‘Hello.’ She glares, daring me to pull out a catalogue of kitchenware.
‘Hi. I’m Olivia Watts. We’re colleagues in a way. I’m here to help you. Can I come in?’
‘Help me what?’ Gillian fixes a questioning look, unsure, but confident enough to wave me inside. She leads me to a reception room where a laptop reflects a Word document. I glance at the familiar settee. A growl rumbles from behind. Considering the possibility of retribution by Benjamin, I move to my agenda. ‘Gillian. I’ve come here to resolve a matter you’re embroiled in. You’re in danger. I think you know that, because of recent events concerning your work with DI McMaster. He could make you scapegoat.’ I take a pausing breath. ‘He’ll do anything to save his own neck.’
Her eyes flicker. Assessing trust.
‘I won’t be anyone’s scapegoat, as you so nicely put it. I’m working for the top – a Superintendent of police.’
That isn’t news. Makes no impression.
‘So am I, and have been for three weeks. Thornton. Want to know what my engagement is? You. I’ve seen it all. The pub meetings, the sit-off outside Mac’s place when he was crushed, the tête–à–tête in the hospital, and the visit to the super shed where you saw Angelo Caruso’s body in the bottom of a pit – information you’ve withheld. And the prize? I bet the Met boys will love this, some nice videos of you and McMaster going at it. Premier Motor Inn ring a bell? Think how quick that will circulate around the local nicks.’
She doesn’t say a word. Looks to heaven for guidance – whether in desperation or quietly taking time to shape a response I cannot tell. I puncture her silence: ‘Let me tell you what’s happening right now. The police are mounting a case against McMaster – and you must agree they have good cause. I mean, that’s why Thornton appointed you, isn’t it? He’ll soon be facing more than an internal enquiry.’ He’ll be in for a lot more than that, but I won’t let slip until I have Trotter’s full support.
‘Okay. I’ll tell you why I’m here. McMaster will take you down with him, no question. I’m giving you the chance to get in first. For that, I’ll assure Thornton that you’ve done what you can to help me. It might save you from prosecution, but I can’t make guarantees.’
Gillian raises her head. ‘I’m already writing a report, so I doubt you’re in a position to help me. I might have overplayed my role a fraction, making him, and a few others, think I fell for him. He’s the original Mr Nice Guy, but not nice enough to fool me. Got a bloody wife at home, the hypocrite. He’ll get to me somehow. You’d have no idea what he gets away with.’
‘I do. Believe me. As I said, I’ve been onto you both for three weeks. There’s nothing I haven’t seen. So why not help yourself and tell me about the deal with Angelo Caruso?’
‘It was nothing. Mac found out Angelo had fiddled contracts of the next-door property he was trying to buy.’
I know that, courtesy of her memory sticks.
‘Mac heavied him for part of the proceeds, but Angelo, apparently, wouldn’t stand for it. He threatened Mac, or so Mac says. No one does that and gets away with it. As you know, he didn’t.’
‘Are you saying that McMaster killed Angelo?’
‘Shit no. You think I’m stupid? I’m not saying it, but it’s the most realistic conclusion. That shed was Mac’s prize. He had choof growing in there. Wasn’t going to broadcast that was he? No one knew about the pit. Could have buried a whole community down there. Haven’t a clue what it was for, and I never got to ask, because ’round that time he walloped me, the bastard. Did you see that while you were snooping on us? Plain whacked me in the face he did. Was all paranoid about being followed. I haven’t a clue how he twigged; guess he glued a few coincidences together. Now, I think it’s bloody hilarious that we were both followed. How the hell d’you do it?
‘Good at my job, that’s how. Tell me about Giuseppe?’
‘Nothing to tell. He never spoke of him.’
‘Fair enough. Jeff Main?’
‘The dud solicitor? So so. He’s a weak bastard easily manipulated. Do anything for a quid. He was definitely up to something with Mac. They spoke of offing Angelo. But Main wouldn’t swat a fly.’
‘Are you for real? The guy tried to knock the crap out of me. I put it on him about his relationship with McMaster and he just lost it.’
