Deep Cover

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘So . . . shall we view the body?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Owen took a deep breath. ‘Yes, it is what I came for. I won’t believe it unless I see her for myself.’

  ‘It won’t be like you might have seen on television. You’ll be separated by a pane of glass, a large pane of glass.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She’ll be tightly bandaged with just her face visible and it will appear that she is floating in space, floating in blackness.’

  ‘That sounds very sensitive.’

  ‘It is – it’s very clever the way it’s done. Shall we go?’

  Mr O’Shea was tall but frail, with liver-spotted hands and face. His house smelled musty and was cluttered with inexpensive items collected by him and his wife over the years, so it appeared to Brunnie – mainly souvenirs from southern holiday resorts like Margate, Southend-on-Sea, Brighton and Ramsgate. ‘She was a worried woman.’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘Seemed frightened but she felt she had to go to work to bring in the money. I’d just retired with no pension to speak of. I told her we could manage on the State Benefits but she wanted that extra bit to be able to buy the grandchildren something on their birthdays and at Christmas. So off she’d cycle each weekday morning.’

  ‘Did she say what she was frightened of?’

  ‘No, but once she was more edgy than usual and she said, “She’s worse than he is and no mistake”.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Yes . . . definitely. “She’s worse than he is.”’

  FIVE

  Harry Vicary turned off Commercial Road and drove down a narrow side street of mainly, but not wholly, Victorian era buildings and the easily located Continental Removals. The sign was loud – black writing on a yellow background – and evidently kept clean of East End grime. The premises of Continental Imports/Exports revealed itself to be a large yard set back from the road, a garage beyond that capable of accommodating three high-sided removal vans. It was surrounded on three sides by high, soot-blackened brick walls. To the left of the yard was a green-painted garden shed which evidently served as an office. Two men wearing overalls stood beside the shed and eyed Vicary with hostility as he left his car and walked towards them. ‘Morning,’ Vicary said cheerfully.

  ‘Get lost, mate,’ replied the taller of the two men. ‘Go on, sling it . . . vanish.’

  ‘Can’t do that.’ Vicary showed his ID.

  The shorter of the two men said, ‘I’ll go and get the boss,’ and turned away, walking towards the door of the shed.

  Vicary put his ID back in his jacket pocket. ‘Now tell me, why on earth would your friend want to do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Go and get his governor – strange reaction for someone to have the instant they see a police officer’s warrant card, don’t you think?’

  The taller of the two men glanced at the other man and glared at him as if to say ‘idiot’.

  And that, Vicary thought, really makes me suspicious but he said, ‘So this is part of Curtis Yates’s little empire, I believe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ the tall man growled.

  Vicary saw a slender, middle-aged woman emerge from the shed, followed by an equally slender woman in her early twenties; both had hard faces and cold eyes, and could have been mother and daughter, though Vicary doubted that that would prove to be the case. Fathers and sons in mutual villainy . . . but mothers and daughters . . . rare, very rare in his experience.

  ‘The Bill?’ the older woman asked.

  ‘Yes, making enquiries about Curtis Yates.’

  ‘Why?’ Her voice was hard-edged.

  ‘We believe he might be able to help us in our enquiries. We understand he has the property rental business in Kilburn and this business –’ Vicary pointed to the yard – ‘importing and exporting to Europe, and they provide an income sufficient to support a large house in Surrey. What goes to Europe and what comes back from Europe?’

  ‘This is a legitimate business!’ The younger woman snapped. ‘Kosher.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Felicity Skidmore.’

  ‘Ah . . . now that name rings bells. Didn’t you look after the office in Kilburn after Mr Dunwoodie was attacked and murdered?’

  ‘Yes, just two days; got another manager there now. I’m an East End girl, I don’t like going out of the East End. We don’t travel well ’cos we’ve already arrived. How do you know I was there anyway?’

  ‘My officers visited. I read their recording.’

  ‘Oh, you write everything down?’

  ‘Everything. I’ll be writing this down.’ He turned to the older woman. ‘You’ll be the governor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your name, please.’

  ‘Gail Bowler.’

