‘That’s a date,’ he said gratefully, waving for the bill. ‘Ta for being so good to me, George.’ He made a little gesture, flicking his thumb and forefinger at the invisible brim of the hat he was not wearing, and she could have wept, it was so brave.
In a way, she told herself when she got to the hospital next morning, it had been better that Gus had gone off to his own flat alone. Like him, she had needed to think about what she would do and how she would do it; and she had started by listing questions she would ask Mike Urquhart.
First, had he any idea what the CIB team were up to? Could he find out if he hadn’t?
Second, were there any documents lying around in the big room where Gus had worked when he was at Ratcliffe Street, with Sergeant Salmon and the two DCs, Bannen and Lipman? She was proud of herself for remembering their names, and had written them carefully in the ring-binder notebook she prepared for her efforts on Gus’s behalf. The first page had a list of all the police personnel who might have some knowledge of the case Gus had been working on. She was quite sure, she had told herself soon after Gus had gone, that the reason for this attempt to fit him up lay in the work he had been doing. She had suggested as much to him on the way back to her flat after supper and he’d produced a sort of grunt of assent.
‘What other reason could there be?’ he’d said, then lapsed into silence; and he was right. What other possible reason was there for someone gunning for Gus except the possibility that he was getting too close to something important?
She phoned the nick at nine-thirty sharp, hoping to catch Mike before he was sent out on some case or other, but giving him time to get in late. He’d put in a lot of overtime recently and might in consequence be indulging himself a little in the mornings. She’d planned it right and that made her absurdly pleased with herself.
‘Hello, Dr B.,’ he said, his voice subdued.
‘You’ve heard, then?’ she said.
‘The place is alive with it,’ he said. ‘It’s gone round like a brush fire. Is the Guv all right?’
‘He’s coping,’ she said. ‘Mike, I need some help.’
He sounded alarmed. ‘Again?’
‘It’s all right. I told Gus I’d be asking you.’
‘Oh.’
‘So will you help me? Not me, really. It’s Gus. I have to try to find out what I can about what’s going on, who’s accusing him, and what for, so that we can get some sort of defence together.’
There was a little silence and then he said uncomfortably, ‘I’m no’ sure this is a good time to talk. Or the right place.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re probably right. Look, maybe – Let’s see the list of today’s – Yes, I thought I saw one. There was a hit and run yesterday and there’s some argument about whether the victim was hit from the front or the side. It makes a difference to the statement of the driver, it seems. Are you able to come and represent the police when I do the PM?’
‘A hit and run? What’s the name?’
‘Um … Leopardi, Vittorio Leopardi. Man of seventy.’
‘I’ll look. Hold on.’
When he came back he sounded a little more cheerful. ‘It’s supposed to be Morley but he hates PMs. So I’ve told him I’ll do it for him, if he takes on a pile of phone calls I’m supposed to do. He thinks I’m mad, but that’s all right. What time?’
‘Ten-fifteen,’ she said. ‘Get here as early as you can so that we can talk properly.’
‘Right away, is it?’ he said, speaking a little more loudly. ‘Right, if that’s the way it is, Dr B., I’ll be on my way. Sorry to delay you.’ And the phone rattled in her ear. She grinned. A good man, Urquhart. Setting up his alibis as neatly as may be for the benefit of possible listeners; though who would know better how to do it, after all? She went hurriedly to speak to Sheila about the day’s work before taking herself down to the mortuary where Danny was sorting out the PM room ready for the hit-and-run victim.
Mike arrived before she had changed. She came out of her cubicle, her rubber apron flapping against her legs in a comfortingly familiar way, to find him outside. She smiled at him warmly.
‘Bless you for coming so quickly, Mike. We can talk in Danny’s cubby hole till ten-fifteen. I can’t start before then because Harold Constant’s down to attend this one too for the coroner’s office and he’ll not understand if I’m half finished when he gets here. I take it you had an audience when you spoke to me?’
‘Only at the end,’ he assured her. ‘The Inspector came by.’
