But these were, I mentally told myself sternly in the next breath, amazing and brave people who had to look scruffy because they worked within the criminal underworld and who, for professional pride reasons, resented the arrival of outsiders in the shape of the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.
‘We don’t know,’ Reece said in response to the question. ‘The plan to lift him out had been well planned. We knew he would be driving someone else’s car in a certain location with the owner as a passenger so we got Traffic to pull the vehicle over on the pretext that it was in an unroadworthy condition. Morley was in on the plan and, as pre-arranged, refused to cooperate with the law, actually putting up a fight. The man he was with did a runner and got away, as it had been decided he should. Morley and the car were then taken into custody and everyone congratulated themselves that the ruse had worked. Morley was de-briefed, went home to Bath, played in a rugger match the next day and was due to drive up to his parent’s place in Cumbria the following morning. He did not; he disappeared.’
‘What was his brief?’ Patrick asked.
‘I’ll have to fill you in with the background before I do that,’ Reece replied. ‘Can I get you some coffee first?’
Patrick smiled. ‘Did I see a machine in the main office on our way through?’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Then allow Ingrid and me to get you some.’
Reece said nothing, but I detected a little surprise.
There were four of them, busily engaged with computers, phones or files, but there was a slight pause in the proceedings when we walked in. One individual with red hair stopped what he was doing altogether, throwing down his pen, and subjected Patrick to an unfriendly stare, as he had at our first appearance.
‘Is this a getting-to-know-the-lower-decks exercise then … sir?’ he asked, pointedly ignoring me.
‘No,’ Patrick said as we circumnavigated a rucksack and a pile of outdoor clothing on the floor on our way to the coffee machine. ‘Right now it’s using four hands to fetch three coffees. Would anyone else like some?’
‘No thanks,’ said the man, answering for all.
‘There’s no need to call me sir; most SOCA people are given the rank of constable to enable them to arrest people. Patrick will do fine. This is my wife and working colleague, Ingrid. Was Cliff Morley a good chum of yours?’
‘He was,’ the other man answered stonily. ‘A very good chum.’
‘I shall value anything you might be able to tell me about him and what he was working on.’
‘We don’t need outside help. We’re perfectly capable of finding the bastards ourselves.’
‘You might need someone to out-Herod Herod,’ was all Patrick said, seemingly absently-mindedly, organizing polystyrene cups.
‘Sergeant Cunningham’s taken Morley’s death very badly,’ Reece said on our return, having seen, but not heard, the exchange through the glass screen between the offices. ‘I sincerely hope he wasn’t offensive.’
‘Not at all,’ Patrick replied. ‘I could tell he was upset when we first arrived. Is he closely involved on the same case as Morley?’
‘No, he’s not working on that at all.’
‘Nor now, on the investigation into his death?’
‘No. I thought it best if he stayed right out of it.’
‘I suggest you rope him in in some capacity. Let’s get all that grief and burning resentment properly channelled, shall we?’ Patrick opened his briefcase. ‘Now, please give us as much relevant information as you can.’
He did not think of himself as a mere constable, obviously.
‘This appears to be one of those cases where a bunch of urban thickoes with truckloads of form headed by a brainier version jump into a black BMW with tinted glass windows and head for a city in the provinces either because of disagreements or because home is too hot to stay in,’ Reece began urbanely. ‘These people are unknown to us and although the Met think the boss-man could be the brother-in-law of someone calling himself Ernie O’Malley, who runs his dirty little empire from a council flat in Walthamsden when he hasn’t given the Met the slip, there’s no proof. They seem to keep their heads down and play it respectable when they’re not actually breaking the law. I’ll be perfectly honest with you and admit that we haven’t yet made any progress in establishing who they are. It’s almost as though several neighbours from somewhere in the Smoke got bored, decided to rob a building society branch, realized that the life was for them and took it from there. It’s that incomprehensible. But they mean business. One of them, or possibly two, carry weapons – knives and handguns – and know how to use them.’
‘Are you clear in your mind that these people you speak of were responsible for Morley’s death?’ Patrick enquired.
‘No, but there’s a tenuous connection which I’ll tell you about in a minute,’ Reece replied. ‘Its all we have.’
I made notes. My shorthand, a mostly outdated concept these days, is still pretty good and has the advantage of being utterly unreadable to nearly everyone else should someone acquire my notepad or try to read over my shoulder. It also means I can be as rude as I like about those doing the talking and record any suspicions about them.
Reece continued, ‘We’ve actually got recent CCTV footage of a couple of them where you can see their faces. One was a jewellery shop robbery – the proprietor was shot dead – where the scarf that was being used as a mask by one of the gang slipped and you get a good view of the man wearing it. The other was when a Ferrari was stolen at knife-point in a station carpark and whoever was holding the weapon wasn’t even trying to hide his face. We’ve enhanced the pictures and sent them off to the Met and, as they haven’t the first idea who they are, I think their theory is wrong. As I said, newcomers. They probably go home afterwards and mow the lawn.’
