Deep Cover

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘A police constable visited and took some details.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we had no contact from the police from that day until your visit, sir, by which time Mrs Halkier had passed on.’

  ‘A very long time . . .’

  ‘A very long time. You’ll do all you can, sir?’

  ‘All we can. You have my word.’

  Tom Ainsclough entered the name ‘Felicity Skidmore’ into the computer and her approximate age as ‘mid-twenties’. There was no trace of her. ‘Not known,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ Brunnie replied. ‘I bet you it’s an alias.’ He continued to run his fingertip down the list of J. Dunwoodies in the London telephone directory. ‘I never knew there were so many, and for each entry there will be two or three ex-directory J. Dunwoodies. I once talked to a telephone operator and she told me that if all the domestic numbers were listed, the book would be twice the size it already is . . . Lot of these are in the prestigious suburbs; a lot are too far to make travelling to work in Kilburn practical . . . oh . . . wait . . .’

  ‘A hit?’ Ainsclough glanced up from the computer screen.

  ‘Possibly.’ Brunnie picked up his phone, pressed nine for an outside line and then dialled a number. The call was quickly answered by a tearful sounding woman with a shaky voice. Brunnie said, ‘Hello, madam, sorry to bother you. This is the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard; I am trying to trace a Mr J.J. Dunwoodie who is employed at WLM Rents in Kilburn.’

  ‘Oh . . . he’s in hospital . . .’

  ‘Hospital!’ Brunnie repeated for the benefit of Ainsclough who began to listen, keenly so.

  ‘The Westminster Hospital,’ the woman explained. ‘He got set on last night, after work . . . two thugs and they hurt him bad . . . really bad. And you’re the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well you should know about it. There’s a copper with him in case he wakes up.’

  ‘I am sorry to bother you. I hope all is well. We clearly had a communication breakdown here. Sorry.’ Brunnie replaced the phone. ‘Westminster Hospital . . . got worked over last night.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Brunnie told Ainsclough about the watering can.

  ‘You believed Pilcher’s prints would be on it?’

  ‘Yes . . . whatever his name is . . . his prints would be on the can. I told Dunwoodie to get an identical one from the local shop, but I noticed a green one there this morning, not a red one.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an offside thing to do, especially for you.’

  ‘I know, we can’t use it to arrest him for anything but at least we’ll know who he is.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s one thing to take fingerprints after a break-in . . . even from the staff . . . we can tell them it’s so they can be eliminated, but it gets names and prints on file for future reference. If all the totally innocent citizens whose prints are on file knew about it, there’d be riots in London.’

  ‘I honestly thought he’d be safe. I thought it would be so simple for him to get another red watering can.’

  Ainsclough rested his chin in the cup of his left palm, with his elbow resting on the surface of his desk, ‘You’d better go straight to Harry Vicary, the moment he gets in.’

  ‘Yes . . . that’s the best thing to do . . . best thing to do rather than let it emerge, but if Dunwoodie registers a complaint, and I wouldn’t blame him if he does, I’m up the creek without a paddle. Disciplinary procedures . . . the lot. Oh boy, he could even sue the police.’

  ‘But only if he can show the assault was connected to him handing over the watering can. The assault might be unconnected.’

  ‘Good point.’ Brunnie smiled at Ainsclough. ‘I can live in hope. I think I’d like to get over to Westminster Hospital.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll cover for you. Penny Yewdall is in as well, enough plain clothes if anything develops, and we have your mobile phone number. Swannell is still on leave, but it’s enough.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brunnie stood. ‘I’ll walk round there, quicker than taking a car, no place to park anyway. But what have I done?’

  Harry Vicary knocked gently on the yellow door of the house at the far end of Albert Road, Leyton, E10. An elderly lady opened the door, silver-haired, floral dress, hands twisted with arthritis. ‘Mrs North?’ Vicary took off his hat and replaced it again.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was shaking with apprehension.

  ‘Police.’ Vicary smiled. ‘Don’t be alarmed.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mrs North relaxed and smiled.

