by Paul Finch
She passed the woman as closely as possible, before ducking through the entrance to the Ladies’, where she halted and hovered, never allowing the target to leave her eyeline.
Nan Creeley snapped the last button into place and set off across the pub.
Heck watched her hawkishly, looking for any last-second contact with someone.
But she met no one en route to the door.
Once she’d left the premises, Gail re-emerged from the Ladies’, checked the bar-top on the off-chance something had been left there and returned to their table.
‘Nothing,’ she grunted. ‘No notepaper, no bus ticket. If there ever was, she’s taken it with her.’
Heck stared at the distant corner. ‘Nothing at all?’
‘Nothing but the beer mats.’ Gail was visibly restless. ‘Shouldn’t we get after her?’
‘Just wait.’ On the surface, the obbo had failed, but some sixth sense was telling Heck that this thing wasn’t over yet.
‘Look, Heck, if she’s going to meet someone—’
‘If that’s the case, why did she come in here first and risk drawing attention to herself? Hang on, whoa …’ He turned to look at her. ‘Beer mats?’
‘That’s all. Just a couple of …’ Gail’s eyes widened. ‘Did she write that note on a beer mat?’ She stood up. ‘I’ll go and look …’
‘Wait.’ Heck grabbed her arm.
‘Christ’s sake … we need to know. All I have to do is—’
He pulled her back into her seat. ‘We don’t want the beer mat as much as the person who picks it up. And if he’s in here now, watching, you go and fiddle with it and he won’t show.’
Reluctantly, Gail remained in her seat, fingers interlocked to stop her hands trembling.
Heck could tell that she was deeply frustrated. Fleetingly, he remembered the reservations he’d had about Gail a couple of years ago: that she was sharp, keen and dedicated to the job, but that she lacked patience.
‘Listen,’ he said quietly. ‘If she’s been leaving notes on the beer mats that would explain a lot.’ He pushed her half-finished drink across the table to her. ‘Let’s give it another few minutes … see if anyone picks one of those beer mats up, yeah?’
Slowly, getting a grip on herself, Gail nodded.
They watched again, absorbedly, though no one came anywhere near the now-vacated farthest end of the bar.
‘It would be so easy for me just to go over there and check,’ Gail said. ‘I feel like we’re doing nothing, Heck. And yet we have a suspect who may be about to meet a contact …’
‘I’ve told you—’
‘I hear all that. But look at these people. Is anyone behaving furtively? Does anyone look wrong for this place?’
It was true. Almost to a one, those other people in the pub were now engrossed in laughter and conversation.
‘Gail … Eddie Creeley is very good at evading the law. That’s not going to happen for him if he uses amateurs.’
But briefly he wondered if Gail was right. What did they have so far that was solid? Nothing. And it was amazing how often you could delude yourself into believing that ‘nothing’ actually meant ‘something’.
He shook it from his head.
This was only the first night of the ground-level investigation. They could afford to be imaginative.
‘She’s been gone five minutes now, Heck, and no one’s making any kind of move.’
‘Perhaps they’re wary of us … we’re newcomers, after all.’
‘Heck … no one’s even watching us.’
‘Eddie Creeley doesn’t do obvious. That’s why his old muckers don’t even know where he is.’
‘Look …’ She made to stand up again.
‘Wait!’ he hissed.
She glanced over and saw the tattooed barmaid mopping down the bar-top in the area where Nan Creeley had been standing. And then start rearranging the beer mats – one of which she took away with her.
‘Good God,’ Gail breathed. ‘Is that barmaid the contact?’
‘It would make sense,’ Heck said. ‘That would explain why Nan’s been coming in here and not going anywhere else.’
He lurched to his feet.
‘Heck?’
‘Stay here, I’ll not be a sec.’
He walked quickly to the bar. The barmaid was down by the till. She no longer had the beer mat in hand, but it seemed to Heck that she’d just slipped something into the back pocket of her jeans.
‘What can I get you?’ the landlord asked.