‘Well, that surprises me. I never seen him aggro, unless you count a heated discussion as aggressive.’
‘So where do you stand now?’
‘Thornton wants a report. He’s right on to me. So’s Mac. You gotta help me. Please. I’ll sign anything. I’d rather be done for perverting the course of justice than be crucified by McMaster for the rest of my life. I’m an idiot for getting involved. Succumbed to seduction, you might say. It was supposed to be a straight–forward snoop and report.’
My maternal instincts kick in. I thought I’d lost them after agreeing one-night-stands suit me better than long-term relationships. I feel genuinely sorry for Gillian. However, I won’t make the same mistake of pledging allegiance to the wrong side. She hasn’t given me much, but she will testify against McMaster, to save her own skin rather than to uphold justice. The whys and wherefores don’t interest me. It’s the end result that counts.
‘Don’t contact anyone, not even the Knight’s Arms. McMaster got your address?’
‘I don’t think so. But since you found me, I’m sure he can.’
‘I’ll speak to Thornton. Get a car out here. By the way, the name ‘Hernandez’ mean something to you?’
‘No. Should it?
‘Just asking. A little side interest.’
‘Wouldn’t be the slag in a bottle shop, would it? Mac scored bottles from? Got photos if you want.’
As I can’t confess to already having copies, I leave with: ‘All right. Cheers. I’ll keep it in mind.’
* * *
Armed with McMaster’s identity from the concealed camera, I prep Rose to accompany me to DS Street’s office. Her history makes her indignantly reluctant to co-operate. I feel as if I’ve pledged my resources and compassion for nothing. I explain that Street will not be interested in her stealing the Dewar’s. He will be far more interested in pursuing McMaster for bringing the constabulary into disrepute than in prosecuting a young woman for breaching probation. And whilst I don’t communicate this, there is the broader picture – McMaster’s involvement in the triad of disasters radiating from his property. I regret not having the power and authority to question suspects in the manner I had once enjoyed. By the same token, I do not want to pass my work to Street and cut financial recompense and the prospect of bolstering my CV.
I’d phoned ahead, so I am surprised to find that Street receives us with diffidence, as if we are there to cause trouble rather than to report it.
‘You’ve got something for me,’ he says as he guides us to an interview room.
I introduce Rose and detail a summary of events since her being accosted on the A44.
‘So why wait a month to report this?’ he directs to Rose.
‘Just the way it went,’ she replies. ‘It was no big deal at first. I got pulled over for speeding. I admitted I was over the limit. The officer, and I didn’t know his name then, didn’t make anything clear about a fine or summons except to say I might hear something within a week. I thought I’d get a warning, so there was nothing to report at the time.’
I jump in. ‘Sir, the officer was plain clothes, not traffic. As you’re aware, it is unusual for a detective, an inspector at that, to pull over a motorist for anything other than life-threatening behaviour.’
‘Yes, go on,’ he motions to Rose.
She clenches her hands in her lap. ‘Two days later he came into the shop where I work and invites me out for coffee. I declined. Thankfully, I was on my own and couldn’t leave. But he left and returned with coffee and croissants. I felt uneasy, but
even at that stage I couldn’t say much because he’d done nothing wrong. I first thought he was making a move on me, that is until he told me how he’d checked up on me. He then asked for a donation to encourage him to not report my speeding. I was so scared of losing my job. I gave him two bottles of Scotch.’
Street jots neatly into his book. Dabs the ink. ‘All right. You’ve told this woman he assaulted you?’
This woman? Thanks for nothin’. I suppose you’re pissed because I didn’t put out the other night.
Rose drops her head. A paler complexion would reveal flushed cheeks. ‘I told her that he touched me. He wanted me to sell more weed. I refused. He grabbed my shoulders, said, “No one refuses me” and slid his hands over my breasts. I was scared and nervous because I didn’t know how far he’d go. I’m lucky the shop was open and anyone could have come in. Then he said: “Sell this. Next time it won’t be those lovely jugs I’m having”.’