  Vicary produced his identity card. ‘I understand you have a daughter, Pauline.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Oh . . . I am sorry.’

  ‘No, no . . . still alive.’ Mrs North smiled. ‘She’s Mrs South now.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Vicary grinned.

  ‘I kid you not, young man. The jokes they made at the wedding reception, about compass needles spinning round until North became South . . . Go North, young man . . . I can’t remember them all, but one telegram after the other had some crack in it about points of the compass. The best man was the groom’s brother but they managed to find an usher called West and another called Eastman – it became a theme of the wedding.’

  ‘How amusing.’

  ‘Yes. She did well; her husband is a good man and she has two lovely children.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. I really would like to speak to her. She has nothing to worry about; I need to pick her brains.’

  ‘She’s not in trouble?’

  ‘No. I just need information.’

  ‘Alright . . . well if you don’t mind, I’ll phone her and ask her to contact you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Vicary handed her his calling card.

  Mrs North read the card. ‘Detective Inspector Vicary. That’s quite a high rank.’

  ‘Not really. It’s quite modest.’

  ‘Can I tell her what it is about?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t see why not, it’s in connection with Rosemary Halkier.’

  ‘Oh . . . Rose . . . she disappeared.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has she been found?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say that there has been a significant development. If you could invite your daughter Pauline to phone me at her earliest convenience?’

  ‘I will . . . yes, I will. I’ll phone her right away; she doesn’t work. I mean, she’s not employed during the day, she keeps house when she is not needed for supply teaching and that’s sufficient work for any woman . . . but if she isn’t at home now, she’ll be out somewhere close by . . . at the shops or something.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She lives in Mill Hill. Well, I’ll phone her. Will you be going direct to Scotland Yard, sir?’

  ‘No . . . no . . . I have another call to make first.’

  Vicary walked home. He was anxious to get there, but he did not want to lessen the impact of the cold caring policy. He reached his house and let himself in. His wife was on her hands and knees cleaning the vomit from the carpet with her head wrapped in a towel. Clearly she had washed herself first. She looked at him and then avoided eye contact. After a period of silence he asked, ‘Is there any more? I found the bottles under the eaves. You know we made an agreement. So, is there any more?’

  ‘In the garden.’ She spoke with clear difficulty. Even from the distance he stood from her, he could smell her searing breath. ‘Behind the shed.’

  Vicary walked to the kitchen and out into the back garden. He looked behind the garden shed and found a metal bucket covered with a generous amount of sacking. Neither the bucket, which was shiny and new, nor the sacking, which was old and worn, had he seen before. He took the sacking from the bucket and exposed three more bottles of gin contained within the bucket. He opened each bottle, and holding it away from him and with his head turned from it, lest he got a whiff which he would find difficulty in resisting, he emptied t
he contents on to the ground. Holding the bottles as far from him as he could, he took them into the kitchen and rinsed each one clear of any trace of alcohol. He then placed them in a plastic bin liner, and went back outside and picked up the screw tops from each bottle, and those too he rinsed and put in the bin liner, which he secured with a firm knot at the top.

  He stood silently in the kitchen wondering if he should make his wife a cup of strong black coffee, but he decided against it. He said not a word, and walked out of the house carrying the bin liner with him, which he would place in the first waste bin he came across.

  Cold caring.

  DC Frank Brunnie walked into the front entrance of the Westminster Hospital and enquired at the reception desk as to the whereabouts of patient J.J. Dunwoodie. Following the directions given, he took the stairs, rather than the ease of the lift, to the given floor, and walked along the corridor, which had a light-fawn coloured floor and cream-painted walls, busy nurses scurrying about and aloof doctors who moved more leisurely, but who were equally serious in their attitude. It had that distinct smell which Brunnie could never analyse. It smelt . . . just like a hospital. He saw a police constable sitting on a chair outside a private room. The constable stood defensively as Brunnie approached him. ‘Help you, sir?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘Alright –’ Brunnie showed the constable his ID – ‘I’m in the club.’

