Sliding doors partitioned this room from the one to the rear of it, once a dining room perhaps but now used as some kind of further living space with two more sofas, the fabric covers torn and stained as though a dog had been shut in here and taken out its frustration on them. The curtains were half-closed and gave a limited view of an overgrown garden. In my experience serious criminals never garden, they are too busy making money and other people’s lives a misery. I mentioned this theory to Patrick once and he thought it fanciful. I’m sticking to it.
The kitchen was filthy, the rubbish bin stinking and overflowing, the sink piled high with unwashed mugs and plates. There was no cutlery and the fridge had next to nothing in it but for a couple of ready meals, some milk and half a sliced loaf. A utility room off the kitchen contained a washing machine plus a muddle of old shoes and coats, mostly on the floor, all mixed up with more newspapers dated weeks previously and several battered empty cardboard boxes.
I wandered back into the hallway, taking my time, and then slowly went up the stairs. There were three bedrooms, one obviously in recent use and squalid with dirty bedding, discarded clothing – again mostly on the floor, a cheap DIY wardrobe that was falling apart, a chest of drawers, ditto, and several suitcases that the police had obviously emptied out and rammed back the contents any which way. The other two rooms, discounting the bathroom, did not look as though they had been used since the place was let, the beds stripped, a couple of built-in cupboards empty, the only other item an exercise bicycle, broken by the look of it, dumped in one corner.
Patrick called to me from the top of a narrow staircase that led to the top floor. ‘This is quite interesting.’
‘There’s nothing interesting anywhere else,’ I said. ‘Northwood’s moved out.’
‘So has Murphy.’
This gallery was not dedicated to shooting but graffiti. I have no eye for such an activity but this looked very, very bad and was executed in what looked like lipstick, marker pens in various colours and something that was probably leftover emulsion paint. The subject matter, which was on practically every wall of the attic room, could be described as a marriage between the highly obscene and Gothic horror.
‘She is raving mad,’ I declared, ducking to avoid a particularly luxuriant festoon of black cobwebs, real, that also resided up here. Perhaps they had made the woman feel more at home.
‘There’s not one atom of a clue as to where they’ve gone,’ Patrick said, slamming the last drawer on a built-in unit. He went over to a small door in the far wall that must give access to the rest of the roof space.
‘Do be careful,’ I warned.
‘The Met have already gone over everything. They’d have triggered any nasty surprises.’
‘But a certain amount of time has elapsed and there has to be a back entrance to this place – has the state of security on the front door been as abysmal as this right from the start?’
The door was not locked. Having given me an I-hear-every-word-of-your-jewels-of-wisdom bow Patrick opened it with all due caution, clicked down a light switch just inside and then beckoned me over.
Joists, rafters, bare boards and yet more black cobwebs. Nothing else.
‘This is getting a bit serious,’ I said.
‘I was highly recommended by Colonel Richard Daws, fourteenth Earl of Hartwood, late of MI5, now practically running SOCA but can’t even find one second-rate mobster. Perhaps I ought to resign, go home and concentrate on writing letters to The Times about the state of the roads.’
We had another abortive look round and then left, the hatred of the cop on the door burning between my shoulder blades as we walked away.
The Met had convinced Greenway that the substitutes at the house knew nothing of value so he pointed us in the direction of an informer who had not been heard from for quite a while but had been known to ‘come up with the goods’. We spent an equally useless afternoon and evening trying to trace this man in the east end of London and finally established, although not from official records, that he was dead.
‘No, that’s it,’ Patrick said when we were in our hotel room. He threw off all his clothes and made for the shower.
‘It?’ I called after him.
‘The bastard’s not here. Murphy’s not here. No one’s talking and the snout’s dead. The case is dead.’
‘He has to be in Bath.’
Stark naked, he turned. ‘Is that the oracle talking?’
‘You yourself said that this is all going to end in Bath. I think that’s where they are.’
‘If you’re right I might even make love to you as a reward.’
