by Hayden, Mark
Jennings stood up. The cold was seeping through his coat and his hips were getting stiff. He set off to walk round the boundary of his pastures and check the fences.
‘That’s not all,’ said Offlea. ‘The man from Blackpool said they were in the market for other stuff as well – booze, fags, pills.’
‘No drugs. Never. And without Lynch to source the merchandise, how are we going to get our hands on any more of the other stuff?’
Offlea waited while Sir Stephen checked the barbed wire fence and grunted with satisfaction.
‘How many Principal Investors have we got?’ asked Offlea.
It was a blunt question. Offlea knew most of the nooks and crannies of the Operation Rainbow portfolio. He knew who dealt with whom, and he knew about the flow of money and goods, but he didn’t know many of the backers or the people who arranged things. Only Jennings knew that.
‘Apart from you and I, there are four. Two in Red Flag, one each in Blue Sky and Green Light. Why do you ask?’
‘If Red Flag closes, what’s going to happen? Green Light relied on Patrick Lynch, so it did. Blue Sky is nothing without a distributor, and I don’t think our return on the investment was good enough. In my opinion, sir, Operation Rainbow needs a long term replacement for Red Flag and, if you don’t mind me saying, some of those Principal Investors are holding us back.’
The next post in the fence was a little wobbly. Jennings gave it a tug and made a mental note to point it out to the farmer who leased the pasture in winter for some ewes. Unfortunately, he had to agree with Offlea. There were just too many people taking a percentage from all these deals and putting very little back into the pot in return.
‘It’s not just the freeloaders,’ said Offlea. ‘It’s dealing with some of these people. Thornton in Essex, Lynch in Birmingham. They’re hard to keep hold of. These new boys – the ones with our money – they’re based in Blackpool. It would be a lot easier for me to keep tabs on them as I’m round the corner, so to speak. If we consolidated all our operations in one part of the country, we could reduce the risk.’
Jennings nodded. ‘And what about the money laundering? Who’s going to do that?’
‘If you cut back on the number of Principal Investors, we could put it all through the downstream side of Red Flag.’
‘Are you up to this, Will? Can you work with these people in Blackpool and get the sort of returns we need?’
‘Have I ever let you down, sir?’
‘Let me think about it. It would mean a big shift in direction.’
Offlea dug his hand in his pocket. ‘All change. We need to move the mobile numbers around.’
He handed Jennings a new phone and took the old one in return. Sir Stephen wondered where they all ended up – would some future metal detectorist come across a deeply buried hoard of discarded phones, or did they end up in Africa with various illegal goods?
Offlea jogged away alongside the fence then vaulted over the gate. He accelerated away along the ridge, then disappeared down the other side of the hill. Jennings felt the October wind ripple his jacket and thought of the fireplace in St Andrew’s Hall – it was becoming a refuge that was harder and harder to tear himself away from. Operation Rainbow, in all its aspects, was going to need a new leader soon. Not Offlea, of course, but someone who could give it strategic direction and control.
He summoned the dogs. One of them had a second rabbit in its jaws.
Tom and Kris were sitting in his car, sharing a helping of fish and chips. Neither of them had fancied a whole one after they saw the size of the portions. His BMW would smell of vinegar for days.
‘What next?’ asked Hayes.
‘I need to find someone – and I need his mugshot for that – so I think we’ll go and have a look at Griffin’s house first, then print off some pictures when we go back to BCSS.’
‘Fair enough.’
Tom tore the remaining battered haddock in half and ate one of the pieces. He left the rest to Hayes who started picking among the scraps to see if there were any juicy chips left. Tom wiped his hands.
‘You won’t be going to America for the funeral?’ said Hayes around the last of the fish.
‘No. Great Uncle Thomas had sort-of converted to Judaism, and they’ll hold the funeral tomorrow, in line with tradition. My Granddad, his brother, went over in the summer to say goodbye.’
