by LJ Ross
“How?”
“They buggered off,” Prince shrugged. “Absconded, whatever you want to call it.”
Ryan’s lips fell into a hard line. Detective Inspector Terry Prince was as an officer of the ‘Old World’, and no amount of training in diversity or equality was going to make much of a dent. He was an imposing man of around fifty, who had been promoted thanks to a series of successful undercover operations in his formative years. Unfortunately, Ryan had to wonder whether the experience had jaded him too much, so that the ordinary level of compassion he demanded of all officers in his command was no longer present.
“Absconded, or went missing?” he asked, softly. “I’d say it’s highly suspicious that a person who might have been able to provide you with useful intelligence has suddenly disappeared. I don’t recall my team being made aware of this, either. In the spirit of sharing information, I presume I’ll find a report on my desk by the end of the day?”
Conscious that the Chief Constable was still in the room, Prince folded his arms and gave a tight smile.
“Happy to,” he lied.
Sensing the beginnings of dissent, Gallagher took the opportunity to throw in his tuppenceworth.
“If Lowerson’s informant can confirm a link between the murders and Singh, then we’ll be cookin’ on gas,” he said, drawing a couple of muffled laughs around the room. “But without it, all you’ve got is a lot of speculation. Yeah, there’ve been rumblings on the street about Singh, but that could be from his old days as much as anything else. He’s always admitted to being a reformed youth.”
“He’s high profile,” Coates added, with a sly note of caution for the Chief Constable’s benefit. If they were going after someone like Bobby Singh, he wanted to be the first to register his concerns. “Singh is a patron of local charities, he builds low-cost housing for people in the region, and he’s popular in all kinds of influential circles—”
“Exactly, and it could all be a front,” Ryan cut in. “He wouldn’t be the first to create a veneer of legitimacy.”
He turned to the Fraud Squad again.
“Have you looked into Bobby Singh’s financials? It would be helpful to know the source of his income.”
DI Salam nodded, then pulled a face.
“It’s like DI Coates has already said,” she replied. “From what we’ve been able to find, Singh has legitimate business interests in large-scale property development companies, construction firms and the like. Mainly held off-shore,” she added, sourly.
“Can’t you drill down a bit more into the company structure?” Ryan asked.
“I’d love to,” Salam said, with feeling. “Unfortunately, we can’t go much further without a warrant, and that’ll be hard to get without any direct link between Singh and any of these murders.”
She sighed, and sent Ryan an apologetic look.
“Gallagher’s right. We need a witness.”
Ryan nodded, turning back to his team of murder detectives.
“If Singh is responsible for the Smoggie gang, he’s a scourge on this region that we need to eliminate. But if we can’t establish an evidential link, we can’t start digging any deeper into his company structures or financial reports. We need a whistle-blower,” he said, turning back to Lowerson. “We need that informant.”
Lowerson nodded miserably and returned to his chair, his hope of being able to avoid the topic of Rochelle now abandoned.
“Yates? Continue to work on bringing that informant in,” Ryan ordered. “If they’re a link between Singh and an active murder, they need our full attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ryan stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.
“The main priority is to find and apprehend Paul Evershed. He should be considered extremely dangerous, not only because of his previous offences but because he has nothing whatsoever to lose; you can only be given one life sentence, after all.”
There were nods around the room, while people stared at the images on the whiteboard and committed them to memory.
“If Ludo is back and in the employment of Bobby Singh, that means Singh will be harbouring and protecting him,” Ryan said. “I want a full list of Singh’s known properties—ones he owns, and ones he is currently building or has built—as well as any vehicles registered to his name, any of his businesses, or any of his known associates.”
He paused, then added, “I want to know about any vehicle Singh owns, but doesn’t have on the road. Those ones would be easy to keep under the radar, if he changed the number plates.”
“We can pull that information together from the data we already have,” DI Salam assured him. “I know that Henderson—my sergeant—already has a list of Singh’s known addresses, which we’ve already shared with the Drugs Squad.”
Ryan thanked her.
More than two hours had passed since the briefing began, yet he was pleased to note that there had been no early exits or half-concealed yawns. Whether they admitted it or not, every person in the room wanted to be a part of something that was bigger and more important than themselves.
“While we’re looking for Ludo, I want surveillance on Bobby Singh,” he said, catching Chief Constable Morrison’s eye. Whilst she didn’t look overjoyed at the prospect of them putting a local philanthropist under surveillance, neither did she put up any protest.
Good.
“I’m tellin’ you, mate, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Gallagher argued. “He’s too high profile to get himself tangled in drugs and that.”
“Then he’ll have nothing to hide,” Ryan countered. “Will he?”
Gallagher slumped back in his chair, arms folded, while Ryan worked out the finer details of the surveillance operation
“We need to liaise with local welfare organisations and healthcare centres, as well as schools and Social Services,” Ryan told them. “I want a full and complete list of any reports of children demonstrating the key behavioural changes that would indicate they’ve been recruited by a gang. I want to know the addresses of highly vulnerable adults, too.”
