by Adam Carter
“Knowing this job, Detective, we’ll both be dead in twenty years.”
Thompson shrugged, went back to looking out the window. “Who knows what the future will bring?”
They pulled up at the Jones residence to find Baronaire already waiting for them. He opened the back door of the car and climbed in, telling them not to stop.
“Harry not home?” Thompson asked.
“Not any more,” Baronaire said. “Sorry, I got bored waiting for you. The Jones brothers have taken a long cruise. I left enough documentation in their place to fool anybody. Clearly after the trial they both decided to scarper, and no amount of money can help the media track them. By the time their place is searched for clues as to their whereabouts they’ll both be in Miami on an extended holiday.”
“So it’s only Gordon then,” Thompson said. “We have to remember he has at least one firearm.”
“That’s why we’re taking Gordon together,” Baronaire said. “And if he has a firearm, it only makes things all the easier.”
Thompson frowned. “Doesn’t it make it more high-profile?”
“That too. I checked on Lorenzo as well. He’s a little shaken, but he made it home fine. I made him understand it would be a bad idea to report what he had seen at Hyde Park.”
“How did you find time for all of that?” Foster asked from behind the wheel.
“I didn’t sit here having girlie chats.”
Thompson continued to stare out the window and the rain continued to fall in droves.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Patrick Gordon lived in a nice house. From what Thompson had found out about him, when his wife had left him she had taken their kid and very little else; just things which would fit in one suitcase. She had had no contact with him since then, asked for no money, made no demands upon him. She had simply written herself out of his life, disappearing forever. That left Gordon with the family home, the car, the dog if he had one. He was a bachelor now who had a lot of free space and enough time to fill it with whatever he wanted. The only thing he wanted of course was his family back. And they were gone forever.
“How do we play this?” Thompson asked from the car.
“Your assignment,” Baronaire told her. “Your call.”
Thompson glanced to Foster. “No. It’s our assignment.”
Foster offered a sheepish smile. “Nice of you to recognise that at last.”
“Sure,” Thompson said. “Now, since it’s our joint assignment, I have an idea how you can fit right into it.”
*
Foster liked it better when Thompson had been sidelining her. She rang the doorbell and waited nervously. It was early morning now, and the perfect time for their plan to be put into effect, although Foster wasn’t liking it one bit. They did not of course even know whether Gordon was home, although she saw movement heading towards the door and tensed. The man who opened the door was definitely Gordon, for she had seen him the night before, when she had arrived with Baronaire at Hyde Park. Foster had of course known the exact meeting place Thompson had scheduled, and when she and Baronaire had noticed a stream of suspects coming out they had realised something was terribly wrong. Baronaire had been drawn to the area because he had heard a gunshot, and Foster was thankful he arrived when he had done.
She smiled at Gordon presently and held out a box for him. “One for you to sign for.”
Gordon frowned, looking about for her van. “You walked it all the way over here?”
“I’m parked around the corner.”
“And you don’t have a uniform?”
“Well I’m not Royal Mail, I’m a private delivery firm. Could you just sign for the package so I can ...”
Gordon grabbed her by the arm and yanked her inside. Foster emitted a slight eek! as she was thrown down the hallway and heard Gordon slam the door behind him. He tore open the box she had given him, and found it empty.
“Far too many thieves in the delivery trade these days,” Foster said, smiling nervously.
“All right, up.”
Foster rose. “Uh, you’re under arrest by the way.”
“We were acquitted. Don’t you read the papers?”
“You shot and stabbed my colleague. Don’t you have eyes?” she realised it probably wasn’t a good thing to have said, for Gordon’s narrowed as he shoved her through into the living room.
“Sit,” he told her, and she did so. It was homey, and she figured little had been changed since his wife had walked out on him. There were still photographs of the family, paintings on the walls, ornaments scattered about. It looked nice, felt nice, and Foster was terrified beyond words.
“It was rather silly coming here,” he told her, lifting a gun from the living room table. He held it upon her dispassionately, as though he had yet to decide whether he was actually going to kill her. “So, are you one of them too?”
“A cop?”
He looked at her sympathetically.
“Oh,” she said. “No, we don’t have like a gay division, if that’s what you’re asking.” She had meant it as a joke, although he was nodding sagely. Foster felt insulted Thompson had even slightly likened her to this man. “Uh, can I go now please?”
“Larry’s dead isn’t he?”
“Huh?”
“Larry.”
Foster eyed the gun. “Yes.”
“And that woman escaped. And now she’s coming after the rest of us. Is that what the police do nowadays? Hunt down people they don’t like? People who upset them?”
“Everyone needs a hobby, Patrick.”
A noise sounded upstairs and Gordon glanced at the ceiling. “That will be your friend snooping around then. Saves me having to track her down.”
“What’s your problem anyway?” Foster asked. “Why do you hate so much?”
“Hate? Hate is such a strong word, my dear. Whatever I feel, hate just doesn’t come close.”