Rose passes over a wrapped foil and starts crying.
Street pulls a tissue box from an adjacent desk. Passes it to me.
I rip out a handful and press them into Rose’s hand. Drape my arm across her shoulder. Again. ‘It’s all right.’ My words probably mean nothing, although I do have an idea how she feels. It’s difficult telling a guy – especially one with no empathy – about someone touching us. I press on, for Rose.
‘There’s camera footage,’ I say to Street. ‘Store security video,’ I clarify, to save Hamilton’s butt. I produce the SD card. ‘You’ll see the register on the left, and you can see McMaster’s profile and full face when he turns to leave.’
Street slides the card into an adapter connected to his computer. Views the footage as described by Rose. ‘Very well. You prepared to make a written statement to the effect of what we’ve just discussed?’
‘Can we keep my work out of it?’
Street reels off a non-committal reply: ‘I can’t promise, but we’ll do our best. There’s no need for anyone else to hear about this. It’s not going to court. Unless you want it to. Over the assault, I mean.’
Rose relaxes. ‘Fine. I don’t want it to go any further.’
‘Okay,’ says Street. ‘Guaranteed.’
I lift my head. And I can guarantee I’ve heard that sort of guarantee before. Given this setting, I believe Street. I see the way it will play out: McMaster will claim Rose came onto him and offered the Scotch as encouragement. He will state that in trying to reject her advances, he admits a gross error of judgement by taking Rose by the shoulders as an attempt to curb her. The hierarchy, having considered similar defences from police across the country, would find ‘no case to answer’ in favour of McMaster and return him to the community. Aah, the brotherhood.
I wish Rose a quick recovery and tell her I’ll soon visit to buy another bottle of Orange Shock. She insists on finding her own way home, a decision that pleases me. Not only does she need time to reflect, and to refocus; I need time to update Street about the whole McMaster debacle. I hug Rose goodbye and ask Street to spare me thirty minutes.
‘All right. My office. It’s more comfortable and I’ll have everything at my fingertips.’
Street sits beside his desk, rather than behind, a gesture that makes me feel comfortable and not as if I am under interrogation.
He kicks off the session. ‘Right. What you got for me?’
‘I’ve been on this since March fifteenth. Superintendent Thornton engaged me to tail a private investigator by the name of Gillian Trotter. It gets messy from there. She was already tasked to watch over a police member who was, and now probably is, subject to an internal enquiry. Present circumstances prevent me from disclosing that officer’s name.’
‘You don’t have to. It’s all over the shop. You can’t operate like he does without arousing suspicion. But remember, no one’s pinned anything on him.’
‘Yet,’ I say with confidence. ‘Anyway, turns out this officer offered to purchase his neighbour’s 25-acre farm. The neighbour’s name? Caruso. You see something developing here?’
‘Only coincidence.’
‘Right then. Giuseppe Caruso’s death. Suspected heart attack? I’ll prove otherwise: he was helped along. His wife, Maria, enlightened me with interesting facts without realising she’d dobbed someone in. She wondered if her son, Angelo, might have been involved. I don’t think so. But that doesn’t explain how Angelo ended up ten metres under McMaster’s shed.’
Street looks uninterested. Perhaps I’ve spent too much time re-capping.
‘Olivia. How about you tell me something I don’t know? Get to the point before I drift into slumberland.’
‘All right. Does the name Jeff Main mean anything to you?’
‘Sure does. He’s just accused you of stealing his phone.’
The guy thinks he’s a comedian. Here I am trying to be serious and guide him to the identity of a killer and he’s taking the piss. I shoot him a serious look. ‘Ask yourself why he claims that. No, forget it. Cop this: he’s facilitating the Caruso to McMaster land transaction. He’s been in this for a while.’
‘Now I’m interested.’
‘Good. Back to the beginning, this Trotter’s been having it off with McMaster – I’ve got juicy proof – and she was too close to the tree-felling incident.’
Street smiles. ‘So you’re saying that she’s fucking him as well as fucking him over?’
