by Will North
“Because let me tell you, nothing insults Morgan Davies. Nothing.” He leaned forward and could hear his own voice rising. “She’s heard it all, and from much better liars than you. She’s the best detective in all of Cornwall and Devon. The best I have ever known. But here’s the thing, she doesn’t care a whit who tries to insult her. Water off a duck’s back. She’ll find the truth, no matter how hard you or anyone else tries to hide it. You have made a big mistake in insulting Morgan Davies, young lady. And you have insulted me as well. Morgan Davies is relentless. So am I.”
He leaned back into the chair, let the silence extend, and watched her. The rangy teen had grown into a formidable young woman. She reminded him of her mother, but far less gracious. He wondered why she was so frightened.
Finally, he smiled.
“Now, would you care to tell me the truth? It can’t be that bad and I promise to keep your confidence—assuming nothing criminal is involved.”
She tilted her head and looked at him sideways. He wondered when she would stop posing. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because I have known you since childhood? Because we are, as your mother put it yesterday, still family? Because if you don’t, I’ll need to have you arrested for obstruction?”
Her head straightened. “You wouldn’t!”
“It would be more accurate to say I shouldn’t like to. Would you like to make this easier for me?”
She sat quietly for a moment, as if doing calculations in her head. At last she smiled. “I suppose if I can’t trust a detective chief inspector in the Devon and Cornwall Police, who can I trust?” It was still an act, but he heard a touch of capitulation.
“Perhaps a caring former uncle?”
Now, at last, she laughed. It was like a door opening.
“I did call someone that evening. A man, not a woman. I’m sorry about that bit. A man my father despises, despite the fact that he’s never met him. I called him because I was frightened. That moor’s my home, but suddenly it was alien and terrifying. He came, but then I had to have him leave when you called to say you were sending investigators. I could not have him seen at Poldue.”
“And yet, in a sense, he was. Or at least his car.”
“Yes, well. But can you understand this has nothing to do with that poor soul dead in the mire. You cannot imagine it does.”
“Is he local?”
Jan hesitated, turned away for a moment, and then turned back to meet his eyes. “Local enough to be my lover, yes. I will tell you no more. You want me to give my trust to you; I expect you to do the same.”
Penwarren watched her. She was telling the truth now, he was certain. But she had a strategy, too. That was clear. She was bargaining. But who was she hiding? And why?
When he ushered her back down to the entrance, he texted Morgan: Use the cell towers to trace the caller.
She responded immediately: Did that before the meeting. No joy. A throw away phone.
Twenty-Four
JUST AFTER NOON on Thursday, Ronnie O’Dare was sorting small shrink-wrapped packages on a long stainless steel table inside a rusty corrugated steel Romney hut at the Davidstow Aerodrome. The once-formidable World War II RAF base bordered his estate and had long since been mothballed. Most of the paved runways had deteriorated into useless potholed tracks and the concrete wartime outbuildings lay roofless and crumbling across the broad plateau of the moor. Only the huts remained of use.
Today, the aerodrome functioned only as the home of a small club of ultralight plane enthusiasts who maintained a short runway for their hobby. There were only ten club members and their “aircraft” tended to be little more than hang gliders and parasails powered by what amounted to lawn mower engines. O’Dare rented the hut from the club.
When he heard its metal door creak, he reached for the old revolver that once had been Lugg’s. No one ever visited. He was just turning when he recognized the voice and its Irish lilt.
“No joy at the manse, so I thought I might find you here,” Bert Doherty said as he stepped into the dim hut. He’d flown down from Manchester to Newquay. “And I think you can put the gun down, my friend.”
O’Dare did so. He hated the pistol anyway. It was old and nearly useless, except at close range. Back in the day, when he was active, his preference was an AR-18 semi-automatic. It had a folding stock and was easy to conceal when he was a ‘foot soldier’ during “The Troubles.”
“Bert Doherty, of the esteemed Liverpool constabulary! Welcome! But to what do I owe this rare personal visit? You’re a long way from home, my friend, and far out of your jurisdiction, if you intend to apprehend me, though I can’t imagine what for.” His voice was louder than he intended, from fear.