Hayes wrapped up the newspaper and stuffed it into a carrier bag, then left the car to look for a bin. That was thoughtful of her. She came back and offered him a wet wipe from her well-stocked bag. That was even more thoughtful.
‘My dad will have to go to the States, of course,’ said Tom, mostly to himself. Then he remembered his passenger. ‘Because Great Uncle Thomas didn’t get married properly, Granddad is now the Third Baron Throckton.’
‘You’re joking me.’
Tom started the engine. ‘I wish I were. As well as being a white public schoolboy, I’m also going to be a Lord. If I outlive my father.’
‘I’m not bothered about the white part, sir. It’s the rest that bothers me.’
‘Pardon me for being born. Now, do you know the way to Griffin’s house?’
Hayes directed him out of the town and on to a small estate of executive homes.
‘A bit posh for a detective sergeant, don’t you think?’ said Tom. ‘Check the file, will you? Was he ever married? Any kids to support or alimony to pay?’
‘Neither,’ said Hayes without looking. ‘Forty-eight years old, never married. At one point a woman was named as beneficiary on his pension records, but she was deleted.’
The murder team had searched the house on the morning after Griffin was killed, but they had taken nothing because nothing illegal had been found, and they had left the rest for him to sort through. Tom was fairly certain that whatever Griffin was involved in would leave few physical traces.
They contemplated the brick facade and snapped on latex gloves. ‘What are we looking for?’ asked Hayes.
‘Anything which looks or smells like a financial record.’
‘I’ll have to defer to your experience, sir. I don’t know what a financial record smells like.’
‘Clearly a gap in your education. Consider this case as a masterclass in financial crime from the man who broke open the Wimbledon Mortgage Fraud.’
‘You’re being serious, aren’t you?’
‘I’m always serious about money.’
Tom opened the door and walked into the house. It didn’t smell of anything. Griffin was obviously a self-sufficient bachelor who liked to keep his own nest clean. Either that or he had a good cleaner. Tom wouldn’t have minded living there. It was a big step up from his hired box in the City.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘About what?’
‘His taste. If you moved in here, how long before you wanted to give it a makeover?’
Kris looked around the combined sitting room/diner. ‘Apart from the TV, I’d insist it was all put in a skip before I took the keys, and I’d send in the decorators before I crossed the threshold.’
That’s clear, thought Tom: bachelor policeman is a not a style I should aspire to.
‘You start downstairs, I’ll do upstairs. One more thing, if you see anything you think is worth more than five hundred quid and is small enough to fit in your pocket, take that, too.’
For half an hour, they meticulously emptied drawers, lifted furniture and checked for loose corners of the carpet in case there was a stash under the floorboards. The results were piled on the dining table.
‘Loft or garage?’ said Tom.
‘Garage. I’ve had to stand on three spiders already, and you can’t see them in the dark.’
Apart from empty boxes, the loft yielded nothing. Hayes came back with nothing from the garage.
‘Before we go, I want to pat you down. And I want you to do the same to me,’ said Tom.
Kris gave him a very wary look, but lifted her arms and spread her feet. H
e gave her a very quick search, avoiding all sensitive areas. He stood back, and she did the same to him. When she’d finished and shrugged her shoulders, he lifted up the sleeve on his jacket and pointed to his wrist.
‘I could have walked out with this. It’s one of Griffin’s Rolex watches.’
He slipped it off his wrist and put it with the evidence on the table. ‘This one was in his dressing table, and there was one on his body, but I found four Rolex boxes carefully preserved in the loft. What’s the betting that the search team on Thursday walked off with the other two?’
They bagged all the evidence, including a laptop, and set off for BCSS.
‘Did you leave your car there this morning?’ asked Tom.
‘I haven’t got one. Mom had to give me a lift in.’
‘If you wait for me to finish, I’ll run you home.’
‘Thanks. You don’t have to.’
‘No problem. Look, Kris, is there anyone at BCSS who would do you a favour? A small one?’
She breathed out and looked away. ‘I can’t think of anyone.’
