by Danny Miller
The spot was called Campwood, and it was a wildlife area and camping ground that was used by schools for week-long holidays. Gavin and Dean had been there three summers in a row whilst at primary school, and they had loved the place, coming home with stories of a magic forest and a secret lake they’d discovered. Ella and Cathy concluded it had been a time of innocence for them, and it was the place that Gavin wanted to get back to. It was where he’d decided to end his life.
He’d ridden all the way out there on his racing bike – it was found resting against the tree. It would have been a good hour’s cycling. In that hour, what must he have thought about? His guilt, the part he’d played in his best friend’s death? Whatever Gavin was thinking, it was enough to fuel his long journey to the place he’d chosen and to take his own life. But there was no note. He just climbed up the tree, a tree by a small pond, a pond that with its lily pads and dragonflies must have looked to an eight-year-old boy from a bleak estate like a magical lake.
John Waters had just finished cuffing Sinbad when he got the news, news he’d somehow been expecting. A bleak thought that he’d not been able to shake since the death of Dean … Where one went, the other would follow. When he arrived at St Giles’ Church to talk to Ella, he found her with Cathy. It was the first time the women had come face to face since Dean’s death. And now the two boys were together again, so were their mothers.
Reverend James Tutt and the social worker were there to oversee the meeting between the two mothers. But whilst it looked like plenty of tears had been shed, there was no animosity, no apportioning of blame, just two friends unified in their tragedy, their hands gripped together, talking and comforting each other.
But the two women weren’t alone in their grief. The pews of the church were packed, probably more so than on any given Sunday, and mostly with women, women from the Southern Housing Estate who wanted to show solidarity. Waters recognized many of them from the meeting at the community centre. He suspected that for some, if not most, it was their first time in the church.
Ella Ross and Cathy Bartlett came over to him. Waters stood up. But he could barely meet their gaze, couldn’t fathom their grief. He went to say how sorry he was, to offer his sincere condolences, to say that he—
He was cut short by Ella; and in a voice that was unwavering, determined, she said, ‘We know what we’re going to do. We all do.’
‘Just like you told us,’ added Cathy, still holding her friend’s hand.
Waters looked uncertain. Ella reminded him, ‘We’re going to show them. Show them who’s got the power.’
As Waters glanced down at Ella and Cathy’s hands, clasped together, unified, strong, he got it; and he knew there would be more joining them. And as he looked around at the faces of the women in the impromptu congregation, who were now all turned towards him, he didn’t doubt their power for a second.
Frost made his way through to Interview Room One; he’d just returned from seeing a distraught Debbie Wooder to extend his condolences and entreat her cooperation with the investigation.
‘Afternoon, Sinbad,’ greeted Frost, swinging into the room whilst looking down at the printout of the charges against Barry Sutton. ‘Santa’s Grotto, Aladdin’s Cave, Sotheby’s of Bond Street and under Fagin’s floorboards – they all pale in comparison to what you keep squirrelled away in that lock-up of yours.’
Frost let the charge sheet fall from his hand and drop right in front of the detainee. Sinbad didn’t bat an eyelid and remained seemingly unperturbed, his tattooed arms crossed defiantly across his chest, eyes staring straight ahead. Frost ruined his view by sitting down opposite him. The detective then adjusted his head to read a limerick inscribed on Sinbad’s forearm. He laughed.
‘I’ve never been to Madras myself, but I’ll take your word for it that’s what the ladies enjoy. Anyway, getting down to brass tacks,’ he said with an emphatic drum roll of his knuckles on the desk, ‘we’ve got enough to nick you and put you away for a good five-year stretch, considering your previous and—’
‘I’m not dealing smack! That’s why you’re turning everyone over, I know that much. I’m against it like you, it’s filth and it’s sold by scum. I’ve got kids too, Frost – you think I want them ending up like that lad Dean?’
‘Relax, Sinbad, no one’s accusing you of selling heroin.’
‘Then what you searching my place for?’
