Green For Danger - Volume II of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  ‘Have you ever been posted to Earlsbury?’ he asked.

  She put her phone down, but only shook her head. He stared at her, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  ‘What? Sir.’

  ‘If you haven’t been posted to Earlsbury, where have you worked?’

  ‘Uniform in Sutton Coldfield for five years, and then detective. Six months.’

  ‘In Sutton?’

  ‘No.’

  Tom drank some tea. The background noise in the canteen was rising as more officers arrived ahead of the briefing. Hayes played with a serviette for a second and tried to give him a smile.

  ‘Where are you staying while you’re here?’ she asked.

  Okay, thought Tom. I’m not allowed to ask any questions about her background. Not to worry, I can always find out. That’s what makes me a detective.

  ‘Earlsbury Park,’ he replied. ‘I got a special rate but the food might kill me if I’m there too long. Are you travelling from Sutton?’

  ‘I’m staying at my Mom’s in Dudley. It’s not far from Earlsbury Park.’

  He checked his watch. Half an hour to go. ‘I’ve heard something about the enquiry, but not much apart from what’s been in the papers. What have you heard that I should know about before the briefing?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve been on leave until this morning.’

  Her eyes narrowed when she said that. Another subject to avoid for now.

  ‘Then I guess we’ll have to adjourn this exciting conversation until after the briefing. You need to go to the Ladies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got brown sauce on your blouse. Serves you right for texting and eating at the same time.’

  She looked down aghast at her front, and then did the worst thing possible by smearing it with a tissue. Tom thought she was going to cry. Instead, she grabbed his laptop case from the empty chair and stood up.

  ‘You go to the briefing, yeah? I’ll go to IT and get them to sort your laptop out for the BCSS Network.’

  Before he could point out that his notebook was in there too, she had gone.

  There were no bacon sandwiches in Grasmere Gardens: James King was munching through a packet of Jaffa Cakes and drinking instant coffee. His mother’s kitchen looked over the small garden to the house behind them, and all he could see, apart from fence and roof, was a small piece of sky. It looked certain to rain again soon.

  James had dossed down on the couch because the house only had three bedrooms. His mother had gone to sleep in one of them at three o’clock that morning when James had convinced her to take the sleeping pill left by the doctor. The smallest room was Hope’s; she was due back from St Andrews tonight, and James didn’t want the hassle of changing the bed. The other bedroom was Rob’s. That one was barred by blue and white tape, announcing that it was a crime scene. It wasn’t a crime scene, of course, but the police didn’t have special tape that said You may not enter your dead child’s bedroom because we think he was a drug dealer.

  The biscuits made him feel a little less light headed and he went outside for a smoke. Through the house, he heard a diffident knock on the door. Not the filth, then.

  James dropped the roll-up into a plant pot and went to see who it was. He opened the door to find Erin, alone and shivering. They had hugged and embraced yesterday but somehow, the day after, it seemed worse. Night had not brought Robbie back to them, nor would it ever again. He wrapped his arms around her, and she sobbed into his shoulder. James steered her into the living room and closed the door behind him to stop the sound waking his mother.

  He sat next to her on the couch and waited until she had blown her nose before pulling away.

  ‘Terri’s asleep. She’s taken a tranquiliser.’

  ‘I thought she might. Anyway, it was you I wanted to see. I stayed at Mom’s last night and she’s looking after the boys. I can’t tell them what’s happened because it doesn’t make sense in their little worlds. They think he’s gone back to the big house. You know, the prison.’

  ‘Tell them he’s with God, Erin.’ She looked at him uncomfortably. ‘It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe it. Little kids can’t tell the difference between prison and heaven, but they’re both places. You can say, “Daddy’s in Heaven”, and they understand you. They don’t understand the idea of death until later.’

  ‘Bit too philosophy-cical for me, James, but thanks.’

