Once upon a Spook (The Spooks series Book 1)

by Gary Tulley

  Eastern offered up a wry smile before responding. “You’ve been busy reading too many Detective books Joan, but you are right of course. As for the missing name, that dilemma has been haunting me as well. Fortunately, I’m expecting a call at any time, so we can hopefully lay that one to rest. Plus of course, a respectable lead.”

  “That appears to be interesting, but what do you intend doing in the meantime?”

  He leaned forward as if to make a point. The tone of his voice then took on a serious note as he replied. “Worry about your health for one thing, all the time that maniac I’m looking for has got breath, he’s acting like a thinking man’s copper, and pulling all the strings at the same time.”

  “Just supposing I…” she faltered midway.

  “Yeah, carry on, it can’t be that bad.”

  “What if I come clean and show my husband the letter? At some stage, I’m going to have to surely.” Eastern was adamant as he expressed his feelings.

  “Absolutely no way! Certainly not yet anyway. As for the offshore account you can save that one to the last. The way I figure it, this maniac needs to keep you in one piece as his go between. You are his only way through to the core of this whole problem, which is central to your husband. The less he’s aware of what is going on in the background the better. Time is of the essence in your case and I need a name, like, yesterday. Once I’ve established that, then the ‘mind games’ begin to surface.”

  “Mind games? You’ve lost me Mike.”

  “I’ll explain that another time, in the meantime, we need to set up a convenient chat line, it’s imperative that you connect with him. The minute that Mister X feels isolated, is the time when the curtain comes down…end of.”

  “You make it all sound so easy Mike,” she replied admiringly.

  Shaking his head, he then beckoned to a nearby waiter, “I don’t know about you Joan, but I fancy a nightcap. And to get back to your observation, the secret is never underestimate who you’re dealing with.”

  “I’m hope I’m included in that,” she exclaimed sheepishly, and together they laughed.

  “There was one other detail that’s just occurred to me. Do you have a close friend, someone you can trust explicitly who is willing to put you up for a couple of weeks, or failing that, your own side of the family maybe?”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem, I happen to have a journalist friend who’s based in Bloomsbury. She also retains a flat in Hove she uses as a bolthole. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me using it.” Eastern heaved a sigh of relief and continued.

  “That sounds ideal, I must say I feel a lot happier in knowing that. The less your husband knows who, and what you’re involved with, the better I like it.”

  “Problem! It’s just occurred to me…mail! If Mr X gets back to me while I’m away what then?”

  “That’s a chance you’re going to have to take, the aim is to contact him. Once we’ve done that I can open up a post box number, so any further mail is directed to me. I guess that covers everything Joan, but bell me tomorrow without fail so I know that you’re organised your end, okay?”

  Ten minutes later, having said their goodbyes, he left her in the comfort of a cab. For his part, Eastern decided to walk the meal off, by heading towards the seafront and Grand Parade.

  The night air seemed to give his body a lift as he strode along, he felt good about himself, and felt conveniently relaxed for the first time in months. In spite of the many unanswered questions, and conclusions swirling around in his head, he managed to sleep like a baby that night. Even the stairs leading up to his flat seemed that much shorter. As for the door lock, that still managed to retain a mind of its own.

  CHAPTER IV…A break through

  Utter frustration, or just severely pissed off? With no options available to him, Mike Eastern was feeling totally inadequate. Almost a week had lapsed, following his covert request for information, surrounding a certain closed file. No news is good news, would be the reply to every optimist with time on their hands. The theory was never going to wash with Eastern. Living and surviving as he did on a day to day basis, with no set rules thrown in. On a positive note, Joan Conway’s part time security arrangements had now become a reality. On advice, she had managed to install herself in a ‘safe house’, albeit a friend’s flat in Hove. Her husband meanwhile, was left to his own alleged designs, to ponder on the outcome arising from a marriage of convenience.

