The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  Cass took over again briefly. "It was the guy who met me in Barcelona. We have the picture with us."

  "For reasons of anonymity we have to be careful what we say outside meetings," said Tammy guiltily. "I'm not saying the guy's an addict. We don't do that, it's the individual's place to decide, but he attended meetings for a few weeks. But when Cass told me he'd met the man I realised how he'd contacted him: he'd stolen his details from me. I had coffee with this guy a few times, and left my mobile unattended with him last time we met. I'm sure he recruits mules from recovery centres and the like. And I'm equally sure he used Cass to carry a consignment for him: he'd have disowned him had things gone shit-shaped… ‘Goldie’ I knew the man as. I felt safe with him cos he was gay..."

  "Have you told police?" cut in Greg with consternation. "It's clear from what you say that all the gang haven't been rounded up."

  "No." Cass looked worried. "I can't handle it at the moment; I feel so two-faced, and it's not helping my recovery. I could do without this sort of shit right now."

  Greg and Eddy exchanged serious glances on examining the picture but said nothing, and Eddy spoke for the first time since the outset. He looked again at Greg as if for confirmation before saying: "Leave it with us for now, Cass. Don't speak to anyone else." He laid his own mobile on the table. "Text me a copy of the pics and we'll see what can be done. Meanwhile, I'll contact someone who might help us see through walls."

  "Elaine," asked Eddy quietly as his call was answered, "sorry to bother you again…"

  ***

  The Ranger pulled into an alley at the rear of Baxter Street, some two hundred yards from Edgecumbe House. Greg and Eddy then went quietly through the walkway to the imposing block, and took the stairway to the top floor. Greg shuddered as they neared Nigel's empty flat, though apart from incident tape across the door, things appeared to have returned to normal.

  "As near to normal as things do, in these circumstances," observed Greg.

  "All the cameras were out on the day of the deaths." Eddy pointed to the CCTV camera as they glanced around the lift area. "According to Elaine they might still be."

  "Mmm." Greg wasn't sure whether that was good or bad news. "I'd like a look at the DVR - to get an idea how the setup could have failed so conveniently."

  "DVR… Digital recorder you mean? OK, let's have a word with the caretaker. Just want a look at something first, though." Eddy walked through a door into an enclosed hallway overlooking Baxter Street. Apart from the fact that it was fully-glazed for child-safety, it offered a similar facility to a balcony. "No name on the block opposite. Remind me to take a look before we leave. Something else Elaine mentioned."

  Greg nodded but said nothing, puzzled by Eddy's remark.

  Considering a major crime had been committed in his block, the old chap on the ground floor, was remarkably amenable to the two Security Technicians, and opened a compartment no bigger than a broom-cupboard to allow access to the control centre.

  "Not exactly Jodrell Bank, is it?" said Greg as he surveyed the controls. "Just an ancient analogue timer; probably installed when the block was built. There are separate camera-switches for each floor, and an eight channel DVR for recording. The recorder itself's done more mileage than the Tardis, but it's state-of-the-art compared to the rest. It only stopped working because the timer fuse was flipped out at…." Greg looked closely at the clock, "ten: ten o’clock the morning before the event, I'd say. It was a Wednesday, anyway." He pointed to a tiny arrow denoting days on the revolving face.

  "Can you repair it?" asked the ageing man. "I know the 'orse's bolted, but we could do wi' system workin' again."

  "I think so," said Greg. There was a ‘ping’ as he clicked the fuse back into its slot and reset the timer. "Job's a good 'un."

  "Are you full time janitor here?" asked Eddy.

  "Full time? Janitor?" He laughed aloud. "You're jokin'? I gets a rent reduction for moppin' floors an' takin' in post; bloody 'ell there's on'y fifteen flats in the block!"

  "Sorry." Eddy saw the funny side. "I thought you might have looked out for other blocks in the road. Tell me, wasn't this street in the news a bit back? Didn't the authorities move a sex offender called Smout here…"

  "Bastard's still 'ere," cut in the old man, "block opposite, though I reckon they'll be forced to move 'im for his own good, soon."

  "Hope they do," replied Eddy as he and Greg opened the main doors to leave.