‘Illegal immigrants?’ Patrick said.
‘They could be, but the masked ones making most of the demands don’t appear to have foreign accents; more like what’s referred to as “estuary English”.’
‘You reckon it’s the same bunch on both those occasions?’
‘Yes, because one of the guys involved is extremely tall and bony-looking. He dresses like a scarecrow and wears a balaclava. He doesn’t have to carry weapons – his appearance frightens the victims silly. They say he has a strange squeaky voice and moves in an odd way – probably for disguise purposes.’
‘He could be the leader,’ I commented.
Reece looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, a phenomenon that I have come up against quite a lot since working with Patrick.
‘Yes, I think he is,’ he acknowledged.
‘So these people just come out of nowhere, do a job and then vanish?’ Patrick said. ‘What was Morley doing then?’
‘Hanging around trying to spot and get an angle on the tall man. This character doesn’t appear to go in the kind of pubs that dodgy people use – and we really are talking about a very tall individual; he’s at least six foot six or seven and bone-thin. Up until a short while ago the snouts we use were as in the dark as we were, or so they said. Then Morley got a lead from one of them about someone who’d moved into a new estate in Bradley Stoke and immediately started upsetting all the neighbours – boorish behaviour, big aggressive guard dogs, the bloke tall and thin and always ready to pick an argument. Morley was given an address of sorts but when he went out there he couldn’t find the place. He asked the snout to take him as he didn’t want to use his own car for obvious reasons and the guy agreed but said he was banned from driving so Morley would have to. Then another snout hinted to someone else on my team that the first snout was involved with the gang and I became worried that Morley was at serious risk. I didn’t want him to be seen anywhere near the area. So we lifted him out. During his de-briefing I warned him to keep his head down but he was keen to be available for the rugby match the next day before he headed up north. On reflection I should have made it an order. You know the rest.’
; ‘Both snouts could be dodgy,’ I said. ‘And in the pay of whoever runs this gang.’
‘That too is possible,’ Reece said.
‘So they both need to be taken apart by persons unknown in order to get at the truth,’ Patrick said.
Reece’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Do you have that kind of brief?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘I could always make a point of asking my boss afterwards.’
‘But there can’t be seen to be a connection with anything like that and a police department, surely!’
‘There won’t be. The day I look like anything emanating from a police department when I’m on a job I shall deserve to be chucked out.’ He smiled placatingly. ‘No, it’s fairly simple to give every impression of belonging to an aggrieved local godfather’s outfit.’
‘All these people could be operating under stolen identities,’ Reece went on after a short pause. ‘And, picking up the thread of what we were talking about just now, we did subsequently check on the address that Morley had been given. There was no house of that name in the road mentioned.’
‘All the more reason to do a little investigating on those snouts,’ Patrick said. ‘Would you like me to do that first? I mean, you’re not going to trust them sufficiently to use either of them again, are you?’
‘Do re-phrase that, Patrick,’ I urged. ‘Or Superintendent Reece will think you’re going to make them disappear for good.’
‘Unfortunate use of words,’ he agreed. ‘I should have said “otherwise you’re not going to trust them sufficiently to use them again.”’
‘They would have been brought in for interview already,’ Reece told him. ‘But the pair of them have gone right off the map. Needless to say, we’re looking, but by all means act independently.’
I said, ‘One of the worst aspects of this is that Morley was tortured before being killed. I understand that the initials RK were carved on his chest. Have you any idea who that might be, or is it possible that the marks made with a knife only resemble those letters?’
‘No, it’s fairly clear it’s someone signing their handiwork,’ Reece answered. He reached for a file on his desk. ‘To spare the family we’ve omitted to mention that he was mutilated as well. There are photographs in there, taken of the body as it was found, if you both care to look at them. But I warn you, they’re not pleasant.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t distress yourself,’ Patrick said to me, leaning over to take the file before I could touch it. ‘Remember what happened on the arson job.’
There had been no arson job. But as we have our own codes that involve the deliberate telling of lies I went along with this knowing that he would explain his reasons later. He opened the file and I could tell from his face that the photographs were ghastly – I could see only that they were in colour – and on looking at one of them this ex-soldier of mine got to his feet and walked over to the window to try to prevent us from seeing him retching.
‘God,’ he whispered. He stared at Reece hard. ‘Did he have the kind of information that would be of real use to serious criminals?’
‘Well, the names of all his colleagues and those in charge, of course, but that’s about it. He certainly wasn’t in possession of the kind of stuff that’s mostly inside my head. And we’re not that high-flown a department, merely CID with a few knobs on.’
‘That begs the question of who they might have thought he was. Are these people, one wonders, into the kind of activities that would attract the attention of the Anti-Terrorism Branch or those sectors that were merged to create SOCA? Or I suppose it’s possible inflicting such torment wasn’t in an attempt to learn anything but just to make some sadist feel all nice and warm inside.’ These last words had been uttered, as he handed back the folder, in a voice choking with disgust. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough, Superintendent, to let me have a copy of the case notes contained in this. And the pictures of those characters that you sent to the Met.’
