by Olly Jarvis
She understood him.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Jack shouted back, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tiny memory stick. He threw it towards Lara. She caught it. ‘I got the clerks to do you a copy. Makes you feel better, knowing the whole case fits inside that.’
Chapter 20
Trade was slow. Acer was bored. Still, at least it wasn’t raining. Standing in the doorway watching the world go by. He looked very smart in his dinner suit and cashmere coat. Only his heavily tattooed hands and neck reminded people of his status – a doorman not to be messed with. The knuckles on his right hand bore the initials MCFC – Manchester City Football Club.
Hypnotized by the rotating doner in the window of Karim’s Kabab Howse, he could see Karim slicing off pieces of meat for a customer, then nonchalantly flipping pitta bread on the grill. It gave him an appetite. He could smell it too. Don’t forget the chilli sauce, he thought to himself.
Nothing else was open. Not at night. Not round here. No shops. Dented steel shutters marked out the High Street.
No competition either. They’d seen to that. The only pub with the bottle to stay open had been The George. Acer could see it from the doorway. Derelict now. Chipboard for windows.
He looked back to Karim’s and noticed the customer leaving. A little girl. No more than ten. Struggling to carry the kebabs and a six-pack of lager. She must have been sent out to buy tea for the family. The sight warmed him. She was the same age as his boys. A right pair of tough guys.
Acer liked working the doors. Especially Milo’s. Here it meant something. The boss understood that. In the city centre it would’ve been just another lap-dancing bar. Here, in this part of Salford, it served as a reminder of who was in charge. And wealth on its own was worthless, unless it was envied. No better place to show it off than in the poorest, most neglected part of town.
Acer saw the black Bentley turning on to the street from a good hundred yards away. Butterflies. He always got them when the boss was around. Everyone did.
He set off through the club to greet them at the back door. Respect was everything.
The vehicle pulled into the car park. By now Acer was waiting, ready to open the rear passenger door. Before he had a chance, the front passenger window opened. The driver leant across and beckoned to him. ‘Hop in, pal.’
Acer opened the door and slid into the seat. He tried to hide his anxiety by taking in the detail of the walnut dash.
‘Hello, Acer,’ came a voice from the back seat.
He instinctively turned his head to greet his boss. The driver slapped his face.
‘Sorry,’ said Acer, angry with himself for being so impertinent. He had seen enough to know it wasn’t his boss in the back. It was one of his enforcers, with the scar on his cheek. Didn’t know his name.
‘Did you go to the game yesterday, Acer?’ asked the rear-seat passenger. They were both Mancunians.
‘Yes, more fool me,’ he replied, trying to laugh.
‘Mr Boyle wanted to thank you, Acer. For all the help you’ve been giving him lately. He’s got you a present.’
Acer could see something out of the corner of his right eye. Continuing to look straight ahead, he reached up and took the small box that was being handed to him. He opened the lid. Inside was a simple T-shaped corkscrew. ‘Thank you. He shouldn’t have,’ said Acer politely.
‘The handle is English oak, you know. Pass it ’ere. Let’s see if it works.’
Acer took it out of the box and handed it back over his shoulder. He wanted to go into the club. He was scared, even though he knew he had no reason to be.
He could hear the squeak of the cork turning in the bottle, and then – pop. The sound of wine being poured into glasses.
‘Here you go, Acer.’
He accepted the glass.
‘A toast. To City. And their players of the beautiful game.’
Acer clinked his glass against the one that had been thrust over his shoulder. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
He raised the glass to his lips and drank. Red wine.
Suddenly, a piercing pain. He jolted. The wine spilt out and down his white shirt. The corkscrew had been thrust into the side of his neck. Blood spurted.
Acer’s attacker whispered into his ear as he twisted the corkscrew deeper in. ‘Shh… There, there. It’s OK. Shh…’
Acer could feel the life draining out of him. Last thoughts of love and family. Then, he was gone.
Scarface sat back in his seat. His voice was harsher now. More businesslike. ‘Dump him by the entrance and clean up all this claret.’
