‘We’ve done the graft, Smithie,’ Cass interrupted. ‘D’you want Rickman grabbing the glory?’ The lights changed and he sprinted across the road, heading for his car.
‘No, Sarge. But he is the senior officer on the joint investigations and the super—’
Cass shoved his ticket and a tenner at the security guard in reception. ‘Trust me, all Detective Superintendent Maynard wants is to look good in front of the press. Anyway, you wouldn’t want Rickman taking credit for a game just ’cos he happened to wander onto the pitch after half-time, would you?’
‘No, Sarge.’ Smith sounded reluctant.
‘I’ll expect you there at 15:00 hours.’ Cass took his ticket and change. ‘You’re late, the coach leaves without you.’
He ended the call then dug out Carter’s mobile from his contacts. It was pay-as-you-go and effectively untraceable. It was also switched off. ‘Shit.’ The woman next to him in the queue for the lift gave him a look. Carter needed to be out of his little hidey-hole and twenty miles down the road by the time Cass arrived with his posse.
He hesitated, considering the possibility of driving to the farm to warn Carter, then heading back to meet the posse. ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered, and drew another disapproving glance. In all the excitement, he hadn’t asked for the address. If he called Smith, demanding it now, he’d cause suspicion — especially if they turned up mob-handed in an hour or so only to find the place empty. He let the woman take the lift and stepped outside onto the rough cobbles opposite the Marriott hotel. He dialled Carter’s mobile again. The answerphone clicked straight in and he disconnected angrily. Give a crook a failsafe protocol and you could be damn sure he’d ignore it. They just didn’t know how to play by the rules.
Cass checked his watch — he’d be pushed for time, trying to get across town to meet the lads at this hour. He had to hold Rickman off till he got to Carter. If it came down to it, he could bring Carter in himself, inform Customs. They would make sure their prize witness was free and clear before Rickman got near him. He hung up and rang the office.
DC Gormley picked up. Well thank fuck something’s going right today. Gormley was none too bright, and he was easily influenced — in other words, he was the perfect oppo.
‘You still there?’ he asked.
‘On my way, Sarge,’ Gormley said. Cass could picture him putting on his jacket to show willing.
‘Let’s not make it too easy for Rickman, eh?’
‘How’m I gonna do that, Sarge?’
‘I’ll leave that to your discretion.’ Carter would never dream of telling an officer to obstruct an investigation — but he hoped Gormley had the initiative to do just that.
Chapter 46
Foster arrived at Edge Hill Police Station by taxi, not trusting himself to drive. He was hungover, squinting in the autumn sunshine, despite the wraparound shades he wore. He paid the driver and made his way towards the front entrance as a black cab drew up and the driver abandoned his vehicle by the kerb.
The sun was low in a milky blue sky, and Foster shielded his eyes against the glare. He quickened his pace — he’d only taken a swift glance at the hackney cab licence hidden in Naomi’s flat, but he’d swear that the fair-haired guy running up the station steps was Philip Ormerod.
By the time Foster reached the reception desk, Ormerod was asking for Naomi Hart. ‘Phil, isn’t it?’ He took Ormerod by the elbow and steered him through the security door. ‘I’ll take him up,’ he said to the operator at the desk.
Ormerod shook free of him. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Lee Foster.’ He eased his shades down his nose to look over them and offered his hand.
Ormerod’s slight hesitation told Foster that his name had come up in conversation — last night, maybe, after he’d staggered off into the storm. Great.
He led the way up the concrete fire escape to the Major Incident Room. ‘So, what’s this about?’
‘I’d rather tell Naomi,’ Ormerod said.
‘You tried her mobile?’
‘She’s not answering.’
‘Looks like you’ll have to make do with me, then.’
Ormerod eyed him warily. Foster could almost see him weighing up the positives against the negatives Naomi had described in his character. ‘It’s about Rob Maitland,’ he said at last. ‘He’s on the move.’
Foster didn’t trouble to ask how Ormerod knew this — he simply changed course and headed for Jeff Rickman’s office.
Rickman and Hart were in deep conversation, Rickman leaning against the filing cabinet and Hart half-sitting on his desk. She started up when she saw Ormerod.
