‘Don’t shit me, right? No one casually floats in to work when they feel like it. Who am I speaking to?’
‘Paul Westacott, sir. Assistant manager. Is something wrong?’
‘Bet your sweet arse something’s wrong. Now put me on to the real manager.’
‘Mac, how are you? What can I do for you? Brian Davies.’ He speaks with the silkiness of satin pillows in an upmarket boudoir.
‘I’m looking for Gill. Your bloody assistant’s just fed me a line that she doesn’t have a roster. Now don’t feed me the same drivel, right, because I know you haven’t had casual staff for Christ knows how long. You’re too stingy to pay the higher rate. So cut the crap, right, and tell me what’s going on.’
Davies had negotiated the deal with Thornton, a deal which had worked well in principle. Until now. Westacott hadn’t a clue and nor had other staff. ‘Mac, she’s on a government training scheme. Mature age re-entry program with a convoluted acronym I can’t remember. Works a few different sites to get a breadth of experience. That’s why she’s on a come and go rota. I sign her time book after she performs a block of hours.’
‘You’re full of it, Brian. You think I, a copper who’s been around since the Bow Street Runners, can’t tell when someone’s winding me up? When was her last shift?’
‘Can’t tell you, to be honest. I’m not here all the time. Hang on a moment.’
A background shout breaks through the phone: ‘Paul, when was that Gill in last?’
‘Buggered if I know. About a week, I reckon. No one’s missed her.’
Brian resumes the call: ‘Can’t tell you for sure; a week or so.’
‘See, you’re fuckin’ full of it, right? If that were true, you could have told me up front. You sign her time book, right? So you, of all people, know to the minute when she was last in. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, right? I reckon she’s slotted herself into your establishment as an informer. For who or why I’m not sure – YET! – but be assured I’ll find out. And don’t expect to shout me a few Dewies as a pacifier ’cause I won’t be setting my arse in your God forsaken pub again – unofficially that is.’
McMaster flings the phone onto the passenger seat. So how much do these two bitches know?
XLIV
The to-ing and fro-ing between Thornton and Street makes me uneasy. No one can accomplish results under these circumstances. Thornton expresses unconditional confidence in me, yet Street heads off on a power trip, ridiculing anything I put to him.
Enough is enough. I grab my laptop and small notepad. I’ll do this properly and professionally. I yank out my phone and swipe ‘Thorns’: ‘… I can’t afford to have information flowing to anyone but me.’
‘Thornton.’
‘It’s Olivia. Hello. Can we get together? I’ve hit an obstacle. Roy Street. I’m on a merry-go-round with him. I’ve got plenty on Gillian; she’s agreed to cooperate, and I’ve also got a good lead into the Caruso mishaps.’
‘I’m back in London. Urgent enough for you to hop on a train?’
‘It could be the best three hours I’ll ever spend. I’ll check the timetable and call you back.’
As luck falls in my favour, three Paddington trains run after morning peak. I have fourteen minutes to make Worcester’s Foregate Street station. I don’t even have to run, thanks to my living within the city precinct. But I do pass through Maccas to grab emotional company for the journey.
With spare minutes on the platform, I try to reconnect with Jill. After three failed attempts, I text Thornton my proposed arrival time. On boarding the train, I secure my laptop between my hip and the carriage wall and fall asleep. I wake to the carriage pitching across points and junctions on the Oxford approach and scoff the second Quarter with Cheese, now stone cold.
I enter his office at 3.30 p.m. What a contrast to Worcester’s Government Surplus fitout. No expense spared here: velour-faced chrome chairs, plush velvet curtains, and carpet with more bounce than a Yorkshire peat bog. Climate control repels coal-black clouds gazing through floor-to-ceiling windows. I foresee a comfortable meeting. On completion, I’ll submit a partial invoice, which will not be looked at for 30 days. We shake hands. A secretary jiggles in a platter of coffee and biscuits. My kind of meeting. Here goes.