Chapter 21
‘You’re late!’
‘I know,’ replied Lara. ‘I’m sorry.’ She’d hardly got through the door before Matthew pounced. He stood behind her and pulled off her coat. She could feel his breath on her neck.
‘I got your text,’ he said with a hint of irritation. ‘I suppose congratulations are in order.’
‘Thanks.’
Lara followed him obediently into the kitchen. Everything put away apart from the bottle of white wine and two glasses on the table. He poured the wine then held out a glass to Lara. ‘Smell the bouquet.’ He watched as she held the glass up to her nose. It put her on edge. ‘Gewürztraminer, from Alsace,’ he said tersely. ‘It’s a dessert wine.’ He had a sip, then licked the remnants off his lips – ‘Delicious with tart.’ He leant forward and kissed her with his tongue. He wanted to devour her. He yearned for her. For her youth. He wanted to suck it out of her. Only an old man could know the pain of owning something so young. So full of life. ‘Where were you?’
‘I had to go for something to eat with the barrister. You know, keep him sweet and all that.’
He put the glass down and continued to unwrap her, pulling her blouse down round her shoulders.
‘You like him, don’t you, Lara?’
In a whisper: ‘Yes.’
Matthew found his jealousy arousing as he kissed her neck.
Chapter 22
Jack went into the kitchenette by the clerks’ room to make a coffee, the only way he was going to stay awake. Nothing was more exhausting than the pressures of court, especially in a case like this. A desk light glowed in the clerks’ room. He hadn’t noticed it earlier. Bob was at his desk, working away on his computer screen. ‘Hello, Bob. Still here?’
‘’Fraid so. It’s the only time I can get any real work done. Too much chaos during the day. I saw you come in. Thought it best not to disturb you, Mr Kowalski.’ But now he had the chance, he added, ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Mr Kowalski, but we’re all very proud of you. Pulling it out the bag at the eleventh hour. We’re all rooting for you.’
Jack was moved. He knew how hard it had been for Bob to say that to a mere squatter.
‘It’s important to the boys in the clerks’ room to see a “normal” lad cut it in this game. Just don’t fuck it up, Mr Kowalski. It’s what everyone expects.’
‘Thanks, Bob,’ replied Jack sarcastically. ‘I was hoping someone would pile on a little bit more pressure from somewhere.’
‘That Miss Panassai is a cracker, isn’t she?’ said Bob, ignoring Jack’s flippancy. ‘She’s a strong character. Reminds me of her father, Michael Panassai.’
He saw the look of enquiry in Jack’s eyes. ‘He was one of the most promising young barristers around, until the accident.’
‘Barrister? What happened exactly?’
‘Car crash. Killed him and the missus. She died first. He lingered on in hospital for a while. Awful business.’
Jack was shocked. Why hadn’t Lara told him?
Chapter 23
‘Morning!’
Jack woke with a start as Lara slammed a large Americano and a bacon butty on the table next to his head, which was resting on an open file.
He sat up slowly, put the coffee to his lips and sipped gratefully.
‘You wanted to know about NCA?’
‘Yeah, what’ve you got?’ replied Jack, still try
ing to get his bearings.
‘Their remit – to tackle all aspects of organized crime. And they are the UK’s point of contact for Europol and Interpol.’
‘Really?’ Jack replied. ‘Which means they are heavily intelligence driven.’
Lara nodded. ‘And where there’s intelligence…’
‘…there are informants.’
They moved on to share what they’d gleaned so far. It soon became clear they had barely scratched the surface. Work started in earnest.
The day seemed to fly by. After another long session of silent rummaging through files, Lara exclaimed, ‘There’s nothing in here that gives any inkling that Marpit was a participating informant. More than that, there is nothing I can find that gives me any ideas for making further enquiries. Is there anyone I should be approaching to take a witness statement from?’
