Deep Cover

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘That it?’ Yates asked when Rusher and Henry stopped kicking.

  ‘Yeah . . .’ Rusher showed no sign of being out of breath. He and Henry both gave the impression that they could have carried on kicking the youth for a further half hour before showing any sign of fatigue. ‘It’s done.’

  ‘OK.’ Yates looked down at the bloody, pulped face of the youth. During the assault, neither he nor Bowling had made any movement or made any facial expression that Yewdall had noticed, but rather, both had stood as calmly as if waiting for a bus. Detachment, she thought, was just not the word. ‘Give him a bath.’

  Rusher and Henry lifted up the body of the youth and placed it face down in the bath – immersing him so that just his calves and feet showed.

  ‘That’ll sort him if the kicking didn’t,’ Gail Bowling commented.

  ‘Oh, the kicking did it alright.’ Yates smiled. ‘They’re good boys but you can never be too sure . . .’

  ‘Is he going to the building site?’ Bowling asked. ‘The old concrete coffin?’

  ‘No . . . he’s staying here . . . I’m going to have him planted out the back. I’ve got the hole dug.’ Yates advanced on Yewdall and, taking a length of chain from his coat pocket, he wrapped it tightly round one of her wrists and secured it with a small brass padlock, and then speedily and efficiently wound the other end of the chain equally tightly round her other wrist, and similarly secured it with a brass padlock, thus holding her wrists together, six inches apart. ‘I want to show you something, blossom,’ he said smiling. ‘Come with me.’ He put his arm in hers and led her gently out of the barn. Walking with discomfort Yewdall was led from the barn to the meadow behind the barn wherein stood a line of short trees. Close to where Yates and Yewdall stood were three large holes about five feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep. Beside each hole was a sapling wrapped in newspaper.

  ‘Flowering cherry,’ Yates announced with pride, ‘my favourite tree . . . the blossom in spring time . . . exquisite. They don’t bear fruit, so it will never be a cherry orchard, but it is a lovely old tree.’

  ‘So why bring me up here?’

  ‘Rare old treat, darlin’.’ Yates smiled. ‘You’re sort of a special customer . . .’

  ‘Cust . . .’ Yewdall stammered.

  ‘Yeah . . . for want of a better way of putting it, here you go, girl, choose your hole.’

  Yewdall pulled away from Yates but he held her close. ‘What’s the rush, darlin’? One for the youth we just chilled, one for Billy Kemp . . . he’s getting to know what’s in store for him right now . . .’ Just at that moment a high-pitched cry was heard from the barn. ‘Ah, reckon he’s just been told. No one will hear. We let dogs out at night, keeps the poachers off the land. You can scream your lungs out tonight. So, what do you think . . . the middle one?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why you? What have you done? Is that what you’re asking?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘It’s because you’re the filth, ain’t you?’

  Yewdall went cold, and a chill shot down her spine; she felt a hollowness in her stomach.

  ‘You came from nowhere, and you came right in the middle of the filth asking questions. Just a little grubby but not grubby enough . . . it takes weeks . . . not a day or two . . . and you’re taller, fitter, more healthy looking than most street dwellers . . . and you were careful not to ask questions.’

  Yewdall looked around her, the winter landscape, the trees, the low sky, the cawing rooks all seemed so much more real, so much more immediate somehow.

  ‘And your old man in Stoke,’ Yates continued. ‘We paid him a visit . . . cor blimey . . . he had everything but “Police” stamped on his forehead. Full of confidence when two strange geezers knocked on his door . . . no fear . . . no concern for his safety, just full of anger towards you like he was reading from a script.’

  Yates took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and took two, lit them with a gold lighter, and pushed one between Yewdall’s lips. Yewdall surprised herself by accepting it, and inhaled the smoke.

  ‘It’s paranoia, darling,’ Yates explained as he turned Yewdall around and began walking her back to the barn, ‘paranoia . . . that keeps us alive. Suspect everyone . . . trust no one . . . you need to believe that everyone is out to get you because they are . . . cops, blaggers . . . dog eat dog.’

  Yewdall’s head sank, her feet were numb with cold.