‘I’ve filled you in on the catastrophe of McMaster’s injuries. But I’ll start before that, with my initial enquiries focusing on Gillian Trotter’s association with McMaster. As previously detailed, I heard fragments of conversations in the Knight’s Arms, but not of sufficient weight to pass on. I hung low key for a while, upping the ante after Gillian spent an evening at McMaster’s home. That whetted my curiosity. Only when I checked the shed did I understand the true gravity of the situation. I’m talking about the body. Gillian must have known. She has told you, hasn’t she?’
Thornton sits erect, non-responsive to my assumptive leading question. A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will do. His expressionless gaze reminds me of when my first serious boyfriend put the hard word on me. I froze. We all giggled about it at school – ‘doing it’ – but when the crunch came, I shook with the same fear I’d felt when facing my step-father after he’d sprung me stealing money from his wallet.
Thornton selects his words with jeweller’s tweezers: ‘Olivia. This is delicate. Your position was to watch Trotter —’
‘Which I’ve done, and done thoroughly.’
He lays down the official perspective. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you what I’ve received from her. This isn’t a play of one against the other.’
‘Sir. I’m not here to one-up anyone. I’ve fulfilled your request. You can make arrests from what I’m giving you. It’s to your advantage if we combine information, although I’m not suggesting you’re answerable to me. No harm whether you answer or not; I’m merely trying to collate as much as possible. I understand how valuable your time is.’
I don’t mind slurping my way to the top like the rest of them.
I continue: ‘I know for a fact she hasn’t told you. Trotter spilled her guts. Went to water. It’s recorded on here.’ I pull out my Samsung, place it on his desk and press ‘play’: “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.”
I flick off the recording. ‘As you can imagine, she’s under pressure – McMaster pulls some heavy-duty strings. Despite her dithering, she gave me good info over forty-odd minutes.’
‘Good thing too. Example of a guilty mind. She knew what she was getting into, and it sounds like she got into most of it of her own doing. But I’ll keep an open mind. We appreciate how immersed one can become when we change our lifestyle for an undercover operation.’
I think about that. ‘Maybe so. But the fact remains she’s seen the light and is now trying to make amends. She asked me to pass on this report. I was at first reluctant, said something to the effect of not being her messenger, but agreed to do so after telling her I’d convey to you her remorse.’ I hand Thornton the report. ‘She’s done a good job of trying to pull the wool over your eyes, but it’s full of holes. Sir.’
Report to Superintendent Thornton
Submitted by Gillian Trotter
1.On 15 April I was contracted to report on DI Phillip McMaster’s movements. My instructions referred me to the Knight’s Arms public house in High Street, Worcester. I adopted the trap and deceive method which requires an ‘over-friendly’ approach to the target to gain his confidence. Resultant from a successful connection, I monitored the target as follows:
•Various meetings with solicitor Jeffrey Main (dates available)
•Attendance at Westlands Council (unable to determine whether
in official capacity or otherwise)
•Attendance at Commercial Groundworks Hire (likewise as above)
•Attendance at 63 Canning Road, Worcester, later identified as rental property of Angelo Caruso.
2.Further to the above, I attended at Worcester General Hospital where I expressed sympathy for McMaster’s condition, whereupon he proposed a long-term relationship, but stopped short of engagement because of his marital status.
3.On release from hospital, he requested me to attend his house. I immediately relayed that information to your kind self.
4.That was my first attendance at McMaster’s property, although at the time of the tree incident I did have the external perimeter under surveillance. During the visit, I had occasion to enter a huge shed which evidenced a hydroponic strawberry farming operation. I also noted construction works for a proposed cellar.
5.I state and declare that I have no knowledge of a deceased person inside that cellar. I do not deny an amorous association with McMaster, but I defend it as pursuing my objective of providing the most comprehensive and concise information to your office. Any inference of romantic involvement, or my giving DI McMaster operational information will constitute grounds for litigation.