‘We’re searching everywhere. Orders from on high, they just want to shake things up on the estate, make it uncomfortable for whoever is dealing it, and let them know we’re not going to let them turn the estate into a no-go zone. There are a lot of good people on that estate. And then there’s you.’
Sinbad went to say something, but Frost raised his hand for him to stop.
‘Little Stevie Wooder was pulled out of the river last night. Shot in the head.’
Frost watched as the solid block of defiance sitting in front of him melted before his eyes. Sutton’s tattooed arms dropped to his sides, and the poker face he’d been wearing slipped off and fell to the floor, never to be seen again. Sinbad shook his head, partly in disbelief, but partly not. And that was the part that Frost was interested in.
‘Just been to see Debbie. Of course, she’s in pieces. Poor cow, whatever Little Stevie put her through with … with his absences at Her Majesty’s pleasure, I know they were very much in love. I’m seeing her again tomorrow. She wants to tell me all she knows. And I know you know something, probably something she doesn’t. He was your mate, as well as your business partner. All those years you worked together, he never grassed you up for a lighter sentence. Many villains would have. But he stood staunch, right, Sinbad?’
Sutton gave a slow, thoughtful nod, looking like he was remembering all the years he didn’t spend in prison thanks to Little Stevie. He cleared his throat and said, ‘When he went missing in action, everyone thought he was off with a bird, or casing some big job. I knew different. I knew he was in deep with something. The reason I knew was because he wouldn’t tell me all of it. Usually Little Stevie liked to boast, you know, give it large about what he was up to. He was always dropping himself in it. But I knew he was up to something big.’
‘Go on.’
Sinbad picked up the charge sheet in front of him, and shook his head again. Like what was written there was all a terrible mistake. Frost grinned, then whipped the charge sheet out of his hand and held it like he was about to tear it in half. But not yet.
Barry Sutton made his opening gambit. ‘Drop all charges, I put my gear back in the motor and you’ll get whatever—’
‘Sod off, Sinbad! We drop the charges, but we keep all your “gear” because it’s not yours in the first place – and we attempt to return it to the rightful owners. The rest we sell off at auction and the money goes to the Police Benevolent Fund.’
Sinbad let out a groan like he’d been pummelled in the gut, and not just the wallet. ‘Bleedin’ hell … that’s nearly all my stock!’
‘It’s not stock, it’s stolen property! Anyway, you can always bid for it at auction. Think of all those poor old coppers you’ll be helping.’
Sutton sank back in his chair and steeled himself to do something completely abhorrent to him – help the police with their inquiries. ‘Little Stevie was paid top dollar to burgle George Price’s properties. Not to steal money, jewellery or anything of intrinsic value. In fact, he was told, if anything was taken, he wouldn’t get paid. The person paying for the job didn’t want George Price to know he was being robbed.’
‘So what did he want him to rob?’
‘Information.’
‘A little black book with some names and numbers in it perchance?’
Sinbad answered that question with a smirk. ‘How is your head? Nice to see the bandages off.’
‘Cheeky sod!’ said Frost, scratching the back of his head that had just started to itch where the stitches were pulling. ‘That was Little Stevie’s handiwork, was it?’
‘As I said, Little Stev
ie loved to boast, especially when he was getting one over on the law. Saw him Saturday evening. We had a pint. He told me he saw you at the races talking to Price’s clerk, Jimmy. You had a black notebook in your hand. Little Stevie put two and two together and reckoned it was the black book he was after. He couldn’t resist it.’ Sinbad grinned. ‘Little Stevie said it was like taking candy from a baby, he said you was well drunk, Mr Frost, staggering all over the place. He just followed you out to the car park.’
Frost raised an eyebrow at the WPC by the door who was suppressing giggles.
‘Thank you, Hanna, something funny?’
She stopped. ‘Not from where I’m sitting, Inspector.’
‘Good girl.’ Frost then turned his attention back to Sinbad, who was also suppressing a giggle. Frost tapped a forefinger on the charge sheet. ‘Careful, you might get me to rethink my generosity as far as your larcenous activities are concerned. You’ve had a result, son, let’s not blow it, eh?’