  ‘You must have known Mr Dunwoodie?’

  ‘Yes, wrong place at the wrong time. It happens.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘What other explanation is there?’

  ‘That he was targeted. You see, it was following up the leads in the Dunwoodie murder that we found out that Mr Pilcher, is also known as Curtis Yates . . . interesting why he should use an alias . . . and the witness—’

  ‘Witness!’ Gail Bowler sounded alarmed. ‘You have a witness to Dunwoodie’s murder?’

  ‘Yes. A very good one – gave a very good description of Mr Dunwoodie’s attacker. In fact, since I am here, I wonder if you could look at the E-FIT we have compiled based on the witness testimony.’ Vicary took a brown envelope from his inside jacket pocket, and from it he extracted a glossy E-FIT showing a bald-headed, moon-faced man which he handed to Gail Bowler. She took it and smiled. ‘No, I don’t know him.’

  ‘We think he’s about twenty years of age – a youth, high on drugs maybe, or someone sent to attack Dunwoodie.’

  ‘Well, I don’t recognize him.’

  ‘How about you, Miss Skidmore?’

  Felicity Skidmore took the E-FIT and glanced at it. ‘Nope.’ Though she too showed some amusement, or some relief, at the sight of the E-FIT. She handed it to Vicary.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Vicary handed the E-FIT to the two overall-clad men, who both seemed anxious to look at it, and again, both held it, looked at it and smiled as they viewed it.

  ‘Sorry, squire.’ The taller of the two men handed the E-FIT back to Vicary. ‘No recognition.’

  ‘Thank you anyway.’ Vicary slid the E-FIT back into the envelope. ‘We’ll ask around Kilburn, but since I was here I thought I’d take the opportunity . . . just on the off chance.’

  ‘So, just the one geezer attacked Dunwoodie?’ Gail Bowler said, smart in a grey suit.

  ‘According to the witness.’

  ‘He wasn’t a big man.’ Gail Bowler spoke with a marked degree of satisfaction. ‘He couldn’t have put up much of a fight. One man could easily have done it.’

  ‘Seems so.’ Vicary paused. ‘So this is part of Yates’s empire?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Bowler again became defensive.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Vicary? You said your name was Vicary?’

  ‘Yes, Detective Inspector, New Scotland Yard, Murder and Serious Crime Squad. Do tell Mr Yates I was asking after him.’

  ‘We will, don’t worry.’

  ‘How long have you been working for Mr Yates?’

  ‘A little while,’ Bowler replied.

  Vicary glanced across at the two men and then at Felicity Skidmore. ‘Same,’ the tall man said, ‘a little while.’

  ‘Well, do be careful.’

  ‘Careful? Why?’ Gail Bowler asked with a note of fear in her voice.

  ‘Because,’ Vicary replied, ‘because, you see, people who move in his circle . . . how shall I put this? They tend to disappear . . . or get murdered.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘I do say. You see, the gofer of Mr Yates, Michael Dalkeith by name – strange story. You know he actually lay down in the snow on Hampstead Heath, as though he was committing suicide
, but he lay down right on top of a shallow grave which concealed the corpse of a lady called Halkier, Rosemary Halkier, who we believe was romantically involved with Mr Yates when she went missing. It was as though Michael Dalkeith was leading us to her grave, and then at the same time, Mr Curtis Yates’s old cook, Mrs O’Shea, went missing . . . and Mr Dunwoodie was beaten to death, and he was employed by Mr Yates . . . and the Welsh runaway who was found strangled in a room of a house belonging to Mr Yates. So, you see what I mean? He doesn’t sound like the man you’d want to take home to meet your parents. Anyway . . . I’ll say good day.’

  Vicary turned and walked back to his car, which stood at an oblique angle to Continental Imports/Exports, and he saw out of the corner of his eye the two men and the two women walk into the garden shed, doubtless to make a phone call. He smiled. He thought he seemed to have put the cat amongst the pigeons quite nicely. ‘Just wait and see what springs out of the woodwork now,’ he said as he unlocked the door of his car. ‘Just wait and see.’