“Ah well now, Ronnie, that depends upon you, does it not? You collected your parcels this week, right on time, but I’m informed that your usual companion, our good man Mr. Lugg, was not with you.”
O’Dare had anticipated at least a call. Doherty was his controller and he always followed up. It was his job. They were both part of a long and intricate chain of loyalties and deceits, secrets and half-truths, the better to muddy the trail for anyone tracking them. And they were always being tracked.
“That would be because your good man Mr. Lugg is no more, Bert.”
“So I understand from the Devon and Cornwall CID, who paid us a visit up in Liverpool and informed us of this development, Lugg having been a local. Yet, curiously, we received no word from you about his tragic demise. How do you explain that, my good friend?”
There was no warmth in his voice as Doherty moved closer. Doherty was squarely between him and the door. He wasn’t a big man at all, but he was known to be dangerous and quick with a knife. Knives are quiet. O’Dare did not know if he was armed. He stepped back, leaned against the table, and crossed his ankles, as if he didn’t have a care.
“Look, I caught Lugg skimming, okay? The numbers were not quite adding up—not a lot, but enough to concern me. Last week when he was supposed to be packing up for deliveries in Penzance, Redruth, and Newquay, I found him here with his nose down on this very table, snorting our coke. I stood where you are and asked him what the hell he was doing. He lunged at me and pulled a handgun. But he was already high and wobbly. I grabbed his arm and twisted it. Idiot pulled the trigger anyway and killed himself. Straight shot to the chest. He stood there a moment, stared at me wide-eyed, and then collapsed. He was dead immediately.
“Crazy addict is what he was, Bert. Why he got chucked out of BAMMA in the first place, for God’s sake.” O’Dare knew he was talking too much and stopped.
“So, what was his game?”
“He was shorting the shipment before it got distributed. I don’t know how long he’s been doing it, whether it was for his own personal use, or he was running a little sideline. Could be either. Or both. I’ve been trying to do an inventory.”
“What did you do with him?”
“I couldn’t exactly call the police and the medics, could I? I disposed of his body in what I thought was a safe place.”
“Except he was found.”
“Yes.”
“So now the police are all over this and all over us as well. They worked out who he was and came to Liverpool to question us. They got nothing. Waggoner made sure of that. So now what, laddie? Lugg was our man on the ground. Who’ll be handling distribution?”
O’Dare noted the lack of concern about Lugg himself. Just a disposable link in the chain, apparently. He wasn’t about to be another. And anyway, he knew he was too important an asset.
“Well, until such time as you send a substitute, should you still feel that necessary after all I’ve done for you and yours, your ‘man on the ground’ here in Cornwall is myself. You have been able to rely upon me since your people sent me to this godforsaken barren estate and set up our enterprise. I don’t even know why you felt you needed a ‘minder’ here. I have never failed you or your people. I pick up, I deliver.”
“You’re n
ot even with us.”
“That’s true, Bert. Not militarily at least. But I was with the cause long enough, did my part, and my family lost loved ones in the struggle. But this is a business relationship, now, is it not? What with the peace agreement an’ all, this isn’t about the cause anymore. It’s about income and profit. I, and people like me around the country, provide it. You need us. You need me. I know the local distribution links here as well as Lugg did, maybe better. Actually, I’ve been nosing about and I’m thinking this enterprise has expansion potential up into Devon for you and yours.”
“What about payment?”
“Same as before, the usual exchange of money and goods. But now, as I’ll be doing double duty, I get Lugg’s share as well.”
“Don’t push it, Ronnie. That doesn’t go down well with the boyos at the top. Gives them heartburn, if you take my meaning.”
O’Dare laughed. “Push it? Who do you think you’re talking to? I am the Lord of Davidstow Manor. I’m gentry! Pillar of the community, regular contributor to local charities and church fetes. Respected is what I am!”
