‘No skin off my nose, you’ll not get that charge to stick and you know it. A bit of time inside isn’t that bad,’ shrugged Paget again, with a fairly convincing show of bravado.
Calderwood knew that a thug with Paget’s reputation for extreme violence would have little to fear in prison and, indeed, would be seen as someone worthy of respect and even be feared himself.
‘We’ll see,’ he replied non-committally ‘You may well be right. Our enquiries will, of course, take some time and, assuming you don’t get bail, you will be remanded in custody for some considerable while.’ Calderwood paused, his mind going back to what Cerian had said on the journey down. Though having very limited time, her research, as usual, had been meticulous, and had led to a startling discovery – and given Calderwood the germ of an idea to force Paget’s hand.
‘Because the first murder occurred in a town called Estwich, which, as you know, is a considerable distance from here,’ he said, though doubted the low-browed thug actually did. ‘It will speed our enquiries if you are lodged in a high security prison nearer to us.’
Paget’s almost feral ability to sense danger for once deserted him and he shrugged nonchalantly.
‘Obviously, we mustn’t disadvantage you in getting access to your legal team and others,’ Calderwood continued, ‘so we will have you sent to a suitable halfway point – and we think a good compromise would be Woodhill, Milton Keynes.’
Calderwood might just as well have said Alcatraz or Belsen for the effect it had on the arrogant thug. Paget froze and all bravado drained from him, leaving in its place the sickly pallor of extreme fear.
Chapter 44
‘You can’t! They’d...! Tell him he can’t send me there!’ he finally yelled. Desperation poured out of him as he turned to his solicitor, who reared backwards in his own chair, such was the force of the other man’s sudden desperation.
The lawyer, surprised at his client’s extreme reaction, was torn between doing his professional duty and an entirely personal, but acutely felt, sense of pleasure at seeing the man’s obvious fear, ‘We would, of course, challenge such a decision on a number of grounds, you realise that?’ he said, reluctantly letting his professionalism reassert itself.
Calderwood shook his head as though in disagreement, although, privately, he did indeed realise that. He also realised, however, that even if Paget’s alibi stood up for the period of Arabelle DeLancy’s murder, they still had sufficient cause to hold him for the attempted murder of the elderly Mrs Jeffries. As for the venue, well, Paget could, and almost certainly would, appeal against that, but, crucially, it would take time. And that time, the frightened man now knew, could well be spent in Woodhill.
‘You bastard! You’re setting me up!’ Paget almost screamed, as he smashed his fists onto the table, which seemed almost to buckle under the onslaught.
‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir, I really don’t,’ Calderwood replied with, Cerian thought admiringly, a very convincing look of puzzlement. ‘I’m merely saying you’ll be held for a period in one of Her Majesty’s prisons. A situation you’re not unused to, after all,’ he added blandly.
‘You fucking know that Bobby Jones and some of his fucking crew are in that nick and that they’re no mates of mine!’ Paget spat, now showing many of the signs of a cornered rat.
Calderwood, thanks to his young DC’s diligent digging, did know. Cerian herself knew that the phrase ‘no mates of mine’ didn’t come near to describing the hatred that Mr Bobby Jones had for his one-time henchman. Little matters like suspecting him of grassing him up to the police, syphoning off some of the drug money flooding into the gang’s coffers and, last, but by no means least, having it off with Mrs Jones, tended to upset men much less volatile than the vicious gang leader. The only reason that George Paget wasn’t already hobbling round on two smashed kneecaps and minus his manhood, was that the gang leader had sworn he would take that vengeance himself when he got out.
‘Of course, if you’re able to tell us now what you know, it would save a great deal of our time and may make it unnecessary to hold you anywhere further away than, say, Manchester,’ Calderwood added conversationally.
‘You realise, Inspector that what you propose is akin to intimidation and will be immediately challenged,’ murmured the solicitor, again feeling he had to say something.