‘Phil! Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, though the strain showed in the set of his jaw and around the eyes. ‘I tried to reach you.’ His tone was apologetic — he hadn’t followed the prescribed arrangements.
Hart’s hand went to her jacket pocket. ‘I must have left my mobile in the Incident Room. Sorry, Phil.’
‘He says Maitland’s crew is on the move,’ Foster said.
Rickman leaned off the cabinet. ‘Since when?’
‘One fifteen, thereabouts.’
Rickman checked his watch. ‘It’s three o’ clock. What kept you, a good run of fares?’
‘I only just got away.’
‘Okay.’ Rickman folded his arms, ready to listen. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘I was flagged by two guys outside Maitland’s offices in Old Hall Street.’
Foster sized Ormerod up while the DCI questioned him. He must be thirty or thirty-five years old, Foster guessed. Muscular build — probably worked out — maybe that was how he and Naomi had met. He glanced at Hart, but she avoided his gaze.
‘They told me to drive to Mount Pleasant,’ Ormerod said. ‘I picked Maitland up in a back alley, dropped him back in Old Hall Street. He had a car waiting.’
‘Was he alone?’
Ormerod shook his head. ‘Driver and bodyguard with Maitland, two more in the following car.’
‘Did you get the licence plates?’
‘Yes.’
While Ormerod fished in his pocket, Foster stole another glance at Hart. She must have briefed him thoroughly — witnesses never thought to note the car plates. Judging by the look on Rickman’s face, he had come to the same conclusion. But Hart was still focusing resolutely on a point in the middle distance, frowning slightly, as if trying to make out a familiar object.
Ormerod finally found what he was looking for and held out a scrap of paper to Rickman. His hand was shaking. ‘I would’ve phoned, but they left two men with me.’
‘Jesus, Phil.’ Hart paled, jolted out of her feigned reverie.
He gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘They let me keep the meter running, even tipped me a tenner.’ He tried to smile, but it came off as a grimace.
Rickman looked from one to the other. ‘And you just happened to be in Old Hall Street, at the precise moment Maitland sent for a taxi,’ he said.
Hart stared at a point on to Rickman’s right, a faint blush on her delicate cheekbones.
‘Post & Echo offices,’ Ormerod said. ‘They don’t have staff drivers any more — use cabs instead. You can pick up a half-day fare if you’re lucky.’
Her facial expression didn’t change, but Foster thought he saw a slight slackening of the tension in Hart’s shoulders.
Rickman looked long and hard at Ormerod before turning his attention to Hart. ‘You wouldn’t be so stupid as to involve a civilian in an unauthorised surveillance op, would you, DC Hart?’
Hart straightened, and Foster got the distinct impression she was about to make the monumental mistake of telling Rickman the truth.
‘Come on, Jeff,’ Foster said, before she could make the biggest gaff of her career. ‘How big is the city centre, anyway? You wanna decent fare, there’s only three or four ranks worth waiting on.’
Rickman turned his attention to Foster, narrowing his eyes. It wouldn’t have escaped the DCI’s notice that Foster
had used his first name, which, in their friendship code, was an appeal to the man rather than the cop. After a few uncomfortable moments, Rickman reached for the phone and dialled the Comms Room.
‘DCI Rickman. Patch me through to . . .’ He riffled through a stack of pink flimsies in his in-tray, looking for the day’s task list, and ran his finger down the roster of names and duties. ‘DC Ingham.’ He switched to speakerphone as Ingham was put through.
‘Sir.’ Ingham was lead surveillance on Maitland, and he’d drawn the weekend day shift. He sounded bored and tired. Foster recalled a slouching middle-aged cop, with a waist measurement greater than his trouser length.
‘What’s Maitland doing?’ Rickman asked.
‘Schmoozing.’
‘Where?’
‘Whole Earth Restaurant on Mount Pleasant. He went in with some well-dressed business types, about’ — they heard a rustle of clothing as Ingham checked his watch — ‘two and a half hours ago.’
‘Can you see him?’
‘It’s up off the street,’ Ingham said.
‘Can you see him?’ Rickman repeated, not quite keeping his anger in check this time. Ingham must have heard it in his voice, because there was another rustle, accompanied by the creak of upholstery as the officer shifted in his seat.