Jack was getting tired, at a loss as to how to progress. The case seemed – on the face of the papers – proved. ‘I’m out of ideas,’ he shrugged. ‘There is one question I would like the answer to, though.’ He pulled out a large sheet of paper from a file. ‘They’ve got the phone billing records in this chart. Marpit is constantly ringing one particular number, which isn’t on the prosecution chart. I couldn’t work out whose it was. Then I remembered the number he wrote on your pad. It was the same one.’ He showed her the billing records.
Lara checked in her phone where she had stored the number. It matched.
‘Yes, I called her, like he asked – his daughter, Melanie. She sounded late teens, early twenties. I don’t get your point.’
‘Hang on, hang on, I’m getting to it, My Lord,’ Jack said, in a mock reproach. ‘The arrest was on March thirteenth. There’s no traffic between her and Marpit for a few months leading up to his arrest, yet there is new traffic to a landline, from Marpit’s phone, during those same months. Why?’
‘Maybe she lost her phone or moved.’
Jack was unconvinced. ‘Even if she had access to a landline she would still use a mobile. I’ve thought about this a lot. It’s odd. I can’t find any reference in the papers to the attribution of that landline. How can we find out?’
Lara frowned at Jack and shook her head in a way that was becoming familiar to him. ‘Ring it!’
Jack was embarrassed but glad Lara was the only one there to see him miss the obvious, again. He picked up her mobile and handed it to her. ‘Go on then, you’re the solicitor. Make the enquiry.’
She dialled the number and put the phone to her ear. ‘Oh hello, yes I am just enquiring… Is it private? … What exactly do you specialize in? … Thank you very much.’
She was puzzled.
‘Well?’ asked Jack.
‘It’s a private clinic to rehabilitate Class A drug addicts. Basically, heroin and cocaine.’
They were both disappointed. This meant Marpit was probably hiding something.
‘That makes sense,’ said Jack. ‘You’re not allowed to have a mobile in those places. They have strict rules about contact. I don’t believe that gambling-debt bullshit. We’d better go and see him. It’s nearly time for the bail check anyway.’
Chapter 24
Marpit’s bail condition of residence was at the Britannia Hotel, Piccadilly. It had seen better days as Manchester’s grandest and most famous cotton warehouse, but still had the huge chandelier in the lobby and the grand winding staircase. Lara had chosen it ‒ a cheapish hotel that was far enough from Crown Square for Marpit to do a circuitous anti-surveillance walk to and from court.
Lara explained en route that she had booked two adjoining rooms, making each booking separately. One was in Marpit’s name and the other was not. Marpit, at breaking point, had been placated by Lara assuring him that if ‘they’ came for him in the night, they would break into the room booked under Marpit’s name, unaware that he was, in fact, in the room next door. Marpit would be able to check the other room periodically to see if anyone had entered.
Jack was staggered by Lara’s ingenuity.
What should have been a ten-minute walk to the hotel in fact took about an hour. They jumped on the hopper bus a few times, then onto a tram, ducking into cafes, out of back doors, and down alleyways until they were sure they couldn’t have been followed. They felt they owed it to Marpit to be this careful. He was bound to ask and they were not going to lie to him.
They arrived at room 211, booked in Marpit’s name. A ‘do not disturb’ sign hung on the door. They went in, shut the door and then crossed to another door. The room was a mess. Marpit had made it appear as if 211 was being used. She knocked twice and then twice again. ‘The code he gave me,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
After several seconds the door opened. Marpit quickly ushered them in, shutting and locking the connecting door behind them. Their client gestured for them to sit on the two chairs that were tucked under a small circular table. He was wearing a white hotel dressing gown and slippers. A large translucent ‘property bag’ with his few possessions was on top of one of the twin beds. Several trays with the remains of room-service meals were stacked up on the table. This was a man who had spent the last six months eating prison food.
‘How are you, Carl?’ asked Lara with genuine concern.
‘Crappin’ myself. Couldn’t sleep a wink last night. Every little noise. I thought they were comin’ for me.’ He stared at Jack, his eyes bulging. ‘Listen, Mr Kowalski. I dunno what’s around the corner, but right now, you saved my arse. You played a blinder. Right out the top drawer.’