‘Oh, erm …’ Heck glanced towards the barmaid again; various packets of nuts and crisps hung on the display stand next to her. ‘Bag of salt and vinegar, please.’
The landlord turned. ‘Fee, chuck us some salt and vinegar, will you, pet?’
The barmaid did as he asked. Heck paid and moved back to the table.
‘Feeling peckish?’ Gail asked.
He sat down. ‘Think she slipped something into her back pocket, but I didn’t see what.’
‘You know, that mat might just have been dirty or torn. It’s probably in the bin.’
‘The landlord called her “Fee”.’
‘And that’s relevant because …?’
‘Because it’s all we need.’ He grabbed his phone and stood up.
‘Where are you going now?’
‘Calling Eric Fisher. But I can’t have that conversation in here. You hold the fort, yeah?’
‘Hang on, Heck …’
‘Keep watching Miss Tattoo. Stuff may still happen.’
Gail muttered with irritation but remained in her seat.
Heck walked through the pub’s rear door and out into the darkened car park. Only one or two vehicles were present, but he wandered around to ensure there was nobody loitering inside any of them. Then he put the call through.
‘Yello,’ Eric Fisher said, on answering.
‘Hi, mate.’
‘Thought it might be you. Especially when I saw it was almost ten o’clock at night.’
Heck glanced up at the pub’s first-floor windows to ensure that no one was eavesdropping from on high. ‘I need something very fast, Eric. Really fast.’
‘Don’t we all,’ Fisher said. ‘Preferably blonde, 38-24-38 …’
‘No time for pipe dreams, mate.’
‘All right … let’s hear it?’
Heck heard Fisher’s fingers bang the keys of the laptop that habitually sat open on the coffee table in front of him when he was watching TV in the evening.
‘White female, early thirties,’ Heck said. ‘Red-brown hair. Heavy build, scuzzy tats on both arms. Humberside region …’
‘Define scuzzy?’ Fisher said.
‘Could be prison tats, but you never can tell these days. One distinctive tat on the left bicep. Only saw it from a distance, but looks like a Chinese dragon.’
‘Any names?’
‘Only one. Could either be a street name or a nickname. “Fee”.’
A brief silence followed, and then Fisher exhaled with satisfaction. ‘Try this for size … Fiona Birkdale, 13, Crawford Crescent, Bransholme, Kingston-upon-Hull, thirty-three years old. Sound like her?’
‘Could be. Keep going.’
‘Well-known. Form for drunk and disorderly, possession, dealing, wounding, theft. Sounds like a rum ’un. Not currently wanted, no outstanding warrants. Sorry if that means you’re not going to get the leverage you doubtless need.’
‘I’ll find some leverage, mate,’ Heck replied. ‘Don’t you worry.’
Chapter 14
The picture texted to Heck’s phone by Eric Fisher left them in no doubt that the woman behind the bar was Fiona Birkdale. It was a custody photo and a couple of years old, depicting a female with longish dark hair. But aside from that, she hadn’t changed.
They remained at the pub table, having another round of drinks, and continued to watch her as the clock ticked towards closing time.
‘We’ll wait till she leaves, and pull her on the wa
y home,’ Heck said. ‘If she’s got wheels, we’ll take her at her front door. If she’s on foot, we can find somewhere a bit quieter.’
‘Heck … I appreciate it’s a promising lead,’ Gail said. ‘But let’s be honest. We can’t pull her. This isn’t even circumstantial.’
‘That’s sadly true,’ he agreed.
‘So why don’t we do it all lawful-like? We go back to the nick and report to Gemma. And we come back here tomorrow with Hodges and Mortimer, and even DCI Bateson, if he’s so keen to see where his money’s being spent … with a warrant, based on the suspicion that she’s been assisting an offender. We turn her pad over, we’re bound to find something … we arrest her, and we’re on our way to striking pay dirt.’