  Mike Eastern replaced the receiver, having had a lengthy conversation with Joan. A smug look creased his face, “At least she will be safer there for the time being, and the bonus of some breathing space. The poor bitch has inherited the mother of all poxy headaches.” He convinced himself.

  Minutes later, his phone kicked off leaving him stranded in thought. “I reckon she’s probably forgotten to tell me something,” became his initial reaction. In anticipation, he lunged at the receiver, “Joan?” A pregnant pause then followed.

  “Hello…I seem to have dialled the wrong number,” came the reply. The tone of the voice was instantly recognisable by Eastern, as being that of DS Curtis no less.

  “No!...no wait mate.” Eastern responded and continued “It’s me, Mike! I thought you were someone else. As it happens, you couldn’t have phoned at a better time Johnnie. Please God you’ve got some information for me?”

  “Yeah I gathered that would be your reaction. But what’s with the Joan?”

  “Uhm…strictly business…a client,” came back an unconvincing reply.

  “Oh I see, and I’m bloody Hercule Poirot am I? You said that about your first three wives as I recall.” Any reference to his marital track record went clean over his head, as Eastern continued to press for a result.

  “Get real mate, listen, did you manage to obtain the SP I requested you for?”

  “Yeah eventually, and not before calling in a few favours of my own. That’s why it’s taken so long to get back to you.”

  “You don’t surprise me, it was never going to be a walk in the park. At best, I should imagine it was an education in patience…right?”

  “As it happens, yeah, but I could have done without the grief…know what I mean? It almost…”

  “I’m beginning to,” Eastern interjected. “Sorry, carry on mate.”

  “Well, it turns out your hunch was kosher Mike, knowing what’s transpired. It turns out that DCI Conway, has been making a name for himself over the years, in more ways than one. Even accounting for a brief observation, and your case in particular, we’re talking missing statements, plus misuse of forensic evidence. And I’m only scratching the surface thus far. It’s almost as if Conway has been given carte blanche to an open cheque book.”

  “I always knew there was more to the guy than a bleedin’ peaked hat.”

  “Yeah right, but the point I’m making from where you’re standing, will be one of self preservation, if you intend on pursuing the case. You know the score better than anyone Mike, you’re on the outside looking in, remember. Basically, like it or not, the moment they sniff out grief on their doorstep, they’re bound to close ranks.”

  “You said they! So we’re talking involvement here then?”

  “Absolutely no question about it, there’s no way that your man Conway is a solo act. I’m adamant, that this is a cover up on a major scale. Personally, I reckon the system is flawed from the top downwards. I hope for your sake it doesn’t turn out to be messy…me? I’d rather walk away.”

  Before their candid conversation came to a close, Eastern, oblivious to third party reasoning, had no intention of being swayed. Maybe the engaging presence of Joan had some bearing on his decision…who knows? In the event, he was always going to have the last word on the matter in justifying his maverick persona. “Bring it on, to hell with the grief!”

  Pouring the tried and tested Scotch into his glass was the easy bit. It only got harder when he finally realised that the said bottle became empty. Unlike his head, which conta
ined more residual shit than his brain was allowed at any one time.

  The all important disclosure made possible by Curtis now seemed light years away, including other numerous internal problems. He also reflected on the possible inclusion of a public health warning, should he through dogged persistence recreate a mire of conspiracy, morphing into a lake of corruption.

  Depending on one’s values, there was always going to be a price to pay, and in this case, the ‘piper’ was in a position to call the tune! “They have got away with who they are! By what they are!” Eastern declared vehemently, they being the alleged conspirators. “To my mind that was their first mistake. At least I know now who I’m dealing with. Their second mistake is not knowing that I’m in the opposite corner. My problem lies with how I handle the approach, without causing over exposure. I could use a ‘face’, a person working on the inside, somebody I could trust…question is, who?”

