Death in Dark Waters

by Patricia Hall

  “I’m sorry,” she said to the club owner. “What a mess.”

  “Ah, miz reporter,” Redmond said. “I told you last time we needed more protection here from those mad Pakis raving on about girls in mini-skirts and satanic music. You’d think Asian kids never went to clubs or sold drugs, the way they talk. But the police don’ seem to have paid any mind to me. They couldn’t even get a fire engine close enough to make a difference. They might as well ’a’bin pissing on the fire for all the good they did.” He waved an angry hand at the crippled appliance further down the street.

  “By the time they got hose pipes up and running the fire was out of control,” Sanderson said. “The little bastards pelted the first crew with stones and bottles. They couldn’t get near. The place is a write-off.”

  “Six years of my life up in smoke,” Redmond said gloomily.

  “Weren’t you insured?” Laura asked, and then wished she hadn’t. Redmond looked at her pityingly.

  “What good’s that?” he said. “The building is ‘structurally unsound’, according to the firemen. It’ll have to come down - so you lose the kids for months, p’raps years, while you put the place together again and expect them to come back when you reopen? No way. No chance. The Carib’s dead, which is what the men in pyjamas wanted anyway. I reckon they were inciting the kids to cause trouble here.”

  Laura glanced at the blackened wall facing the street and at the only windows, gaping holes in the brickwork now, at second story level above them.

  “It was a petrol bomb, was it?” she asked. “It must have been someone with ambitions to play cricket for Yorkshire to get one through those windows.”

  Redmond shrugged again.

  “They got different theories,” he said. Laura glanced at Dizzy B, for further explanation.

  “I had a talk with one of the fire service investigators,” he said. “It doesn’t look as if it was a petrol bomb at all. The seat of the fire’s at the back of the building.”

  “You mean it could have been an accident?” Laura asked, surprised. “An electrical fault or something?”

  “Oh, no, not an accident,” Dizzy B said. “But maybe not kids on the rampage either. One of the emergency doors at the back had been forced and some sort of accelerant chucked about, petrol probably. This was arson all right, but by someone who really intended to gut the place.”

  “I should have sold out when the developers made me an offer,” Redmond said. “I’d have been laughin’ then, floggin’ a goin’ concern over the odds. It won’t be worth more than the value of the site now.”

  “I didn’t know you’d had an offer to buy,” Dizzy B said. “Who from, for God’s sake?”

  “Some development firm Barry Foreman knew about. Wanted to convert into flats with shops underneath—like they done further up the street. They probably won’t be interested now.”

  “What’s the company called?”

  “City Properties? City Ventures? Somethin’ like that. Barry said they were the people who are going to redevelop the Heights.”

  “Are they?” Laura said thoughtfully and saw the flicker of interest in Dizzy B’s eyes.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking,” he asked. “Maybe someone wanting to force a sale they couldn’t get any other way?” Darryl Redmond shrugged.

  “What difference does it make now? Come with me down the police station, Dizzy, to make this statement they want,” the club owner said, his face weary under the scattering of ash which clung to his dark skin and hair like mould. “If I ain’t careful I’ll find myself banged up for firin’ the place myself.”

  “Right,” Sanderson said. “Though I don’t think I’m persona grata down there. But Laura, let’s get together, can we? I think we need to talk.”

  “Call me when you’re free,” Laura said. “You’ve got my mobile number.” She watched the two men pick their way up the street to Sanderson’s car and waited until Bob Baker emerged from the ruined building where he had been deep in conversation with Val Ridley.

  “OK?” Laura asked.

  “Right, I think I’ve got the gist,” Baker said airily. “The usual stuff, Asian and black lads in a skirmish outside the club. The place gets a petrol bomb and most of them turn on the fire engine and police cars when they arrive. Small riot, not many hurt, one Caribbean club down the tubes. No tears in Little Asia.”

  “Right,” Laura said demurely, knowing that Baker had got it wrong in one crucial respect. But she would wait to contradict him, she thought happily, until they were reporting back to Ted Grant in the office. She owed him that.

