Green For Danger - Volume II of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  Tom squeezed out the tea bags and chucked them in the bin. ‘I think that counts as a hole in one, don’t you?’

  Patrick and his daughter were in Helen’s car, on their way to pick up Maria for a visit to the Coroner’s office – and a meeting with James King.

  ‘It was a stroke of luck,’ said Helen to her dad ‘Aunt Maria had a phone call from the Coroner’s office, and she went into a panic. You and Mom were both busy at the time, so she rang me. I said I’d sort it.’

  She went on to explain that because Dermot and Robbie King had been found together, there had to be a joint inquest, and so Erin King would be there as Robbie’s widow. Helen had arranged it so that the other family would go first, and that James King would wait behind. Patrick told her that her mother would be proud of her for being so devious.

  ‘I thought you were the devious one in our family,’ she responded.

  ‘Ha. Deviousness is a female trait in this family. I’m just dishonest.’

  Maria Lynch wobbled down the path on her heels. She was head-to-toe in black as if this were the funeral and not a bureaucratic visit. Patrick got out to open the back door for her, and she climbed inside.

  ‘Where’s the Jaguar?’ said Maria. Charming, thought Patrick, one minute she’s ringing her niece and unable to cope, the next minute she’s complaining about the same niece’s offer of transport.

  ‘It’s more convenient this way,’ he said. ‘Helen can take us to West Bromwich and leave us there. Francesca will collect us afterwards. In the Jaguar.’

  Maria sniffed but said no more. Patrick explained that the next of kin were being invited to discuss the inquest and to be told what could and could not happen.

  The rest of journey was conducted in silence, and Patrick escorted Maria into the building. He directed her towards the family liaison office and told her that she was bearing up very well and that Donal would be proud of her.

  That seemed to flatter her vanity, and she attempted to glide towards the office. From behind, it was easy to see that she had let herself go when compared to Francesca. He scanned the foyer and spotted a room marked Private – Family Only. James King was inside, and so was a young couple he’d never seen before; James was telling them something about music but stopped abruptly when Patrick walked in.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said James to the young couple. ‘I think I’d better go.’

  Patrick held the door open, and James whispered to him, ‘There’s a smoking area out the back. See you there in five minutes.’

  Patrick smiled at the young people and pretended to be sending messages on his phone. They talked to each other in low voices, and after a few minutes he pretended to get a phone call then excused himself.

  James was standing well away from the Designated Smoking Area and pointed upwards to a CCTV camera when Patrick appeared. They both looked around carefully, and Patrick spoke first.

  ‘Last night must have been a terrible shock for you, Jim. It was for me.’

  ‘James. Call me James; it’s only Dave Parkes who thinks I like being called Jim.’

  ‘And we both know what a tosser that man is. Sorry, James, but like I said, last night was a complete bolt from the blue.’

  ‘I could tell. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t keeping things from me before. Time to stop, Patrick. Tell me what’s going on and how we’re going to find that bastard.’

  ‘We’re not. He was Dermot’s contact, not mine. And it gets worse – my suppliers have cut me off without leaving a forwarding address. I couldn’t find them if I wanted to and, to be honest, I don’t.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you have absolutely no way of getting in touch? I don’t believe you.’

  ‘James, I’ve got nothing. Nothing at all. If the police can’t find them, what chance do I stand?’

  ‘The police will find them if we give them a little help.’

  This was very disturbing. James hated the police, probably even more than his brother had done. To Robbie, the coppers had been an occupational hazard, but to James it was political. What had he called them once? That’s right Babylon’s Footsoldiers.

  ‘I’m surprised at you, trusting the police,’ said Pat. ‘If I give myself up to them, I won’t add anything to their knowledge of the crime because I wasn’t there. They know all about the counterfeit money, or they should do. If I give myself up, all that will happen is that I’ll go to prison. Who will that benefit? I don’t need Babylon’s punishment when God has punished me already.’