Tom left it there, and when they got back, he told her to commandeer a computer and start entering all the items they’d taken from the house on to the HOLMES 2 Exhibit Log. They would have to be checked in with the Exhibits Manager and then checked out again so Tom could make a start on the bank statements and other paperwork.
While Hayes got typing, Tom floated around the MIR looking for a friendly face. He settled on a busy looking female civilian.
‘DI Morton,’ he said, flashing his pass. ‘Are the pictures I requested ready?’
She looked around her desk and lifted some files to check. She didn’t find them because Tom hadn’t requested anything. He pointed to the printer.
‘Could you do me a really big favour, and print four copies of a mugshot? Bloke named Kelly.’
With a little teamwork, they tracked down Mr Kelly on the system, and Tom walked off with his pictures. Because they’d been done live, there was no electronic record, and no one would know he was looking for him.
It was getting dark as Tom drove them back towards Earlsbury. On the way, Kris put their mutual numbers into their phones then Tom asked, ‘Do you want a lift in the morning or shall I meet you in town?’
‘What time do you want me?’
‘I doubt we’ll find Kelly up and about too early. Unless you want to come to the hotel and help me work on the financials.’
‘I’ll pass on that. I want to go to church with Mom. I can meet you outside the Congregational Church at eleven.’
‘Fine. See you tomorrow.’
The Roman Catholic Church of Our Lady, Earlsbury, is modern and intimate: the bishop had a sense that congregations were going to dwindle over time rather than grow, and until recently, he had been correct. However, there was now a graph on the diocesan computer somewhere that showed attendance levelling out and then growing in the last five years, as the number of Polish catholics swelled the Church’s ranks – and some souls that had been lost were saved when they came to consider which school to send their children to.
Word had also got round that the Lynches were turning out in force, and the six o’clock Mass that night was the best attended service since Easter. Patrick didn’t find it comforting. He never did.
Ma insisted that Maria accompany her on the way out of the church. A lot of the congregation had stayed behind to sympathise, and Ma made sure everyone knew her opinion. According to Patrick’s mother, there were dark forces at work who would make sure that Dermot’s death remained a mystery. Although she knew absolutely nothing of the circumstances, Patrick thought she was right on the money. As usual. He waited in the porch.
Almost the last people out of the church were Helen and her husband. She sent her man ahead into the rain and gave her dad a kiss.
‘I’ve had a phone call,’ she said. ‘From James King. He’s going to be at Erin’s this evening. Says he’d like a word.’
‘Right. Are you okay to nip out on that other errand?’
She nodded.
‘Thanks, love. You’re an angel, as always.’
He took his mother back to the Elijah estate and found a parking space outside her house. He helped her inside and settled her by the fire.
‘What have you got for your tea?’
‘There’s one of those shepherd’s pies in the freezer. I’ll pop it in the oven.’
‘Shall I do that for you?’
‘Please, son. You’ll be getting off, no doubt.’
‘Sort of. I might nip out and nip back. Over the fence.’
‘Aren’t you a bit old for that?’
He kissed the top of her head and went into the kitchen. The pie would take an hour, and he suspected his mother would be asleep by then, so he set the timer and placed it next to her. She was already nodding over the paper.
Patrick swapped his coat for an old one in the hall and slipped out the back door. He climbed over the low fence into next door’s garden and into the garden behind. He went down the entry between the terraced houses and unbolted the gate. In seconds, he was on a parallel road and checking the parked cars for occupants.
Two minutes later, he knocked at the door of Erin King’s house, and James King answered it. He had never had much to do with James. Sol King’s older son looked more like his mother than his Jamaican father, if you stripped away the dreadlocks. He was wearing a tatty green combat jacket that Patrick dimly remembered seeing at the market when Sol used to help out.
James stepped back and pointed towards the living room.
Patrick checked the curtains (drawn) and looked around the room. Pictures of Erin and her children were thick on the walls. Over the fireplace was a recent one that included Robbie. After the near sauna conditions at Ma’s, the house seemed cold, barely warmer than outside. James followed him into the room and remained standing.
