Green For Danger - Volume II of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  She retreated from the forbidden entrance and went up to the bar, where she leaned forward and whispered in the barman’s ear. He nodded in return. The woman stepped back then walked back out to the lobby, and Tom went up to the bar

  ‘Excuse me, sir’ said the barman. ‘I’ll be back in a second.’ He disappeared through the service door, and Tom browsed the specials board. A handwritten note at the bottom was offering a happy hour where double vodkas were available at a price that meant they couldn’t be making a profit. In smaller writing, it said cash only.

  When the barman returned, Tom ordered food, a glass of wine and, on a whim, the happy hour double. Instead of going to the optics, the barman reached under the counter to fetch out a vodka bottle which Tom studied carefully while it was being poured into a double measure. He charged the food and wine to his room and gave the man a fiver for the vodka, telling him to keep the change.

  Walking back to his table, he saw through the arch into reception where the woman in the black suit was lurking. A man came through a service door and joined her. Tom hadn’t seen him before, but he was wearing a jumper embroidered with Earlsbury Nineteenth Hole. Probably the golf club steward.

  While waiting for his food, Tom sketched a rough approximation of the logo on the vodka bottle into his notebook and wrote the name underneath. When the barman wasn’t looking, he left the glass with its untouched contents on another table.

  Chapter 8

  Earlsbury

  Sunday

  24 October

  Fate did not intend that Tom should enjoy the Earlsbury Park breakfast just yet: he had been summoned to another early briefing on Sunday morning. At nine o’clock he signed in to Black Country South Station and made his way to the Major Incident Room after grabbing yet another bacon bun from the canteen.

  In the police service, overtime is paid to constables and sergeants only. Tom was already beginning to regret becoming an inspector as he looked around the MIR. Winters was preparing for the briefing, and four other police officers were present, all at DI level or above. They pulled up chairs, and were joined by the civilian managers (who weren’t on overtime, either). Winters didn’t even thank them for coming in; he just got straight on to it.

  ‘First the good news. DC Hooper came through last night’s operation successfully. He is no longer in a medically induced coma, but he is very heavily sedated and will remain so for at least twenty-four hours. Off the record, the doctors think he’s unlikely to remember anything from Wednesday night because he was basically dead when they got him into surgery. Apparently that doesn’t help the brain form short-term memories.

  ‘Now the bad news. We covered a hell of a lot of ground yesterday for very little reward. Over four hundred and sixty interviews were carried out, and we even had two arrests, but no one was willing to say anything except the obvious – that Dermot Lynch was selling Chinese cigarettes and that Robert King used to be a drug dealer. There is some evidence that King may have been trying to sell skunk, but that’s not conclusive. No one reported any whispers of him dealing class A substances. Thoughts?’

  Tom’s notebook was still open at yesterday’s page. No one had mentioned the counterfeit currency – again – and a quick check of the HOLMES 2 log had shown that no one had interviewed Kelly. Or if they did, it wasn’t logged. Something was starting to smell off about this.

  One of the DCIs from Birmingham put up a hand and said, ‘My lads reported a lot of plain denials from people who should have known something. Quite simply, they’ve all closed ranks.’

  ‘I found the same,’ added another.

  Winters was playing with a whiteboard marker as he looked at the group. He tossed it in the air and snatched it like a drum major. ‘Okay, what’s missing? Which dogs aren’t barking?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Tom, putting up his hand.

  Winters pointed at him with the marker pen. ‘DI Morton from Professional Standards. You may have noticed he’s working with DC Hayes.’ The distaste in Winters’ voice was obvious to everyone. What surprised Tom was that it came when he mentioned Hayes’s name and not his own.

  ‘We all know that this was a big operation of some sort,’ continued Tom. ‘The people that carried it out have disturbed the status quo in some way. Why is no one talking about that?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Winters. ‘I can think of three possibilities. First, they’re so powerful that everyone’s afraid of them. Trouble is, no one gets that big without us hearing about it first or without making enemies who want to grass them up. Second, could this be a takeover bid from outside? If so, they’ll need to show their hand soon. There is also the possibility that this had nothing to do with the Black Country and that they’ll disappear. I don’t think that’s likely, so we’re going to focus on option two.’

  Tom disagreed profoundly with this assessment. If the murders at the Goods Yard were connected to the counterfeit money, this is exactly what he would expect – that they would move on.

  From the background, Winters wheeled a portable whiteboard which had all their names on it (including Tom’s, in small writing at the bottom). ‘We are moving into a different phase now. The overtime budget is just about shot out, and I’ve only brought in a fifth of the officers we had out yesterday. I’ve concentrated on those who are going to be continuing on Monday morning. The plan is simple – we need to be laying traps, making contacts and getting to know the area that Lynch, Griffin and King were operating in. When the takeover starts, I want to know about it. That’s part one.’

  Winters wrote Intelligence next to two of the names on the board. ‘Part two is preparation for the interviews tomorrow morning with Patrick Lynch and Theresa King. Patrick is a long term distributor with a record going back to the last century. I want two teams here building up a picture. Basically, everyone who nominated Dermot Lynch as a villain should be seen as knowing something about Patrick, too.’