“Lord of the Manor!” Doherty barked. “Your sainted mother, Margaret—God rest her martyred soul—will be rolling in her grave this day, Mr. Bloody Lord of the Manor! Your job is to be invisible, not respectable!”
Then he started laughing. He couldn’t help it. O’Dare was his cousin and he knew the man was posturing. He also knew O’Dare was smart enough to keep his head down in any operation. He’d been just another Belfast street urchin who’d worked his way up through the ranks. A good soldier. He’d been brought south to the republic and set up in Cornwall because, unlike most of the older partisans, he had a brain for business.
“Let’s not forget—cousin—that your people put me here, trusted me to run this operation,” O’Dare said. “And it’s been flawless.”
“Until now, Ronnie. Until now.”
“Look, I didn’t hire Lugg and send him here. Your people did. You knew he was trouble. You also knew I could be relied upon. You could have told them so, but you didn’t—or maybe you don’t have as much influence with the bosses as I thought.”
Doherty bristled: “Don’t you worry your Black Irish head about that, boyo. My connections are solid. I’ll be passing your news on to the powers that be. They listen to me, they do. Instructions to follow. In the meantime, lad, keep your nose clean and the channels open.”
“And carry on?”
“Until instructed otherwise. We’re done here. I’ve a plane to catch.”
Doherty turned and left the hut. O’Dare heard his rental car start and bump across the potholed ground. He remained inside, his heart pounding. He’d won. He did not return immediately to his task, which was bagging small packets of pre-cut heroin and cocaine to be sold to just under a dozen dealers scattered across Cornwall every two weeks. Pickup, delivery, and payment were tracked by the organization’s accountants. He’d never given them reason to question the transactions. They’d bought the Davidstow estate as cover and leased him the Range Rover. He was given a new “burn phone” at every pickup. And they paid him handsomely enough that he’d never had reason to cheat on them. Lugg had been the intimidating “face” of the operation with the local distributors and dealers, and that kept O’Dare anonymous in Cornwall. But Lugg had put that all at risk.
The shooting hadn’t gone down exactly as he’d told Doherty. O’Dare had begun getting complaints that the dealers believed they were being shorted. It was when he’d caught Lugg red-handed in the hanger that day that things went pear-shaped. Lugg had turned on him as if he were in the cage again and was tried to throw him down. But he was so high he lost his balance, his arms flailing. O’Dare yanked the handgun from Lugg’s right hand and shot him as he fell. He had died instantly.
There was little blood. He didn’t understand why, but it was a mercy. He dragged Lugg’s body toward the door where there was more light. As dead weight, Lugg was stunningly heavy, heavier than hauling a big bale of hay for the estate’s sheep. He looked outside. The aerodrome was deserted. No one was flying today. He sat on a packing case of airplane engine oil and considered his options. He could call police, wipe the handle of the Webly, and say the shot was self-inflicted—a suicide by a man with a known history of drugs trouble and violence. But that would have exposed his own identity and shut down the enterprise. Given all that he knew, it would be a death sentence for him as well. The boyos over the water would be most unhappy.
His bluster with Doherty notwithstanding, he knew he couldn’t and shouldn’t be the “public face” of the enterprise in Cornwall. Too dangerous. But he didn’t need an “enforcer” like Lugg. They’d never had trouble with their customers. What he did need, though, was a distributor no one would ever believe was in the game, someone who could move with impunity around the county, someone who was visible but would never be suspected.
And he realized he had the perfect candidate.
Twenty-Five
“AT THE END of our last MCIT meeting, you said we had something to pursue. That was day before yesterday, boss.”
Terry Bates stood just inside the door of Penwarren’s office, as if she were uncertain whether to enter.
As usual, Penwarren stood at his high desk, facing the windows. It was late-afternoon and the hills beyond were already turning golden. He turned and chuckled. “You’re just a step ahead of me, Terry, but I like that, I do. I’ve been busy arranging.”
“For what?”
“Another trip for you. Ireland this time. Specifically, Cork. In the morning.”
Terry tilted her head to one side in amusement. “You seem to enjoy being my travel agent. What am I to be there for?”