‘Actually, if you don’t mind I’d rather not wait that long.’
His reaction was instant, quite admirable and probably under a minute later he had taken all my clothes off as well, tipped me on to the bed, kissed me silly and then brought us together with even more admirable enthusiasm.
Wanting him like crazy apart, it never hurts to remind your man that he is brilliant at the really important things in life.
We went to an Italian restaurant just around the corner from the hotel, Patrick still working on tactics.
‘No, never mind about Carrick’s sensibilities. It’s the only way to go forward, to carry out my idea of—’
My mobile rang and Patrick lapsed into silence while I answered it. As I listened to the quiet, intense voice of my adopted son stating neatly and precisely what he now knew I felt the hairs on the back of my neck moving as though little feet were brushing through them. I heard him out and promised to phone him back.
‘That was Matthew?’ Patrick queried.
I nodded.
‘Has something gone wrong?’
‘No. He copied those disks and took them with him just in case, and he and Benedict have hacked into the computers of what he’s calling the mates of Colin Andrews, the manager of the Ring o’ Bells. They think it’s a criminal gang and the boss is referred to as Uncle.’
Unusually for him, my husband became momentarily speechless.
‘Benedict’s phoning his father as well, who’s working late apparently.’
‘I think I ought to talk to Matthew.’
This he did, remaining fairly non-committal and promising to contact him again as soon as he had spoken to the commander. He warned the boys to say absolutely nothing about what they had done to anyone else and had only just finished speaking to him when Greenway called.
‘Mike wants us to go to his place when we’ve eaten – he’s heading home now.’
I desisted in making motherly remarks along the lines of it being rather late to keep Matthew and Benedict out of bed as in view of what they appeared to have done they could no longer be treated as children. Well, not right now.
Greenway had brought someone with him from work, the computer expert who had been given the original disks and who touchingly promised Benedict that he would accord his computer every care and attention if he was permitted to delve into what they had been working on. Software goodies to be downloaded having already been promised by his father, the two disappeared into the study for Benedict to explain the bare bones of it all.
I felt that Matthew was rather in awe of his host, of whom he had probably seen little. His greeting to us had been warm but restrained, as he perhaps thought befitted the occasion.
‘Do you know about this Uncle then?’ he suddenly asked the room at large, Mike’s wife having just brought in coffee and biscuits.
Patrick indicated to Greenway that he should provide any insight forthcoming.
‘Oh, he’s a seriously wanted London mobster,’ replied the commander. ‘I can’t tell you much more right now, though.’
‘He’s got a girlfriend called Joy.’
‘Has he now?’
‘They’re moving to Bath. Renting a big house.’
‘Really?’ Patrick said.
‘Well, they’ve probably moved in already actually as there’s some big party thing going to happen. All of B
ath’s going – you know, the mayor and business people.’
‘You’ve dug all this out?’ Greenway asked.
‘Oh, yes, tons of emails. No security on their stuff at all. Crazy if you ask me.’
‘Any idea why they’re doing this?’
Matthew shrugged, innocent of the honour he was being accorded: a top policeman asking for his opinion. ‘Well, if he’s a crook he might like to be thought of as a proper businessman and want to impress the people in charge. Perhaps he’s changed his name.’
‘What does he call himself in the emails?’ I asked.
‘Brad. Some are from Fred but I don’t know if that’s the same person. It’s the same email address. There’s a Warren too.’ Matthew yawned. ‘Does this mean I’m not in trouble any more?’
‘No, you’re not,’ Greenway told him. ‘Even if I have to come down and talk to someone personally.’
I said, ‘How much of this have you told Katie?’
‘Only that we’ve been hacking. She thought I meant gardening and said how boring. I didn’t want her to do any more poking around over at the pub.’
