Once upon a Spook (The Spooks series Book 1)

by Gary Tulley

  “…And with Bryant lying in the morgue, we have got no poxy chance of proving a damn thing!”

  “I’m sorry mate, but there it is. The situation is out of my hands, and I’m gutted. I would have bet good money knowing that Dowling would have been a certainty to go down.”

  Eastern then went on to explain his own theory, regarding their alleged relationship. “The way I see it, I reckon that Dowling contacted Bryant after leaving the force. And together they devised a compensation ‘scam’ based on the inside knowledge that Bryant had access to from his involvement with DCI Conway. I also think that apart from a percentage gain from the scam, Bryant wanted a ‘sweetener’ up front for the inside information he’d collected. Hence the three payments that came to light.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that makes sense, and your client, how does she fit in all of this?”

  “That’s the easy part. She would be Dowling’s insurance, in the event that anything went wrong. So as I say, it was paramount on his part to ‘groom’ her should any unnecessary grief get in this way.”

  “You’ve got to hand it to him, he’s one conniving operator. So I presume this all stems from when you initially contacted me, am I right?”

  “Yeah, you got it. That’s when Mrs Conway first came onto the scene.”

  “I presume we are talking about Joan Travers here?”

  “Precisely the same. I reckon she had me shortlisted on the rate of one to zero as a shoulder to cry on, due to my previous with her estranged husband. And so apart from Bryant getting mullered, the rest you know anyway mate.”

  “When you think about it, the guy was so unlucky.” Curtis concurred. If there was ever going to be a victim of circumstance it was him. There was nowhere for him to run, although he couldn’t have known it at the time. But whatever the outcome, you have to say he was a two time loser.”

  “Absolutely! No question about it.” Eastern added. “But saying that, I do have a problem with the word circumstance in this case.”

  “In retrospect, you and me both mate. What you’ve told me thus far isn’t in the same ballpark in comparison. I realise I’m repeating myself but whoever was responsible for making the decision to eradicate Bryant tells me that it had to come from a higher authority.” Curtis declared.

  “Fortunately Johnnie, the IPCC don’t give a shit about rank, they’re only in for brownie points. You know as well as I do Johnnie, one whisper, and they’re over you like a bleedin’ rash. I’d lay money that right now there’s one or two twitching arseholes on the force as we speak.” Their revealing and composite conversation came to a close minutes later with DS Curtis suggesting that they get together for a drink shortly.

  Over a liquid supper that evening, Eastern found himself mind wrestling with an aspect of Dowling’s alleged background, prior to his involvement in the case.

  Supposition or otherwise, it certainly hadn’t managed to manifest itself overnight. Eastern had held a nagging doubt for some time now, over the legitimacy concerning Dowling’s claim that he indeed had terminal cancer. There and then, he decided to cover some old ground the following morning. And where better to start looking than back at Dowling’s original address, adjacent to the 7 Dials?

  “Blimey! You back ere again guv? I’m starting to see more of you than the bloody owner!” The caretaker exclaimed. At least he’d given Eastern a format to work with.

  “Could be the guy’s got an allergy to brooms, that’s one good reason why.” Eastern jested. “Mind if I come in? I won’t keep you long. I’m hoping that you might unlock some answers I’m looking for.” The man ushered him along the hall into a small living room, and indicated towards a chair, which Eastern readily declined.

  “So, how can I help yer?” The caretaker enquired.

  “If it’s all the same with you, I’d like to talk about our mutual friend Mr Dowling. How long did you say you’d known him for?”

  “Uhm, let’s see now. I’ve been ere roughly eighteen months, so we’re talking about eight or nine weeks I reckon…yeah that would be about right.” Instinctively, Eastern felt his gut tighten in response to his own hidden agenda.

  “Really, is that all? So why do I get the impression you’ve known him longer than that?” The caretaker, for reasons of his own, then elected to go on the defensive.

  “Search me guv, you never asked me before, so I never said.” Eastern nodded and smiled.