‘Of course he does, you silly twat! If you can’t say something useful, shut the fuck up!’ yelled Paget, savagely rounding on the smaller man, as his tough guy persona rapidly unravelled under the onslaught of the extreme fear now flooding his system.
After his outburst, he sat hunched over, his bunched fists closing and unclosing in a savage, unconscious rhythm, as he struggled to see a way out of the trap Calderwood had sprung. Eventually, seeing none, he spoke, his words dripping hate.
‘You’d have to agree to not stop me getting bail,’ he said truculently.
Calderwood shook his head and said firmly. ‘That I’ll not promise. The only commitment I will give, is that any time you do spend inside will be spent in Manchester, not Woodhill or, indeed, any prison where – what was the name you mentioned? – oh yes, Bobby Jones, has any pull.’ He held his breath as he waited to see if the sweat that was now pouring off the man’s forehead, and, judging by the rank smell in the enclosed room, from the rest of his body too, was a sign that he was frightened enough to do a deal.
Chapter 45
He was.
‘Alright you win, you bastard. I’ll tell you what you want to know,’ Paget spat, sagging back onto his chair. ‘But no Woodhill, right?’
On Calderwood’s nod, he went on. ‘And I’m not admitting to attempted murder. Your young copper over-reacted, simple as that.’ He paused to see the effect of his words on the two police officers. Receiving no feedback, he continued. ‘I was asked to do someone a favour and put the frighteners on the old girl, that’s it,’ he shrugged.
‘Who asked you?’
‘A mate.’
‘You realise that we’ll need to talk to your “mate”, don’t you?’
There was a long silence, while the thug weighed up his now very limited options.
‘I’ll need to talk to him,’ he said finally. ‘He owes me big-time for... something, so he might.’
Calderwood looked carefully back at him, trying to judge how genuine his agreement was. Should he agree, he ran the risk of Paget tipping the other man off and their losing any chance of getting near to Gerald DeLancy. On the other hand, his police instincts told him that their quarry was getting increasingly desperate and, unless caught, and caught soon, there was a very real risk of the case blowing wide open. Then, apart from someone else getting seriously hurt or even killed, the secrecy demanded by Adams would be a thing of the past.
‘Very well,’ he responded, after a moment’s thought. ‘You can use a phone in one of the offices.’
‘Nice try, copper!’ scoffed Paget derisively. ‘And have you lot put a trace on him, whatever he says he’ll agree to? You can sod off! I’m risking my neck as it is,’ he added firmly. And not unreasonably, thought an unsurprised Calderwood.
‘Very well: you can use your own phone. But the call must be made in our presence,’ he said firmly. ‘You have my word that we’ll not record it, or attempt to trace the number afterwards,’ he added.
‘OK,’ said Paget grudgingly, responding to the concession. In truth, as Calderwood and Cerian well knew, it was little enough. His ‘mate’ was almost certainly using an untraceable SIM card and would ditch it immediately after the call, whether or not he agreed to see them.
His phone temporarily back in his possession, Paget reluctantly rang a number.
‘It’s me’ he said quietly. ‘No. Thing is, the coppers were there.’ Clever, thought Calderwood, accidentally or otherwise, Paget had quickly dropped in the suggestion he’d been stitched up, maybe even by someone in his mate’s circle. ‘They collared me; I... I’m in the nick.’
They didn’t need his yank
ing the phone away from his ear, to know the reaction to his news. Even from across the table, the two officers could hear the explosion.
‘Cool it, Ji... mate! I’ve told ’em I was asked just to have a conversation with the lady, that’s all,’ he lied. ‘And I’ve not given them your name nor nothing. I wouldn’t. I’m not a grass, you know that!’
Tell that to Bobby Jones, thought Cerian.
‘Thing is,’ Paget continued, after a pause, ‘they’re keen to get whoever asked for the job. They want to talk to you about that; that’s all.’
Another blast of abuse and derision poured into his ear. ‘Hold on, mate, hold on,’ shouted Paget ‘If you don’t, they’re putting me into Woodhill nick!’