  ‘Well, I got to say thanks for not claiming you’re not a cop – that would be really naughty of you, darling. I have more than two brain cells despite all that vodka I have thrown down my neck. Been doing that like there’s no tomorrow, but that’s my look out. I’ll be outliving you. How old are you darlin’?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’ Yewdall looked around her at the winter landscape.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ Yates repeated. ‘I could do with being that young, but with this loaf –’ he tapped the side of his head – ‘cor . . . I mean, cor blimey, just think of that . . . all this know-how and a twenty-five-year-old body, I’d be the King of London, never mind Kilburn. Well, it comes to us all sooner or later, for you it’ll be sooner. It was Sonya who put us on to you . . . you were just too clean and well-preserved.’

  ‘Sonya?’

  ‘Yeah, the big girl at the house. She’s a good girl . . . put us on to Billy too, she did. She’s doing alright for herself she is, she’s set to climb.’

  ‘What about Billy? He’s just a boy.’

  ‘He’s just a boy with a loud mouth . . . too much rabbit; he just can’t keep his old north and south shut. He’s a liability we can do without.’

  ‘I feel sick . . .’ Yewdall stumbled on the rough surface of the meadow.

  ‘It’s the smoke, it’s not good for you,’ Yates laughed, then he paused and said, ‘All . . . all because of that idiot Dalkeith. I told him to bury a body here, in this meadow, but what does he do? Buries her on Hampstead Heath. Yes, he digs a hole here and plants a tree, knowing I would not dig it up and check. Rosie Halkier, she should have been down there at the bottom end.’ He turned to look at the meadow. ‘Down there with that meddling cook, Tessie O’Shea. They were plotting against me and Gail, but we got to them first, and if Dalkeith had done the job like I told him, none of this would have come out. He left me with a right old mess to clean up, and you . . . you’ll never see twenty-six . . . you’ve got Irish Mickey Dalkeith to thank for that. Well, let’s get back to the barn, it’s cold out here.’

  Upon re-entering the barn, Yewdall saw that Billy Kemp lay curled up on the floor clutching his stomach, breathing with difficulty.

  ‘He tried to do a runner,’ Gail Bowling explained, ‘so Rusher tapped him.’

  ‘Nice one, Rusher.’ Yates smiled approvingly. ‘Better fasten him, Henry.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Henry took a length of chain and padlocked one end to a large item of machinery, and the other end he padlocked round Billy Kemp’s ankle.

  Yates pushed Penny Yewdall over towards Billy Kemp and, taking a small key, unlocked the chain round her left wrist, and then padlocked the end to the chain which held Billy Kemp captive.

  ‘That’s a nice sight.’ Gail Bowling gazed approvingly on the captive forms of Penny Yewdall and Billy Kemp. ‘That really is a very nice sight.’

  ‘When do we do them?’ Yates turned to Bowling.

  ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon late, early evening, when dusk is falling . . . give them time to think about things. Bet you never thought your last twenty-four hours in this life would be spent in a barn in Hertfordshire, did you, Constable?’ Bowling asked with a smile. ‘And such a pretty girl . . . what a waste.’

  Yewdall did not reply.

  ‘Thank you for not telling us that we won’t get away with it . . . because we will. We have been getting away with it for years . . . but you’ve seen the cherry trees . . . no one knows what they mean. No one knows what’s underneath them. If you scream . . . well, you can scream, because no one will hear you, but if you
do, Henry will come and tap you, won’t you, Henry?’

  ‘Damn right, I will.’

  ‘Packer will be in the house keeping warm but awake all night, won’t you, Henry? Just one mighty blow from his fist to your stomach will keep you quiet. I mean, look at him –’ Gail Bowling pointed to the curled-up figure of Billy Kemp – ‘he won’t be saying anything for a while . . . and shouting . . . well, forget it.

  ‘So, we’ll leave you – we have a dinner party to attend; got to get back home and get dressed for it . . . but there’s nothing like a trip to the country to put an edge on your appetite.’

  Bowling and Yates left the barn. Henry Packer followed shortly afterwards, turning off the light and shutting the door behind him.

  Yewdall tugged at the chain and then gave up. The only sound was the wheezing Billy Kemp.

  Harry Vicary forced the door of 123 Claremont Road and stormed into the hall, followed by Brunnie and Ainsclough, and four uniformed constables. He yelled, ‘Police!’ and then turned to the constables. ‘Search the house. Bring everyone down to the kitchen.’

