Green For Danger - Volume II of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  ‘No. I severed my ties with the Boys on that night, and I’ve had nothing to do with them since. This fella was from the other side: called me a Fenian and worse. He was itching for a fight, and besides, we got a good deal out of that money. For a while.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘We weren’t the first to get the contract. They started off-loading the cash down South. It went …’ He was going to say it went tits-up, but he stopped himself. ‘It all went wrong and people were killed. One day a copper from London turned up here, and Griff told me to stop.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘I was between a rock and a hard place. Griff threatened to arrest me and this Prod was threatening all sorts if I didn’t carry on, so we did a deal.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Okay: I did a deal. I said I’d offload the counterfeit notes wholesale to Blackpool. That was what was supposed to happen last night.’

  ‘What was Griff doing there if he was against it?’

  ‘Orders. I insisted that we have someone to protect the exchange, and he was ordered to keep an eye out.’

  They sat quiet for a moment. Fran had unfolded her arms and her gaze had moved to the wedding photograph by the TV.

  ‘What about Robbie King?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. D’you remember that he came out of jail in the summer? He’d been given a long stretch for dealing. Well, Terri was desperate to find him some way of making money that didn’t involve drugs. She’s always had a good idea of what I’m up to and …’

  Fran frowned and folded her arms again. Patrick cringed. He could have expressed that better.

  ‘You see, with her having the market stall, she can’t help but know what’s going on. She asked if I could put some work Robbie’s way, and I thought it was a great way of offloading some of the counterfeit cash.’

  It was Patrick’s turn to frown. He just couldn’t work out what had gone wrong. ‘The thing is, Darlin’, our Dermot didn’t trust Robbie King: wouldn’t have involved him in last night’s shenanigans. I just don’t know what happened. But there is one thing I do know – the money’s gone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Last night was an exchange. Dermot was supposed to collect the forgeries and swap them for a percentage of real money. Both have gone, and I can only imagine that the boys from Blackpool got greedy and took the lot.’

  He shrugged, and put his hands in his lap.

  ‘But your suppliers will want paying anyway, won’t they?’ said Fran.

  ‘You’ll have to leave that to me. If I can’t sort them out, I need to keep any payback away from you and Elizabeth.’

  ‘We’re finished, aren’t we?’ said Fran, and Patrick wondered what she meant. She gestured around the room. ‘All this is finished … the lifestyle, the holidays, the cars … Elizabeth’s school fees. Hope’s tuition fees at St Andrews … all finished.’

  Patrick stood up and opened his arms. ‘Since we’ve been married, I’ve gone to prison twice, been bankrupt twice, and had heart surgery. So long as it keeps beating, I’ll bounce back.’

  She hesitated, and then stood up to let him fold her in his arms.

  He whispered into her hair. ‘D’you think I’m too old to learn shorthand? That seems to pay well.’

  Later that evening, Fran went for a run: she was dressed for it and her stress levels were high enough to blow out the walls of the house. Patrick had insisted on going to the golf club, which she had at first vetoed. When he told her that it was the most likely place for his suppliers to get in touch, she reluctantly agreed. In the half hour before Elizabeth was due home, Fran headed out into the rain to get a few miles under her belt.

  She was soaked through, her hair plastered to her head and water dripping from her nose when she got back. Sheltering under an umbrella on the doorstep was Theresa King.

  To buy some time, Fran bent double and put her hands on her knees. She breathed as deeply as she could and then turned round and walked back to the pavement. She turned again and walked slowly up to Theresa, who hadn’t moved from the doorstep.

  ‘He’s out,’ said Fran.

  ‘I guessed. Do you know where Robbie is?’

  ‘No. Do you know where Dermot is?’

  Theresa grimaced. ‘There’s something going on, and Patrick must know about it. I can’t believe you haven’t got it out of him.’

  ‘I thought that was your speciality.’

  ‘Lay off, Fran. This is serious. No one’s heard from Robbie since yesterday afternoon. Erin’s going frantic with worry after that shooting. We don’t know what to think. Is he on the run? Have he and Dermot done something stupid?’

