed to be impressed, Tommy-lad?’ Maitland kept his voice low, but the threat in it was unmistakable.

  ‘Swear to God, boss. I done everything I could.’ There was a pause, which Maitland chose not to interrupt. ‘Are — are we all square now?’ Maitland counted five slow beats of his heart. ‘Boss?’

  ‘What do you think, Tommy?’ As the Tank started stuttering a response, Maitland broke the connection. He brought up a number in his contacts, connecting with Graham. ‘Write this down.’ He recited the phone number. ‘I want an address.’

  Task completed, he turned again with a sigh to face the crowd. He caught a few staring at him. They looked quickly away, and he glanced across at his agent, giving him a sardonic smile. Peters — “Call me Billy” — raised his hand and circled his index finger a few times. Work, work, work, Maitland thought. He scanned the room for someone he hadn’t yet spoken to. The constant new arrivals made the job seem endless.

  Maitland snagged a canapé from a passing tray and gave the server a wink. ‘No rest for the wicked.’ He tossed a miniature pizza into his mouth. She smiled, surprised and flattered to have been noticed amid the clamour of people, all eager to be seen.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said. She was cute — skinny, but well-stacked — and she met his eye with no hint of shyness. The creamy-white perfection of her skin made him want to touch her naked shoulders just to see if they were cool under his fingertips. She tilted the tray towards him. ‘Another?’

  He selected a pastry. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Student.’

  Her eyebrows twitched. ‘Who else would work these hours for these rates?’

  He grinned, and for the first time that evening it felt genuine. From the corner of his eye, he saw Billy Peters bearing down on him with another new friend. ‘Uh-oh.’

  She made a quarter turn, balancing the tray lightly on her hand. ‘What?’

  ‘My agent.’ The little man at Billy Peters’s side wore a brown suit and matching shoes with lifts. He was almost perfectly round. ‘And it looks like he’s bringing a Malteser in cheap brogues to talk to me.’

  She took a moment, following his line of sight, still looking over one shoulder. Her neck had a delicious curve that made him want to lick the length of it, from collarbone to jawbone.

  ‘That’s Peter Petronelli,’ she said. ‘Big TV
producer.’ She widened her eyes at him. ‘I mean huge.’

  He crinkled his brow in question.

  ‘I’m doing Media Studies,’ she said, with the merest hint of a smile.

  ‘Stick around,’ he said. ‘I’ll introduce you.’

  She looked tempted, but only for a fraction of a second. ‘Another time,’ she said. ‘Tonight, Mr Maitland, they only have eyes for you.’ She clocked his surprise and added, with a smile, ‘I do my homework.’

  Well, what do you know? Lovely tits, perfect skin — and a brain. He tried to catch her elbow, but she danced away, shimmying through the crowd with the ease and grace of a salsa dancer.

  His agent made the introductions and the producer launched into his spiel, making his pitch. It was Billy’s job to manage that side of things — the hustle and bustle, the hints and rumours, a dropped name, a significant look. Maitland nodded, tuning him out, while looking over his head to the girl. She gave him a quizzical smile and Maitland fluttered his hand over his heart. She laughed and turned away.

  ‘Rob Maitland?’

  Maitland executed a half-turn, the professional smile already in place. This guy was different from the rest: he was taller than most of his guests, for a start, and instead of an awestruck silence or effusive greeting, he appraised Maitland coolly, his eyes dark and unreadable. Maitland could sense aggression like a bad smell. This guy had the physical power for it, but his stance was relaxed, he hadn’t come looking for a ruck.

  Maitland fell by default into distrust mode. ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Rickman.’ He flashed his warrant card. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Foster.’

  Foster. ‘We’ve met.’

  By the look of him, Foster was holding a grudge about their previous exchange. Maitland filed that snippet away for future use.

  Maitland offered Rickman his hand, knowing the photographers were busy, click-whirring — and wouldn’t this one make a great front-page splash?

  Rickman looked at his hand like he couldn’t quite work out what it was for. ‘You weren’t entirely honest with DS Foster about your relationship with Mark Davis, Mr Maitland,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Mark was working for you right up to the night of the raid on your dockside warehouse,’ Rickman said.

  Smart, Maitland thought. Nothing prejudicial in that — just a plain statement of fact.

  ‘We also know that he was on the run, and that he was terrified.’

  Maitland feigned surprise. ‘Of me?’ But the pretence was too outrageous, and he laughed. ‘I’m messing with you. A business my size, you have to command respect from the employees.’

  ‘You’re confusing respect and fear,’ Rickman said.

  Around them, conversations had begun to falter.

  ‘Gimme a break, fellas,’ he said, spreading his hands, thinking what a good picture it would make, irritated that none of the photographers were quick enough to take the shot.

  ‘The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner we go away,’ Rickman said.

  Maitland huffed a laugh. Cops like Rickman never really went away. ‘Like you said, Mr Rickman — fear and respect get mixed up, sometimes. Why else would Mark latch on to Sergeant Foster here?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Foster demanded.

  Maitland smiled. A front-page shot of Foster throwing a punch at him would be even better than a handshake with the DCI.

  ‘Leave it,’ Rickman said, and the sergeant stood down.

  Maitland continued smirking at Foster. ‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘Does he go fetch an’ all?’

  Foster spoke, back in control of himself, refusing to take the bait. ‘You’re getting careless,’ he said, and Maitland felt a thud of apprehension, swiftly quashed. This was just cops playing their games.

  ‘Another of your employees has gone missing.’