‘As a lady, I wouldn’t put it that way, but it’s pretty close to the mark. I don’t buy everything she says. What have you done with Angelo Caruso’s flat?’
‘Still a crime scene. Why?’
‘Because he was helping his mother with the property transaction. There’ll be a paper trail.’ I don’t let on that I’d snaffled the manila folder. Street would jump at the chance to do me for trespass or unlawfully on premises.
‘To where?’
‘Main for one. Something might just spin off. Aren’t you interested in why McMaster wants the adjacent property? He’s not a farmer. If it’s for investment, there’d be a million better opportunities. There has to be something in it for him.’
I don’t disclose the contents of McMaster’s secret window sill. Detailing good investigations is like working towards good sex – you have to hold back for the right moment. But I do reveal a small teaser. ‘You find marijuana in that shed?’
‘No. Strawberries and chilli.’
‘Don’t be fooled. He’d cleaned up before you guys fronted.’ I flick my phone to photos of McMaster’s shed: marijuana, the plastic setting, the pit and the piles of soil. Do I tell him about the mine?
Street isn’t moved. I thought he’d be climbing over me, thanking me for handing information on a plate. Instead, he reverts to the demeanour displayed when I first met him. Emotionless. Dogmatic. He picks up a fountain pen. Plunges the end into his mouth. I hope he doesn’t ask me to sign anything. And then he lets go with the force of a dam bursting its levee: ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Watts. No wonder you couldn’t cut it as a detective. Still going off on bent tangents. Don’t forget I’ve been working on this too. It’s nearly done and dusted. I’ll tell you what happened and then you can head off, write up an exorbitant invoice for your Thornton buddy and not bother me again.’
I nearly walk out on the spot, but stall long enough to hear him out. It could form part of the detail I endorse on Thornton’s ‘exorbitant’ invoice.
Street pulls the pen from his jaw. ‘I’ll keep this brief, just to show you how it’s done. First, there’s no evidence to show that Giuseppe died from anything other than natural causes.’
I know about SOCO belatedly retrieving items for examination.
‘We have intelligence of Angelo Caruso’s association with known offenders. That’s where we’ll find his killer. Fact he’s turned up in a copper’s shed is a taunt against police. Crim mentality: set up a copper.’
<
br /> All right. What about the ‘fix the prat’ threat?
‘And this Trotter? You’ve got nothing. So Mac gets a bit on the side? What copper doesn’t? So if there’s nothing else, I’ve got things to do, and it’s not dreaming.’
You must be blind. Trotter’s implicated herself in perverting the course of justice. I can’t believe he’s sacrificed objectivity so clearly evident during the past fortnight. ‘What’s changed your view?’
‘Leave it, Watts. You’re out of your league. Keep your eye on the papers. You’ll soon see how far off the planet you are.’
As planets are the moment’s topic, I mutter: Up Uranus. I don’t say goodbye. Just up and leave. Nothing aggrieves me more than insolence.
XLIII
The two-hour wait pays off. McMaster lowers his head as Olivia departs Gillian’s front door. He has a mind to follow her, but decides against it, knowing he can find Olivia just as he found Gill’s residence.
Since his quarrel with Gillian, he has become increasingly paranoid about his relationship – or ‘association’ – with Gill. He’s reinstated his gut feeling that something isn’t quite right about her: the instant familiarity with him and the ease by which she’d floated into his arms – and bed; the implausible explanation for her sudden presence at the tree-felling incident; her soppy, patronising, “I hope you’ll be all right, I’d hate to lose you” bedside mush in the hospital; and now, her entertaining Olivia Watts for more than two hours in what he is certain is an interrogation rather than a ladies’ afternoon of party plan purchases and local gossip.
Determined to obtain further information, he grabs his phone:
‘Afternoon. Knight’s Arms.’
‘Hello. McMaster, Worcester CID. Gill Trotter on at the moment?’
‘Er, no, sir. Can I help you?’
‘Bloody hope so. When’s she on next?’
‘Er, she’s casual. Doesn’t have a set roster, so I can’t help.’
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