  The only person in the house at the time proved to be Sonya Clements, who was dragged protesting into the kitchen.

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My officer!’

  ‘Your officer?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Vicary snarled, ‘my officer, Penny Yewdall.’

  ‘Penny’s a cop!’ Clements gasped.

  ‘Yes . . . Penny’s a cop and Yates has her. Yates is finished and everyone associated with him is finished too. So where is she?’

  ‘Don’t know! Honest. She was driven off about an hour ago.’

  ‘Who drove her off!’

  ‘Dunno . . . Rusher did . . . her and Billy Kemp.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . look, I’m just a girl, I don’t know anything.’

  ‘But you know Rusher works for Yates!’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘So what do you do for Yates?’

  ‘Just a gofer, fetch and deliver stuff – just little stuff. Do what I’m told.’

  ‘Take her in, suspicion of handling stolen property.’ Vicary paused. ‘That’ll do for now . . . but listen you,’ he addressed Sonya, ‘listen, we are wrapping up Yates. He’s going down and he’ll be well tucked-up for a long time. So right now it’s just handling stolen goods, but if anything happens to Penny it could be conspiracy to murder a police officer . . . and when a firm like Yates’s firm starts collapsing, everyone is out to save themselves. Everyone starts squealing like a sty full of stuck pork, it’s a hell of a racket, and we’ll then find out what has gone on and who has done what. So, do some thinking while you’re in the van and start working for yourself. Alright, take her away!’ Two constables dragged a wide-eyed and worried looking Sonya Clements out of the house and into a police van.

  ‘Take the house apart.’ Vicary spoke to Ainsclough and the two remaining officers. ‘I don’t know what you are looking for but take the place apart.’ He tapped Frankie Brunnie on the shoulder and said, ‘Come with me.’

  Vicary walked aggressively out of the house, turned on to Fernhead Road, and headed to the offices of WLM Rents. He and Brunnie entered aggressively. The manager stood reverentially as they entered, and managed to say, ‘Good afternoon, gent—’ before Vicary grabbed his lapels, pulled him over the desk and threw him on the floor. ‘Penny Yewdall,’ he shouted. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Who?’ The youthful manager looked shocked and frightened. He was one Nicholas Batty, by his name badge.

  ‘My officer!’

  ‘Your officer,’ he stammered.

  ‘Yes, Metropolitan Police . . . and my officer was driven away about an hour ago by Curtis Yates’s thugs . . .’

  ‘I just look after the office.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘We’ll find out, we’ll find out everything.’

  Brunnie leaned forward, and taking the man by his lapels, once again, he pulled him to his feet and brushed the man’s jacket. ‘You’re out of work, sunshine.’

  ‘Out . . .’

  ‘Of work,’ Vicary completed the sentence for him. ‘Yates is finished, his firm is on the way out and we’ll find out the extent of everyone’s involvement.’

  ‘Including yours, Nicky boy,’ Brunnie added, ‘including yours.’

  Vicary’s mobile vibrated. He took it out of his pocket and snatched it open. ‘Yes!’ He listened. He then said, ‘It doesn’t look like she’s here either.’ He snapped the phone shut. He turned to Brunnie. ‘She’s not at Piccadilly.’

  ‘So now what?’ Brunnie kept hold of Nicholas Batty’s arm.

  ‘Don’t know . . . bring him with us.’

  ‘On what charge, boss?’

  ‘Dunno . . . we’ll think of one – can’t leave him out here now he knows Penny’s a copper. You got the keys to this office?’

  ‘Desk drawer.’

  Vicary strode across the floor to the desk, opened the drawer and took out a bunch of keys. ‘These?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’ He walked back to where Brunnie and Batty stood and handed the keys to Brunnie. ‘Check in the back room, then lock up and give the keys back to me . . . and you, start to think about working for yourself, Nicholas. Curtis Yates is finished; he’s got nothing to hold over you now.’

  The long afternoon stretched into an even longer night. Billy Kemp, to whom Penny Yewdall was chained, had eventually, but only eventually, stopped asking questions which Yewdall could not answer – ‘Which one of us will they kill first?’, ‘Will they drown us like they drowned him?’, ‘Will our bodies ever be found?’, ‘Will anyone know what happened?’ He then gave up the futile tugging of the chain, seemed to curl up into a ball and settled into a prolonged whimpering, which he kept up until the dawn.