“That’ll take forever and a day,” Gallagher complained. “It’ll be easier to have a word with a few junkies and see where the supply’s coming from.”
Ryan shook his head, battling frustration.
“This isn’t about trading low-level intel from people who probably can’t tell us anything new, even if they wanted to. We need to go out there and do this the old-fashioned way, with a bit of legwork. We need to stay ahead, not try and play catch up all the time.”
He paused, holding up a hand to fend off any further comments.
“Listen to me: there’s a killer out there, roaming the streets as if he owned them. He isn’t afraid of us, and he’s angry. We took away Ludo’s lifestyle, his power and his employment. If we’re right about this, he’s back, and he has a new boss who’s even more dangerous than the one before.”
“Why? Why would he come back?” MacKenzie wondered aloud.
“He’s an animal,” Ryan breathed, turning to stare into Paul Evershed’s dark, pixelated eyes. “A rabid dog we should’ve brought in long before now.”
Ryan looked at the faces staring out at him from the wall, and thought they were a deadly combination. One, with all the brains and means; the other, with the muscle and cunning to kill.
“Find the dog, and you’ll find his master,” he said. “Ludo won’t stray too far from the hand that feeds him.”
CHAPTER 6
Bobby Singh stood inside his large, tastefully designed orangery and looked out across the manicured lawn, which was crawling with workmen who were beginning to lay the paving around a new swimming pool. They’d worked tirelessly for five days now, digging and installing new pipework, foundations and concrete lining, but their progress was still too slow; he wanted them off his property, so he could enjoy looking out at the gleaming water without wondering whether one of them was a bloody pig.
“Sir? There’s a gentleman here to se
e you.”
Bobby cocked his head at the soft sound of his housekeeper’s voice but didn’t turn.
“Is he a big bastard?”
“Yes, sir.”
He took a small sip of the iced water he held in his hand.
“Is he alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bobby looked across the room to where a thin man with pale blue eyes and sharp features stood with his feet spread and his hands clasped. A tiny black ear-piece was just visible inside his left ear, and one side of his summer jacket bulged where his weapon was concealed beneath. The man nodded at his unspoken order and moved to the doorway to frisk the new arrival.
A few minutes later, heavy footsteps sounded on the marble floor.
“You carrying?” Singh’s personal guard asked, and Ludo bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile.
“Course I am,” he growled. “You gonna take it off me, prick?”
Singh laughed, and turned away from the window.
“Give him the piece, Ludo,” he said. “I haven’t got time for a dog fight.”
Paul Evershed reached inside his jacket and pulled out a handgun, which he set on one of the ornamental iron tables nearby. Then, he reached for the spare inside his other pocket, and for the knife inside the specially-made pouch of his boot.
“Didn’t come with the full arsenal today,” he explained, with a note of apology.
The guard patted him down, keeping a weather eye on Ludo’s meaty hands, and then stepped away.
“Clear, sir.”
Evershed waited until the guard had taken up a position a few feet away from Singh, then shook out another thin knife, which fell from one of his sleeves with a clatter on the floor.
“Oops,” he said, lips peeling away from his teeth in another shark-like smile. “Miss something, did we?”
The guard felt the blood drain from his face, and small pearls of sweat broke out on his forehead as he shot a nervous glance towards his employer.
“I’m sorry, sir—”
Singh drained the last of his water and set the glass down, dabbed his lips with a cloth napkin and then turned to Robbo with a smile on his handsome face.
“C’mon, mate, it’s an easy mistake to make.”
The guard looked for any sign of a trap, and saw nothing but sincerity.
“Th-thank you, Mr Singh. I appreciate that, I—”
“Go and have a breather, son,” Bobby suggested. “Here, take this glass back to the kitchen and have yourself a ham sandwich, alright?”
“Don’t you want me to stay here?”
Singh gave him another smile, and jerked his head towards the door.
“Go on,” he urged. “Take a breather.”
Robbo felt their eyes watching him as he walked towards the door, expecting to feel a bullet tear through his flesh at any moment. When it didn’t come, he lifted his shoulders and let out a soft sigh of relief. That was a lucky esc—
There was an explosion of pain as Ludo’s fist connected with the back of his head, and he fell to the floor, where his nose broke with a sickening crunch against the marble.
Singh walked across to flick a switch on the wall and, moments later, bespoke blinds rolled down the windows in the orangery to block the view from any prying eyes.
“Make it quick,” he told Ludo. “We’ve got things to discuss.”
* * *
Ryan emerged from the briefing like a drowning man, and breathed deeply of the less stagnant air in the corridor outside the conference room. He was contemplating a quick sojourn to the vending machine for a coffee, when he was intercepted by the Chief Constable.
“Have you got a minute?”
It wasn’t a request.
Banking down his frustration, Ryan followed Sandra Morrison into her large, corner office. It was a clinical room for the most part, with plain walls and furnishings, but was softened by the addition of several cluttered bookshelves that were brimming with paperbacks and policing manuals. Somewhat enviously, Ryan found himself wondering when on Earth she found the time to read them.