  “Relax, you’re right of course, I should have known better.” Patronising? Maybe, but he couldn’t afford to unnerve the man. There was too much riding on his hearsay.

  The man then went on to say ,“The flat in question had become vacant and the landlord had advised him that a certain Mr Dowling would be taking possession over…” he shopped short. “Strange when I think back.”

  “Keep talking, I’m listening.” Eastern urged.

  “Well, why he never mentioned to me the length of his tenancy, which I thought unusual at the time. So when I questioned…” He stopped short before continuing. “I can quote him as saying, you do the job I pay you to do, and I’ll do the rest. Just treat him like the other tenants. So now I’m thinking to myself, what’s so bloody special about him anyway? And that’s when he told me the business about him being terminal, plus his old man’s involvement with the law.”

  “I assume by that, you mean your governor?” Eastern established.

  “Absolutely!”

  “He comes across as being an easy going sort of guy, your governor that is.” The caretaker, Eastern noted, was suddenly looking decidedly uneasy, giving the impression that he wanted renege on his last statement.

  “Well, not exactly on a personal level that is.” He managed to blurt out. Eastern by now, was beginning to show signs of frustration.

  “You’ve lost me for a minute sunshine. I thought that you said…” He wasn’t given the chance, as the man intervened, by issuing a verbal roller coaster.

  “I mean, that was the message he left with the agency who runs his business interests. He’s got property all over, and lives abroad most of the time. In fact, I’ve never even met him on a personal level, know what I mean.”

  There and then Eastern came to the conclusion that he’d heard enough to convince himself that there was more to Andy Dowling than he’d been led to believe. He even started to question his own theory that the latter had been part of a complex scam. The gut feeling he’d had recently was now showing birth toward an alternative angle on the case overall. Especially when considering its intensity and the high stakes involved in knowing what certain individuals had to lose. If at any time he ever wanted a wake up call, it had to be now as his instincts called out for a steward’s enquiry.

  Dowling’s existence from the time he’d taken the original flat and leading up to his present address had been erratic to say the least. Especially coming from somebody who’s present status had been allegedly labelled as being terminal per se. “I just can’t put my finger on where the guy is coming from anymore, his life is too bracketed for my liking. The fact that he’s now cosied up in the village beggars belief. It’s almost as if he knows more about my lift than I do about his. While at the same time it could be that he’s trying to tell me something. One thing is certain, he isn’t your every day stereotypical career criminal, in spite of the evidence attached to him. And that is what really bothers me! As things stand, I’m battling away with Joan, Dowling and myself in one corner as being a separate identity, or so I’m led to believe. And in the opposite corner, festering away, you’ve got the bung case. In which, through unknown circumstances, could well involve just about everybody, whose earmarked as being in the bigger picture of things.”

  Up until now, Eastern had considered that his share of the dice, although serious in itself, had consisted of a 24/7 game, plus the added benefit of a well paid lifestyle that you only find in glossy magazines. At least, he had the firm satisfaction of knowing that Joan would be back from her recent trip of c
onvenience that same day. In no time at all the illusion became shattered, thanks to his mobile, as he was about to gain entrance to his apartment. One hasty glance to confirm who the caller was did enough to satisfy himself that something untoward was in the offing.

  “Hi Johnnie, how are you doing? You almost caught me on the hop. What can I do for you? “

  The reply from DC Curtis, although well intended, came across as being double edged. “Right now Mike, I could use a one way ticket to fucking Brazil, and I mean it. The establishment, for want of a better word, are doing their utmost to seriously piss me off.”

  “Can you elaborate on that mate? It doesn’t sound too healthy.”

  “No? Then get this. In a nutshell Mike, I’m off the case full stop, or until I’ve been told different.”

  “This has to be some sort of a bleedin’ joke mate. How and why?”

  Curtis went on to explain that he’d been given the cold shoulder treatment in his pursuit of damning evidence, notably, a DNA report released by the forensics. Eastern was still in disbelief mode and continued: “But surely, by pulling the plug on you, they’ve created a conflict of interest. And, more to the point, for what ever reason? No, I don’t buy it. I’ll be honest mate, it stinks. I mean, what ever happened to loyalty?”