  His bloodshot eyes remained neutral, as once again he scanned the facts of the case, as supplied by Curtis. More so, in a measure of sympathy towards the prime victim, him being the deceased father of the elusive and demanding Mister X. Although the victim’s suicide was a fairly recent occurrence, the origin of his case in question extended back to almost six years’ prior.

  Classified by the police as being an opportunist burglar, at the time of his arrest, Henry Dowling, as he is now identified, was subsequently charged and tried at the Old Bailey, for the wilful murder of one Jacob Spelling, known to be trading as an underworld diamond dealer, up until his untimely death. As a result, and due to a fast track trial, Dowling was unanimously found guilty, and received a statutory life sentence.

  The prosecution had claimed that the latter was in the vicinity of the ground floor flat rented by Spelling, on the night of the murder. On the grounds of Dowling’s testimony, this claim, when put forwards (for reasons unknown) was never in dispute by his own defence. The transcript went on to say that, while acting on an anonymous tip off, the police apprehended the accused inside the flat in question, whereupon he was duly arrested after discovering Spelling’s dead body. A further inspection at the crime scene discovered a damaged window to the rear of the building and was judged to be the means of entry.

  On the strength of a post mortem, the pathologist report indicated that the victim had died from a single stab wound to the back of the body, deriving from a Stiletto type paper knife. The time of death itself was proved to be consistent with Dowling’s alleged forced entry and the arrival of the police on the scene. Strangely enough, Dowling’s defence council then did a 180 degree turnaround by dismissing the pathologist report as rubbish and went on to highlight the latter’s original statement to the police:

  When I arrived at the rear of the flat, I came across a knife lying in the grass below a window which I found to be wide open. There was broken glass lying around outside as well which I thought was weird, making me think it had been forced open from the inside. Normally, I’m strictly a front and back door man but seeing as the window was open I decided to take advantage of it. Why I pocketed the knife I can’t say really, maybe I thought it might have been of some value. Anyway, having got this far I decided to turn the joint over, in spite of the fact that somebody had obviously already beaten me to it. As far as the murder weapon was concerned, I took it to be part of the spoils and had been dropped by whoever broke in before me. Once I got inside I started to get busy but soon realised I was wasting my time. The ‘gaff’ (flat) had been well trashed and was in a shit state. I found the body of whom I presumed to be the owner, some five minutes later. Even in the bad light I sensed he was ‘brown bread’ (dead). The geezer’s body looked to be propped in a high backed chair. It didn’t look natural like, almost as if somebody had placed him there, know what I mean? Saying that, I couldn’t have known that he was brown bread, I’d only been guessing. It was only when the ‘bill’ (police) showed up and investigated, then I was told the poor bastard was mullered with a knife. So help me guv, I never laid a finger on the guy, physical ain’t my style, you know that from my previous… end of statement.

  As was the case, Dowling’s ‘not guilty’ plea was rejected after the jury agreed to the prosecution’s summing up. That in the accused case it was simply an attempted burglary that had gone disastrously wrong. In addition, the police had discounted the claim of a third party involvement. In spite of forensics showing that besides the victims, and Dowling’s being prominent, a third fingerprint was also highlighted on the handle of the murder weapon. Because of its poor clarity, (as suggested by the police) at the time. They stated that they were reluctant to pursue that line of enquiry, for reasons alluding to unsafe evidence.

  Sheer frustration, coupled with acute anger, was at a premium, as Eastern digested the alleged facts. And he wasn’t about to hold back. “Trial! That was no fucking trial, it was a pathetic showcase of convenience…it stinks of corruption! The police literally crucified Dowling, from the moment he was arrested. As for his mentality at the time, that alone justified a poxy hearing. No sane felon would enter a building on the assumption that ‘someone had beaten me to it’. That’s total bollocks! It’s obvious the man wasn’t capable of murder, then, or at any other time in his career. His biggest mistake, if at all, was to admit his intentions.”