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘I daren’t. I’ve done nothing but drink tea since yesterday morning. Listen, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. It’s the police. You know they asked me some questions yesterday, yeah?’

  James nodded. Theresa had said that detectives had accompanied the family liaison officers who had come to break the news. The detectives had asked some preliminary questions as well as searching both houses.

  ‘Well,’ continued Erin,’ they want me to go in and make a statement. What shall I say?’

  ‘There is only one thing you can say. The truth.’

  ‘But…’ Her voice trailed off.

  James took her hand. It was small and cold and rough. ‘Don’t speculate. If they say, “Where was he?” … then tell them you don’t know. If they say “Who did this?” then don’t give them any names because you don’t know. If you only tell them what you know to be true then you can do no wrong.’

  Erin patted him on the knee. ‘You sound like the Priest at school. Remember? Father Stockton. I’m sure he was there when you was there.’

  ‘He was.’ James wasn’t flattered by the comparison. The whole school knew that Stocky Stockton had been shagging a parishioner for years before the Church forced him to resign from the priesthood.

  Erin seemed to have found his words some comfort because she stood up and smiled. She gave him a peck on the cheek and headed for the front door. ‘Thanks, James. I’d better go ’cos Mom’ll be going mental with the boys.’

  James showed her out and stood with his back to the door. Robbie had told her nothing about his business, he was certain of that. On the other hand, James had a shrewd idea that Theresa knew a lot more than she was giving away. When his mother surfaced, he was going to have to have a completely different conversation with her.

  Tom found his way to Conference Room 1, and there was a note pinned to the door that the first briefing was for Team Leaders Only. He supposed that Kris Hayes counted as a team, and he pushed his way through.

  The walls were unadorned, and the only paperwork visible was whatever each officer had brought with them. A laptop had been plugged into the data projector and the screen was showing the MCPS Screensaver (motto: Protecting All). A top table had been formed at the front, and five empty chairs awaited. Tom couldn’t sit at the back because about thirty officers had beaten him to it. On the front row was a woman with a large notepad. Cascades of dark brown hair were being held in check by a cream coloured knitted scarf. She hadn’t taken her bright red coat off, either. He had never seen a detective dressed like that before, certainly not at the start of a murder enquiry. Tom sat behind her.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but could you give me a couple of sheets of paper?’

  She jumped and turned round, then raised a severely plucked eyebrow.

  ‘Long story,’ said Tom.

  She ripped off a couple of sheets and handed them over. ‘Are you up from Coventry?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but you might send me there in a minute.’

  The eyebrow remained raised. What was it with people round here? Had they had a sense of humour bypass? He held out his hand before introducing himself, just in case she refused to shake it when she knew who he was.

  ‘Thanks. I’m DI Morton from CIPPS.’

  Tom felt a short spasm transmitted through her fingers, but she didn’t snatch them away. On the other hand, the plastic smile she gave him wouldn’t have been out of place on a minor royal asked to open a sewage farm.

  ‘Nicole Rodgers, Deputy Media Relations Ma
nager.’

  She was wearing a lot of make-up. The effect was probably good on television, but at a conversational distance it made her look even more out of place among the police officers. Underneath her coat and scarf, he couldn’t help notice a rather tight black turtleneck stretched across her chest.

  ‘From London?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s where I’m based.’

  She handed him a card, and Tom gave his own number for her to write down. After that, he sent a text to Cohen in Lambeth which asked his friend to get some business cards printed urgently and couriered up to him. They could afford it.

  He was putting his phone away when he recognised Kris’s footsteps. She accelerated as she came to the front then squeezed in beside him. She was now wearing a black blouse which she must have borrowed because it clashed horribly with the blue jacket. The elegant Nicole Rodgers had turned to examine the new arrival and gave a disdainful look before turning back to the front.

  Hayes plonked his notebook down on the table and gave him a half-smile. The room went quiet from the back, and Tom whispered into her ear, ‘Thanks. That means a lot.’