  Curtis also stated that the acting DCI who relieved Conway was under orders from upstairs to cocoon certain lines of investigation relevant to Dowling’s role in the case. At that point, Eastern decided to confide his own latest thoughts to Curtis. And finished by stating: “That in my view, the only solitary factor coming out of this unholy mess, worth any credence at all now points to Dowling emerging as a leading player. What is it about this arsehole that makes him seem so bleedin’ bullet proof? This happens to be the second time around he’s had a let off. Firstly the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service), and now this latest revelation. If I didn’t know any better Johnnie, that in spite of his actions in the case so far, it almost makes me wonder if the guy is a ‘plant’. But that would be bollocks wouldn’t it?” (At a later date, and with modified hindsight, he might be well subjected into eating those very same words.)

  It was also noticeable that Curtis in reply, kept his own conclusions on the matter close to his heart. He curtailed their highly sensitive conversation by declaring: “You know as well as I do Mike, supposition and the truth might as well be a million miles apart. And moreover, who’s the key person behind the scene pulling all the strings? If I didn’t know any better, I’d have to say that your definition of a ‘Mr Big’ lurking in the background is looking more kosher by the minute.”

  Easing himself back into his armchair some time later, Eastern took full control of a large Scotch on the rocks. Deep in thought, he methodically rolled the glass backwards and forwards across his brow. Finally he raised it aloft before speaking in a subjective manner. “Here’s to you Mr Dowling, or whoever you are. I strongly advise you to make the most of the luck you’ve had on your plate so far. Just remember, I’ve got mine to come yet.”

  He’d barely downed his drink when Joan phoned to say that she was less than fifteen minutes away from him.

  CHAPTER XII…An unprecedented date.

  It has often been stated on many occasions, that good company can prove to be expensive. Although, in Eastern’s particular case, a fish orientated dinner washed down with a bottle of selected Chianti, proved to be a small price to pay for satisfaction. Especially when sharing the moment with a personal client, within the trappings of a renowned restaurant in the ‘Lanes’ in Central Brighton. An hour later, a much gratified Eastern gestured with his hand to indicate that he’d had enough and, at the same time, wiped his mouth with a serviette. “So, how was that for you Joan?”

  “Sorry!” For a second Joan looked slightly bemused.

  “The sole!” He hastened to add. “Did it taste as good as it looked?” Her face then gave way to a knowing smile in favour of the genuine content to the question.

  “If you’re asking me was it worth waiting a week for, then I feel sure that you know the answer to that one Mike. And, by the way, it’s lovely to be back in the village once again. Especially after a boring week in Framfield, so I’m really looking forward to all the latest gossip.” From the moment that Joan had suggested that she felt the urge to eat out, Eastern responded by going on the defensive, strictly with the intention of leaving his work indoors.

  “Sorry Joan, but I’d rather we take a rain check on any outstanding news. Besides, it’s been a great evening, meaning that just for once, business isn’t on the menu…okay?” For a brief moment, she appeared to remain aloof, before extending a silk-like hand to cover his which was resting on the table. She then smiled in her own exclusive manner. It was the sort of smile that made you think your heart had become a toboggan, speeding hell for leather on the great Cresta run.

  “You can be such a klutz sometimes Mike.” She responded. “But you’re right of course.” And slowly withdrew her hand but not before indicating that her glass was empty. Almost an hour later, 11.45pm to be precise, Eastern removed his bank card from off the service plate and requested the waiter to call for a cab.

  “Thanks for a great evening Mike, and for what you didn’t say.” Joan expressed as she made the passenger seat in the cab her own.

  “I’d almost forgotten the formula Joan.” He exclaimed with sincerity. “But the rapport certainly worked. I’d like to think that it becomes a habit, yeah, the date was a good call.”