  They know Carter’s missing. How? . . . Tommy Eames. What else had the Tank told them?

  Maitland opted for bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘I think you do,’ Rickman said.

  Maitland was used to physically powerful men. He set them loose like dogs onto bad payers and wide boys taking the piss. His hirelings showed nothing behind the eyes. Rickman, however, was confident enough to allow a hint of his pain to seep from him like light from under a door, and Maitland found that unsettling.

  ‘Bernie Carter,’ Rickman said. ‘Your accountant.’

  ‘Why are you looking for him?’

  Rickman ignored the question. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s been working flat out on an audit for me,’ Maitland said. ‘Finished it last night. He probably decided to take off for a few days, unwind a bit.’

  ‘Without his wife and children?’

  Maitland gave him a comical look. ‘You’re obviously not married, Chief Inspector.’ He got a bit of audience response on that one.

  ‘Where,’ Rickman repeated, ‘is he?’

  ‘Fishing expedition?’ Maitland offered. Like yourself, Mr Rickman. Very much like yourself.

  ‘Fishing expedition or fishing bait?’ Foster asked. The press vultures circling missed it, but Maitland did not.

  He smiled. ‘Colourful image, Sergeant, but you’ve got me wrong. These days, I’m a businessman and patron of the arts.’

  ‘Buying a few dodgy paintings at a student exhibition doesn’t make you a Renaissance man,’ Foster said. ‘You’re still a no-mark drug peddler from the arse end of Toxteth.’

  Maitland felt a shimmer of anger, then it was gone. ‘See the men in suits?’ he said. ‘They could buy and sell you and half of Liverpool without having to even check their overdraft limit. They know about my past, and you know what? They’re falling over themselves for the chance to talk to me.’

  ‘You know what I see?’ Foster’s gaze skimmed the assembly like he was looking for someone to arrest. ‘I see sharks circling. You’re way out of your depth with this crowd, Maitland.’

  ‘Bernie Carter,’ Rickman said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You’re not concerned by his disappearance?’

  Not anymore, Maitland thought. Not now I’ve got his landline number and I’m hours away from having his address and postcode.

  Rickman was waiting for an answer.

  In his own good time, Maitland said, ‘What’ve I got to be concerned about?’

  ‘The manager of your coffee chain attacked in broad daylight — an innocent bystander murdered,’ Rickman said. ‘More than enough cause for concern.’

  A hush fell over the gathering. The guests who previously had been more than happy to elbow their way into conversation with Maitland now hovered at a discreet distance, listening. Most of them would not have linked Aldiss’s murder with him. Until now.

  ‘You mean the tragic murder of that young boy?’ he said, trying to score a point with the media hacks. ‘I’m told the police are investigating.’

  ‘Oh, we are.’ Rickman’s voice was a low growl, but enough people heard it and understood the implication.

  There were two or three potential investors in the room. Investors who might be willing to fork out enough to make up for the deficit caused by the dropouts after the drugs arrests. And now Rickman was as good as telling them he was under investigation for the murder of Michael Aldiss.

  Maitland saw one of the journalists recording the exchange on his mobile. He visualised ramming the damn thing up the little weasel’s arse and felt a little better.

  ‘And now your accountant is missing,’ Rickman said.

  ‘I told you, he probably took a break.’ Maitland was furious to be forced to speculate in this way. It made him look like an amateur.

  ‘Call him,’ Rickman said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Call him. Tell him the police are concerned for his safety. That he needs to check in — let us know he’s all r
ight.’ He took a mobile phone from his pocket. ‘You can use my phone if you like.’

  Maitland stared at the phone in Rickman’s hand. ‘His number’s on my mobile. I left it in my private apartments.’

  ‘I saw you using it earlier, Mr Maitland.’ This from the weasel who was recording him. ‘It’s in your breast pocket.’

  ‘It’s only a quick call, Mr Maitland,’ somebody else said, and that was followed by a rumble of assent from the rest. The mood was turning against him. That was the thing with the press: they liked a good party. They’d eat your food and guzzle your champagne like they were chugging down pints of craft ale. They’d even suck up to you — but give them the slightest whiff of a good story and they’d tear you apart to get to the heart of it. This fucker Rickman was turning his party into a feeding frenzy.

  ‘His mobile is switched off,’ Maitland said. ‘I tried him earlier.’ He forced a smile. It didn’t feel quite right on his face. ‘When Bernie needs a break he just heads for his boat and launches out on the Norfolk Broads. Could be anywhere.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Rickman said. ‘Because a call would’ve put our minds at rest. Ah well, we’ll just have to keep looking.’

  ‘It puts my mind at rest to know that you take public safety so seriously.’ Maitland comforted himself with the thought that he was well ahead of the game. Rickman had no clue where Carter was holed up and could only speculate as to why Maitland wanted him. When he’d finished with old Bernie the Books, he would just have to make sure he disappeared for good.

  He tried another smile. This time, it felt more natural. ‘Let me walk you out.’

  While they waited for the lift, Maitland could feel the eyes of fifty people on his back. ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,’ he said, so that the eavesdroppers couldn’t hear. ‘Making me look like a thug.’

  Foster smirked. ‘If the shit sticks . . .’

  Easy, Rob. Maitland gritted his teeth. With all the cameras and media types in the room he needed to stay calm. ‘If I lose potential investors because of this,’ he said, ‘I’ll sue the police authority.’

  ‘You’ve been lucky, so far,’ Foster said. ‘You’ve dodged assets seizure on your illegal earnings by getting Carter to give them the old oxy-wash treatment.’