  In time, a certain calm, a certain peace settled over Penny Yewdall. So, she thought, so it has come to this – an early death at the hands of thieves and gangsters, but it was also a death she felt proud to die . . . for the police force. She had joined to serve, and had joined accepting the risks therein. Not perhaps as much of a risk as is faced by those who enlist in the armed services, but nonetheless police officers not infrequently lose their lives when on duty. Penny Yewdall, noticing that sounds appeared louder, smells stronger as she waited to die, realized that she was not worried for herself – she had hoped for a quick and painless death when her time came, and like the whimpering youth she did not relish the thought of drowning, the panic . . . the struggle . . . the bursting lungs . . . and likewise she did not want to die by falling from a great height, nor by incineration – but her worry turned to fear for her parents, her real, actual parents, still alive and living in retirement on the coast, and her sister and brother. Her family must know what had happened to her; they would need a grave to visit, a place to lay wreaths and a place where they could gather and grieve, but they were not going to have that. She would disappear, leaving them not knowing what had happened to her. They would never know peace. They would be in permanent distress. It was for them that she worried, endlessly fretting while her earthly remains putrefied under a sapling of a flowering cherry tree, so pretty in the spring, in a meadow in Hertfordshire. That was the worry – she felt for her family; aggravated by the sense of guilt that she had, somehow, betrayed them.

  It became cold that night. Very cold. In the barn rats rustled about. Outside in the still air, an owl hooted.

  Victor Swannell stepped nimbly out of the drizzle and off the greasy pavement, entered the main entrance of the London Hospital and was immediately assailed by the strong smell of formaldehyde. He consulted the hospital directory and took the stairs, in preference to the lift, to the second floor. Upon reaching the second floor he turned left and entered the ward, and approached the nursing station. He showed his ID. ‘I was told a patient wishes to see the police as a matter of urgency. A man called Sherwin
. . . Clive Sherwin.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The senior of the two nurses at the station stood. She was one Sister Jewell, by her name badge, which was fixed perfectly horizontal on the lapel of her uniform. She was a short, finely built woman – serious-minded, thought Swannell – the sort of nursing sister who is always right all the time about everything and a terror of trainees. ‘I’ll take you to him. We have put him in a private room, wholly for the benefit of the other patients I might add. He would distress them.’

  ‘Distress them?’

  ‘You’ll see what I mean. Please come this way.’ Sister Jewell came out from behind the nursing station and, with Swannell in her wake, walked silently down the ward on rubber-soled shoes. ‘We get one or two patients like this each year. It is the East End policing itself.’ Sister Jewell spoke sniffily. ‘I mean, as if the Health Service hasn’t enough to do . . . and isn’t collapsing under bankruptcy. I confess, avoidable injuries and violence annoy me.’ She progressed along the ward which had been arranged in the traditional ‘Nightingale’ style, with beds at equal intervals and abutting the walls on both sides at ninety degrees. A few patients had visitors. ‘Open visiting hours,’ Sister Jewell explained, as if reading Swannell’s thoughts. ‘It is a recently introduced system, a new development. I confess, freely so, that I prefer the old system of strictly enforced visiting hours but then I am now old enough to dislike any form of change, and I really do believe that things were better in the old days.’ Swannell remained silent. He had long since learned not to argue with taxi drivers and nursing sisters, and his opinion of Sister Jewell as being a tyrant towards junior nurses was being reinforced by the second.

  ‘In here.’ Sister Jewell stopped outside the door of a private room, with painted wooden walls up to waist height and frosted glass up to a height of ten feet thereafter. The room had no ceiling. ‘He was brought in last evening.’ Sister Jewell continued to speak but with a lowered voice. The room offered privacy of vision but not sound. ‘He was found on the pavement near here. There is not one square inch of flesh that is not bruised, and I mean one square inch . . . from the soles of his feet to his scalp, yet not one bone in his body is broken and his teeth have been left intact. I confess that he could be mistaken for a gentleman of the subcontinent, but he is as Northern European as you and me.’