‘Or alternatively just dirt.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
Heck glanced sidelong at her. ‘Because if we lock her up, she’ll give us absolutely squat. Look, Gail … whatever message was written on that beer mat, it’ll be in code or couched in non-incriminating language. It’s certainly not going to include directions to Eddie Creeley’s hideout. Those directions will be safe inside Fiona Birkdale’s head. And she won’t give them to us. Why would she? We’ll ultimately finish up charging her with possession or handling, or whatever Mickey Mouse offence it is that we finally drag her down to Clough Road for. And she’ll take that on the chin, even if it means doing a little time. You know why? Because even that is better than being known as a grass.’
‘And instead, we do what?’
‘Waylay her and have a private chat. That way, no one will know that she’s told us anything. We actually give her a reason to help us.’
‘So, what you’re saying is we’ll be granting her some kind of immunity from prosecution … even from having to give evidence?’
‘Basically, yeah.’
‘And are we authorised to do that?’
‘Course we aren’t.’
‘Hell, Heck …’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t see how this is going to work.’
‘I know. Give it a bit of time, though. And you will.’
Before Gail could object further, the object of their interest, having briefly disappeared into a back room, now reappeared wearing an anorak.
‘Off, Harry,’ she shouted.
‘Tomorrow, pet!’ he replied, barely looking up from the conversation he was having with one of the few locals left in the pub.
Heck glanced at the clock, which said that it was quarter-to-midnight. He swilled down the last of his beer, grabbed his jacket and stood up. Gail finished her wine and did the same. Outside, they at first saw no sign of the barmaid, which caused brief consternation, but then spotted a figure walking quickly away down an otherwise deserted side street, hands jammed into front pockets.
‘Good, she’s walking,’ Heck said. ‘Can you get after her, just in case she takes a side passage, or something? I’ll drive ahead … try and cut her off.’
‘Why do you get to drive?’
‘Because I’m in charge.’
‘Seriously, Heck?’
‘Do you really want a debate, Gail? Think it through. I’m a bloke. If she sees me following her at this time of night, what do you think’ll happen?’
‘OK … I suppose …’
‘Yeah, exactly. She may not run off, shouting for help. But she may shout. Do we need that kind of hullabaloo?’
Gail hurried off in pursuit.
Heck jumped into his Megane and gunned it to life.
Had Gail not known better, she’d have suspected that her quarry was deliberately leading her into dangerous territory. She followed her at about fifty yards, along several streets comprised of nothing more than boarded-up council properties. Only a few of the streetlamps here worked, so it was a tale of unremitting gloom. A couple of times, she thought that the chunky shape ahead glanced back at her, but these were fleeting, and in the restricted lighting it was difficult to be sure.
The barmaid then turned a corner and crossed a wasteland littered with demolition rubble. This was particularly awkward going for Gail in her high-heeled boots, but Birkdale didn’t gain much ground. Beyond the rubble, she veered down a passage between blocks of flats. These structures were occupied, most of their upper windows showing lights. It made Gail feel better, though the passage was long, perhaps seventy yards, and narrow. Its walls were sheer, and as it wasn’t overlooked by any of the apartments, the only light leaking into it came from the far end, though that wasn’t reassuring, as Gail had expected to see the diminishing form of the barmaid silhouetted there, and yet, suddenly, there was nobody.
She stumbled along more quickly but found that old furniture and mattresses, and numerous sacks of festering rubbish, had been dumped the full length of the alley.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, struggling to clamber around or over it all, and wondering where the hell Heck had got to.
At which point a burly form stepped out of a recess directly in front of her. Gail came to a shocked halt.
‘Looking for me, love?’ a voice asked.
It was hard, guttural. But it was also female.
‘Don’t bother answering that, pet,’ the barmaid said. ‘I saw you giving me the eye in the pub. So, I suppose the next question is … you looking for some action?’
Gail was so taken aback that she couldn’t initially respond.
Even in the half-light of the alley, Fiona Birkdale was a singularly unattractive presence; broad and heavily built, with pale, doughy cheeks, a low brow and small eyes. Her reddish hair had been slashed into a severe crew cut.
‘I don’t know,’ Gail said warily. ‘Maybe.’
Birkdale switched her phone light on, bathing the policewoman in a dazzling glow. A lingering silence followed, during which Gail realised that she was being assessed.