‘Oh, him,’ she said darkly, then shook her head. ‘Gus thinks very highly of him.’
‘We all do, really,’ Mike said. ‘He’s a bad-tempered bloke and you could shake him, sometimes, but he’s all right.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ she said, dismissing Rupert Dudley from her thoughts. ‘Mike, tell me, what’s the word on the street? What are they saying round the nick?’
He looked gloomy. ‘It’s all over the place that the Guv’s in the crap and it’s growing with every word you hear. As I understand it, there was a complaint laid that he had taken money after threatening someone he’d put ‘em away.’
‘But why would he do that? Doesn’t everyone know he’s got all the money he needs, or, more to the point, wants?’
‘I said that, but, as some of the others are saying, money does strange things to people.’ He shook his head sagely. ‘The more they get the more they want. It’s like an addiction.’
‘That’s crap,’ George said loudly, ‘as far as Gus is concerned.’
‘So I said, as did a lot of the others. But some of them – Look, you asked me what people are saying. It’s no use arguin’ wi’ me when you dinna like what I tell you!’
She simmered down at once. ‘Sorry. So what leads have you got on it?’
‘Well, according to Molly Ledger – she’s one of the civilian clerks who works with the Guv and she’s been doing some work with his team as well as with the CIB fellas – according to her, the informants include a policeman.’
She stared at him, aghast. ‘A police – but how? Who?’
‘That’s what I asked when she told me. She says she doesn’t know who. It was on one of the statements. The letter that came in said that the Guv, in the presence of another officer, had taken the money from the informant after warning him that he could be prosecuted for breaking rules regarding his premises. Something to do with safety on the site. Also that he’d shut his eyes to some dirty business to do with a load of goods that had been hi-jacked. It’s very complicated, anyway, Molly said, and it was made even harder to understand because she just had to put some corrections into the report that was already on the computer. She hadn’t much time to do it in and she was supervised all through by the head of the civilian clerks, so she couldn’t read the rest of it the way she usually would have done, but she did pick up that much. After that I did some checking on my own account. I couldna discover the name of the policeman, but did find out – well, anyway, I did some checking. But it was no’ easy. Everyone’s pretty burned up about it. I mean, who would behave like that from our lot? If someone went bad and mucked in with someone else who was bending the rules, I’d understand that. But to pretend to join in and then shop your mate –’
She felt cold suddenly. ‘Is that what they’re saying?’
‘Some of them.’
‘So they believe Gus has gone bad?’
He looked very unhappy. ‘There’re always people who want to think the worst of everyone. Especially someone who’s popular. And rich. And he’s got a sharp tongue on him, the Guv. He’s made a few people smart, I can tell you, and they’re the ones who’re enjoyin’ all this the most and saying things about smoke and fire. You know how folks are.’
‘I know how they are,’ she said grimly. ‘Listen, Mike, let me tell you what I need and you tell me if you can get it. I know you’ve already tried to find out, but I really have to know who the civilian informant is.’
‘Och, I can tell y
ou that,’ he said surprisingly.
She stared and shook her head. ‘You can? How? I thought you said –’
‘I said I couldna find out the name of the policeman who was fingering him. But I did find out who the civilian was. He’s called Lenny Greeson.’
‘Lenny – Good God! It can’t be!’
It was his turn to look startled. ‘You know him?’
‘I know his name, but he couldn’t have made a complaint. It was he who gave Gus the money, sure, but –’
Mike actually changed colour. ‘Are you saying this man did give the Guv –Jesus!’
‘It’s all right,’ she said impatiently. ‘There’s a perfectly good reason.’ And she explained it. He listened with great concentration and then very slowly shook his head.
‘It sounds a bit, well, far-fetched,’ he said. ‘Or it would to anyone who didn’t know the Guv.’
‘Precisely. Knowing him as I do, it’s exactly what the crazy bastard would do – lend someone the money to prove he’s got a business that will cost more to Gus when he buys it from him. It’s bad business, of course it is, but it’s the sort of decent thing Gus would do, especially as he’s known the guy’s family for ever. And now you say Greeson insists the money was got from him with menaces? And that there was a policeman involved too? It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!’