“Shut the door, would you?”
Morrison had a natural aptitude for both policing and politics, which was crucial for someone of her rank and entirely anathema to Ryan, who was contemptuous of the kind of political game-playing that brought resources and revenue into the constabulary. Whether he liked it or not, he was game enough to acknowledge that the world needed every type of person and, as far as bosses went, he’d definitely had a lot worse.
“Take a seat,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Morrison waited until he settled himself in one of the visitor’s chairs before flopping into her own desk chair and linking her hands on the top of her shiny beech wood desk.
“The meeting went well,” she said, falling back on pleasantries. “Some resistance from Drugs and Vice, but no more than you’d expect. They’re used to leading ops, not following.”
Ryan lifted a shoulder.
“They’ll come around,” he said, and wondered if it was true. “The situation’s getting out of hand, and we need to pull together. I’ve delegated a chunk of my caseload, so I can give Operation Watchman my full attention, ma’am.”
Morrison shifted awkwardly.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to make room for one more case on your roster,” she said, and pulled open a desk drawer to retrieve a thin stack of papers which she pushed towards him. “Take a look at this.”
Ryan raised a single, dark eyebrow, but fell back on good manners.
“What case?”
Morrison nodded towards the sheaf, which he began to skim-read.
“A house fire?” He was incredulous, and a little confused. Accidental deaths following ordinary house fires were sad, to be sure, but they were not a matter for CID.
“It’s not that simple,” she told him. “In the early hours of Friday morning, a house went up in flames with its elderly owners still inside. The occupants were Alan and Joan Watson, both eighty, both longstanding residents of Penshaw—”
“As in, Penshaw Monument?” he asked.
Morrison nodded, smiling slightly. Ryan had been a permanent resident in their neck of the world for so long, she sometimes forgot that he was not a native of the North East. He was a Devonshire lad, one who’d craved rugged coastlines and large, open spaces without any of the softer edges.
“Yes, Penshaw is the village at the foot of the monument,” she said, referring to the large, neo-classical folly atop a hill overlooking the old mining village. “Most people think it’s in County Durham, but the village falls within the borough of Sunderland, and therefore Tyne and Wear Area Command.”
Ryan gave her a level look, knowing that she’d neatly covered off any potential arguments as to police jurisdiction, and tapped the papers in his hand.
“The summary says that Alan Watson was pronounced dead at the scene, after his wife tried to drag him out of the house. It’s heroic, but I can’t see that it’s a matter for my team. There’s no mention of arson, or fire-setting—”
Morrison shook her head.
“I had a call from Pinter,” she explained, referring to the Senior Pathologist attached to the Constabulary. “He performed an autopsy on Alan Watson’s body over the weekend and his preliminary report rules out the presence of any smoke in the dead man’s lungs.”
Despite his reservations, Ryan’s interest was piqued. It would be normal to find large quantities of smoke inside the lungs of a regular victim of fire…unless, the victim was already dead before the fire began.
“You’re thinking it’s suspicious?” he asked. “I can ask one of the team to check it out—”
He trailed off as a thought struck him.
“Pinter doesn’t usually report to you,” he remarked. “And he doesn’t do weekend overtime unless it’s important. What’s so special about Alan Watson?”
“It’s not so much him, as his daughter,” Morrison said. “Sally Eme
rson, née Watson, is head of the local council. She’s very popular, and very influential.”
“Let me guess,” Ryan drawled. “She plays golf with the Commissioner and she’s demanding the full service, all bells and whistles?”
“Assistant Commissioner,” Morrison muttered, and then held her hands up. “Actually, Sally hasn’t been making too much noise, but the AC wants to get ahead of it and be prepared in case that changes.”
When Ryan continued to look unimpressed, she flushed.
“Look, I know you couldn’t give a flying—”
“Fig?” he interrupted, helpfully.
“Fig,” she agreed, testily. “But it’s in all our interests to keep things running smoothly. We need to be seen to be taking steps, which means I need a senior officer—I need you—to get down there and do your thing.”
Ryan glanced at the papers again and thought of an old man amidst the flames.
It was no way to die.
“Look, all you have to do is go down there and show your face. Palm it off onto Lowerson, or one of the others, once you’ve set things in motion,” she added.
Ryan thought of the young man he’d mentored these past years, and felt a tension headache start in the base of his skull.
“I’ll see to it,” he said.
CHAPTER 7
“It’s nearly lunchtime.”
Ryan overtook a slow-moving lorry on the motorway as they made their way to the village of Penshaw, then glanced across at his sergeant in the passenger seat.
“That’s very observant of you, Frank.”
Phillips pursed his lips as he watched the passing scenery, then tried again.
“All I’m saying is, there’s a nice little farm shop at the bottom of the hill in Penshaw, near the monument.”
“Good to know.”
Since subtlety wasn’t working, Phillips cut to the chase.
“Look, son, you don’t get muscles like mine eating lettuce leaves,” he said, without any irony whatsoever. “A man like me needs regular protein… besides, you like a bacon stottie just as much as I do.”