  Patrick had spent the night in the cells at Earlsbury after being interviewed in the brick outhouse they called Black Country Station South. As everyone knew, it had no custody suite. They released him in the morning.

  ‘Can I have my phone back?’ he asked the custody sergeant.

  The man riffled through some notes and handed him a piece of paper.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A receipt. Your phone has been taken for investigation and will be returned in due course.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ muttered Patrick.

  ‘You are being released on police bail under Section 47…’

  ‘… of the Police & Criminal Evidence Act 1984. I know. When do you want me back?’

  The custody sergeant handed over the paperwork. ‘Monday. Ten o’clock.’

  That was quick. Police Bail meant that they could play cat and mouse with him if they wanted. They could break down their allowance of twenty-four hours of interview time into blocks and release him on bail in between.

  The sergeant unlocked a drawer and pulled out Pat’s medication. Another five minutes were spent ticking it off. When the sergeant had seen it all yesterday, he had called a doctor to double-check that Patrick was fit to be interviewed.

  ‘Of course,’ the medic replied. ‘He’s got a heart condition, that’s all. But just you make sure that he takes every tablet on time and gets his meals at exactly the time specified.’ Patrick hadn’t been arrested for a lot of years, but this regime was quite civilised. Made it a lot easier to say ‘No Comment’.

  After the pills were returned, his shoes, belt, and other bits and pieces were handed over. There was enough money for a taxi to his mother’s.

  He was released at the back of the nick, well away from the Victorian building that fronted the High Street. He took a couple of turns and emerged next to the market, busy as always on Saturday mornings. From an alley corner, he slowly scanned the stalls from one end to the other. They had been his world for over forty years since he had got his first job at Toddy’s veg stall, cutting and trimming the veg at the back, and stocking up the boxes. Toddy’s grandson still had the same stall and didn’t need a trimmer because that was all done on the farm by Bulgarians or some such.

  As well as giving himself a moment to feel normal again after the cells, Patrick was also looking for surveillance. They would be there somewhere. Well, they were welcome to him. When he passed the newsagent on the corner, every front page featured Earlsbury.

  His own two stalls were in the middle, pride of place on Earlsbury Market, and in between them was a gap: Theresa wouldn’t be opening her stall for a while, if ever, and unlike Patrick, she had no one to run it for her.

  It was getting late. Patrick crossed the road and made his way through the market with his collar pulled up and tried to keep a low profile. A few people nodded at him, but they left him alone with his thoughts.

  He kept the stalls partly out of sentiment and partly because they were a good fit for his business. One sold Irish produce and the other sold Irish crafts: between them, they absorbed a lot of laundered cash, and he was careful to make sure that none of his part-time stall holders could see too much of the picture. Today, a young married couple were taking one stall each. Patrick approached the husband, Dan.

  ‘Hey, Pat. Are you okay? I’m so sorry for your loss. We all are.’

  Patrick wrapped his hands around the young man’s and shivered. ‘It gets worse. I’ve just got out of the nick, and they want me back.’

  ‘Bastards.’

  ‘I know. Tell me, Dan, have you seen Kelly this morning?’

  ‘Arr, I ’ave. Paid his respects about half an hour ago and said he was going in the George.’

  That sounded about right. Dan’s wife came over and gave him a kiss and a hug. Patrick thanked her and asked if she could manage both stalls on her own for a bit. She nodded, and he drew Dan aside.

  ‘Take a hundred out of the float. Make it a hundred and fifty. Go and find Kelly. Tell him to get me two of those Pay As You Go phones, and tell him to take them to Ma’s house. There’s police following me somewhere: probably taking a picture of us right now. They’ll follow you too if you go straight away, so give it a few minutes.’

  ‘No problem, Pat. If there’s anything else, just let me know.’

  Patrick patted him on the shoulder. Kelly knew the score, and Patrick could rely on him when he wasn’t too drunk. In other words, only in the morning.