‘Well, there it is on the charge sheet. I’ve seen what I wasna supposed to. But I went prowling. It’s not that difficult to find out what you want to know if you’re sensible about it.’
‘I’m going to talk to that man,’ she said, very determinedly. ‘But I can’t till after he’s been interviewed by the CIB. I imagine he will be? Can you find out for me when they’ve been there?’
‘This morning,’ Mike said. ‘They were going this morning. I heard them talking before they left the nick. I – we – I was in the next office. And –’
‘If you stand with your ear to the wall you can hear?’ she said, her eyes glinting with laughter.
Mike was very dignified. ‘Something like that. Anyway, they were going this morning.’
‘Then it’s OK for me to go this afternoon,’ she said and got to her feet. ‘I’ll need an address.’
‘I’ll get it for you,’ he promised. ‘Anything else?’
She stood thinking and then nodded. ‘Get me what information you can about the people who’ve been working with Gus, will you? The Sergeant: Salmon, Bob Salmon. And Bannen, he was another. Doug, I think?’
‘I think so, yeah.’
‘And Lipman. I can’t remember his first name.’
‘Peter,’ Mike said. ‘They’re all right, I reckon. I’ve shared lunch and so forth with ’em a few times. Seem all right to me. Gil Morley was a trainee with Bannen, he says he’s a good chap. And some of the others say they remember Lipman from Hammersmith when he was working there.’
‘Does anyone know Salmon?’
Mike shook his head. ‘He’s older than average,’ he said. ‘He doesna fit in with any of the sets we’ve got at Ratcliffe Street. Keeps himself to himself a good deal. Anyway, I’ll get what I can. Is that all?’
‘I doubt it, but I’ll let you know.’ She was on her way to the door, looking up at the clock. It was getting late and she could hear Harold Constant’s voice out in the corridor. She stopped and came back. ‘Yes, there is one more thing,’ she said slowly.
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Mmm.’ She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘That man Gus was meeting at the pub in Poplar. Gus said he knows everyone and everyone knows him. Well, that might come in useful. And I don’t suppose the CIB lot’ll know about him, or if they do, they won’t think of talking to him because he won’t seem to have any links with this charge. But he may be useful. So let me have his address too, will you? Do you know it?’
He laughed. ‘No, I don’t. But I know a man who does.’
‘Great. Come on. We’ll cut up this guy waiting for me now, and then you be on your way, and get me that stuff as fast as you can.’
‘How fast?’ He was strolling along the corridor beside her.
‘Oh, half past one’ll do,’ she said. ‘I can get away this afternoon at two, so I want to have both addresses by then at the very latest, but half past one’d be better. Then I can plan it more easily, maybe make a phone appointment.’
‘Half past one? In three hours’ time? Do me a favour, Dr B.’
‘Oh, all right,’ she said. ‘I won’t rush you. I can hang on till half past two, if I must, I suppose. But no later!’
And she led the way into the post-mortem room, leaving him to follow her as best he could as he scribbled the notes of what she wanted in his pocket book. Working with George, he realized, could be quite an experience.
18
‘It’s called the Chargeable Chippy,’ Mike said when he phoned her with the full address at two thirty-five. ‘Because of where it is. You’ll see. And I’ve done remarkably well to get that much.’
‘Have the CIB people been already? Is there any risk they’ll still be there?’
‘I don’t know if they’ve been there,’ he said. ‘I know they went off to see Lenny Greeson, but not necessarily at the chip shop. It’s not possible to find out everything.’
‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath, but then as Mike asked, ‘What?’ said more loudly, ‘Nothing. I suppose I’ll just have to take a chance. Gus was worried that I might be seen to be interfering with police work.’
‘If they find you’re digging around, you can be sure they would say that,’ Mike said.
‘You’re a great comfort. Here, I’ve an idea. What sort of car are they using?’
‘Eh? Oh, a Volvo. Estate. They carry a lot of their gear around with ’em, by the look of it. Their own laptops and portable faxes. It’s an amazin’ amount o’ stuff.’
