‘You can’t miss that ginger hair.’
‘But there’s possibly a bent cop with red hair mixed up in the turf war.’
His mind was on other things. ‘I’m sorry, I’m completely useless.’
‘Then stay here where you’re reasonably safe.’
‘I simply can’t dodge around quickly enough,’ Patrick raged.
I blew him a kiss.
‘For God’s sake, be careful. I simply can’t believe you’re in the equation but shoot him if you really think he’s gone raving mad.’
It was too dark for cameras up here and I was not sure if there would be any mikes to hear me raising the alarm. I crawled back to the top of the incline and slid down it on my behind back into the desert area. A shot was immediately fired at me that probably did not miss by much.
‘Oi!’ I yelled. ‘Stop this now! My husband’s been shot in the leg!’
Someone laughed. ‘They can’t hear you, ducky – I’ve turned all the mikes off. Shouting will get you nowhere.’
He fired again and I got the distinct impression that the bullet whistled just above my head.
This was not Ken, the voice was quite different.
How to raise the alarm? How to get up on to the gantry without being spotted by this bastard? I raided all recollections I had of the place and remembered an iron staircase, like a fire escape that was at one end, the end farthest from the control room. But surely I could draw someone’s attention to what was going on. What about all the other people here, for God’s sake? No doubt job done they had probably gone off for their tea break.
No, whatever he was after I was not going to play this man’s game.
Jinking, I dashed squelchingly across the sandy area, using the rocks as cover, hearing shots fired at me but, hey, this wasn’t Ken and he wasn’t so good. The door on the far side was still open and I hurtled through that and then along the corridors, somehow finding my way back to where we had come up through the hole in the floor. The steps had gone so I sat down with my legs dangling through the aperture and then dropped. All my body protested at the impact: you’re too old for this, woman. I could not remember two passageways but there were now and I initially chose the wrong one, ending up in a dead end. Reduced to swearing now I went back, ran around the right-angled bend and then the dark tunnel loomed before me.
A kind of stand-by-your-man madness came over me and I tore through it, almost slithering over and into the water on the slippery floor where I had first landed on the pile of cardboard. Patrick had said he had come down steps and through a door. I found it, or at least what seemed to be a doorknob in the wall, but although it turned the door would not open. I fought with it but it would not shift.
With the steps gone I was trapped down here as there was no possibility of climbing up the chute down which I had arrived. Forcing myself to be calm I examined the walls of this dank little room for other exits but found nothing. Then I heard footsteps approaching, descending stone steps on the other side of the door. They came to a halt and a key turned in the lock. I retreated to stand in the mouth of the tunnel.
He opened the door, entered and, detecting my presence, chuckled. He then walked forward and there in the thin beam of light shining through the hole in the ceiling, as though under a spotlamp, stood the man referred to as Red: short, thin and with ferrety eyes, who had been photographed entering Brad Northwood’s house here in London. He was still holding the sniper’s rifle but not aiming it directly at me.
‘Ever fired one of those before?’ he enquired, nodding in the direction of the Glock, which was pointing at him.
‘No.’
‘Just familiar with the Smith and Wesson?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Your husband, who I shall go and find after I’ve done with you, will have put on the safety catch before handing it over. Know where it is, eh?’
‘No.’
‘And you wouldn’t be able to find it in the dark.’
‘Probably not.’
‘That’s a real pity.’
‘If you say so.’
‘For you. It means I’ve plenty of time to kill you before you suss out where it is, haven’t I?’
He began to swing the barrel of the rifle towards me, taking his time, enjoying himself.
‘No,’ I said.
‘No?’ he whispered with a big smile, very relaxed about it all, the rifle coming to a halt. ‘Are you begging for your life?’
I said, ‘The Glock’s three safety mechanisms are automatically disengaged when you squeeze the trigger.’ Which I did.
Patrick always tells me never to shoot to wound an armed man: ‘It’ll be the death of you one day.’
I had never shot to kill.
Until now.
‘So was he naive, or what?’ Michael Greenway demanded to know. ‘Didn’t he know about Glocks, even though he appears to have been familiar with arms?’
‘I think he was trying to get me all flustered just in case I did pull the trigger,’ I said. ‘But was complacent to the point of stupidity.’
The man now in a body bag had been wrong in that he had only succeeded in switching off the microphones in the desert mock-up area. This meant that the conversation between the two of us had had been recorded, every word of it. Needless to say, an inquiry into the breach of security and other lax operational practices had been set up as well as frantic enquiries into the dead man’s identity.
The commander had decided to survey the scene himself after I had phoned him to report what had happened and I gather had arrived at the same time with what appeared to be half the Met. So far he had not had the opportunity to comment on our presence in the training complex as I had only just come back to the reception area from answering questions, making a statement and getting into dry clothes. Patrick’s Glock had been taken away for examination, routine I knew, and I hoped they would not keep it for very long.
The smashed ankle joint would probably take a while to put right and Patrick, after satisfying himself that I was safe and sound, had brushed aside all police endeavours to question him and taken a taxi to the specialist clinic where something could be done about it.