  James took a step back. ‘Cut the bullshit, Pat. You’re just trying to save your own skin.’

  Pat took a step towards him and leaned his head inwards. ‘I thought you knew me better than that. I care about Dermot as much as you care about Robbie, perhaps more because I had to fill in as his father. I reckon the scores are settled. I don’t think Dermot would be dead if Robbie hadn’t interfered, to say nothing of Griffin or that poor lad Hooper. The police don’t need my help.’

  James stood his ground. ‘Don’t you lecture me about responsibility. If you and your friends had told the truth from the beginning, none of this, none of it, would have happened. And that goes back eighteen years.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘I remember a song. You’re a musician, perhaps you know it. Ever heard of a band called Stiff Little Fingers?’

  James jerked his head up but said nothing.

  ‘No? Not your cup of tea, perhaps. Well, not musically. I thought they were a terrible racket, no tunes at all, but their hearts were in the right place. They had a song which said that we Irish are treated like green wogs.’

  ‘What do you know about it? You and your golf club and your private schools for Hope and Elizabeth. You don’t know nothing about prejudice.’

  ‘Talk to your mother. Ask her what it was like to be Irish during the Troubles. I’ve done my time inside, James, longer than you, and every time the police arrested me, I was guilty, even if they couldn’t always prove it. Except once. They arrested me for being in the IRA just because I took out an Irish Passport. They used the old Prevention of Terrorism Act, not this new one.

  ‘In those days there was no tape recorders, no access to lawyers, nothing except a bare cell and three days of interrogation. If I’d even hinted to the cops that there was a man from Belfast in the pub the night your father was killed, I’d have gone down for life, so help me God.’

  He drew back and measured the impact of what he’d said. He’d knocked some of the bluster out of James, but there was a core inside that he couldn’t reach. It was enough for now. If only he still had his own policeman – he hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on Griffin’s ability to pass on information about all sorts of subjects. There was someone higher up, he was certain, because who else would have ordered Griff to go out on that foul night and get shot for his pains?

  If James wouldn’t let the dead bury the dead, then so be it. He needed enough time to come up with a convincing plan, that’s all, and he thought James was about to agree with him.

  ‘There’s something that came to me last night,’ said James. ‘Something I could do on my own that wouldn’t necessarily come back on you.’

  ‘Careful, James, these are some very murky waters. You don’t know what sort of sharks are swimming around in there. I’ve dipped me toe in a few times and nearly had it bitten off.’

  ‘It was something Parkes said about what happened. See this?’ James fingered the tatty jungle jacket he always wore. Okay for Jamaica, but a trifle cold in Earlsbury. ‘My father put this in my wardrobe when he went in prison. He liked me to wear it on visits and I liked it too, even if it was so big it came to my knees. When he came out, he bought a nice leather jacket for himself, something a bit classier as Theresa would say.’

  ‘She would that. Look, there’s someone come out for fag. We’d better get moving.’

  James took hold of his arm and held him back. ‘Wait.’ Patrick stopped and James released him. ‘I asked mother what ha
ppened to Dad’s effects. She said she never got them back. That jacket would have been covered in blood, and I’ll bet it’s still in a warehouse somewhere. Your friend spat on it. I bet they could get DNA off that with all this new science.’

  That was a shocker and no mistake. Pat couldn’t deny it, the boy was right. There was every chance that Solly’s jacket had Big Ben’s DNA on it. Had the little psycho been in trouble since then? Would they have a sample of his DNA for comparison?

  ‘Hold on, hold on. That’s a desperate thing to contemplate. Information like that could blow up in our faces if we don’t handle it carefully. Your Da’s jacket isn’t going anywhere, so why don’t we think of the best way to approach this. Listen, have the paparazzi left you alone?’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t matter. I have to get back to work. Vicci cancelled the gigs last week, but her management won’t let her do it again. I’ve got to go back to London on Wednesday, and I won’t be able to come again until ten days later. How about we meet on Wednesday morning, and you can explain to me what you’re going to do.’