  Michael Thackeray listened to DI Ray Walter silently although his face was grim. He and the drug squad inspector were gathered in Jack Longley’s office and the superintendent was watching the two younger men warily as Walter outlined his night’s work with evident satisfaction.

  “Even though the catch was a bit disappointing, the whole exercise keeps the bastards jumpy. They never know where we’re going to hit them next. And that’s half the battle,” Walter said.

  “So how many searches did you make?” Thackeray asked.

  “Six altogether. All on information from the lad I’ve got undercover up there.”

  “And how much illicit material did you find?”

  Walter glanced at Longley as if for assistance but none was forthcoming. Longley appeared to be waiting with as much anticipation as Thackeray for Walter’s answer.

  “Not a lot,” Walter admitted. “We’ve a couple of lads down Eckersley police station looking at charges of intent to supply. But what I’m hoping is that they can be persuaded to tell me who their supplier is, the next one up the chain. That’s what we’re really after, and we’re not there yet.”

  “Sounds like a lot of resources for a small result,” Longley said. “All that overtime. Uniform won’t be happy.”

  “They can live with it,” Walter said. “And from their point of view it keeps the neighbourhood happy if they think we’re picking some of the dealers up. But when I’ve talked to the two we nicked last night, plus the people at the computer project we arrested the other day, I reckon we’ll be getting a lot closer to the main man.”

  “Donna Maitland’s dead,” Thackeray objected mildly enough, although inwardly he seethed at Walter’s casual certainty.

  “And what does that tell you?” Walter asked. “Couldn’t face the music, could she? Anyway, never mind her. The so-called DJ Sanderson’s up to his neck in the supply chain, I reckon.”

  “But he’s only been in the town two minutes,” Thackeray objected.

  “So he says,” Walter shot back. “In any case, London’s not so far away these days. This is an international trade we’re talking about, not some local scam run from a back room. It’s big business. Run by big businessmen. You’ve got to work your way up the chain to find the top dog. We’ll get there. I’ve got my man well in up there. He’s not come up with a lot yet but I’m optimistic.”

  “I’m glad someone is,” Thackeray muttered but said no more as Jack Longley flashed him a warning glance.

  “What really bugs me is that your man Mower’s been up there for weeks as well without a word to anyone,” Walter said pointedly to Longley. “He must have picked up some intelligence that was worth reporting back with. Didn’t you know he was there, for God’s sake?”

  “Not until you made arrests at the Project,” Thackeray cut in. “He’s on leave. He’s had a rough time.”

  “He’s a bloody loose cannon if you ask me,” Walter said to Longley. “Gone native, I shouldn’t wonder. Any road, keep him out of my hair from now on, would you, sir?”

  “He’ll be told,” Longley said, glancing at Thackeray.

  “Jack here tells me you think I can help you with something?” Walter turned to Thackeray without any sign of eagerness to assist his colleague. “What’s all that about?”

  “Stanley Wilson,” Thackeray said. “Have you any indication that he was involved in the drugs scene? He was seen
up on the Heights regularly chatting to some of the lads for no very good reason that I can discover.”

  “This is the gay bloke found with his knickers in a twist, is it?” Walter said. “I’ve not heard the name, but I’ll have a word with the team. He may have cropped up in some report or other. But surely his boyfriend has to be prime suspect, doesn’ t he?”

  “Well, he’s certainly on the list,” Thackeray said. “But Wilson seems to have had a finger in more than one bit of unpleasantness so it’s not impossible that he was into drugs as well. He worked for Barry Foreman.” Thackeray dropped the name into the conversation without meeting Longley’s eye, but he got no reaction from the drug squad officer.

  “If I hear anything I’ll let you know soonest,” Walter said. “In the meantime keep me in touch with anything you come across that might be relevant. I’d like to know who torched the Carib Club, for instance. Could well be drug inspired, that. Sanderson was involved down there as well.”

  “As a DJ,” Thackeray said.