FOURTEEN
‘Details are still emerging,’ Patrick said to James Carrick. ‘But it would appear that some kind of party, a house-warming, is being held at a house in the Avonhill area of the city. I think Matthew got it wrong when he said the mayor and people like that were invited but they may well have asked top crooks. Prospective guests are being told to keep it quiet, not blab it on Facebook. The impression is that Uncle’s setting himself up as a property developer, possibly in order to launder further takings.’
Carrick was furious, taking the news as a personal affront. ‘What’s this bloody man calling himself now?’
‘Warren de la Frey.’
‘And presumably he’s had a face transplant.’
‘Pass.’
‘What does Greenway say about all this?’
‘That events appear to have moved to your patch.’
‘Good of him.’
‘But you can borrow me for a while if you want to.’
Carrick rubbed his hands over his face as though tired. He was. ‘I’m not sure whether that makes it better or worse.’
Patrick laughed. He has an infectious laugh and the DCI ended up by chuckling.
‘I think we ought to have dinner at the Ring o’ Bells tonight, ladies too,’ Patrick suggested.
‘Isn’t that a bit of a risk?’
‘No, not if we talk about everything else under the sun and pretend to be a bit sloshed and stupid having been drinking before we arrived. Hopefully we can make Andrews relax and think we’ve forgiven him about Matthew and that he himself can’t possibly be under suspicion. Then you both come over to the rectory where we’ll decide what we’re going to do about this. By then we might know a bit more.’
‘OK, all I have to do is find a babysitter. By the way, Mick the Kick seems to have done as you asked. A snout’s insisting that he’s retiring from crime having sold out to a bod from abroad who threatened to kill him if he didn’t agree. According to him Micky’s gone on holiday.’
‘Cruising with the Mafia?’
Carrick gave him his full attention.
‘It’s just a guess: that Captain Enrico – who looked far too clever just to be in charge of a boat – was probably under orders to conduct some kind of investigation into British crime barons to see what the competition consisted of. The saloon was probably bugged too. If so he would have heard every word of our conversation.’
‘I hope he doesn’t know Uncle.’ James frowned.
‘I’m not sure we ought to go to the pub,’ I said.
‘Any particular reason?’ Patrick asked.
‘I just feel uncomfortable going anywhere near that man.’
‘Surely it’s a good idea to behave normally.’
‘OK, but you might put my reservations in the minutes.’
The inclusion of ‘the ladies’ was a deliberate ploy on Patrick’s part as he could hardly exclude me and Joanna used to be Carrick’s sergeant. She was a very good detective and I knew he shared his casework with her.
‘I did ask him when he proposed to me, you know,’ said Joanna, obviously with this same train of thought when we all met up in the pub and had found a table in a corner. ‘Do you want me for my fanny or my brain?’
She had not troubled to lower her voice and I knew her husband had primed her about acting ‘a bit sloshed and stupid’. But he still winced and gazed around to see if anyone had overheard. They had, sniggering.
‘What would you like to drink, darling?’ Patrick asked her, as loudly.
‘Oh, a big, big G&T, darling,’ she crowed.
Patrick quirked an eyebrow in her direction and received a tiny shake of her head in response. He did not ask me what I wanted and this meant that when he returned with the drinks I got the G&T, the nursing mother just a tonic with ice, no one else present any the wiser. The men were on whisky, modestly I hoped: this was war.
As he sometimes does, and egged on by Joanna, Patrick related a few anecdotes from his service days. He is an entertaining speaker, mostly due to being a good mimic and it was a relief, despite the fact that I had heard the stories before, to forget for a short while our main reason for being here this evening.
I suddenly became aware of someone coming to stand behind me.
‘This table’s reserved,’ said Colin Andrew’s voice.
Patrick had probably noticed his approach but only now fastened his gaze on him. ‘There was no card on the table,’ he pointed out.
‘Nevertheless, it’s reserved. You’ll have to leave.’
‘Leave?’ Carrick said in astonishment.
‘We’re booked solid tonight.’
‘But there are empty tables over there.’
‘They’re coming later. I hope you’re not going to make trouble.’