‘Not as such, sir. But we haven’t moved from here. Haven’t even had a break for a brew and a bacon butty.’ He sounded almost wistful.
‘Go inside. See if he’s there,’ Rickman said.
‘This is a covert op, sir—’
‘Not if he knows you’re watching him, it isn’t,’ Rickman growled. ‘See if he’s there — and stay on the line.’
They listened as Ingham laboured up the steps into the building. A burst of chatter told them that he was inside the restaurant. They heard Ingham’s shoes clumping across wood floors, a barely audible exchange with what Foster guessed was one of the waitresses, then a muttered curse.
‘He’s not in the bar or the main restaurant,’ Ingham said. ‘I’m sorry, sir—’ He broke off, calling to someone. ‘Are you the manager?’ The reply was indistinct, swamped by the noise of diners’ conversation and the clatter of cutlery.
‘Rob Maitland was here,’ Ingham said. They heard a muffled denial. ‘’Course you know him.’ Another brief exchange, then Ingham raised his voice. ‘Look, love, this is a police investigation, so don’t piss me about. You let him out the back way, didn’t you?’ The reply was distorted by the babble of background noise.
Foster heard ‘favour’ and ‘paparazzi’. It seemed the manager had let a violent criminal sneak out the back way because she didn’t like the thought of him being hounded by the press.
‘She says—’
‘I heard enough,’ Rickman interrupted. ‘More than enough. Get yourselves back to base.’ He hung up.
‘Naomi,’ Rickman said, ‘take your friend to one of the consultation rooms till we sort this out.’ He handed her the slip of paper. ‘Make sure this VIN is circulated to Traffic and Foot Patrols. I’ll bring DS Foster up to speed.’
Hart opened the office door but Ormerod hung back.
‘Are you still here?’ Rickman said.
‘Um, I left my cab out front.’
‘Park it in the car park at the back.’ Rickman turned to Hart. ‘Get him settled, then I want you here — and focused.’ He waited until she had closed the door after her. ‘Bloody idiot.’
Foster rubbed his temples. ‘Unconventional but effective, you’ve got to admit. Everyone knows taxis are the best surveillance network in the city — I mean, they’re always on the job, and what could be more anonymous than a black cab?’
‘She put a civilian at risk, Lee.’
‘If I know Naomi, she told him to keep an eye out — if Ormerod decided to turn amateur sleuth, it’s not her fault. And assuming Maitland’s gone after Carter, if we find Maitland, Carter’s as good as in the bag.’
‘That’s a lot of “ifs”,’ Rickman said. ‘Added to which, surveillance have lost Maitland, and we’ve no line on Carter.’
‘Yeah, but we wouldn’t’ve known Maitland had gone walkabout if it wasn’t for Naomi,’ Foster said.
Rickman couldn’t argue with that. He picked up the receiver again and asked for DI Dwight’s mobile number. He keyed it in but hung up after a few moments. ‘Switched off,’ he said.
‘So, d’you want to bring me up to speed?’ Foster asked.
‘You know most of it. Kim Lindermann is willing to testify against Carter, but we have to find him first. I took Hart with me to talk to his wife.’
‘Shake the tree, see what falls out?’
‘That’s the theory. She’s playing the injured innocent, but I’m hoping our chat will panic her into making an unguarded move.’
Foster saw a tightly wound energy in his friend. Nothing, so far, had gone their way — that wasn’t Jeff Rickman’s fault, but he knew that Rickman would be blaming himself.
The DCI headed for the door. ‘Gormley’s on telephone surveillance,’ he said. ‘Give him a ring, will you? See if he’s heard anything. I’ll be in Dwight’s MIR.’
* * *
The drugs inquiry Major Incident Room had the slightly cheesy smell of a schoolboys’ changing room: aftershave overtones, with base notes of sweat and foot odour. One plump DC sat in the midst of littered desks and discarded coffee cups.
‘Where’s DI Dwight?’ Rickman demanded.
‘Some community bash?’
‘Any sign of DS Cass?’
He grimaced. ‘Day off?’
‘So, this it?’ Rickman asked. ‘You’re the drugs inquiry team?’