  “Did you source the Ecstasy the grammar school kids had taken the night of the accident?” Walter asked. “Are you sure they didn’t get it at the Carib?”

  “We haven’t sourced it anywhere,” Thackeray said. “The parents have drafted in some big legal guns and the kids have conveniently forgotten all about where they got their pills.”

  “Do you want me to have a go at them?” Walter asked. “I know it’s your case, but I’d dearly like to pin Sanderson and his mates down, even if they’re not part of the main scene.”

  Thackeray glanced at Longley who shook his head imperceptibly.

  “Thanks but no thanks,” Thackeray said. “Leave it with me. I’ll let you know if anything of interest emerges, but I’m not hopeful. Chasing sources of Ecstasy’s a bit like asking five year olds where they got their jelly babies, isn’t it? They’ve had so many they don’t remember.”

  “Don’t let the Chief hear you talking like that,” Walter said getting to his feet. “According to him the war on drugs is winnable, so don’t you go spreading negative messages if you want to make superintendent.”

  “And is it?” Thackeray asked. Walter shrugged.

  “It pays the mortgage,” he said.

  When he had gone Thackeray flung himself into Jack Longley’s most comfortable chair and ran his hands through his unruly dark hair.

  “As your crime manager I have to tell you that half the crime in this town would disappear overnight if there was no black market in drugs,” he said.

  “Noted,” Longley said. “Now, let’s get back to the real world. Do you have any evidence that the Adams lad got his pills at the Carib?”

  “None at all,” Thackeray said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I had Grantley Adams bending my ear again this morning,” Longley said. “Apparently he’s persuaded the school to keep the two of them on to take their A Levels so he doesn’t want any more repercussions from us. If there’s no charges apparently they’re prepared to accept that Jeremy and his lass were drunk, not high, and that’s acceptable for a sixth-former, apparently”

  “This is the man who wanted the dealers locked up and the key thrown away, is it?” Thackeray asked. “And the headmaster who was so worried about his school’s reputation that he wouldn’t let either of them back in to collect their sports kit? So what happened?”

  “Knowing Grantley Adams I expect he’s made a hefty donation to the school’s building fund,” Longley said. “Come on Michael, it’s no good looking shocked. You know how these things work.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Thackeray said.

  “You’ve nowt to charge them with. You’ve no evidence they were dealing. And what’s the point of a caution for possession? The whole thing’s a waste of police time. You’ve a murder case to deal with.”

  Thackeray sighed, knowing that it was not the fact that two teenagers who had committed a minor misdemeanour were being let off which riled him, but the fact that Adams would be left believing that throwing his weight about had brought about the desired result. He was surprised that the superintendent did not seem to recognise the implications of that.

  “Are you making any progress with Stanley Wilson?” Longley asked, obviously keen to change the subject.

  “We found the boyfriend and he gave us a couple of new leads,” Thackeray said. “He reckons someone loaned Wilson the money to set up the computer porn business, so I’ve got Val Ridley going through his bank accounts to see if there were any unexplained payments. And Harman also reckons Stanley had a new attachment, a young black visitor, so we’re getting him to look at some mug shots, on the off-chance it’s someone known. The house-to-house has turned up a neighbour who’s seen a black lad coming and going too, and thinks he saw him around the night Stanley was killed. And fingerprints have found at least half a dozen sets apart from Wilson’s and Harman’s. They’re looking for matches but haven’t come up with anything so far. And of course if we can lay hands on a suspect there’s the possibility of DNA matching.”

  “Keep me in touch, Michael,” Longley said, turning back to the files on his desk dismissively. Thackeray got up to go, although Longley had not quite finished.

  “Keep your eye on the ball, and you might make superintendent yet,” he said. Thackeray paused, with his hand on the door-handle.

  “I don’t think I could stand the politics, sir,” he said.

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than I take you for,” Longley snapped.