Respectfully yours
Ms Gillian Trotter Lic. Investigator 22875198 April 29, 2017
Thornton glances over the two-sided page. ‘If all I get from you at the end of this is a two-page précis, I’d consider my money ill-spent.’
‘Not a chance, sir. I think you’ll be castigating me for my verbosity.’
He shoots me a quizzical glare and flicks Trotter’s report aside.
‘Can I ask you to consider the pressures she might have been under?’
He responds unsympathetically: ‘You’ve been under the same pressures, I’m sure.’
He’s got me. ‘Yes sir. But I am more able to deal with them. Let me go on. I’ll write this up later, but for now, I’m telling you what happened. Trotter’s adamant that McMaster killed Angelo Caruso to facilitate a quick settlement on the neighbour’s property sale. While that’s meritable, it’s too easy and straightforward. It would have been more effective, and less risky, for Mac to strong-arm the young Caruso to get his point across.
‘Let me backpedal a bit. McMaster’s in the frame from the outset. He had something to do with old Caruso’s death. Might have been totally innocent, like an out of control argument. My view is that he pulled off a well-planned, calculated hit that he believed would be attributed to another person – meaning the son or wife – or, in the best of circumstances, natural causes. Remember, that was the initial diagnosis by ambos. Remember too, if you aren’t aware, that McMaster played hero at the scene by confining police interest to natural causes. By the time SOCO rolled the place, any potential weapon was well and truly disposed of.’
‘Do you breathe?’
Sarcastic pig. No wonder he earned the moniker of “prick”. ‘Yes. Do you want me to breathe or continue my report?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Crucial evidence had disappeared, and that was the paddle thing I found in McMaster’s shed. Only one person could have put it there.’
‘Being analysed this very minute.’
I produce the Glad Bag of crushed cigarette I’d collected from near the Caruso fence line. Recollections of surveillance duties with tobacco-fuelled officers underscore my question: ‘Sir, you remember how officers on sit-offs would drop everything, including recently lit cigarettes, as soon as a target came into view? Someone had been watching the Caruso property, and had been disturbed. It makes sense. Explains the extinguished the cigarette. I’m betting this’ll shine with DI McMaster’s DNA.’
Thornton rises. Ruffles his hair. Imitates a defence barrister: ‘Objection, Your Honour. This is no more than conjecture and speculation. I put it to the witness that the butt could easily be the discarded product of a Caruso grandchild’s first experiment with the ghastly tobacco.’
I smile. ‘You’ll need to be a QC to beat me because there’s more. You’ll not find this in DS Street’s investigation. I attended McMaster’s property on a number of occasions. Gloria McMaster, the estranged wife, actually saw her husband at the rear of the property, and saw him enter and leave the Caruso property only minutes before Maria Caruso ran to his home.’ I flick open my notebook. ‘This is what she said: “He climbed through the fence, into the Caruso’s but re-emerged only seconds later. Sprang back to the house happy as Larry. Strange. He had a cricket bat or similar under his arm. No idea why…”.’
‘Interesting.’
‘“Interesting”? That’s all?’
‘Benefit of doubt and admissibility. You know a wife can’t be compelled to testify against her spouse?’
‘But sir. You don’t know she won’t. Anyway, there’s more. Maria Caruso was absolutely certain that SOCO took three items for forensic examination. When we spoke yesterday, she asked for the items to be returned. Listen: Street confirms that SOCO removed only two kitchen items. The third item, a broken paddle from one of her son’s kayaking days was definitely missing. Don’t you think it more than coincidental that I found a paddle in McMaster’s shed, and that it matches Maria Caruso’s description? Can I respectfully ask you to give forensics the hurry up?’
‘That’s one place I can’t rush. Leave it with me.’
I take another gulp: ‘That thing fixes McMaster in the frame. Whether or not his wife testifies, her seeing him with something resembling a cricket bat puts him in an extremely tenuous position. You’ll get his DNA for sure. The motive is clear: McMaster needs the Caruso property. Word is that it’s rich in gold deposits. He’s got samples with a dealer named Lowenstein—’
‘Not old Alby? Thought he was out of it.’