‘Erin’s at her mother’s,’ said James. ‘I got problems with paparazzi, believe it or not.’
‘What on earth for?’
James dismissed the topic with a wave. ‘Read about it in the morning. I just wanted somewhere we could meet without the press knowing.’
‘And the cops. They’ve got me under twenty-four hour surveillance.’
‘Quite right. I hope they arrest you and send you down for a looong time, Mr Lynch.’
‘Is that so, James? I hope for your sake they don’t do that because they’ll have put the wrong man in prison. On Wednesday night I was at my daughter’s school. I wasn’t within ten miles of Earlsbury.’
‘Are you telling me that Rob would still be dead if you hadn’t got him involved in your business?’
Patrick pulled his lip and looked more closely. Under the combat jacket, James was thin as a reed. Unless he had a weapon somewhere, James hadn’t called him round to do violence. ‘And are you telling me that Dermot would still be dead if Robbie hadn’t got involved?’
A shadow passed over James’s face and his mouth twitched in a spasm. ‘It was your business. Yours and Dermot’s. Rob was just a bystander. Your business got him killed whether or not you or Dermot pulled the trigger.’
‘That’s another thing, James. It wasn’t any of Robbie’s fecking business what happened that night. He should have been at home with Erin, not out at the Yard.’
Patrick took a step towards the other man. ‘Robbie didn’t have an invitation to that party, and he shouldn’t have crashed it. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder whether he wasn’t involved with the other side. Or with the cops. What about you?’
Patrick stepped forward and grabbed hold of James. The younger man struggled, but Patrick’s weight pushed him back against the wall. Patrick quickly ran his hands round inside the jacket then stepped away.
‘Just checking to see if you were wearing a wire.’
After the buffeting, James had shrunk back. Patrick was not a violent man at all. He hadn’t been in a fight since he was at school. Well, not many, but things were desp
erate. He couldn’t afford to have James King on his back as well as the police and Adam fecking Paisley.
He grabbed the picture from the mantelpiece and thrust it towards James. ‘See those boys? And Erin? What was your brother doing that night? Why was he out there? If you’re going to be throwing accusations around, I’d look closer to home first. I gave Robbie a job because your mother asked me to. I wanted to keep him out of trouble, not get him into it. Whatever he was doing that night had nothing to do with me. You might start with his old friends. The ones that got him banged up for dealing.’
Patrick replaced the picture and fastened his coat.
‘His name was Rob, not Robbie,’ said James. ‘And I would never, ever, do Babylon’s dirty work.’
Patrick stopped in the hall doorway. ‘Listen, James, I’m sorry for your loss, and even more for Theresa’s. If you find out anything I should know, pass a message through Helen like you did today.’
He left James in the living room and went back into the rain. He got back to his mother’s in time to take the pie out of the oven and serve it to her on a tray. He left her to eat it in peace.
The chair in Tom’s room at Earlsbury Park was comfortable enough, but the level of lighting in the room was appalling. He moved the furniture around a little and managed to get the standard lamp close enough to the desk to actually see Griffin’s financial papers. Having arranged the room, he took a shower and went to the hotel lounge. He needed some food before attempting a spreadsheet.
A young woman in a severe black suit was standing at the entrance to the bar. Tom assumed she was the duty manageress and asked her for a menu.
‘Sorry. I’m just visiting,’ she said. The embarrassment rushed up her fair skin all the way to her blond roots. Before Tom could offer his own apology, she went ahead of him into the lounge. Tom followed at a safe distance and grabbed the nearest empty table.
Earlsbury Park was both golf club and hotel. Signs on the wall pointed to function rooms, and there were several displays of happy brides showing how much it had to offer for your wedding. Tom wondered if they did divorces, too. The woman in the suit walked through the hotel lounge and entered the Nineteenth Hole. Tom could see her stop just inside and have a conversation with someone. She didn’t look like a golfer, he supposed, and she was unsuccessful in gaining admittance to the Members Only part of the complex.