That his hearer understood the significance of the threat, was made clear by the sudden silence at the other end of the phone. ‘And, mate, if you do see them, we’re square, right?’ Paget added quickly.
The other man’s continued silence raised the tension in Paget’s small audience, but none more so than in he, himself. His face was tight with uncertainty and sweat had again started to leak malodorously out of him. Then his face relaxed. ‘Thanks, mate, and yes, we’re square, we’re square. He’ll not see you, but he’ll talk over the phone,’ he said, as he passed it across. ‘You should be grateful. It’ll save you a journey: he’s in London!’ he added, with an ugly little sneer, some of his confidence returning as the prospect of an early reunion with the Jones gang receded.
London! Of course, thought Calderwood, taking the mobile and fighting the urge to wipe it down before he used it. If someone wanted to hide, the sprawling, anonymous metropolis could hardly be bettered. God help us, if DeLancy has gone to ground there, he thought. ‘Hello I’m Robert Calderwood. Thank you for speaking to us’
‘I’ve no effing option, have I? You’re holding my mate’s bollocks to the fire and I owe ’im one, so let’s get it over with, yeah?’ came back a thin, reedy voice, pulsating with anger at the position he’d been put in.
‘Very well. Can you describe the man who asked you to arrange the... meeting between Mr Paget and his victim?’
‘Victim? Don’t know nothin’ about that. Sounds very unpleasant, not like Georgie at all,’ sniggered the voice, before continuing. ‘I was phoned up by my... client, an’ ’e asked me to fix up a meetin’ wiv her, so his representative could...’ow can I put it?… discuss his needs, with the lady and try and reach a compromise; arrive at a position of mutual benefit, that’s all,’ chuckled the voice, dripping sarcasm.
‘So you never met your “client”?’
‘No. Never.’
‘How did he get your number?’
‘I was told he’d be phoning by a mate somewhere in the West Country; don’t know exactly where, but it’s one of them counties where they speak funny, as though they’re a bit backward,’ he added helpfully.
‘And you took the job without meeting him?’
‘Why not? My mate said ’e’d pay and I trusted him, so no problem.’
‘How did the man sound when you spoke to him?’
‘Pretty old; a bit posh too.’
‘Does he live in London?’
‘No. He don’t live ’ere.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘No, idea; ’e was in his baff when he phoned me.’
‘His bath?’
‘Yeh, ’is baff. Going by all the sloshin’ an’ gurglin’, he was maybe playing with his rubber duck, or somefink else, if you get my drift!’ he sniggered again.
A few more questions convinced Calderwood that the man knew nothing further that was likely to be of any use. He ended the conversation and handed the phone back to the constable who’d brought it in, after, as promised, deleting the last number called.
After charging Paget, they left to see if his victim was in any condition to talk and, if she was, whether she’d have anything useful to tell them.
Chapter 46
Poor old love, thought Cerian, as, having identified themselves to the PC guarding the door, they stood looking down at the old woman lying in the side-ward’s only bed. Not surprisingly, the previous evening the local police had found a very confused and frightened old lady. The visitors knew, from photographs in the hurriedly opened police file, that she had once been a full-figured, fair-haired, happy and confident woman. Notes told them what happened after her husband had got crushed when a car-jack failed, bringing the vehicle he was fine-tuning for racing, crashing down onto him. She’d fought through her tearing grief and had quickly taken up the reins of his small fleet of fishing and leisure boats. Not only had she held the business together, but had doubled its size and income within five years.
Obviously a once powerful, self-confident woman living her life to the full, she was now reduced to little more than an empty caricature of her younger self. She was stick-thin and looked incredibly frail, so they were not expecting much from the interview. Seeing her drowsing, her sunken cheeks paper-white and the outline of her body scarcely discernible under the crisp, white bedding, they both marvelled at how she had managed to survive the previous night’s vicious attack.
They got their first inkling of not only how, but why, when her eyes suddenly opened and they found themselves being viewed by two faded, but surprisingly alert, blue eyes.