  Two days. It wasn’t long, but it was enough. He hoped.

  Tom asked Hayes to call BCSS and speak to the Exhibits Manager to inform her about the discovery of the misappropriated key. It was clear from Kris’s expression that she wasn’t getting the reaction Tom expected. Ah well, it could be sorted out later; he wanted to get to the golf club and ask some questions.

  He walked through the door into the Nineteenth Hole that the blond woman had tried to pass on Saturday night. He found that he had crossed a metaphorical as well as physical threshold.

  The golf club lounge was decorated more expensively and (possibly) more tastefully than the hotel whose buildings it shared. It depended on your point of view. There were the expected honour boards with roll calls of captains, champions and other worthies; there was a trophy cabinet and a display of products available in the Pro Shop, but mostly it was understated quality. Tom could see why people lingered there. Hayes was less impressed.

  ‘It’s a bit different from the Castle Women’s FC clubhouse,’ she observed.

  ‘I suspect this is a bit more feminine,’ he replied. ‘Let’s see what we can dig out.’

  Before he could ask the barman any questions, he accosted them with an offer to help followed by an instant reminder that this section was a private members club.

  ‘DI Morton and DC Hayes. We’re investigating last week’s shootings.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Tom took out the picture of DS Griffin. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s Jack Kirkstone, one of the members. Is he alright? I haven’t seen him for a few days.’

  ‘How long has he been a member?’

  ‘Couple of years. Longer than I’ve been here. Works in security, I think.’

  ‘Does he have any particular friends? Colleagues who come in?’

  The barman immediately sensed the move from fact to speculation and looked over his shoulder to the back of the bar. ‘I’m usually too busy to notice that sort of thing. You’d be better off speaking to the steward.’

  The man had already taken a couple of steps backwards but Hayes leaned over the bar and took hold of his arm gently. ‘Excuse me, sir, but we haven’t quite finished.’ She let go as soon as he’d stopped moving.

  ‘This is a serious enquiry,’ said Tom. ‘If you recognised this man quickly, I’m sure you recognise the people he normally talked to or played with.’

  ‘I don’t know what happens out there, unless people tell me,’ he replied, pointing to the picture windows. ‘When they do, it’s usually about their own game, not who they played with. Golfers are a bit self-obsessed like that.’

  Tom put on his best smile. ‘My colleague will take your details and ask a few more questions. I’ll just go and see the steward.’

  It was the barman’s turn to put out his arm. ‘You can’t go behind there without a warrant. Health and Safety.’

  Tom weighed up his options. He patted his pockets theatrically. ‘Damn, I’ve left my phone in the car. Carry on Hayes.’

  The barman was torn between running after Tom and leaving Hayes unsupervised in the bar. He decided to remain behind, and Tom went straight to hotel reception where he asked them to call the golf club steward and summon him from his office.

  Tom chose a discreet table in the corner and waited. The man he’d seen last Saturday was indeed the steward. In the ten steps from the Staff Only door to his table, Tom had a choice – a head on charge or a flanking manoeuvre. So far he’d been outflanked at almost every turn by the men behind this operation (and Mina Finch). He remembered something that Kate had once said – Assault without intelligence is another name for suicide. He decided to gather some intelligence first.

  ‘Thanks for coming out,’ said Tom as he flashed his warrant card. ‘My colleague and I want to talk about Griff. Shall we go to your office for privacy?’

  The man nodded and turned on his heel. On their way through the Nineteenth Hole, they collected Hayes, and left the barman looking worried. They were given chairs in the steward’s office, and he introduced himself as Craig Butler. Hayes took out her notebook.

  Tom studied the steward for a moment. He was about forty, and looked like he’d never properly recovered from an undernourished childhood. If Tom were running any sort of club, he doubted he’d want this man looking after the books – or the spirit cellar.

  ‘Can you start by telling me how the club works and how it relates to the hotel?’