  He headed for the taxi rank at the top of the High Street and a trip to the Elijah estate. He had lost many people over the years – His Da, his brother, his brother-in-law, and friends, too. Dermot was the best of them and deserved to be mourned. Patrick owed him a good wake, and the sooner he opened a bottle of Irish whiskey in the boy’s memory the better. But Dermot wouldn’t want him to go to jail or get killed for no reason: the Jameson’s would have to wait.

  Pat was over the shock now and had survived the first twenty-four hours intact. It was time for action.

  Chapter 7

  Earlsbury

  Saturday (continued)

  23 October

  ‘I’ve got to get out,’ said Kris Hayes to Tom, but it was too late. The Command officers filed into the briefing room, and she was trapped. As he passed their table, ACC Khan gave her a stare which clearly said team leaders only. She shrank in her seat and lowered her head.

  Of the five men who filled the chairs at the top table, the three in the centre wore uniform. The Chief Constable was flanked by Deputy Chief Constable Nechells on his right and ACC Khan on his left. At the end nearest to Nicole Rodgers was the senior media relations man, and at the other end was the SIO, Detective Chief Superintendent Nigel Winters. The Chief stood up and ran his eye round the room.

  ‘On Thursday afternoon I told you that we had lost one of our own and had one in hospital. Since then the picture has got messier and more complicated. Earlsbury was front page news this morning, and will be again tomorrow. I will be holding a full press conference this afternoon. When a policeman is murdered, it’s the Chief’s job to be our public face. It’s your job to catch the bastards who did for him.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘When I say that they did for him, I don’t just mean that they shot him. I mean that someone put DS Griffin and DC Hooper in that Goods Yard on Wednesday night. Why those officers came to be there is as important as what happened afterwards – and may be a harder question to answer, but I know you won’t rest until you’ve answered it. Midland Counties Police Service has a high reputation for major enquiries. I like to think it’s higher than that of the Met. DS Griffin and DC Hooper deserve the best, and DCS Winters will have the resources to ensure they get it. Nigel, over to you.’

  Rather than upstage the SIO, the three Command officers rose from their seats and left the room. The media rela
tions man moved to sit next to his deputy, and Winters went to the laptop.

  The SIO must be close to retirement, thought Tom. He was the most senior detective in MCPS, and had been pulled off a major terrorism enquiry to lead the hunt for Griffin’s killer. He was grim and grey and his eyes glinted behind his glasses.

  ‘After the Chief spoke to you on Thursday afternoon, I had the job of telling you we had nothing to go on, but I had to dress it up. Well, there are over a hundred new officers assigned to this case today and I’m going to go back to the beginning so you can bring all your team members up to speed.’

  He logged on to the laptop and put up the first slide of a Powerpoint presentation. It showed a timeline from Wednesday night.

  ‘We received a 999 call at 21:50 on Wednesday evening from a man with a local accent saying that there was an injured officer at the old goods yard. His exact words were, “There’s a shot copper in the old Great Western Yard. This isn’t bullshit. You need to get to him fast. He’s behind the second shed on the left.” The caller than rang off, and the control centre notified the nearest unit. In some ways we were lucky it was raining because there was nothing else going on and they went straight to the scene. Those officers were able to staunch the bleeding enough for the paramedics to save Ian Hooper’s life. We didn’t even know that Griffin was dead until the Territorial Support van started to search the area.

  ‘The bad news is that the rain was heavy and prolonged. It washed away every piece of forensic evidence that might have been left behind. All we have are the bullets that were removed from Griffin and Hooper. I’ll come back to them later.

  ‘Ian Hooper is still under heavy sedation and critical. According to the chief surgeon, he will need further surgery no later than this evening, because all they did on Wednesday night was stop the bleeding. There’s a lot of damage in there that needs detailed repair work. The good news is that he’s recovered enough for them to attempt it. Virtually the whole surgical team is on standby for this afternoon. They’re going to do it in relays.’