  “And then of course there’s the broken window scenario to consider. I see that there’s no evidence to support the claim that Dowling had forced it open. (This theory was put forward by the prosecution). I think that Dowling got it right, and that the window itself had been staged to look as if he had indeed forced it open.”

  “To my mind, a visual lack of proof gives credence to a third party, as being a suspect. And of course, being the murderer, while at the same time depositing the knife as a plant to substantiate his motive. That being the case, then the victim Spelling would more than likely have known his killer.”

  Eastern paused briefly to gather his thoughts, reaching out he withdrew a prescription cigarette from a nearby jacket, and robotically lit up. Drawing long and hard, he allowed the smoke to fully coerce his lungs, allowing his beleaguered brain to hone in another possible aspect before exhaling.

  “Of course!” he exclaimed, in a matter of fact manner. “How the hell did I let that one slip by me?” The reference that had prematurely alluded him, was in tune with the statement made by the police, regarding their approach to the partial fingerprint allegedly found on the murder weapons. “As conclusions go, we have only go their word on that.” He pondered in thought. “What if that theory could be proved to be believable and forensic proved that the ‘dab’ belonged to a known individual?”

  Not only could that person be in the frame as the prime suspect. But it also implied he’d be left wide open, into becoming eligible, for flaming membership to the DCI Conway club! “It all makes sense to me now, if ever a guy was ‘fitted up’ bears out my theory, that Dowling was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The real murderer must have just left via the front door when he heard Dowling entering by the window. I bet the lucky bastard couldn’t believe his luck. I guarantee that call he made minutes later resulted in him having a gilt-edged alibi, thrown in for nothing.”

  The following morning Mike Eastern was engaged in another lengthy conversation, having contacted Curtis regarding his taken on the alleged evidence. “So you can well understand my problem Johnnie. It’s now become two fold on the one hand, I’ve got a bent cop that badly needs straightening out, and on the other a terminal maniac who’s going to stop at nothing in seeking a result for his late father. It’s fast becoming a poxy nightmare in knowing who to play first.”

  In reply, Curtis, although sympathetic, was also blunt. “I didn’t want to be the one to say ‘I told you so’ Mike. It was always going to be a Catch 22 scenario. I’m afraid you should have seen it coming mate, but for what it’s worth, plus the fact that you know who you’re dealing with at last. My hunch tells me that your Mr X is the man with all the answers.�
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  “That’s a good call Johnnie, I had a feeling you were going to say that.” Eastern agreed.

  “You know it makes sense Mike, by concentrating on nailing the sick bastard, like it or not, the police would need to get involved at some stage…”

  “…And in doing so, leave Conway and his sidekicks in a vulnerable position.” Eastern interjected.

  “Precisely! Providing of course, Conway doesn’t smell a rat, in which case who’s to say he’s not desperate enough, to eliminate our Mister X?”

  “Shit! That’s one hell of a serious consideration mate, but yeah, I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “Well there you go,” Curtis emphasised. “Because when you think about what he’s got to lose if his little game goes belly up, you know as well as me that controlled ‘accidents’ usually follow. Oh, there is one other thing I need to mention.”

  “Namely?”

  “You! By that I mean you personally Mike.”

  “Sorry mate, you’ve lost me.” Curtis then came across as being solicitous in his approach. “Put it this way, you know my feelings on this unholy mess. I figure that one bent cop is as bad as it gets. And knowing your maverick persona, you cant afford to fuck it up. Because all of a sudden, you could become a lousy statistic.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence mate, but your bang in order as usual, anyway it’s…” he tailed off in knowing he was about to open a can of worms.

  “No, go on,” Curtis insisted. “Finish what you started.”

  “I was only going to say that it’s not all about me, there’s my client to consider as well.” There’s no fool like an old fool and Curtis was immediately on his case.

  “Where is this leading to Mike? Why do I get the feeling that I’ve heard this speech so many times before? You’re way out of your league mate…business is one thing, and women…”