“You’re to speak to Detective Superintendent Roger Dunleavy of the Garda.”
Terry entered and took a seat at Penwarren’s small conference table. “Care to tell me what this is about?”
Penwarren gathered a few papers from his desk and took a seat at the table. He pointed to the small sheaf.
“These are notes I made after we returned from Liverpool, private thoughts, I suppose. They’re my way of sorting and, if possible, organizing what I know about an investigation and, in this case, our meeting in Liverpool. I look for the sense of things. I suppose it’s a bit like creating a story from the bits and pieces of information I—or in this case, we—have gathered, a way of piecing them together to create a narrative that might illuminate where we are and, perhaps, reveal a route to a solution. Sometimes, I confess, the story is completely wrong.” He shrugged and smiled.
Terry nodded but said nothing. Her boss was a very private cop. He did not normally share his thoughts. He guided his team but never pressed himself upon them. So she listened.
“I can’t make sense of this story, or of our experience with the Liverpool people. To me, there’s something missing. Something significant they won’t reveal. I need your help.”
Terry leaned closer. “I’m damned if I can sort it out either. All that obfuscation dressed up as a friendly conference. I felt they were playing us.”
“Yes, exactly.” Penwarren grinned. “And now I want to play them.”
“Play them?”
There was mischief in his eyes. She’d never seen that before, except when he was goading Morgan.
“Yes. You will recall that the Liverpool people told us they tried to learn more about Lugg and his possible IRA connections from the Irish Garda, specifically in Cork, and that they were not helpful? That goes against everything I know about the Garda. I haven’t had a lot of contact with them over the years but when I did they were always eager to liaise and help. So I mistrust Liverpool’s characterization of their communications with them. I wonder why, for example, they singled out Cork.”
“Okay, so?”
“So you’re going to Cork to ask our opposites there if they’ve even had any contact from Liverpool at all, because I suspect they haven’t and Liverpool are lying. That’s just instinct on my part.”
“Can’t you just call or email them?”
“As with our visit to Liverpool, Terry, sometimes you need to look them in the eye to get the truth. It’s old fashioned, low-tech police work but sometimes that’s the best.”
“Why not send Morgan? She’s much more experienced.”
“Because I don’t think her bull-in-the-china shop approach would be welcomed or helpful. And because, Detective Sergeant Bates, I want you to be the next Morgan Davies, if possibly a touch gentler.”
Terry was speechless.
Penwarren carried on like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “I have an old friend from my days in the Met. He was ex-RAF and eventually decided he preferred flying to plodding the city’s pavements. He now owns a successful company, Westwind Air. It’s based in Newquay and has branches around the country. They do mostly cargo. They have a branch at the airport in Cork and, as it happens, have a cargo plane heading there tomorrow morning from Newquay at 8:00 am. It’s a daily fifty-minute flight. I’ve arranged for you to hitch a ride. They’ll carry you, gratis. Don’t expect breakfast. Or a packet of salted nuts. They’ll order a taxi to take you to the Garda headquarters on Anglesea Street. Don’t forget your passport.
“Detective Superintendent Roger Dunleavy is in charge of the Special Detective Unit in Cork. I’ve been in touch. Your job is to find out if they were tracking Lugg’s alleged links to the IRA as Liverpool claimed and, more importantly, if they were ever even in contact with Liverpool. I think Liverpool are lying. I don’t believe they’ve ever worked with the Garda in Cork. Westwind will bring you back in the afternoon when they’re done there, so stay in touch with the captain. Your plane will be waiting.”
Penwarren stood. Bates did as well. He smiled and nodded and she walked out of his office. She was eager to tell Adam.
Day Twelve
Twenty-Six
AS WAS HIS habit, Penwarren had come in early on Friday morning. The light was pallid and just giving form and color to the hills beyond his office window. He loved to watch the fields awaken. Occasionally, a shaft of sun fell upon a distant sheep and made it seem to glow. Then Morgan Davies appeared in the window’s reflection. He turned.