‘Why on earth should we make trouble?’ Joanna protested.
‘Well, you’ve been noisy enough already. And drunk. We don’t serve the likes of you.’
Patrick rose to his feet.
‘Going to threaten me now then, are you?’ Andrews shouted, taking a step backwards.
‘I was about to leave,’ Patrick told him coldly. ‘As requested.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. You and your thieving kids have been nothing but trouble since you moved here. Throwing your weight about as the big copper and harassing innocent people.’
‘Please calm down,’ Carrick said. ‘There’s no need for this.’
‘What do you know about it?’ Andrews said furiously. ‘And his father’s no better. Playing the priest while screwing half the women in the village.’
‘That’s right!’ bawled Carol Trelonic, having appeared behind the bar. ‘I can testify to that. Had a go with me. You need to arrest the bugger because I’m going to make a complaint about him. And I’m writing to the bishop.’
For some strange reason I have no actual memory of leaving the building, only of James Carrick practically manhandling Patrick outside and just about succeeding in preventing him going straight back in.
‘He’s really hoping you’ll lose your temper,’ I said to Patrick, a hand on each side of his face, gazing into the eyes of someone I was terrified could neither see nor hear me. ‘Listen to me, Patrick! Don’t!’
He seemed to notice me.
‘No one will believe a word of it,’ I said. ‘They’ve done themselves more harm than good.’
‘Let’s go home,’ he muttered.
‘Come home with me, gorgeous man,’ said Joanna, an arm through his, acting tipsy. ‘I’ll drive and then cook everyone a splendid dinner.’
‘Everyone was right,’ James Carrick said later when we arrived at their house, no doubt endeavouring to mitigate what had been a minor disaster. ‘Andrews felt safe enough to act cocky to the point of stupidity while Ingrid was perfectly correct in her reluctance to eat there. I just hope no damage has been done with regard to your fath
er, Patrick.’
‘I rang Elspeth just now and told her what had happened – we had previously warned them – and she said the woman might have already been putting it about as she’s been getting odd looks from some people. They’re both a bit distressed, obviously.’
I thought the mobsters were one step ahead of us all the way but said nothing just then.
‘Right, so how are you going to remove those odious people from what used to be a perfectly lovely village pub?’ Joanna asked in challenging fashion.
‘By removing their paymasters, even more odious people now in Bath,’ her husband replied.
The information was trickling out as Greenway’s cyber-boffin hacked deeper and deeper into Uncle’s network, most of the users of which did not bother with passwords and those who did unknowingly having them brushed aside in a matter of moments. The words in some kind of ‘home-made’ code that Patrick had noticed had been easy to decipher as days and dates. By this time Benedict’s computer had been shorn of everything in connection with the criminal investigation and this evidence had been taken to SOCA’s HQ for further work to be done. It appeared that GCHQ, the Government Communications Headquarters, was now also involved.
Good food and a little too much wine the previous evening had meant that not a lot of planning had been accomplished. I reckoned this to be a good thing as Patrick had not had an opportunity to brood over what had happened and go on to wind himself up with a view to wrapping Andrews around his own beer pumps on our return.
‘When’s this house-warming, or whatever, taking place?’ I asked Carrick in his office at the Manvers Street nick the following morning.
‘This coming Saturday. There have been several requests to keep it quiet. They obviously don’t want gatecrashers.’
I decided that it was time to share my worries. ‘Look, I really don’t want to sound pessimistic but I do think these people are running rings around us right now. They’re anticipating our moves: our photo in Murphy’s flat, the two people pretending to be her and Northwood at the Hammersmith house, the attack on Patrick and me at the training centre. Now this, a party planned at a rented house here in Bath. Is it genuine? Are they hoping you’ll raid the place so they can pick off a few senior officers and throw the CID into temporary chaos? I know it sounds fantastic but anything that Murphy has a hand in can’t be regarded as normal.’
Rat Poison Page 17