  The name Lynch was written next to the other two local officers and Griffin was written next to Tom’s name. Winters didn’t seem to think it merited a comment. They were dismissed.

  Three of the team in Aberdeen liked to keep in shape properly, and they had more-or-less forced Kate to join them. Sunday morning to them was a chance for a cross-country workout with running, circuits and a final dose of sparring in various martial arts. Kate had never gone beyond basic self-defence so she left them to it after the run and headed into the holiday cottage for a shower. She could already smell Sunday brunch wafting up from the kitchen when she got dressed and went to check her monitors – not that she expected them to show much activity overnight. Their team leader was waiting for her in the dining room which doubled as Kate’s communication centre.

  ‘Skinner’s been on the line,’ he said. ‘Asked me how you’re getting on. I told him very well – so well that we could do without you.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ she replied. ‘The contract was a fixed fee until the job’s completed.’

  ‘And will be honoured in full. That doesn’t stop you taking the next job if necessary.’

  That was a shame. Kate was enjoying this job. A good team, challenging work and no one shelling her at night. Much better than Helmand.

  ‘It depends on the job,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve got a lot of work in Pakistan at the moment, but I don’t think you’re our best asset for that. It’ll be a long time, if ever, before white women can move around the country with the sort of freedom we need.’

  ‘Good – because I wouldn’t go.’

  He gave the hint of a frown. ‘The same can’t be said of China. Contract for GCHQ. How’s your Mandarin?’

  Kate got the feeling that this was in or out – the two jobs they had given her so far were relatively straightforward and well paid. The look in her team leader’s eyes suggested that the gravy train would be coming to an abrupt halt if she didn’t agree to this job.

  ‘How much and how long?’

  He nodded and handed her a USB dr
ive.

  Tom was early enough to find a parking space with a good view of the approach to the George Hotel. He locked his car and left it, heading off into town in search of the Congregational Church.

  He had passed St Oswald’s on its hill several times and discounted it, but the A to Z of the West Midlands showed a road leading off the High Street with two little crosses marked. Tom stopped at the paper shop to pick up the Sunday Times. While waiting in the queue, he noticed that two of the tabloids were leading with the same story: Queen Victoria in Earlsbury Link. He picked up the Sunday Mirror, stowing the papers and a bottle of water in a carrier bag. He went round the corner and paid a visit to the custody suite of the police station. He didn’t mention CIPPS when he asked the sergeant whether there would be an interview room free later. After that, he cut through to Earl’s Hill.

  The road sloped down and he could make out some of the Birmingham skyscrapers in the distance. As it twisted to the right, he saw a cluster of people hanging around the entrance to a church. He crossed over and soon spotted the long lenses of paparazzi. The church was modern, and Tom doubted it was the Congregational – a judgement confirmed when he saw the Roman Catholic display board outside. An older man was standing back from the scrum. Tom had plenty of time and sidled over to join him.

  ‘Who are they waiting for?’ he asked.

  The man gave him a sour look. ‘Bloody leeches, they are. Can’t leave a family to grieve in peace. Mind you, they’ll be lucky if they see anyone today. Jim King hasn’t been to Church in years and it’s family communion this morning.’

  This might as well have been in Latin for all the sense it made, so Tom just nodded. He suspected the answer would lie in the Mirror. A newish Jaguar drew up to the kerb, and all the paps rushed over, then backed away when they saw who was in it. The last of the rain was forming little streams down the highly waxed bonnet. Three women got out of the car and huddled close together. The older woman put her arm protectively around a fragile looking teenager before she propelled them towards the throng of photographers. Tom heard a few shutters popping, but no one approached them.

  The third woman who had got out of the car was between the other two in age and had changed her blouse since Tom had asked her for a menu last night, but she was wearing the same suit. He turned away in embarrassment and noticed that the Jaguar driver hadn’t emerged to join them, but had sped off while the women were still adjusting their coats. The next vehicle down the hill was a satellite TV van. Not a news truck, but an engineer’s vehicle with a film promo on the side.

  He’d seen that film nearly four months ago, and he’d seen the same advert for it on an identical van this morning. The van was parked in the secure car park at BCSS. Who was in the Jaguar and why were the surveillance team following it?

  He turned to the old man. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m meeting someone at the Congregational Church. Is it down here?’

  The man gave him an appraising look. ‘No, mate, that’s the United Reformed down there. Congs are back over the hill, by Elijah.’

  Tom remembered his trip round the Elijah estate with Hooper and the small building at its entrance. He thanked the man and headed back up the hill.

  The Congregational Church of Earlsbury was built from the same bricks as the Elijah estate which sprawled behind it. The doorway was mean and promised little in the way of architectural grandeur. When the congregation emerged at eleven o’clock, Tom could see why the old man of Rome had given him such a funny look. The worshippers here were about 90 per cent Afro-Caribbean.

  Kris Hayes emerged in the middle of the throng, smiling and relaxed. There were far more women than men in the group, and she was being fussed over by motherly figures. Tom kept well back on the pavement, but he could sense one of the women making for him.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Mr Morton?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Hayes?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m Kris’s mother.’