  ‘Not likely. Robbie’s the one with the criminal record. If anyone’s going to do something stupid, it would be him. We’re just as worried about Dermot, you know. That’s what Patrick’s doing. Looking for him.’

  A pair of headlights could be seen through the trees along the drive, and a car door slammed. Elizabeth dashed along the drive towards them with her coat over her head and then pulled up short when she saw her mother standing in the rain.

  ‘Mom! What are you doing? Oh … Hi, Terri. How’s Hope getting on?’

  Theresa stepped away from the door. ‘Great. She’s having such a good time that I only know what she’s up to by logging on to Facebook. You probably know more than me. I’ll see you later, Francesca.’

  Theresa walked off up the drive, and Fran wiped as much rain as she could from her face.

  ‘Have you got your key, love?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Let yourself in and get me dressing gown, will you? I’m going to strip off in the porch.’

  By Friday morning, thirty-six hours after the shooting in Earlsbury, it was front page news across the whole of England.

  The injured officer was in a critical but stable condition in hospital and heavily sedated. Pictures of DC Ian Hooper and his attractive girlfriend outnumbered those of the deceased DS Griffin many times over. Journalists had found it very difficult to come by pictures of Griff, and crime correspondents had taken about five minutes to figure out that something was rotten in Midland Counties police.

  Their first question to the media relations team had been this:

  What were two unarmed officers doing at an abandoned distribution centre at ten o’clock on a Wednesday evening … and where was the backup?

  When they received no answer at all to that question, they smelt a dead rat. After much delay, the MCPS Media Relations had put out a statement appealing for witnesses. When that happened, the journalists knew that something had gone seriously wrong.

  And then there was the fire. The evening news had featured dramatic pictures from Earlsbury showing a supposedly empty building being consumed by flames. The police had no comment when asked if the blaze was linked to the shootings.

  Tom had left the office on Thursday afternoon and headed to see an old friend in Lambeth. The old friend had told him exactly how badly wrong things had gone in Earlsbury and he had made Tom an offer.

  At nine o’clock on Friday morning, Tom hung up his coat and took a ring binder out of his briefcase. He knocked on Fulton’s door and went straight in, holding up the ring binder as a shield.

  Fulton scowled, focused on the cover of the binder and scowled more deeply.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Tom, I won’t let you,’ he said. ‘Now get out and get on with your job.’

  Fulton’s tone was so curt that Tom wondered if he’d brought the right folder. Half expecting to see a collection of recipes, he looked at the cover himself. No, it was the right one. The title was writ large:

  Handbook of the Central Inspectorate of Professional Policing Standards (CIPPS).

  Fulton grimaced and said, ‘You’re still here.’ He sighed and pointed to the door. ‘Shut it. I’ll give you five minutes of my valuable time to explain why you are not going to join CIPPS, and why this is the wrong reaction to what’s happened.’

/>   Tom shut the door. He hadn’t been invited to sit so he awkwardly held on to the binder. First he held it in front of his groin, and when he realised how stupid that was, he put it under his left arm. It weighed two pounds and the spine was about three inches thick. It was hard to stop the slippery plastic from descending towards the floor.

  ‘I do read your reports, you know,’ said Fulton. ‘I know that you worked with both DS Griffin and DC Hooper in Earlsbury. I even remember that Hooper took you to a lap dancing club. Hard to forget that bit.’

  ‘It was a pole dancing club, sir, and it was closed at the time. I also stayed one night in Ian’s flat and had supper with him and his girlfriend.’

  Fulton shook his head. All trace of anger was gone from his face. ‘That’s a bugger, Tom, and no mistake. I can see why you want to help out with the investigation, I really can, but this isn’t the way to do it. I also know that you think the counterfeiters are involved too, but no. I am not letting you join CIPPS. You’ll never be welcome in any CID office again. Ever. I like you too much to see you join the Gestapo.’