‘— one and the same. You spoken to Street about where the young Caruso was found?’
‘Enough to get the gist. Go on.’
Why doesn’t he see McMaster’s name stamped all over this? ‘All right. Mac claims it’s the beginnings of a wine cellar. Cellar bullshit. It’s the makings of a mineshaft. He’s got books and carpentry plans, and sifting pans and shit in the shed. Now, this Lowenstein is putting a price on his sample at two o’clock tomorrow. But it’s not only McMaster who’ll be there because his solicitor, Main, is trying to shaft him. I’ve had a productive conference with Main, and as a result, I can deliver you two heads on one platter. I need to run this by you first, because it’s way beyond our agreement. I sure don’t want to jeopardise any prosecution.’
‘We’ll discuss that shortly. What else you got?’
‘This might seem irrelevant, but it’s not. Scattered about the rear of the Caruso farm, near the cigarette butt I spoke of, was a torn-up business card. A threatening message appeared on the back. The card is one of Jeff Main’s, the puppet lawyer. Did I tell you he bashed me? The guy’s crooked. He’s half admitted being McMaster’s right-hand-man.
‘The question arises, why was a handwritten message on Main’s card? More importantly, who was it given to and who threw it away in disgust or rage? It has to link to either McMaster or a Caruso, and by deduction that means Maria or Angelo. Maria doesn’t strike me as one who would try anything on Mac – she adores the guy. She’s in the minority, if you don’t mind my saying. All this will dovetail into evidence provided.’
Thornton looks as if I’ve just told him I’ll self-admit to psychiatric treatment. ‘You’ve got me,’ he says. ‘Haven’t a clue where you’re heading. You’re either damn good at what you do, or you’ve totally lost the plot.’
‘I’ll take the former, thank you very much. What I’m asking is, are DNA results on the glove and marijuana through yet?’
Thornton slides over a keyboard and clicks into his computer. ‘The glove? Came back with a ninety-nine-nine on Caruso. The younger one. Had him on the system, as you’re probably aware. Sorry. I should’v
e let you know. Pointless exercise now. Angelo’s gone. You’ll not get any mileage out of it.’
I am incensed. Scarcely hold my temper. I’ve scratched for information, worked through the night, been bashed by a lawyer, and this Superintendent oozes a casual, meaningless apology?
‘So, am I out of the loop on the Audi forensics?’
‘Some things I can’t pass on.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”. And…?’
‘Got Caruso’s DNA all over it.’
‘I’d expect that. It was his car.’
‘True. But you wouldn’t expect to find his hair – complete with follicles – trapped in the rear door jamb, and traces of saliva on the rear seat.’
I crunch my brows. ‘I thought it was burnt out. I never saw it, but the radio call made it sound pretty much fu—, er, destroyed.’
‘Yes, but not bad enough to have destroyed all evidence. This is one they won’t get away with. It gets better. We’ve also got DNA of your sparring partner, Main. He might have been in the back with Angelo. Bit of close negotiation maybe?’
‘Possible. This paints him right in the picture. What’d I tell you? He’s Mac’s puppet.’
‘Not so quick. For all we know, Angelo lent him the car. Purely a devil’s advocate perspective.’
I hate speculation. Futile. ‘Yeah, sure. And you lent me yours. As if. So where was the DNA?’
‘Smudge on the steering wheel, and a ninety-nine-point-nine-percenter from a scraping of the driver’s seat. Sweating his legal arse off. Borderline conclusive that Main’d driven it; therefore follows that our Angelo was contained in the back.’
‘Got enough for an arrest?’
‘Can’t go off half-cocked. Need to cover all bases. Problem is, we also lifted Mac’s print off the driver’s door.’
‘Holy shit.’ I let my enthusiasm settle. ‘So back to Trotter. I hope she’ll be as helpful to you as she was to me.’
Clock Face of Ills Page 27