  ‘Oh . . . sorry, sir, didn’t recognize you.’ He was young, early twenties Brunnie guessed.

  ‘No worries. What happened?’

  ‘Don’t know a right lot, sir.’ The constable spoke with a distinct Lancashire accent; a young man taking the opportunity through his employment to live in London for a few years, as do many teachers and other public and civil servants, before returning to the provinces and their roots, where housing is affordable. ‘I am told not to allow anyone in except hospital staff and the interested officer, sir.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘DC Meadows, Kilburn nick, sir.’

  ‘I see. DC Meadows . . .’ Brunnie committed the name and workplace to memory, noting that he knew a Meadows once – the name would be easy to remember because of it. ‘I’ll take a drive over to Kilburn.’ He nodded to the door. ‘How is he . . . the patient?’

  ‘Unconscious, sir, all wired up like I don’t know what. I think he was worked over and left for dead, so I heard, but I wasn’t told that. I’m just here to make sure no one goes in apart from those what should go in, those what has a right to go in, sir.’

  ‘Someone wanted him dead?’

  ‘Sounds like, sir.’

  ‘He must be in a bad way.’

  ‘Not moving . . . and I heard one of the doctors say that it was a miracle he was still alive and that he must have a right strong will to live, but he’s a long way to go before he’s out of danger.’

  ‘That was said?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the doctor was explaining the situation to the nursing team and I was standing there in the background, like, but I heard him say that. This must be more than a random attack in the street, otherwise I would not be here to protect him, would I?’

  ‘Probably not. DC Meadows of Kilburn nick, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Harry Vicary easily found the call centre. It still occupied the same premises as it did when Rosemary Halkier was employed therein, and still had the same business name. He pushed open the glass front door of the building and walked across deep carpeting to the reception desk. The receptionist’s smile was broad, with teeth that could sell toothpaste, and, like an air hostess who does not want to be flying again so soon, utterly disingenuous. She wore loud scarlet lipstick and had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Police.’ Vicary showed the young woman his ID. The reception area smelled powerfully of air freshener and polish, so much so that Vicary felt overwhelmed. The absence of even a plant in a pot did not surprise him.

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘I would like to talk to a senior person . . . the manager . . . the personnel officer, someone who can tell me about staff here, long-serving staff.’

  ‘Yes, sir, please take a seat.’ The woman picked up a brown-coloured phone off her desk, pressed four numbers and relayed Vicary’s request, and then said, ‘Yes, alright. I will.’ She smiled another broad ‘I’m only doing this job for the money’ smile at Vicary and said, ‘Mr Perkins will see you directly, sir.’

  Vicary, his hat resting upon his crossed knees, inclined his head in thanks. He and the woman then proceeded to sit in an awkward silence, and Vicary sensed from the young woman’s embarrassment that it was clear she had nothing to do all day but receive visitors and answer the telephone, with not even a colleague or two to talk with. Being photogenically attractive clearly had its downside. Moments of awkward silence elapsed and then the door at the side of the reception area was opened, and a short man in a sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers stood in the doorway. Vicary thought him to be mid-thirties. He had a businesslike manner about him, and upon his entrance the receptionist lowered her head slightly as if making a careful study of her desktop. She was evidently intimidated by him and perhaps, Vicary pondered, the reception area, being out of the way, was the safest place for her.

  ‘Police?’ The man was clean-shaven with piercing eyes.

  Vicary stood, ‘Yes, Detective Inspector Vicary, New Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Scotland Yard? Must be serious.’

  ‘Murder and Serious Crime Squad.’ Vicary showed Perkins his ID. ‘Doesn’t get more serious.’

  ‘How can we help you, sir?’

  ‘I need information about your staff.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Rosemary Halkier.’

  ‘Halkier . . . Halkier . . . I confess that name doesn’t ring any bells but I have only been here for six weeks; I was headhunted from Thames Bridges.’

  ‘Thames Bridges?’

  ‘Oh . . . a rival company.’

  ‘I see, well you won’t know her, she used to work here but that was about ten years ago.’