The DC nodded. He had the disconsolate look of a schoolboy landed with detention on the last day of term. ‘Apart from DS Foster,’ he added.
Rickman turned and saw that Foster had caught up with him.
‘Gormley’s not on phone surveillance,’ he said. ‘The lad on duty hasn’t heard anything.’
‘Where did Gormley go?’ Rickman demanded.
The DC’s look of consternation was pitiful. Rickman tried again, hoping for one small item of information that might help. ‘Who’s on the duty rota?’
The DC perked up a bit. This was a question he could answer. ‘Smithie was in, and Williams. They pissed off — I mean, they left,’ he corrected himself, eyeing Rickman, a pink flush on his plump cheeks.
‘When?’ Rickman asked.
‘About an hour ago?’ His apologetic tone was beginning to grate.
‘Did they say where they were going?’
‘Smithie got a call at his desk. Him and Williams went out the room for a few minutes. When they came back, they grabbed their coats and legged it.’
Rickman exchanged a look with Foster. ‘What’s your name?’
The DC gave him a look of alarm. ‘Kirkbride, sir.’
‘Got a mobile number for Cass?’
Kirkbride nodded.
‘Use it,’ Rickman said. ‘Call Smith and Williams as well. Find out what they’re up to.’
‘They’re not gonna tell the likes of me, boss.’
Rickman ignored the self-pity in his voice. ‘Tell them surveillance has lost Maitland. Tell them he might have gone after Carter — they’ll listen.’
‘Oh, man . . .’
‘What?’ Rickman asked.
‘Smithie said something about Carter.’
‘What — exactly?’
‘I didn’t hear it, just the name.’
‘Who was the call from?’
Kirkland was sweating. ‘I—’
‘An informant? Police? Come on, man, give us some bloody clue!’
Kirkland shook his head. ‘I was working on my reports, boss. I didn’t really—’
‘Forget it,’ Rickman said. ‘Keep trying those numbers. If you get through — find me.’
He glanced at Hart, who had returned and was hovering by the door.
‘Have you contacted Tunstall yet?’ he asked.
‘He’s over in B
urscough,’ she said. ‘Playing rugby. I left an urgent message at the club house for him to call me.’ She followed them out of the room. ‘D’you think Smith and Williams have gone after Carter?’
Rickman gave a brief nod. ‘And with Maitland off the radar, they might just create a few casualties on their road to glory.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Foster asked.
Rickman thought for a moment. ‘Hart — you’re with me. Lee — I want the full team in, Dwight’s lot and ours. If this goes into meltdown, we’ll need as many bodies as we can muster.’
Rickman strode to the end of the corridor with Hart close behind him, and onto the concrete stairs of the fire escape. Since the smoking ban, this staircase had the permanent reek of cigarette smoke. As they trotted up to the top floor, Rickman took out a bunch of keys. Along the main corridor, then through a locked door into a cul-de-sac, housing three offices. This area smelled unused and slightly damp.
‘The phone tap on Carter’s home phone,’ Rickman said, in answer to Hart’s unspoken question. He unlocked one of the inner doors and went in.
The room was about twelve feet by ten, the ceiling plaster was bubbled and discoloured by damp, and there was a large, rusty stain on the grey carpet tiles. A detective constable sat at a desk on the far side of the room, under the open window. Headphones on, notebook at his right hand, a flask of coffee close by, he was slumped sideways on his chair at an awkward angle. As they walked across the room, the man’s pen slipped across the page and his head nodded.
Rickman placed a hand on his shoulder and the DC yelled.
‘Jesus! Don’t you fucking knock?’ He ripped off the headphones and turned, his eyes widening with horror as he realised who he’d just sworn at. ‘Sorry, boss — I thought it was—’
‘Never mind,’ Rickman said. ‘Have you picked up anything of interest — or did you sleep right through your shift?’ The man looked, panicked, at the monitor on his desk. ‘There’s nothing happening, boss. I told DS Foster I would’ve—’
‘Woken up if you heard a voice on the line?’ Rickman stared at him until he flushed brick-red. ‘Did you make a call to DC Smith, about an hour ago?’
‘I was the one got the call, boss. Gormless — that’s DC Gormley—’ He stopped, realising that he was about to land a colleague in trouble.
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 34