  That afternoon Vicary sat with his team in his office in New Scotland Yard; he glanced at Yewdall, Ainsclough, Brunnie and Swannell. ‘I took a leaf out of Frankie’s book,’ he said. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘No, sir, reckon everyone knows anyway.’ Frankie Brunnie held up his hands.

  ‘Frankie’s method of obtaining Curtis Yates’s fingerprints nudged the boundaries of questionable practice, but the upshot is that A-Ten are not taking any action.’

  The team members grinned at Brunnie and Penny Yewdall gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  ‘And whether Frankie’s actions brought on the murder of J.J. Dunwoodie . . . well, we’ll probably never know . . . and Frankie could not have foreseen the consequences. As I said, I took a bit of a leaf out of his book – out of Frankie’s book – and visited Curtis Yates’s import and export company in the East End. Four people were there . . . one was Felicity Skidmore . . . the others I don’t know. Anyway, I showed them an E-FIT of a thug we are looking for in an isolated and unconnected case, and told them it was the E-FIT of the person we want to talk to in connection with the Dunwoodie murder. They all looked very pleased when they saw the E-FIT because it clearly didn’t look anything like Rusher or Clive “The Pox” Sherwin. So, I think I gave them the clear impression that we were not just barking up the wrong tree, we were in the wrong part of the forest entirely, but more importantly, they were obliging enough to take hold of the E-FIT, each in turn.’

  ‘Fingerprints!’ Yewdall said in a hushed but excited tone.

  ‘Yes, which is what I meant when I said that I took a leaf from Frankie’s book.’ He smiled at Brunnie. ‘You put me on the right track there, Frankie. Well . . .’ he tapped sheets of computer printout which lay on his desk. ‘The upshot is that all are known to us. Felicity Skidmore has two priors for possession of cannabis . . . small fines . . . but her prints are on file. The other woman . . . I thought she and Felicity Skidmore were a mother and daughter team . . . she is one Gail Bowling, though she told me her name was Gail Bowler. Now, she is one very interesting lady, a right madam by the look of her track. She’s fifty-three years old, started when she was a teenager . . . shoplifting, receiving stolen goods . . . she worked the streets and has convictions for soliciting, then she stopped being a brass and started running them and got five years for living on immoral earnings, which always means she was the top Tom in a brothel – the old brass that runs the younger brasses. Then she did ten years for possession with intent to supply.’

  ‘Ten!’

  ‘Yes . . . so a large amount of illicit . . . in this case it was Charlie . . . a lot of white stuff is why she collected ten years, probably got out in five. So the governor of the import and export business got herself covered in cocaine once. That is significant because Frankie came back from Sunninghill nick with the news that the Drug Squad are interested in Curtis Yates. So I will contact the Drug Squad and let them know of our interest. It might become a joint investigation, but I will insist on having operational command. It’s a murder enquiry, possible multiple murders, which takes priority over drug smuggling.’

  ‘Do we know how long Gail Bowling has been associated with Curtis Yates, boss?’ Ainsclough asked.

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because when I visited Mr O’Shea yesterday he mentioned that his wife Tessie had seemed frightened of her employer, or employers, and had made a comment about “she” being worse than “him” or something similar.’

  ‘So, a female accomplice?’

  ‘Yes, sir, possibly, unless the “she” in question is or was no more than an overbearing housekeeper, but I think we need to find out who “she” was . . . or is.’

  ‘Yes.’ Vicary sat back in his chair. ‘That’s a task. The two men at the yard . . . one was Rusher, Oliver “Rusher” Boyd, plenty of track for violence – a tall, hard, lean individual. The other was younger, rejoices in the street name of “Mongoose Charlie”, Charles McCusker being his real name, twenty-eight years, track for burglary and then he moved up to the league and did time for manslaughter. Sentenced to a five stretch, but probably joined the Christian Union and was drinking IPA again within two years.’ He paused. ‘So how do we proceed? Curtis Yates is the target but he is well under cover. Seems he’s been getting away with too much for too long. People are murdered . . . cocaine is possibly imported . . . he is probably exporting ecstasy pills, as well, but between us and the Drug Squad we should be able to put a solid case together. Make sure he swaps that large house in Virginia Water for a shared cell in Wandsworth or the Scrubs. His victims deserve justice but Yates doesn’t seem to get his paws dirty.’ Vicary glanced out of the window of his office as again the rain started to fall.