‘I listened to the recording,’ Greenway said all at once, startling me slightly from my musings. ‘He underestimated you, didn’t he?’
‘Blind drunk on how clever he was,’ I said.
‘He got in here by showing a warrant card. I’ve seen it and it gives every appearance of being genuine issue although the name on it is that of someone who is now dead, a special branch sergeant who was killed in a powerboat accident while on holiday three years ago.’ He gazed at me gravely. ‘Are you all right, Ingrid?’
‘Sorry, no,’ I muttered. I had been trying to conceal the fact that I was shaking like a piece of tissue paper in a gale.
He crooked an arm, which I took, and after a short journey in the fresh air I was seated on a very comfortable padded bench seat in the bar of an Italian restaurant. A Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic with plenty of ice was placed before me.
‘It was either you or him, you know,’ Greenway said, seating himself. He was drinking orange juice.
‘I’m usually the one who takes out tyres and windscreens,’ I said with a failed attempt at a laugh.
‘Which don’t bleed all over the floor.’
‘No.’ The murky water around my feet had run red.
There was a little silence and then Greenway said, ‘So who knew you were coming here?’
‘No one. Even I didn’t.’
‘He did. And worse, probably so did Uncle.’
‘Patrick doesn’t write things like that down in a business diary. It’s in his head.’
‘Then we must assume that that particular security leak was right here. I’m even more perturbed that serious criminals know about the pair of you at all.’
‘I think I’ve already mentioned that in Hinton Littlemore it’s no secret that Patrick works for SOCA. That could be the connection
we’ve been looking for, the pub. Carol Trelonic, the widow of a man killed during the Bath turf war who James Carrick would like very much to connect with the gangs involved, is having an affair with the landlord, Colin Andrews. That was something else we discovered when we went to the Ring o’ Bells that night but I’m afraid we forgot to mention it.’
‘And if the Trelonic woman’s part of Uncle’s set-up . . .’
‘Easy to pass on the info. But that doesn’t explain how they knew we were coming here.’
‘We have to get evidence that Brad Northwood was right there in the Bath shootings. I want him behind bars. When your husband gets off the ramps carry on with what you were going to do – have a quiet look at the address where this harridan Murphy’s been known to live. Don’t rattle the bars of her cage. Meanwhile, we have find out who this Red character really was and how he knew you were coming here today.’
ELEVEN
‘The entire place was crawling with scenes of crime bods when I left,’ I told Patrick around three hours later at our hotel.
‘I’m glad it wasn’t Ken,’ he said. ‘I made enquiries when I got back and had given my statement. Having got married he’s now living in Australia doing a similar job with their special forces.’ He gave me the same kind of searching gaze as had Greenway. ‘I’m sorry it had to be like this.’
‘So am I. Perhaps I should have wounded him and then he could have been questioned.’
‘No. He might still have fired and hit you. I want to apologize too for being so bloody useless when you needed me.’
‘Look at it this way: if you had your own foot you’d be seriously injured in hospital right now and probably out of action for months.’
An emergency repair had been carried out, nothing that would fail but using parts straight off the shelf without any time for delicate calibration to take place with regard to the user’s deportment. The end result did not look any different to me.
‘Joy Murphy then,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow. Mike told me to take you out to dinner tonight.’
‘He’s very kind.’
‘Heard from Matthew?’
‘Yes, he sent me a text. Benedict has a fantastic computer, much better than his.’
We both groaned.
Overnight there was a breakthrough: the man Red identified as a one-time detective sergeant with the Wessex Constabulary by the name of Warren Rouse. Some five years previously Rouse had been convicted of falsifying evidence, receiving bribes, perverting the course of justice and had served two years in prison and been dismissed from the force. Further digging revealed that the cases involved, three in number, had all been in connection with existing, or would-be, crime bosses who then, let off the hook, had gone on to much greater things in London and Birmingham. One of the names was Joy Murphy.
‘She kept a job nice and warm for him,’ I said, in receipt of this information from Greenway over breakfast.
Patrick put his mobile back in his pocket. ‘It’s another connection.’
‘You’ll have to be very careful. This lot know about you and might have even dug out a photo of you from somewhere. You’ve been pictured in the national press at least a couple of times.’
‘It was a real shame the Met didn’t tail Rouse when he first turned up at Northwood’s place. Then we’d have an address to search.’
‘And where’s the sports car? I’m assuming he didn’t have the nerve to use it to get to the weapons training centre.’
‘Greenway didn’t mention it. I’ll check.’
He went into the lobby to phone: we both have a real thing about people who persist in hollering into mobiles in bars and restaurants.
The stolen car had indeed been found parked there and subsequently taken away for examination. It had a cloned tax disc. After more investigation during the following days fingerprints in the vehicle would be found to match those of the dead man together with a couple of good thumbprints made by the real owner. Rouse had initially been identified from mugshots and it appeared that there were not all that many criminals with red hair. I wondered why he had not dyed it. The same arrogant mindset, perhaps.
‘It’s vital that we find out how Rouse knew we were down for weapons training,’ I said. ‘Who did you tell?’
‘No one. I never do.’