A mighty wail erupted from outside as Baronaire slammed the car horn on cue. Gordon was distracted for one single moment and Foster pounced, colliding with him and grabbing the hand holding the gun. They struggled and fell, and Foster screamed, her adrenalin burning, knowing she could be shot at any moment. Gordon proved the stronger and threw her away from him. She landed upon the floor and he held the gun upon her, breathing heavily.
“Good lord,” Thompson said from the doorway. Gordon stared at her with wild eyes. There was an intensity to Thompson; a horror, a disturbance even.
“No,” Gordon shouted. “No! Get out of my house!”
“I came in through your bedroom window,” Thompson told him. “Your marriage broke up after your arrest, Gordon. But it didn’t have anything to do with your crime, did it?”
“The ultimate crime,” Gordon said, tears to his eyes, his gun hand shaking.
Still lying on the floor, Foster saw Thompson was holding something; a magazine. A magazine of questionable content, and by the cover it looked as though there were two ...
Foster shuddered with revulsion.
“The arrest brought it out,” Thompson said. “Made your wife realise you were having it away with men behind her back. That’s why she fled, Gordon. She fled because you’re ...”
“No! I’m not you! I hate you, I despise you.”
Thompson laughed. “Honey, I’m glad to say, I am nothing like you.”
And before either woman could consider stopping him, Gordon pressed the gun to his own temple and pulled the trigger.
*
“So, how are we going to explain this?” Thompson asked Baronaire when they had returned to the bunker. Foster had gone off somewhere – he could see Thompson didn’t really care where – while Baronaire and Thompson had found a moment to talk privately. “Gordon shooting himself is high profile, Baronaire. And we were there. There are likely witnesses to place us at the scene.”
“Strange how witnesses will probably remain for this one,” Baronaire said, “but vanished at Gordon’s trial. We’ll let Sanders handle
it. He’s good with the media.”
“Speaking of which, what happened about that show?”
Baronaire smiled. “Just going to ask him that.” He wandered alone into the DCI’s office and found Sanders finishing up with some paperwork. All he ever seemed to do these days was paperwork. “Matheson been in contact yet?”
“Mmm,” Sanders said. “She was in a right strop. Apparently all her footage was ruined because it showed her walking around on her own, talking to thin air.”
“What can I say? I’m not terribly photogenic, boss.”
Sanders leaned back and smiled. “I have to clean up Thompson’s mess don’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
“Why’d you give it her anyway? You had to know she’d handle it badly.”
Sanders sighed heavily. “Because she needed to do it, Charles. And because I knew she would have you there watching her back.”
“I won’t be around forever. I can’t clean up every problem you ever have, Ed.”
“No. But you’re here for now, and that’s all that counts.”
Baronaire was about to leave, but before he did, he asked, “Ed, what do you think the country will be like in twenty years?”
“Twenty years? I think it’ll be the same mess as it is now.”
“Then you think we’re fighting a losing war?”
“You always lose in war, Charles. You just take whatever small victories you can get.”
Baronaire glanced through the window at where Thompson was busy. “And Jen?”
“I think you should ask me that again on November 3rd, Charles. It’s only a few weeks away now, it can wait ‘til then.”
“Why? What’s happening?”
“A step in the right direction. A small victory, if you will.”
“Enough with the riddles, Ed. What are you planning?”
There were very few people Sanders allowed to speak to him in that manner, but he answered anyway. “Legislation’s going through. On 3rd November 1994 the age of consent for male homosexuality in the United Kingdom is going to be dropped from twenty-one to eighteen years of age. And the legal age for lesbians, with any luck, will officially be sixteen. Same as heterosexual couples. It can’t be stopped. Thompson’s future is happening right now.”
Baronaire was surprised. He knew from past conversations with Thompson that there was no official recognition in British law that lesbians even existed. It was a day long coming, but still just a single step. “That’s good. You push for that yourself?”
Sanders smiled. “Nothing to do with me, this one. The country’s changing, Charles.”
“Slowly.” He paused. “Do you think Thompson will ever be happy?”
A pity came to the DCI’s eyes then and both men watched her through the window. “I don’t think there’s anything on this Earth that can make that woman happy, Charles. But we have to do our best to try.”
“Because we’re a family?”
“Because, unlike her real father, I’m not about to disown her just because of the people she chooses to go to bed with. Besides, you and I both go to bed with women, Charles, and I don’t see the difference between Jen and either of us.”
“Come off it, you never get laid.”
“Dismissed.” Sanders went back to his paperwork.
Endless streams of paperwork made a convenient excuse for hiding from anything.
OPERATION WETFISH
BOOK 11
WHAT MONEY CAN’T BUY
CHAPTER ONE
He took the cup of tea in strong, calloused hands. There was no weakness to the grip, no nervousness or shakiness of cold. But the man holding the polystyrene cup was cold, had to be. It was late November, the promise of snow hung in the air; and the man holding the thin cup of tea was dressed in old trousers, a shirt and a short jacket.