  *

  Greg wasn't happy to receive a call from DCI Tooth of Plymouth CID the following morning. He'd already learned from Elaine that the Ulster had been seen leaving Baxter Street at speed on the night of the shooting.

  "So you no longer believe it was Jacky who pulled the trigger?" he pumped.

  "It doesn't really matter what I believe," replied Tooth cagily. "It's what happened that's important. I'd like to come and see you at Penmaric House as soon as possible: there are things we all need to discuss. I've taken the unprecedented step of asking DIs Jeffries and Oldfield from drugs to attend also; hopefully we can piece things together between us. We'll be there at two."

  Greg realised immediately that his and Eddy's visit to Edgecumbe House had been clocked.

  "The old janitor's obviously much brighter than we gave him credit for," he said to Eddy on the phone. "If they do arrest me…" Greg shuddered at the thought. "Will you carry on digging around? You're the only chance I have."

  "I should have something soon, anyway, but they can't arrest you without more evidence. An eye-witness to a car you don't even own is hardly proof of murder. And it's got to be Skuce!" Eddy paused. "We should be careful what we're saying on the phone, so I'll be round to see you as soon as I have more info. You're not going down, believe me."

  *

  Greg wasn't so sure when Tooth - grey, emaciated yet genial, arrived several minutes early, followed by Jaff and Graham. Greg led them into the library, sat them at a large Victorian reading table, and asked a maid to bring in drinks.

  "Right, I just need to clear some things up," said Tooth as he opened a laptop on the inclined leather surface. "I'm hoping we can fill in a few blanks between us."

  "I'm baffled that you're wasting time questioning me," said Greg as he waited. "Surely it's common knowledge that Skuce killed Nigel and Jackie. He had the motive, the inclination and the malice."

  "It might well be, but you never mentioned being at the flat on the night of the deaths," said Jaff. "This isn't my department, but you also have a motive for murder: you had every reason to believe Nigel had set you up to carry drugs."

  "I shouldn't digress at this point," cut in Tooth, carefully observing the faces of each man as he spoke. "But there's another complication: Vance, it emerged from a post-mortem, didn't die of natural causes as was first suspected. I can't give full details, but there's forensic evidence to show that his drip-bag was perforated. From the diameter of the hole we're sure it was made with an Ultrafine 31 gauge needle; the type diabetics use."

  "So a substance was injected into the drip?" queried Oldfield.

  "I can't say at this moment," said Tooth, irritated - it seemed - that he'd mentioned Vance's demise at that stage.

  "Wasn't cocaine, by any chance?" snorted Jaffa. "Someone wanted to pay him back, if so."

  "It won't surprise me if it was, but back to Baxter Street first," insisted Tooth. "You, Greg, still haven't explained what you were doing there that night - or whether the occupants were alive or dead when you arrived."

  "Nigel was dead; I never saw Jackie," replied Greg firmly. "I know I shouldn't have legged it, but I was terrified. I thought I was wanted over the drug business."

  "That's exactly the reply I'd have expected," said Tooth slowly… and knowingly.

  "Me too," gloated Jaff. "So you're saying you had no…"

  At that the library door opened and Eddy entered.

  "I tried to stop him," protested the maid, her colour rising. "Honestly I did…."

  "What's he doing here?"
yelled Oldfield. "This is supposed to be a private interview."

  "Yes," added Tooth with the air of one who's already guessed the answer. "Tell us why you're here, please Eddy."

  "Just to put my pennor'th in," said Eddy calmly as he held up a mini-tablet phone for all to see, "and to show you this picture of DI Graham Oldfield here. You're Goldie aren't you? Not a terribly cryptic pseudonym is it?"

  Oldfield grinned smugly. "That is, I'm sure, a picture of me. But as you know, we use unconventional methods on drugs."

  "So you do," retorted Eddy, "but not to get vulnerable addicts to do your dirty work. More importantly, why would someone want Vance and Nigel dead other than to stop them talking? You thought you were high and dry didn't you, knowing there'd be several avenues to explore before anyone came looking for you? Unless it emerged what your motive was…"

  "I know Graham would never get involved," cut in Jaff. "He's too dedicated…."