  ‘Earlsbury Park Golf Club Ltd is a private company which leases the course, the changing rooms, and part of the buildings from the hotel. They employ me to run the Nineteenth Hole and administer the golfing side. Obviously, there’s a greenkeeper who looks after the course.’

  Tom nodded his head in understanding. ‘I believe that golfers are pretty red hot when it comes to scores, statistics, and green fees. You must keep records of when people play and so on.’

  ‘It’s complicated. The club has a Secretary; he’s elected by the members and organises the matches, competitions, and so on, but whenever someone goes out, they have to be entered in the book.’

  ‘Is that a physical book or a computer one?’

  The steward began to move in his seat, and as he swivelled on his chair, he glanced at the computer on his desk.

  ‘A bit of both. There’s a fee every time you play, and non-members’ names have to be recorded. I have to account for them.’

  In not answering the question, Butler had given himself away. It was time for the Assault.

  ‘Do you know what Conspiracy to commit Misconduct in a Public Office is all about?’

  ‘No. I’m not in a public office.’

  ‘Aah. No. But Detective Sergeant Griffin was. You knew that he was registered here under a false name, and I’ll bet that he gave a false address so that he could have his post sent here, too. By allowing a policeman to operate in this way, you are guilty of allowing him to commit Misconduct. The offence also covers bribery.’

  ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘Not yet. I presume the Golfing Committee aren’t the most tolerant of people, and that they won’t take kindly to having you arrested, the records seized, and the Nineteenth Hole shut down. With you gone, they’ll have to close the changing rooms as well until a replacement can be found.’

  Butler folded his arms. ‘I’m not a grass.’

  Tom reached into his pocket and took out a USB drive. He never went anywhere without it, which was a sad commentary on his life. He put it on the desk and rested his finger on top.

  ‘I’m not asking you to be a grass. Just let me copy a few files; you can tell anyone that asks you had no choice.’

  The steward stared down at the USB drive. Tom kept his finger still and added, ‘Unlike your barman, you knew this was a murder enquiry. That Goods Yard was a bloodbath. The next step could easily be a Molotov cocktail through the window.’

  ‘There’s n
o spyware or nothing on that, is there?’

  ‘No. If I wanted to hack your computer, I’d get my cousin to do it – you’d never know she’d been there until I came back with a warrant.’

  He started to slide the drive towards Butler until the other man gave in and snatched it up.

  ‘If I give away the membership list without a warrant, they’ll sack me.’

  ‘No. Just copy the daily journals over. Now that I know that Griffin called himself Mr Kirkstone, I’ll sort the rest out.’

  The two police officers sat in silence until Butler handed the drive back. Tom slipped it into his pocket. ‘Thanks. Just a few more questions that I can find out from Companies House if I want – who owns the Hotel, who owns the Golf Club Ltd company and how much profit did the club side make last year?’

  Tom had noticed that Butler was listed as the Licensee. It was almost impossible to get a liquor licence with a criminal record, which meant he wouldn’t be that familiar with interview techniques. Now that Tom had the files on his drive, he could probe a bit further; the habit of disclosure is hard to break, and the steward was beginning to realise that he had already given away too much.

  ‘Some finance company owns the Hotel, not sure who.’ That was easy. ‘The golf club doesn’t make a profit as such, I don’t think. It’s like a surplus and I don’t know where it goes.’ That was harder. Tom waited for the final revelation. ‘The shareholders are the members. Not sure how that works legally, though. Might be more your sort of thing.’

  Damn. Tom had hoped that some local villain would have been revealed as the beneficiary, but no, it was all cosy and communal. Well, he would have to see what the data threw up.

  ‘Do we need to go back to BCSS?’ asked Hayes on the way out. ‘You could analyse those files here in your room, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Your shift’s nearly over. I’ll drop you at home then go into the office myself. Earlsbury Park is okay, but I don’t want to spend any longer in that room than I have to.’