  Kevin Mower’s small living room was heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of lager consumed from the dozen or so empty cans which stood in ranks on the coffee table. Mower himself sat at the dining table in the window tapping impatiently now and again at the computer keyboard in front of him. He had been drinking but was not drunk. In fact his head felt clearer than it had for months. Laura Ackroyd stood at his shoulder watching the flickering monitor and Dizzy B Sanderson lay slumped in an armchair, can in hand, eyes half closed, the tinny rhythm from his Walkman headphones the only other sound in the room.

  At length Mower let out a long sigh.

  “Why the hell didn’t Donna tell me?” he said. Laura put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension through the thin cotton of his shirt.

  “What should she have told you?”

  “She’s been browsing round the Internet looking at construction companies, including these City Ventures people who wanted to buy the Carib. No doubt she downloaded whatever she found and that’s what was in the file that disappeared. She’d have been much safer storing it in the machine, but maybe she didn’t know how to do that. But what the people who trashed the Project didn’t realise was that the machine keeps a record of the Internet pages that have been visited anyway. So there we are, look. Let’s have a look at it ourselves, shall we?”

  Dizzy B got to his feet and came to look over Mower’s other shoulder as he found the page he was looking for and a logo and a set of views of new housing and other developments in towns across the North of England spread themselves slowly across the screen.

  “Looks like quite a major set-up,” Dizzy said.

  “And Foreman’s involved in that?” Laura asked. “I’ve never heard anything about him going into construction. I’m sure Michael knows nothing about it.”

  Mower glanced at her.

  “The boss is convinced he’s making his money from drugs,” he said. “But I don’t think he’s got much to go on. Perhaps it’s a whole lot more innocent than that. Perhaps he’s just working for these people, sussing out suitable properties like the Carib. Or maybe he’s just diversified quite legitimately into the building trade.”

  “So why not say so, especially if it’s a successful venture? He seems keen enough to impress in other ways,” Laura said.

  “Maybe he’s using the building trade to launder his drug money,” Dizzy B, who had taken off his headphones and was listening intently, suggested.

  “Possible,” Mower said. “But
bloody difficult to prove.”

  “Does this tell us where this company’s based?” Laura asked. Mower followed a few more directions on the screen and brought up an address in Leeds, with a photograph of an anonymous office building called Ventures House, and in small print at the bottom of the page a list of the company’s directors.

  “No one there we know,” Dizzy B said dismissively. “Foreman’s not a director.”

  “No, but his girlfriend is,” Laura said quietly. “Look, there - Karen Bailey’s listed. The only trouble with that is that she’s disappeared. Or maybe she hasn’t. Maybe she’s just keeping a low profile so that no one connects Foreman with this company which Councillor Spencer says has a good chance of getting the contract to regenerate the Heights. I wonder if Spencer knows about the connection? Whichever, it’s a bloody good story.”

  “Or a bloody dangerous story,” Mower cut in. “Don’t get too carried away, Laura. It’s just possible that Donna was killed because she stumbled on this information.”

  “Killed?” Laura looked at Mower in stunned surprise. “I thought …”

  “What you were supposed to think, maybe?” Mower said.

  “You’ve got no evidence, Kevin,” Dizzy B said. “Come on, man, she had her problems …”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mower said. “She had her problems, but were they so bad she had to slit her wrists? I don’t think so. In any case Amos Atherton is sure that the cuts on her wrist were made by a knife, not a razor blade. There was no knife in the bathroom when I found her. It can’t have been suicide. I never really believed it was.”

  Laura felt her stomach tighten as she realised that perhaps Thackeray’s concern for her safety was more justified than either of them could have realised.

  “She always struck me as a fighter,” Laura said quietly, her grip on Mower’s shoulder tightening slightly. “Joyce thought so too.”

  “I need to have another look round her flat,” Mower said, his voice urgent. “Perhaps she’s got stuff hidden away there that I missed.”

  “Tell Michael what you’ve found,” Laura said. “He’ll have seen Atherton’s report as well by now, won’t he? And you know how much he distrusts Foreman. This is just the lead he needs.”