  ‘Ten years!’ Perkins gasped. ‘We might have some documentation. We have a few long-staying staff but most go after a few months. The only person who is likely to be able to help you is Mrs Maas, she deals with our personnel, and she’s been here for a long time.’

  ‘She sounds ideal. Mrs Mars, like the planet?’

  ‘Pronounced the same but not spelled the same.’ Perkins corrected Vicary on the spelling of the lady’s name. ‘I’ll take you to her.’

  Perkins led Vicary up a narrow stairway of unsurfaced breeze-block walls. On the first floor the workers sat in small cubicles, each isolated from the other, each with a headset rather than a hand-held phone, each in front of a computer screen and keyboard. Perkins walked quietly by. With working conditions like this, Vicary thought, the call centre could aptly be described as a modern day sweatshop. Perkins led Vicary across the open-plan area of the call centre operations room, humming with voices, and opened a door at the far end, which led on to an area of individual offices. He walked to an office on the left-hand side, tapped once on the door and opened it. ‘Mrs Maas, this is a Mr Vicary . . .’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Mrs Maas was middle-aged, portly and with a ready smile, which, unlike the isolated receptionist’s, Vicary thought, was a genuine smile.

  ‘Mr Vicary is with the police.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Mrs Maas looked worried.

  ‘I will leave you,’ Perkins said to Vicary, ‘I have work to address. If anyone can help you, it’s Mrs Maas.’ And with that, in a brisk about-turn, he left the office, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Mrs Maas indicated a vacant seat in her office. ‘He’s new,’ she explained. ‘He’s very efficient. He was headhunted and is anxious to prove the great and good made the right choice, bless him.’

  ‘So he told me.’

  ‘So . . . police?’

  ‘Yes, Scotland Yard, Murder and S
erious Crime Squad.’ Vicary read the room – neat, efficient, no natural light, very sweatshop-like.

  ‘Murder!’

  ‘Well, yes . . . but as I said to Mr Perkins, ten years on, and so this is a bit of a long shot, in fact it’s one hell of a long shot, but they’ve paid off before. We are interested in finding out as much as we can about a lady who used to work here, a lady employee by the name of Halkier, Rosemary Halkier . . . home address in Palmers Green.’

  ‘Ten years . . .’ Mrs Maas relaxed. ‘You know there might be one or two still here who were here ten years ago; seems that you move on quickly or you work your way into the bricks.’ She swivelled on her chair and slowly tapped at her computer keyboard. ‘If we search for all current employees with more than ten years’ service, and there won’t be many . . . and the not many is . . . five. I count five names, all women, who do tend to stay longer than men.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Flexible hours – they can work round school commitments and work on weekends, leaving hubby to watch the baby. Not a few say that working here keeps them sane, gives them the break they need from demanding children and demanding spouses, and we pay quite well for a call centre. The work is tedious but not demanding. Mr Perkins is keeping them well at it but it’s still easier than unskilled work, and it’s better than the dole. We pay basic plus commission. The harder you work, the more you earn, and we tell them, you don’t just work for yourself or your family, you work for the person next to you; if this company sinks the work could be relocated overseas.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Vicary replied drily. ‘Telephone directory enquiries is now located in the Philippines.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mrs Maas raised her eyebrows. ‘And national rail enquiries are in India. So if the crew want to keep the jobs in the UK, they work for each other.’ She stood. ‘I’ll go and chat to the five names, see if any remember. Sorry, who are you enquiring about? My memory . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes, Rosemary Halkier, lived with her parents in Palmers Green, had two children, short girl, just five foot tall with dark hair.’

  ‘Rosemary Halkier . . . Rosemary Halkier.’ Mrs Maas left the office repeating the name to herself, trailing a heavy cloud of perfume behind her. She turned and pointed to a white coffee machine which stood on a table in the corner of her room. ‘Do help yourself to coffee.’ She smiled. ‘It doesn’t taste anything like coffee but it’s hot and fluid.’ She turned again and was gone.