  ‘We need to find someone who will talk,’ Swannell said. ‘We would offer witness protection, of course, but it will have to be someone well on the inside, or someone who can provide evidence to link Yates to a murder . . . or two.’

  ‘Or perhaps we could insert someone,’ Yewdall suggested.

  The room fell silent.

  Yewdall shrugged. ‘Why not? A lassie is less likely to go undercover, and I come from Stoke-on-Trent – I have a genuine Potteries accent if I need to use it . . . I’m a proper “Stoker”,’ she said, pronouncing ‘Stoke’ as ‘Stowk’.

  Swannell held eye contact with Vicary. ‘It could work, sir. Penny is not known to the staff at WLM Rents . . . she could walk in off the streets.’

  Vicary turned to Yewdall. ‘You’ll be in real danger.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘This will certainly help your career if you do this, but do not let that be your motivation.’

  ‘I know that, sir, and I won’t.’

  ‘He’ll likely try and make you work King’s Cross.’

  ‘I won’t agree to that. He’ll need to use me as a gofer, if he wants one, which will be more useful to us anyway, I would have thought – carrying parcels from address to address, we could put his network together very well.’

  ‘OK. This will take a week or two to prepare. I’ll set the ball rolling. We’ll get you into deep cover. But only if you are sure . . .’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Yewdall smiled. ‘Very, very sure. I want the king of Kilburn to take a great fall.’

  ‘Good.’ Vicary smiled approvingly. ‘Meanwhile, let’s bring in Clive “The Pox” Sherwin. He sounds a lot softer than “Rusher” Boyd. See what he can tell us.’

  ‘You either like it or you don’t,’ the ill-shaven man said. ‘The thrill is the motivation – it is for me anyway.’ He rolled a cigarette, taking the tobacco from a plastic pouch.

  ‘You’ve been doing this a long time?’ Yewdall asked, shivering in a yellow blouse, denim jacket and an old pair of jeans with holes in both knees. She wore an old pair of sports shoes and thin ankle socks.

  ‘Yeah . . .’ he rolled the cigarette painfully thinly, as if it was more paper than tobacco. ‘You cold?’

  ‘Yes, but I was advised to get used to it.’r />
  ‘That’s good advice. If you show too much sensitivity to the cold you won’t come across as authentic. Do you smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well start. Smoke roll-ups like this.’ He held up his cigarette.

  ‘I know what roll-ups are.’

  ‘No, I mean roll them like this, as thin as thin can be, that means you’ve been on the inside. Only a con who is used to trying to make his weekly one ounce ration of weed last a week will roll them as thin as this. It’s a good habit to get into. If you are not in the habit, I mean well in, you’ll forget yourself and roll a thick one, and your cover is blown.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘You’ll need to stop washing, maybe just your face now and again, but not a full body wash and don’t change your clothes too often.’

  ‘Alright.’

  The man lit the cigarette with a blue disposable lighter. ‘I am going to be your contact, not your governor. Mr Vicary is it?’

  ‘Yes, Harry Vicary.’

  ‘Met him once, seems to know his stuff.’

  ‘I think he does.’

  ‘I’ll give you a phone number which you must memorize and use the continental method.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Break it down into two figure components. For some reason we Brits tend to remember numbers using the individual units, so we would remember a sequence as two, four, seven, eight, six, three, nine, for example.’

  ‘Yes, I would do that.’

  ‘Well, the continentals would remember that number as twenty-four, seventy-eight, sixty-three, nine. Use the continental method, it’s easier.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘It’s a landline.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘To an address above a travel agents in Finchley.’

  ‘Finchley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bit posh.’

  ‘Yes . . . posh addresses are very useful, makes it easier to spot nasties hanging around sighting up the joint.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you won’t be going there; the cover address is Lismore Photographic Studios. You can leave a message on the answering machine. We need a code name for you. Did you ever keep a pet?’