Across from him Charles Baronaire felt positively wretched. Sitting in his carefully pressed trousers, his clean shirt and trademark trench coat, Baronaire had taken a great deal of care when dressing for work this evening. His shift had started an hour ago and it was already dark outside, and Baronaire did not like the thought of ending the interview and turning this man back out onto the streets. They were in a police station and Baronaire had been constantly scribbling with his pencil while the other man talked. Baronaire’s base of operations was not this particular station, for that was located underground; this one they were currently using was the place officers of his department, Operation WetFish, always used if they needed to interview people.
Setting down his pencil, he regarded the other man. Michael Laurenson was thirty-two, but he looked at least ten years older. Staring into the bearded face many people would have expected to see sadness, dejection, loneliness; but Baronaire saw only determination. Michael Laurenson had been homeless for three years now, but he had witnessed a crime and was resolved to do the right thing. And that was more than Baronaire could say about the average citizen of the city of London.
The door opened and his partner for this assignment entered. Detective Sue Lin was a short woman of Chinese origins. She had been born in London and Baronaire had learned over the last year never to underestimate her in anything. She gave Laurenson a polite smile and sat beside Baronaire. There was a table between the officers and the homeless man, but this was not an interrogation and Baronaire only wished he had thought to bring some biscuits.
Laurenson indicated the paper Baronaire held in his hand and Baronaire passed it over. Along with his notes regarding the case he had pencilled a rough sketch based on Laurenson’s appearance, and it was clearly accurate if Laurenson’s expression was anything to go by.
“That’s him.”
“Now all we need is a name,” Baronaire said, taking back the pad and staring at his own sketch. It depicted a hard-looking man with three long scars over one eye, probably from a victim fighting back. Beside him Lin also glanced at the drawing, although she did not seem to be putting as much effort into this case as he felt she would. There were some officers in the department who would not see this as a particularly appalling crime, not even worth their attention in fact, but he had thought better of Lin. She had been the epitome of politeness to their guest, although Baronaire could sense she had other things on her mind. She wanted to get out there and get some real work done.
“I can run the drawing through the files,” Lin suggested. “If he’s a known felon maybe we’ll come up lucky.”
Baronaire sensed she was just after an excuse to leave the room, and he kept hold of the papers as he spoke to Laurenson. “Go through again what you saw, Michael. It might help jog something.”
Laurenson seemed only too happy to do so, although Baronaire detected a slight slump in Lin’s shoulders. As he once more began to relate the tale, Baronaire realised that happy was not a word he should have used to describe Laurenson’s emotional state. He was not happy about any of what had happened. He was concerned, and not just for himself.
“Frank Fiennes was a decent guy,” Laurenson said. “Always had an opinion on what was going on in the world, always there with a friendly smile. You know what I mean? Some guys on the streets are total wasters. Think the world owes them something, think everyone’s at fault but them. Walk around with sour expressions all day long just because they’d rather be living the high life in some penthouse sipping champagne with two supermodels waiting for them in the Jacuzzi.”
Baronaire smiled. “It’s as though you’re describing life at the station, Michael.” He knew something of Laurenson’s history. He had been a bricklayer, had no pension, no savings. Following an accident at work he was laid off, his back not letting him do much any more. If there was any justice in the country he would have been able to claim compensation, but no one seemed to care about things like that. Without a job he very quickly fell behind in his rent. He lost his house, his car, everything. His only friends had been in the building trade and they had been ordered to have nothing more to do with him in
case he tried to get them to stand as witnesses in some claims court or other. Laurenson’s family came from up north somewhere, Baronaire had never been able to find out where exactly, and he had no money to get back to them. There was suspicion in Baronaire’s mind that he had no desire to get back to them either. And so he had ended up on the streets, and if this life was preferable to returning to his family Baronaire realised that was some terrible family indeed.
But Laurenson had not let any of it get him down. He had more reason than most to blame other people for his misfortune, but Michael Laurenson could still hold his head high. And that was more than could be said about most people.
“Frank was living out by the docks, but it was cold down there so I said he was welcome to it. They’re building a lot of stuff down there, he always said. Said one day London would move to the dockyards, where per square metre office space was cheaper. I kept telling him he was on something, you know? But he seemed to know things, seemed to see the future of London.”
“Figures,” Baronaire said. “Back in the day he worked in office planning. Probably scoped out the whole docks for a profit.”
Laurenson grinned. “Frank never told me that. Ha! No wonder he knew that area so well.”
Baronaire could sense Lin shifting beside him; possibly in annoyance that this was taking so long, perhaps because she had just remembered she’d left the oven on. Baronaire knew which he would have placed his money on. “Michael,” Baronaire said, “tell us about Frank.”
A sadness crept into Laurenson’s eyes then, as though he felt guilty for laughing. “Frank came back from the docks one night. He was shaking, I’ve never seen him so afraid. I tried to calm him, but he was gone, sir. You could see it in his eyes. Whatever he’d seen, it had scared him like Aliens.”