Sinbad gave a ‘fair enough’ nod and continued: ‘But it wasn’t just the little black book, in fact, that was the least of it. Little Stevie was paid top dollar to find some tapes.’
‘What kind of tapes?’
Sinbad shrugged.
‘Come on, don’t go all shy on me now. What kind of tapes? Videotapes, like the ones we found in your lock-up?’
‘To be honest, Little Stevie didn’t say, and I just took it for granted that it was just cassette tapes. Because I know for a fact that at the races, the bookies have a tape recorder going so they can tape all the bets they take, so if there’s any disputes with the punters, they’ve got it all recorded. And I do know that George Price used to tape-record all his phone calls, so he had proof of the bets that he’d taken.’
‘Because gambling debts aren’t enforceable by law – it’s little more than a gentleman’s agreement.’
‘Exactly. But there were rumours that Price had tapes of certain people in compromising situations. Real incriminating stuff.’
‘Taped conversations?’
Sinbad shrugged. ‘If he’s taping all his calls, people can get sloppy over the phone, start letting things slip, who knows? George Price, someone else who likes to boast, used to say that he had friends in high places and never had to pay for a parking ticket, could do what he liked.’
Frost nodded. ‘I’ve heard those rumours too. Are we talking bent coppers?’
‘Little Stevie wouldn’t say. But I know one thing: Little Stevie wasn’t scared of anyone, but he was scared of whoever it was who was paying him to get hold of the little black book and the tapes. And it looks like he had every right to be.’
There was a knock on the door and Frost beckoned them in. Clarke entered the room, holding up a videotape. ‘I think there’s something you need to see, Inspector.’
Sinbad’s eyes went to widescreen as he recognized the film she was holding.
‘That’s from my own private collection.’
‘Something we should know, Sinbad?’
‘All good clean fun … sort of. Just don’t tell the wife, she’ll kill me.’
Thursday (3)
Stanley Mullett was with Assistant Chief Constable Winslow in his plush suite of offices at County HQ; they were watching the lunchtime news on the large TV set encased in a carved mahogany cabinet that matched the drinks cabinet beside it. Quality throughout, mused Mullett, who fully appreciated that the ACC’s office was several steps up from his. Winslow sat behind his teak partners’ desk (not unlike the one the President of the United States sat behind in the Oval Office), which put Mullett a good four feet away from him. There was a red leather three-seater couch wedged between two bookcases beneath the mullioned window. The whole office had the feel of a gentleman’s club. How Mullett craved a couch in his own office. He had read that productivity is often improved after an afternoon nap, a siesta, if you will. The idea of stretching out on his own couch after a long lunch appealed to him. In fact, Mullett was convinced that if he had this office, with its drinks cabinet, plush seating and seemingly all the necessary comforts, he would seldom leave it. He probably wouldn’t ever go home.
‘Ah, Mullett, here it is,’ said the Assistant Chief Constable, picking up the remote control and aiming it at the TV to turn up the volume.
It was a live report from the Southern Housing Estate. The screen showed a gathering of women outside the community centre. There were about thirty of them carrying banners hastily made out of white sheets, which boldly stated in black paint who they were, what they were, and what they were going to do: ‘We’re MAAD as hell and we’re not going to take it any more!’ Some men of the cloth accompanied the group. There was Reverend James Tutt of St Giles’, Father Edwards, a local Catholic priest, and a rabbi from Rimmington. The two leaders of the group, Ella Ross and Cathy Bartlett, spoke eloquently about their loss and their determination not to let drugs and the gangsters who sold them take over their community and destroy their children’s lives.
The unfortunate acronym, MAAD, stood for Mothers’ Alliance Against Drugs, but it also served to sum up exactly how they felt. They spoke of their plans to make their presence felt on the estate, how they weren’t going to be cowed by these men. They had a number of events planned, including a march this afternoon through Denton town centre, followed by a town hall meeting, and then regular vigils on the estate to make life for the dealers as hard as possible.