  "If I can interrupt," said Tooth as he addressed Jaff and Graham. "Before certain matters were brought to my attention, I was already building something of a case against Vance's killers. Like fibres present in the hospital ward which matched your clothing…both of you."

  "Of course they did," cut in Jaffa, "we apprehended Vance at the bay and questioned him on the ward that same night."

  "And for that reason your traces were originally eliminated from our enquiries even after we'd ascertained that Vance had been murdered. But your prints on the drip bag were something we couldn't ignore, especially when it became apparent you had every reason to want Vance dead."

  "I moved the drip-support a fraction when we interviewed him," said Oldfield, "and how do you explain Nigel and Jacky's deaths? There was no evidence to put us at that scene was there?"

  "Us?" Tooth nodded to Greg and Eddy. "So it was both of you?"

  "Don't say any more!" urged Jaff, suddenly calm. "Our chief will annihilate you, Tooth, for compromising an operation and then accusing us of murder."

  "Not when he sees this, I doubt," said Eddy without emotion. He held out the mini-tablet phone again and played a short video.

  "Whatever turns you on," sneered Jaff as he watched brief but sickening voyeuristic clips of women in various stages of undress, all with times and dates recorded. The final clips showed several monochrome frames of Jacky in her bedroom, followed by one, clearly taken through her flat window, changing her blouse.

  "Where did you get that lot from? YouTube?" sneered Oldfield.

  "No. Could have finished up on there, though," said Eddy as the video showed Jacky's bedroom door open and Jaff bursting in and leveling a gun at her. He froze it at that point. "I must say it has much more impact when viewed on a decent screen, but I as I said, I'm a bit of a Luddite: don't have a laptop."

  "Where is that from?" demanded Tooth. "We've scoured every CCTV in the area."

  "Smout, the ex-con in the opposite block, captured it on a video-cam, along with miles more sickening scenes of women in other flats. It's what he does. What pervs do, and he'd never have coughed to witnessing a murder. No doubt got off on that clip." Eddy handed a key and a data stick to Tooth. "He's tied up inside the flat, together with all his gear. Night video cams - the works"

  Greg stared at the guilty men. "You two knew I'd nothing to do with the setup from the start. You'd have framed me had it not been for the calls I made, and you only kept tabs in case I tumbled you. And you knew about the drugs in the Ulster. With the means and expertise at your disposal, finding that lot would have been child's play. In fact, running drugs must be child's play when you're playing both ends from the middle, but your big mistake was to believe that a helpless addict like Cass would never recover."

  "As it is," summed up Tooth, "You'll go down for life if we only nail you for one of three charges I’ll be bringing."

  Seeing no option but to flee, Jaff and Oldfield made for the door. Which was a terrible mistake, in that that gave Eddy and Greg the perfect opportunity to do just what they'd wanted for a while. Their punishment was brief but appropriate, and according to Tooth's report… "no more than necessary to restrain them."

  EPILOGUE

  It was Sunday afternoon, two weeks before Easter as Greg sat in the office formerly occupied by Penmaric. The sale of the pictures hadn’t yet gone through, though it was certain they'd raise more than enough to set things right.

  It was a glorious afternoon, forecasts anticipating that it could remain thus for several weeks. The band was playing out on the quay, and Greg listened as the music drifted into the office on a mild sea breeze. He should have felt very happy, he considered, but for some reason he didn't: he felt a strange uncertainty; a nagging doubt. He was beginning to wonder if he was doing the right thing when his train of thought was broken by Sarah’s entrance. She kissed him on the cheek and handed him a thick jiffy-pack.

  “What’s this?” he asked vacantly; she'd given him so many presents of late her generosity was cheapening whatever thought was behind them.

  “Take a look!” she said with a giggle.

  Greg stood and opened the package, and withdrew a wad of twenty-pound notes.

  “For you,” she smiled sweetly, “a little reward. Of course there'll be lots more once the pictures are sold.”

  Greg gasped with astonishment. “There must be over two grand here.”

  “Two thousand, two hundred exactly,” confirmed Sarah, “all the money I can lay my hands on right now.”

  "Thank you." Greg pocketed the money: he felt he’d earned it.

  “Now.” Sarah purred seductively as she put her arm round Greg and pressed hard against him.