  A handshake was followed by an appraising look. ‘She says to tell you that she needs to get changed and she won’t be long. She says you been good to her yesterday.’

  ‘She’s got the makings of a good detective.’

  Mrs Hayes nodded. ‘Of course she has. Shame on them, shame on them.’

  Before Tom could ask what she meant, Mrs Hayes was walking back towards the church. A few minutes later, she reappeared with her daughter, who was now wearing trousers instead of a skirt. Mrs Hayes locked the doors behind her.

  ‘Morning, sir. You met my mother, I see.’

  ‘Yes. Is she an elder or something?’

  ‘Sort of. Let’s go before she invites you for lunch.’

  Tom thought that lunch was quite a good idea, but fell in beside his DC. At the turning into George Street, he pointed at the pub, ‘Which one of us is going to stand out most in there? You or me?’

  She considered the building and pointed to the two blackboards outside. One offered Traditional Sunday Roast and the other promised Three Live Games with Stoke City vs Manchester United as the opening attraction.

  ‘Both of us.’

  Tom handed over the carrier bag with the newspapers and his car keys. ‘I’m going to have a quick look round. When I get back, I want to know who Queen Victoria is and what on earth is her connection to Earlsbury.’

  Kris gave him a deadpan look. ‘Apart from her visit here in 1884, you mean.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Sounds like the sort of useless information you should be telling me, though.’

  Tom laughed and headed into the pub.

  He avoided the room where sounds of Sunday morning TV were emerging and headed into the restaurant. A waitress told him that they wouldn’t be open for food until twelve. Tom was about to leave when he spotted something behind the bar. He flashed his warrant card and told the waitress to get the manager. It took a couple of minutes before a man in chef’s whites appeared.

  ‘I thought you lot were finished with us,’ he said. ‘Make it quick. I’ve got two sides of beef to keep an eye on.’

  ‘I think the other officers might have been asking the wrong questions,’ said Tom. ‘They were probably asking what happened last Wednesday night … and do you know anything about what was going on.’

  The manager nodded cautiously. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘DI Morton, special investigations.’ It was near enough. ‘The question that should have been asked is this: Why are you selling Dermot Lynch’s knock-off vodka?’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said the manager, but his eyes had already flicked to the optics where the same brand of vodka that was kept under the counter at Earlsbury Park was on display.

  ‘That beef’s gonna burn. What do you want?’

  ‘Two things: co-operation and Kelly. Will he be here?’

  ‘You’re welcome to the old bastard. Of course he’ll be here. About half past twelve. He’ll be making a book on the Man Utd game, too. If you arrest him, make sure you arrest the bloke on his left as well. He keeps the records.’

  Hayes had spread newspaper all over his car, throwing the various components of the Sunday Times in the back and disappearing behind its Sports section. The Sunday Mirror was folded up on the driver’s seat and she had helpfully put a ring around three paragraphs. Tom scanned the highlights:–

  Queen Victoria – Pop Sensation – Competition Finalist – Bass Player – James King – Drugs Conviction – Both their fathers murdered…

  He stopped reading. ‘What’s this about Lynch and King’s fathers?’

  ‘Looks like you an’ me are the last to be told – because everyone else knew. Solomon King and Donal Lynch were killed in a fight in Earlsbury. King killed Lynch, and an unknown assailant killed Solomon King. It happens.’

  ‘Surely it can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Why not? Dermot and Robert were in the same class at school. Earlsbury’s a small town, and it was a long time ago. They were only little.’

  �
�Is there more?’

  ‘Try the big paper. There might be something in there.’

  ‘It’s called a broadsheet.’

  ‘After the size of the paper, I know. We did all that in media studies. Doesn’t make it any easier to read in the car though, does it?’

  Tom ferreted about in the back until he came up with the relevant section. He learnt that Patrick Lynch had fathered a child with Solomon King’s wife, and that the cuckolded husband had been killed in a brawl at a pub which no longer existed.

  He was wondering what this could mean when his phone rang. For the second day running he had had to introduce Hayes to one of his relatives. This time it was Kate.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Can you talk?’

  ‘Up to a point. I’m on surveillance in Earlsbury.’

  ‘Aah.’

  ‘Quite. I’ll tell you all about it later. And why I’m not with the MLIU any more.’

  ‘Oh. I’m afraid that later might be a while. I’m done up here and I’m off abroad.’

  ‘Surely not back to Helmand?’

  ‘No. Never. The food’s much better where I’m going, though you might not agree.’

  ‘Well, take care.’

  Hayes had made no pretence of not listening this time. ‘That sounded like you were talking in code.’

  ‘We were. Kate’s just left the Army and now she’s off to China, apparently.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘Old joke. I prefer Indian, she prefers Chinese. Which is your favourite?’

  ‘Jamaican. Nice change of subject, by the way. What’s the plan?’

  ‘Drive off, come back in an hour or so and arrest Kelly. In the meantime, you do have a choice – Earlsbury Park or BCSS canteen.’

  ‘If you’re paying, it’s Earlsbury Park.’