‘Are you the police?’ she asked in a low, slightly husky voice.
‘Yes, we are,’ replied Calderwood. ‘Please don’t exert yourself, Mrs Jeffries, we can chat just as easily with you lying down,’ Calderwood assured her, as she struggled to sit up.
‘I’d rather be upright, thank you very much,’ she replied, a half-smile softening her words. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she added, as Cerian hurried to help her. ‘Now, if you’d just pass me that cardigan,’ she continued, gesturing to a frothy pink garment at the foot of her bed. ‘I can’t be half-dressed with an attractive young man so near – it’s not fair on him,’ she added with another smile.
‘Indeed, Ma’am. I appreciate your thoughtfulness,’ murmured Calderwood straight-faced, earning him an approving nod as she gave a small laugh.
‘I was going to assure you that we could return another time, but I don’t see that as a problem, now,’ he added, taking one of the bedside seats, his warm smile making her regret her age even more than usual.
‘No,’ she replied firmly. ‘Though I can’t recall much about what happened, to tell you the truth; just waking up and not being able to breathe.’ Her voice faltered briefly, as she relived the raw fear of those moments fighting for breath, for life. ‘Then, suddenly, I could breath again and all I could hear was shouting and furniture smashing,’ she continued, her voice strengthening again. ‘Then my door burst open and suddenly the room was full of husky young men; unexpected and most acceptable!’ she added with a laugh that quickly turned into breathless coughing.
Alarmed, the two officers waited until the coughing had lessened. Nodding her thanks for the glass of water Cerian held to her lips, she then made as if to continue, but Calderwood, seeing her increased pallor, raised his hand slightly.
‘Mrs Jeffries, I think we should leave our questions until you’re a little stronger,’ he said gently, hiding his disappointment. ‘Thank you for your willingness to talk to us this afternoon, but we don’t want to distress you further, so we’ll leave it a day or two,’ he continued, standing up.
‘Please, no,’ she said, half raising her arm. ‘That’ll be more stressful. Delaying, could mean I could die before you get to the bottom of why I was attacked,’ she said, with a flash of returning spirit. ‘Do you think I was just picked on by chance?’ she pressed on, seeing him hesitate.
‘No, we don’t think it was a random incident,’ Calderwood replied quietly, resuming his seat, after a moment weighing up her words.,
She nodded, unsurprised. ‘Of course not. It was Peter Renick behind it,’ she replied flatly, her words a statement, not a question.
‘What makes you say that, Mrs Jeffries?’ Calderwood asked, hi
s face expressionless.
‘I say it because I’m not stupid, Inspector,’ she responded tartly, her voice growing stronger. ‘I get attacked out of the blue less than two days after I’m shown a photograph of someone I’d not seen for over twenty years, and, I might add, had hoped never to see again! In the circumstances, it doesn’t take a great intellect to make the connection, does it?’
‘Fair enough,’ Calderwood responded. ‘Why are you so adamant about not wanting to see him again?’ he asked.
‘Because, Inspector, he swindled me out of almost a million pounds in cash and went on to destroy the six-million-pound business my late husband and I had spent thirty years building up,’ she replied simply.
Chapter 47
‘It’s a long story, she continued, ‘and, unfortunately, a not very original one.’
Calderwood was forced, sadly, to agree with her, as she told of how she’d met the man calling himself Peter Renick at a very upmarket hotel; of how he’d wined, dined and bedded her; how he’d won her confidence long enough to swindle her out of virtually all her money and then disappeared out of her life, having stolen not just her fortune, but her business, her life and her self respect.
‘I found out, much too late, that he was flat broke and his flash spending at the hotel had been his last roll of the dice,’ she concluded bitterly.
‘We understood that he was a very wealthy man in his own right,’ Calderwood commented.
‘He may have been once. He certainly had the tastes!’ she responded tartly. ‘It’s something you can’t fake, I think,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘that air of being so used to the very best of everything, that you take it entirely for granted. But, as I say, that hotel was very much the last-chance saloon for him.’
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