  “Where would you like to be dropped off sir?” Briefly lost in their own translation of the evening’s events, the pair were interrupted by the driver seeking a drop off point.

  “Sorry, make that Brunswick…” He faltered. “Tell you what, on second thoughts you can drop us off at the West pier, the walk will do us good…thanks.” Still feeling high on a blend of good food, wine, and magnetic company, Eastern appeared to be oblivious to the fact that they were now heading in the complete opposite direction to where they intended to go. It was finally left to Joan to realise that something was amiss.

  “You did say the West pier didn’t you Mike?”

  “Sure, why is there a problem?”

  “Most definitely, I know Brighton well enough to know we are approaching Rock Gardens. That’s the complete opposite direction.”

  Eastern had heard enough, and allowed his current mood to make a temporary diversion. Any frustration was lost on his fist, as he tapped the glass security panel. “Hey driver! What the bloody hell are you playing at?” He volleyed. “I didn’t book a mystery tour.” If the driver at any point had any inclination as to what was going on behind him, it didn’t rub off on his body language as the cab lurched forwards, due to the sudden induction of speed. Within minutes of leaving behind the chilled environment of a quality restaurant, they now found themselves subjected to an unknown situation that they had no control over, while at the same time, held at the mercy of a mysterious manic driver, hell bent on a death wish, or so it seemed.

  At this stage, any dialogue was rendered obsolete, as the pair were now forced to cling to each other, hoping to seek some form of security.

  Rendered useless, the pair were thrown from side to side, as the vehicle ate up the corners of the back doubles that could be found in the bowels of the inner city. Eastern did what was possible to calm Joan down to a necessary degree of normality. The sheer force of terror inflicted on her had ripped her apart, causing her to sob hysterically. And then suddenly, the madness was aborted, as their roller coaster of hell at last came to a screeching halt. Visually Eastern could make out a large metal roller door that at first glance appeared to belong to an industrial type of building.

  Acting on blind instinct, he immediately peered through the nearest window, in a vain attempt to see if he could make any connection as to the locale. The sparse street lighting did little to aid his cause. The gloomy night shadows only succeeded in mocking his futile attempt. Rapt in his own private war, Eastern was n
ow unaware that the roller door had now been raised open, allowing the cab to enter. A sudden injection of blazing light directed from a torch beam, then hit him between the eyes, causing him to shield them.

  In spite of this blinding handicap, his priority still lay with Joan, who could now be found cowering in the back seat, to all intents and purposes, suffering in an obvious state of complete and utter shock. He reached out to console her, and only succeeded in running into a wall of threatening demands. At this point any physical contact became non negotiable due to an alien voice invading his space. “Out! Now. Both of you, this is as far as you go.”

  Self preservation is one thing, but the bright glint issuing from the barrel of a .38 COBRA revolver or ‘snubbie’ fingered by the manic driver, swiftly extinguished any form of heroics from Eastern’s mind. Besides which, his blitzed mind was now three laps behind any form of just reasoning, in respect of the scenario in which he’d been handed. Indeed, the small amount of brain he had been able to muster would have run to a no contest with sanity in mind.

  “If this is hell?” he told himself. “Then I’m holding a valid ringside seat.” In the background the distinct sound of the roller doors closing behind them now only promised himself and Joan an exclusive backdrop of undulating misery. Even their assailants were less than recognisable shadows, due to the extreme lack of light.

  Without any prompting, the figure who was brandishing the torch, waylaid Eastern’s thinking. “This lousy light is cracking me up, I reckon we’re secure enough now don’t you?” He enquired.

  “I don’t have a problem with that.” The driver replied with an air of confidence. “The switch you’re looking for is over in the corner, you can throw it now.” Within seconds, the relief emitting from a dozen or so strip lights stuttered in a strobe like fashion, before reaching their potential. Eastern immediately threw his arms around Joan and drew her trembling body against his own. The pungent smell amounting from disused oil and petrol filled his nostrils as he cast his eyes around their surroundings. It quickly became apparent to him that they were now holed up in what resembled a run down garage workshop.