‘Certainly,’ Reece said. ‘You can have them right now. Will you visit the scene where Morley’s body was found?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Yes, probably straight after we leave here. Not that I would presume to discover anything that your people have missed. We find it helps, that’s all.’
‘There’s a map marked with the exact location in the file. I’ll get that copied for you as well.’
‘You’re not very good at hiding your feelings,’ Patrick explained when we were on our own. ‘That’s why I didn’t want you to see anything that might possibly be the work of James’s father. He’d know, just by looking at you, that you were upset and an abomination had taken place.’ He added, ‘But I’m glad you didn’t see them for your own sake, too. I almost threw up.’
‘But you must have seen all kinds of ghastly sights when you were a serving officer,’ I said, actually quite shocked at how it had affected him.
‘I did, but in time of enemy action your real concerns are tactics, your responsibility for the living, and you learn to concentrate on all that. The worst things were the bomb disposal people who got it wrong when I was in Northern Ireland.’
The media descriptions of the finding of the body in ‘woodland near Bristol’ appeared to be inaccurate and after wending our way along country lanes we found ourselves bouncing over rough ground and scrubland on the edge of a rubbish tip near Bradley Stoke, the second time the place had featured that morning. Patrick was doing the navigating – we were at the correct grid reference but at the follow-your-nose stage – and we duly topped a slight rise and headed down towards what was indeed a small wood. Incident tape was stretched between some of the trees, creating a restricted area. There was no sign of any police presence now but the ground was churned up from the recent movements of vehicles.
As we went downhill, now on a track of sorts, the ground became wetter. I could see that it was very dark within the wood, water glinting in a couple of places where light penetrated the leaf canopy and, when the engine was turned off, the sound of a trickling stream could be heard. But this was not an attractive place, the air sour with the smell of rotting rubbish on the nearby tip, the thin grass yellow and sickly-looking. The stream, looking more like a polluted run-off, was a strange grey, almost metallic colour and in the small pools that had formed revolved large blobs of revolting yellow scum.
Neither of us spoke as we left the car and walked down to the edge of the trees. Over to our right seagulls circled in the dusty air above the tip and excavators growled somewhere out of sight in the distance. Huge piles of topsoil had been dumped right up to the trees and I could see a day, soon, when this little wood would be buried for ever.
We ducked under the tape and entered, pausing to allow our eyes to accustom to the gloom. The spot where Morley’s body had been found was quickly obvious; the vegetation, such as it was, in a shallow ditch flattened and bruised with a kind of greasy sheen to it, footprints everywhere. I knew that when investigations had ceased all traces of murder would be removed and wondered why no one was here to prevent incursions by the curious or ghoulish. Then I saw that there was indeed a police presence; a patrol car just visible through the trees over to the left. It appeared that we might have arrived by the ‘scenic’ route. Surely they had heard us.
‘Say nowt,’ Patrick whispered. ‘It would be polite to go over and say hello but …’ His voice trailed away as he crouched down on the edge of the ditch from which arose the smell of putrefaction.
I felt sick. Looking around, it was obvious that the trees were dying, leaning on one another, the trunks at ground level black and slimy, the bark, in places, falling off. Branches had also fallen and lay, one on another, rotting into the wet ground. The pools of water had an iridescent gleam as though oil lay on the surface. It probably did. Dark, Sherlockian and bog-ridden? I had been very naîve: I now knew what those words really meant.
I turned and went away.
After a few minutes Patrick joined me in the Range Rover.
‘You’ve been cryin
g,’ he observed softly.
‘This is an evil and disgusting place,’ I whispered.
I could not write the book now.
As Bristol CID had undertaken a search of the whole area, even raking through the pools, without finding any clues, there was no point in us lingering. Patrick did have second thoughts about making ourselves known to the crew of the area car and went back to speak to them. It turned out they had been expecting us, having been given our vehicle’s registration. Then we left.
‘Will you be offended if I ask you to go home for a few days while I endeavour to chase down these missing informers?’ Patrick said as we were driving away.
‘Because I’m getting all emotional?’ I queried, hearing the resentment in my voice.
‘No, because I can’t see the point in dragging you around neck-end Bristol pubs, which is no doubt where they usually hang out. I was wondering if you’d undertake a little discreet surveillance at Sheepwash Farm – I don’t think we’re finished with the place yet.’
‘I might,’ I said grumpily.
‘But please don’t go inside any of the buildings. Someone might have returned and rigged up another nasty surprise.’
‘But surely the local police will have sealed them all off.’
‘They may well have done. But don’t take any chances.’
I should, after all this time, have got used to Patrick just walking away, taking one of the small bags containing a few necessities that we always keep in the car and going from my sight, either into the countryside, or as now, a busy city centre. I have not: I have a horror that, one day, it will be the last time and I will never see him again. He did not want the car, it was of no use to him, even a hindrance on this kind of job.
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