  Tom put the ring binder down on Fulton’s desk, and his boss twitched back away from it.

  ‘Thank you, sir, I respect your opinion, but I have to ask: is this careers advice you’re giving me or is there a personal reason for wanting to keep me away from CIPPS?’

  The corner of Fulton’s mouth twitched. ‘Not like you to go on the offensive, Tom. Go on, sit down.’

  When the files had been cleared from the chair, Tom sat down and made a point of removing the CIPPS handbook from Fulton’s desk and stowing it out of sight. He said, ‘I know the Assistant Director of CIPPS, Samuel Cohen, from my Birmingham days. I went to Lambeth to see him last night, and he said I could transfer as detective inspector. Not acting DI, but permanent. They’re a bit short staffed at the moment.’

  ‘This moment and every bleeding moment. No one wants to work for them – I’m surprised they didn’t offer you a DCI’s job. For the record, I have had dealings with CIPPS before, but they weren’t investigating me. I reported an officer from Thames Valley once, and they came calling. He retired two weeks later.’

  Tom nodded but said nothing. Fulton folded away the newspapers and asked Tom what he had learnt about the Earlsbury shootings from Cohen.

  ‘Apart from the fact that Midland Counties Police are in meltdown, not a lot. The reason that there are so few details in the media is that they have nothing. No witnesses, no CCTV, no record of activity – nothing. With Griffin dead and Hooper unconscious, they’re going to be reliant on forensics. Or a tip-off.’

  ‘What about the fire? Is there any connection?’

  ‘Probably. The fire service gained access in the early hours of this morning, and discovered two more bodies in a burnt out van. It can’t be a coincidence. I got an email on the way in to work.’

  Fulton nodded as he digested this development.

  ‘And what’s going to be your role?’ he asked.

  ‘The chief constable of MCPS wants to cover his backside on this – he wants to tell the press that an independent investigation will look into the irregularities at the same time as their Major Incident Team investigate the actual killings.’

  Fulton leaned forward. ‘If you were my brother, I’d nail your hand to the table to stop you leaving this office and wrecking your career … but you aren’t my brother and CIPPS don’t need my permission, so off you go. There’s just one thing to sort out first.’

  The DI went to his filing cabinet and pulled out four folders. He looked at them and put two of them to one side. ‘Right, which one of these two is going to become acting DS when you leave tonight?’

  Fulton placed the folders in front of Tom, who looked at the names and then sat back: it was a difficult question. He guessed that Fulton had pulled the files on all four of the team who had passed their sergeant’s exams and rejected two of them for being too old or too limited in their approach. He would have done the same. That left Megan and Maxwell.

  ‘Do you really want my opinion, sir?’

  ‘You’d be offended if I didn’t ask. Whether I listen depends on what you say.’

  ‘In that case, it has to be Maxwell. He’s much better looking than Megan.’

  ‘Harsh, but fair. Send them both in then sod off and start to prepare your handover report.’

  Thursday night’s rain had turned into the occasional shower with strong gusts of wind. Patrick knew this because he was standing on the sixth green, and if he completed the round, it would be his worst ever score at Earlsbury Park. The mature trees around the course were shedding their leaves at a rate of knots, and he had already lost one ball in a drift of leaves. He was also losing the feeling in his fingers.

  He had learnt very little the night before. He had made small talk in the bar for a couple of hours, and eventually Craig Butler, the steward, had come in with a message. According to the note, A friend from the Old Country would like to catch up over a round of golf in the morning. Patrick had worked on the driving range for an hour and then headed out on to the course. When he finally sank the ball into the sixth hole (three shots over), a figure detached itself from the trees and sauntered across. He was wearing a knitted cap and a scarf over his face but Patrick could see red sideburns.

  ‘Hard going,’ said the man.

  ‘If we’re going to talk out here, we need to pretend to know each other. I’m not calling you Red Hand in public.’

  ‘Pick a name – any name.’

  ‘How about Adam Gerard?’