The ACC picked up the remote control again and pointed it at the TV until the screen blinked and faded to black, with just a stubborn starburst in the centre. The two men watched it slowly disappear and gathered their thoughts. But it was immediately obvious to Mullett that this was an extremely delicate situation. These kinds of interest groups and protests made Eagle Lane look like they weren’t in control of the situation. Mothers up in arms, making their presence felt and effectively policing the area. Whilst no one was yet accusing them of being vigilantes, it was potentially a tinderbox. Drug dealers were dangerous men, and yet the police couldn’t outlaw MAAD’s presence. The situation called for the utmost sensitivity.
‘Your thoughts, Stanley?’
Mullett sighed lavishly, so as to be seen to be giving it some serious thought.
‘The reason I ask is because I hear one of your men is behind it.’
‘One of mine?’
‘Detective Sergeant Waters. Apparently, he suggested the whole thing, or certainly encouraged it once it had been formed. Did you not know this?’
‘I … I knew he was doing community outreach work.’
‘Good idea. Perfect man for the job.’
‘Yes. I thought so, that’s why I proposed him for it. But as for encouraging … MAAD, that’s unconscionable. I shall reprimand him, maybe suspend him forthwith until—’
‘You’ll do no such thing. Not yet, anyway. We don’t know how this will play out, which way the wind will blow. But however it does, we need to be on the right side of it. You see?’
Mullett did see. If there was one thing he always did see, it was the importance of being seen on the right side of things.
The ACC played with a snazzy chrome executive toy on the desk and gazed out of the window as if looking for divine inspiration. ‘They’re mothers … mothers with banners and slogans and commanding a veritable army of sympathy; they have the press and the people on their side … and they have the church behind them, too. Once you put God into the equation, the game’s up. You can’t go up against God, you’ll lose every time.’
Mullett cleared his throat, as if to draw the ACC back into the room. ‘Indeed. How should we proceed, then?’
Winslow stopped his deliberating and gazing out of the window, and turned his attention to Mullett. ‘The meeting at the town hall is scheduled for six p.m. this evening. Full press presence, local church leaders, councillors, the mayor, dignitaries – and you, Stanley, and every other county super will be up on the stage with them. We must be seen to be on the right side of this. We must appear to be MAA
D, too.’
‘Sir?’
‘Mothers’ Alliance Against Drugs.’
Mullett looked enlightened, then nodded in agreement: now they were all MAAD.
‘Gordon Bennett! Take a look at those beauties!’
‘Inspector Frost, let me remind you this is serious police business,’ chided DI Eve Hayward.
‘I was talking about the palm trees … lovely,’ said a defensive, yet smiling, Frost.
Hayward, John Waters, Sue Clarke and Frost were gathered in the briefing room around the conference table. The curtain had been drawn across the glass partition that separated it from the main CID incident room. And the sound had been turned down to a minimum. Although it could have been turned off altogether, as there was no meaningful dialogue to be gleaned from the video they were watching on the TV. The ‘film’ was called The Pool Boy Gets Wet. What narrative there was revolved around the plight of the poor pool boy turning up to perform his duties in a villa, somewhere in southern Spain by the looks of it, only to have his endeavours hindered by the owner of the house, a woman in her early twenties attired in the skimpiest of bikinis. In this she was assisted by the housemaid, who was about the same age and wearing the same style bikini, but also armed with a feather duster. Protest as he might, the reluctant pool boy was soon embroiled in an imbroglio not of his own making.
As grainy and amateurishly made as the film was, after only a few minutes one of the female stars was instantly recognizable to the four coppers. It was Melody Price. Maybe ten or so years younger, but it was unmistakably her.
Eve Hayward turned the TV off.
‘I think I need to see more, just to make sure it is her!’ protested Frost.
‘It’s her,’ said Hayward. ‘And I know who the other woman is, too. It’s the wife of Eamon “The Hook” Hogan – Angie.’
‘He’s not in it, is he?’ asked John Waters.
‘No.’
‘Maybe we should check, see if he turns up later,’ suggested Frost. ‘And I’d like to know how it ends.’
Sue Clarke said, ‘We fast-forwarded it, there’s another ten minutes, much the same, then the pool boy goes home.’