‘Please think.’
‘I never even mention that kind of thing at home but—’
‘What?’
‘Last weekend Elspeth said she was going on a trip with the WI to London to the Imperial War Museum and other places. I remember saying that I’d be just around the corner from there on the same day for a training session.’
‘Someone might have overheard then. Who else was in the house?’
‘Well, you, Carrie and the little ones were in the main rectory but I was talking to Mum in her own kitchen. The front door to the annex was open as I was just dropping off some shopping I’d got for them. I think the new cleaning woman was around somewhere nearby.’
‘I don’t like her very much.’ Betty Smithers, who had helped Elspeth for years, had retired.
‘It really is a terrific long shot that she’s some kind of mole. But I’ll investigate.’
‘We’re still tiptoeing around this case,’ Patrick said later when we were on our way to Notting Hill. ‘No, poking ineffectually around the edges,’ he continued and I could detect the frustration and simmering anger. ‘We know where this Northwood bastard lives, we know he’s trying to take over Bath, we know he’s murdered several people with the help of some bloodthirsty bitch, and that’s only recently. God knows what’s gone on before. We know all these things but can’t prove them. So how do we prove them? Pity we can’t just grab him and take him apart until he talks. I’d volunteer, any day of the week.’
‘Feel a bit better now?’ I queried gently when he stopped talking.
‘Not really. What does the oracle say?’
‘The oracle originally recommended arresting him rather than going in for an undercover operation if you remember but, as you say, we need evidence. We all know that if you get hold of minions and they talk they often change their minds just before or during the trial as they’ve been threatened or end up being fished out of the nearest river. I don’t want to say this but you’ll need to go to the top.’
‘Northwood himself?’
‘Not necessarily. Has Mick the Kick been located?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I can contact Bath CID to find out.’
‘Derek Jessop said Mick and his gang were tricked into coming into Bath that night so he must be burning with resentment after what happened on at least two counts. Get hold of him, but in a fairly friendly fashion, and see what you can do between you. He might even really cooperate and you could set up some kind of reverse sting operation.’
Patrick thought about it for a few moments and then gently punched my shoulder.
Saying that he was hanged if he was going to adopt some kind of Marx Brothers-style disguise Patrick nevertheless did part with a twenty-pound note in exchange for a stack of religious tracts being hawked about by a strange dreadlocked man in Notting Hill. Thus armed with the means of avoiding eternal hell and damnation we made for the block of flats where Joy Murphy had been known to live and started knocking on all the doors, stuffing leaflets through the letterboxes of those where there was no reply.
‘Look, we won’t be taken seriously if you keep giggling,’ he protested after our third call as we worked our way up the building.
Thus reprimanded I hid my face in my hands and howled with laughter.
‘I can’t think I’m that funny,’ he said stiffly.
‘It’s the mid-west accent,’ I cackled. ‘Repent now and worship the Loorrrrd.’
It must be said that, so far, we had been given very short shrift.
‘I’m going over the top deliberately so people don’t connect us with the cops and start to gossip about this place being checked up on.’
&n
bsp; To annoy me even further he then went up an octave and adopted a truly manic twitch which was inflicted on all but the very young and elderly and we arrived, finally – both lifts were out of order – at the flat next to Murphy’s. A dejected-looking middle-aged man answered the door and was treated to the usual opener of being in the presence of a representative of the Church of the Brethren of Hickory Smokers.
‘Is your neighbour at home, do you know?’ Patrick asked, oozing charm, when the door was about to be closed in our faces.
There was a rapid change of interest. ‘Nah, she’s not been here in ages. I always know, like, ’cos of the racket she makes.’
‘Racket?’ Patrick echoed.
‘Yeh, headbanging music stuff and some kind of DIY that involves knockin’ down walls. Drives me daft. I knocked once to complain and she came to the door and sort of snarled at me like a mad dog. Scared me silly, I can tell ya.’
‘I have a good friend who works for the local council’s noise abatement department,’ he was earnestly informed. ‘Would you like me to get him to call round? People can be taken to court, you know.’
‘Better not. She might come gunnin’ for me.’
‘Not weapons!’ Patrick cried in horror. ‘The brethren are absolutely against the right to carry arms.’
‘Yeh, guns. I reckon it’s not just the music and DIY when you hear bangs. She’s lettin’ off shooters in there. Mad as mustard if you ask me.’ A crafty look came over his face. ‘She might need lockin’ up, like.’
‘If I could only give my friend some real evidence . . .’ Patrick said sadly. ‘We might just be able to—’
‘I promise I’ll look the other way if ya want to git in there,’ interrupted the man, eagerly. ‘I mean, people like her usually end up killin’ someone, don’t they?’
‘Truly, they do, they do,’ my husband warbled. He went away along the outside walkway for a few yards and eyed up the door. ‘But one can hardly—’
‘The kitchen window round the back ain’t too good,’ he was encouraged. ‘I went round there once when we could smell somefink ’orrible but it wasn’t comin’ from ’er place. Poor old Mrs P in the flat below had gorn and died. Bin in there for nigh on four months lyin’ on the floor.’
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