‘Think you’ve got me wrong, pet.’ Birkdale switched her light off. ‘Probably the tats and the haircut, eh? I don’t normally do birds. But looking at you, fuck … maybe I can be flexible.’
‘Excellent,’ came a male voice behind her. ‘Just what we like to hear.’
Heck had advanced from the far end of the passage and caught both of them unawares.
Birkdale swung around. Her hand stole into her anorak pocket, where possibly she kept a weapon. ‘What the fuck is this?’ she barked.
‘Relax, Fiona.’ He displayed his warrant card. ‘We’re police officers.’
Birkdale remained where she was, hand in pocket, as if unsure whether this revelation was reason enough to stand down. Only slowly, with barely concealed curses, did she relent, her hand coming back into view, empty.
‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck …’ She rounded on Gail, doubly furious with herself for being taken in. ‘Nice outfit, love … must’ve taken a while to doll yourself up till you looked human. Pity it was all for nothing.’
‘That depends on whether you consider gathering evidence of serious crime nothing,’ Heck said.
Birkdale swung back to face him, baring manky teeth. ‘I haven’t committed a serious crime.’
‘Really? What would you call obstructing a murder enquiry, assisting an offender?’
‘I’ve no fucking clue what you’re talking about.’ She hunched her shoulders and tried to brush past him.
‘Hang fire.’ He pushed her back, unceremoniously. ‘Don’t force me to arrest you.’
‘I’ve not done nothing.’ But her tone had now turned querulous. She was undoubtedly tough, but she was also frightened.
‘That beer mat in your pocket says different,’ Heck said, taking his first big chance of the night. Birkdale’s inability to answer this encouraged him to take another. He held his phone up. ‘I’ve got you on film picking it up from the bar-top after Nan Creeley wrote on it and putting it in your back pocket.’
Gail said nothing, but, even having worked with Heck before, she was amazed by the audacity of that line. He hadn’t taken any film during the pub stake-out.
‘Look,’ the barmaid said, her voice
breaking, almost becoming a whine. ‘I’m just delivering a message.’
Gail glanced at Heck with thinly suppressed fascination; he’d been right all along. He didn’t acknowledge this, though. It was no time for triumphalism.
‘I never ask any questions,’ Birkdale said, her voice having gone from aggression to weakness so swiftly that it verged on the ridiculous.
‘That won’t work, Fiona,’ Gail said. ‘Eddie Creeley isn’t just wanted in connection with one of the biggest armed robberies of the twenty-first century, he’s a two-time murderer who injected his victims with corrosive fluids. Do you really want a court to think you’re his protector?’
‘I’m not his protector.’ Tears glinted in the barmaid’s lashes. ‘I’m just a messenger girl.’
‘Fine,’ Heck said. ‘Give the message to us. And then you can take a walk.’
‘They’ll kill me.’
‘Why would anyone kill you? No one’ll even know about it.’
‘You’ve collared me in the middle of the street …’
‘No,’ Gail said, ‘we’ve collared you in an alleyway.’
‘But we can easily march you out into the street and have this conversation at the tops of our voices, if you want,’ Heck said.
‘You’ve got nothing on me.’ The barmaid straightened up bullishly, trying to regain control. ‘So, I’m not saying fuck all.’
‘OK.’ He took the cuffs out. ‘In that case, I arrest you. DC Honeyford then searches you … and finds the beer mat on which Nan Creeley wrote that message to her brother. The upshot: we get the message anyway, and you get charged.’
‘No … no!’ She shook her head angrily. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. The message isn’t for her brother. Nan doesn’t know where he is, and neither do I.’
‘Why don’t you cut the crap,’ Heck retorted, ‘and show us what it says.’
‘It won’t mean anything to you. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Show it to us anyway.’
‘Look …’ She glanced from one to the other, wet-eyed. Her anger had ebbed again, almost as quickly as it had risen. She was either a consummate actress, or she really was this emotionally unstable. It could have been either as far as Heck knew; not that he cared.