  “No - not just at the moment.” Greg frowned.

  “Headache?” she teased.

  “No, it’s not that...But…

  “But what?”

  “It’s not that I'm ungrateful, but is this how it’s going to be? When I’ve spent this, will I need to ask for more? Will I be sponging off you for the rest of my life?”

  “Don’t be silly!” replied Sarah, “as soon as everything's settled - and we’re married - you’ll get a proper wage; a regular wage for running the estate.” She smiled voluptuously. “…Plus bonuses, of course. Now, if you’ve no use for my services.” She walked to the door. “I’ll be off. Laters, darling?”

  "Perhaps."

  Greg was nonplussed. “A proper, regular wage!” he echoed, having never earned a regular wage in his life. Even as a youngster when he’d worked on building sites, he’d paid his own stamp; been his own boss. He’d never been at anyone’s beck and call, and while there'd been ups and downs - sometimes he'd been fat, sometimes thin - he’d preferred it that way.

  Another thing that bothered Greg was - however he juggled the situation - he and Sarah would have been set up by the proceeds of drug trafficking. Whilst he was happy for the money to be put to good use in saving the livelihoods of his friends, he felt strangely guilty that he should benefit personally. Greg's intention was to look forward from that point, not continually over his shoulder.

  He stared out of the window and listened to the band. It reminded him of the bitter evening he’d stood on the quay: the night before he’d left for Spain. Even the local folk-singer had joined them, though he was drowned out by a tractor in an adjacent field. Greg fondly recalled the curried sauce and chips; the cans of beer; the laughter of his companions… and Jan, and how he’d felt it the happiest night of his life. Jan had been more to him than anyone, though he hadn’t realized - less still, appreciated it. She'd been his first friend when he felt he'd none; the first person to offer him a meal; to think about him when he’d been desperate for work and money.

  Greg left the office and walked out into the late-April air, across the gardens; down the winding path between the trees. He broke into a jog, almost a skip, as the music grew clearer. He bounded along like a five-fear-old, unconcerned whether anyone was watching; after all, he grinned, he was free to do as he pleased.

  Greg wasn’t yet sure he lo
ved Jan, but he was sure he didn’t love the vacuous Sarah - and didn’t want to spend the rest of his life at her beck and call. Sarah was fine, but she didn’t want him: she wanted Penmaric House, and a manager. … and a stud.

  On reaching the clearing he stopped and stared in wonder at the bay, just as he’d done on the bitter evening he'd first seen it.

  My bay. . . Well almost...

  The daffodils and crocuses were past their best, though still abundant and colourful. Blood-red tulips and custard primroses smiled up at him through the lush, springy grass where they’d naturalized. The spaghetti-western sky seemed filled with wheeling gulls, cormorants, terns, and Greg felt suddenly as free as them again… at one with them again.

  He took in the scene for a few moments, picturing the simplicity of a lifetime selling sandwiches, chilli and barbequed food amid such beauty. As he stood, he glimpsed a figure in the distance; three hundred yards away at least, but there was no mistaking the man with a bag.

  “Isaac” he called, as he ran towards the diminutive figure. Isaac saw him and promptly took to his heels, though Greg eventually caught him and explained that he just wanted to thank him. Breathlessly he took the thick package from his pocket and split the contents roughly in two.

  “There you are,” he said, “there’s well over a grand there, give or take a few quid. Get yourself some gear and on a plane to Canada. Don’t leave it – do it now!

  The old man stared in disbelief at the money; he’d never seen so much, but beggar as he was, he didn’t feel justified in accepting it. He’d always sung for his supper if nothing else.

  “It’s a reward I've been given,” urged Greg, having sensed the reason for the tramp’s reticence, “to split between us.”

  Greg saw the old man’s pale blue eyes twinkling through his hairy countenance as he reached uncertainly for the wedge, marveling at the thickness of it. His eyes were misty as he looked at Greg and smiled. “Thankee… thankee kindly,” he said with a gulp. “I’ll be off to town d’rec’ly: barbers, tailors, an' post office. D'rec'ly I got passport I'll be on first boat out. No planes, mind. Thankee wi' all my 'eart, 'tis all I ever had to thank anyone with 'til this moment.”