‘What sort? Colour and so forth?’
‘Hold on. I’ll find out.’ The phone clattered as he dropped the handset and she waited impatiently.
‘It’s a metallic grey,’ he reported when he came back. 330 XOY, a G reg.’
‘Not a police car, then.’
‘It might be. They’re not all black and white with blue lights, you know.’
‘Well, I’ll look out for it. If it’s there, I’m away. If not, I’ll risk it. Thanks, Mike. Leave any other info on my answer-phone, OK? I’ll go over there now. Er … Mike?’
‘Uhuh?’
‘Wish me luck.’
‘You’re going to need it,’ he said and hung up.
The shop, when she found it, was surprising. Used as she was to Gus’s rather handsome establishments, glittering with chrome and engraved glass windows, this one was decidedly shabby. The outside displayed peeling plum-coloured paint with lettering picked out in a particularly bilious green, and the windows were steamed and streaked with grease. No handsome extractors to keep the atmosphere sweet inside here, she thought. The name of the place made sense when she saw where it was, a few doors up from the corner of Chargeable Lane in Barking Road, a bare fifteen minutes drive from the hospital, even in thick traffic, through the new tunnel. She sat looking at the place, sitting quietly at the steering wheel of her little car, watching.
It was now almost three in the afternoon but the shop was still open and dealing with lunchtime trade. It smelled rather pleasant and she thought, it doesn’t look that good but the food may be OK, and was suddenly aware that she hadn’t lunched. She slid the car into gear and drove round the corner into Chargeable Lane to park.
There was no sign of a metallic-grey Volvo Estate in the main road, and she scrutinized every car she passed in the tangle of streets that lay behind Chargeable Lane. By the time she had assured herself she was safe from any prying eyes, parked neatly behind a sizeable van, and walked back, the door of the shop was closed. She swore under her breath. Had she missed her chance? But there was someone behind the high fronted counter, and he looked up as she rattled the door appealingly and nodded and came r
ound to open it.
‘Am I too late?’ she asked innocently. ‘I was just passing and I thought…’
‘I gotta bitta cod left. Nice tail bit. An’ a few chips, ya? I fix?’
He was a round man in every respect: his belly, his shoulders, his face, his eyes. He was dark-skinned, dark-eyed and dark-haired and his accent was heavily Greek Cypriot.
As he bustled around behind his counter, shovelling the fish into a split paper bag and then putting a couple of scoops of rather sad-looking chips on top of it, she studied the place. Inside was a little more prepossessing than outside. There were a row of stools and a long shelf, covered in red plastic, on the far wall, where obviously those who preferred to eat on the premises could perch, a computer game which hummed and pinged to itself frenetically in a corner, and posters everywhere. Pictures of fish jostled with advertisements for Tizer and White’s Lemonade and lists of the foods available: Fried Cod, Fried Haddock, Fried Plaice, Fried Skate, Fried Saveloys, Fried Chicken … on and on in a litany of artery-clogging specialities ending in a bleak Pickled Onions fifty pence. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that they were fried too.
Behind the counter with its row of fryers and its hot glass-sided display unit in which the remains of the day’s fry waited listlessly, the tiled walls and shelves offered vividly coloured tins and bottles of drink and packets of tartare sauce in nasty little plastic envelopes, while the counter itself bore bottles of watery vinegar and large battered aluminium salt shakers. Above all of it was a hand-drawn and rather wobbly image of a mermaid, against which someone had scribbled: Vital statistics, thirty-eight, twenty-six, seven-and-six a pound.
‘That’s cute.’ She pointed at it and the man, who was now wrapping her lunch in a large sheet of yellowish paper, looked over his shoulder.
‘We get rid soon. Next week, you come back, all clean and nice.’ He sniffed. ‘Not so nice now. Next week you see, we make good.’
‘Oh?’ She lingered as he slapped the parcel, which was already showing patches of grease on it, on to the high counter ready for her. ‘Is Lenny going to get the place redecorated, then?’
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