Jack signalled his heartfelt thanks. He wanted to ask about the phones but knew he had to settle the client down first, rebuild a rapport, rather than go charging in. Briefly he went over what they had found in the papers, which wasn’t much. Jack explained that they hadn’t discovered any evidence of participating informants, and went on to say why the case against Rako and Purley was actually very weak. They were never seen near any drugs, or at the unloading.
Eventually, Jack got to his main point. ‘You don’t have any gambling debts, do you?’
Marpit didn’t answer.
‘Carl, if you lie to me again, I will withdraw from the case. It’s not a game. I have a duty to the court. Please don’t take the piss out of me. I can’t act for someone who keeps changing his instructions. I need to know the truth.’
Marpit stood up, then sat down again. He looked faintly ridiculous in his white dressing gown. The pampered attire seemed incongruous for a man in such turmoil. ‘You’ve got to understand, I’m under a lot of pressure here. I don’t know what to do for the best. I need time to think. I need to speak to Melanie. Can we talk tomorrow morning? Please?’
Despite his inexperience, Jack knew he had to protect his integrity. ‘No lies. Tell me now or I’m off the case.’
After what seemed like an age, Marpit answered. ‘All right, the gamblin’ debts was a lie. Melanie was in rehab. She’s a coke addict. The NCA knew all about ’er. They were givin’ me money to pay for the clinic.’
Jack was sceptical. He thought there was more.
‘Why lie about it?’ asked Lara, equally dubious.
‘I didn’t want to involve her in this. I’m sorry.’
‘So Melanie was your vulnerability?’ asked Lara.
Marpit didn’t answer.
Jack felt he still wasn’t getting the full picture but he knew these were now his instructions. He would just have to accept them.
They spent some time with Marpit, getting as much detail as they could about rough dates and times of contact with the handler, ‘Wolfy’. They heard what was said and what the handler knew, but Marpit was thin on detail. Lara made a note of the handler’s mobile telephone number, which Marpit had memorized. It was his only evidence of Wolfy’s existence.
There were no new leads. Jack decided to call it a day.
As they descended the huge winding staircase, Lara telephoned NCA officer Calvin Finch to confirm that Marpit had been seen at the bail address. The prosecution, in particular NCA, didn
’t know where Marpit was staying. This was an unusual but understandable extravagance, bearing in mind Marpit’s assertions about NCA’s abandonment of him as a participating informant. Finch answered his phone. He was keen to engage Lara in conversation, but she gave nothing away.
* * *
Marpit stared out of the window at the busy world below. The view wasn’t great, but it was better than he had become accustomed to. His meeting with the lawyers had not made him feel any more optimistic.
A knock on the door. He jumped. And again. Next door. He froze. He could hear people in the room. His eyes were fixed on the connecting door, afraid to move. Furniture was being shifted. Was it The District? Had they found him already?
Chapter 25
Back at chambers, Jack was still complaining about their client.
‘This whole thing stinks. He’s making fools out of us.’
Lara shrugged. Jack was probably right.
As they sat down again in the library, Lara’s mobile bleeped ‒ a text message. ‘Oh my God, it’s from Marpit. There’s someone next door!’ Lara had insisted that Marpit bought a pay-as-you-go mobile after he got bail. His old phone was now an exhibit in the case.
Jack jumped to his feet. ‘Ring Finch!’ he shouted, without thinking about the implications.
‘Hang on, Jack. If we tell Finch, Skart will remand Marpit for his own protection. Making that call is a big decision.’
‘But what if we do nothing and they scrape a body off the floor of room 212? The judge will ask why we did nothing. I have a duty,’ he said in a more reasoned reply.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But let’s just think this through. If they were out to kill Marpit, they could break in and do it within minutes. We don’t know how they got into 211. Maybe it was a maid, who knows? Let’s go and see for ourselves.’