  The other one burst out laughing. ‘As in Gerry Adams? I’m glad you’ve still got your sense of humour, Paddy. You’re going to need it.’

  ‘It’s Patrick or Pat, if you must.’

  ‘And I’ll be Adam Paisley, if you must.’

  Patrick shook his head and pushed his golf cart towards the seventh tee. ‘If you’ve no clubs, you’ll have to share mine, though it pains me severely. Let’s get down the fairway then we can talk. Have you ever played this game?’

  ‘Ha! Do I look like I have the time for golf? Just hit the bloody thing, and I’ll copy you.’

  Patrick played a conservative shot off the tee and passed the driver to Adam (first Red Hand and now Adam – did the man enjoy all this cloak and dagger nonsense?). The Ulsterman took a mighty swing at his ball and missed. He tried again and smacked it into the woods. Patrick sighed and fished out another ball.

  ‘Take this and we’ll pretend you landed close to me.’

  ‘What does it matter where the fockin’ thing landed? Christ, it’s only a game.’

  ‘It’s golf. Golf is not a game, it’s a martial art.’

  Patrick strode off towards his ball, and Adam came up to his shoulder.

  ‘Cut the crap, Pat. What the fock’s been going on down here? It’s like the Wild West, so it is.’

  ‘I wish I knew, pal, I wish I knew.’

  They stood over Patrick’s ball, and Adam leaned in close to his face.

  ‘I know one thing, Pat. I know that we sent two million pounds to you, and we expect three hundred thousand in return.’

  ‘Back off, Adam,’ said Patrick. Adam didn’t move so Patrick took a step back and raised his club to stop the other man coming nearer. He thought Adam might grab it and attack him, but they heard voices coming from the tee. Adam stepped back and frowned.

  ‘Put your ball there,’ said Patrick, gesturing a few yards towards the green. Adam tossed it down, and Patrick placed two markers. He retreated to the tree line and waved at the newcomers for them to play through. Adam slipped behind him when the golfers started to tee up.

  ‘I’ll tell you this,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, all right? I know that my nephew went out on Wednesday night to meet his man and he didn’t come back. I know that I got a phone call from some fecking eejit telling me to pick up the van, and I know that when I went there it had two more bodies in it. One of them was my nephew, and I had to set fire to the whole damn
place. I burnt one of my own family like a piece of evidence to be disposed of. The Blackpool mob did for them as well.’

  Adam watched the following golfers work their way past them and head for the green.

  ‘That’s bad news right enough. Bad news for you, but not my problem.’

  ‘It’ll be your problem if the police start digging. When they start digging. If we don’t work together on this, they’ll hang us separately.’

  ‘And what about our money?’

  ‘What money? Those counterfeit notes weren’t real money. If you’re that bothered, I’ll give you five hundred for the cost of the paper and the ink. You can always print some more.’

  ‘I heard about those bodies in the fire on the radio. The other one wasn’t one of theirs, was it?’

  ‘No. He was the son of a good friend of mine. I’ll be having to answer for that as well.’

  ‘Here’s how it is, Pat. Your nephew obviously got himself in bad company. I need to speak to my associates and see where we go from here. If you’re lucky, they might decide not to see you as a loose end. Here, take this and don’t ring me from anything except a Pay As You Go mobile.’

  Adam handed over a piece of paper with a phone number, and Patrick shoved it in his pocket.

  ‘Enjoy your game,’ said Adam as he disappeared into the trees.

  Patrick had bitten his lip when Adam started on the threats. He doubted that the Principal Investors would act without warning – Patrick knew too much about how the money was laundered, and they would want to cover their tracks. Staring back at the course, he realised that he was looking at something very valuable.

  He went back to where the balls were lying and fished a plastic bag out of his golf cart. Adam had taken off his gloves to play the stroke, and they were still off when Patrick had given him the new ball. He used his shoe to nudge Adam’s ball into the plastic bag. It would have a nice set of fingerprints on it, he was sure, and he would be very surprised if Mr Adam Paisley didn’t have a criminal record somewhere.