Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01]

by The Worm in The Bud (txt)

  Mariner let the implied criticism go. ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘That he wouldn’t be the sort to kill himself, for a start,’ said Lowry, smugly.

  Mariner refused to rise to the bait. ‘What sort was he then?’ He pressed on.

  ‘To be honest, I quite liked the guy,’ Lowry admitted.

  He made it sound like a major confession, and understandably felt the need to qualify his remark. ‘He was down to earth and pretty straight as reporters go. Had an unusual propensity for wanting to get at the truth.’

  Mariner tugged at his collar. If he’d been in a cartoon a jet of steam would have escaped. ‘When was the last time you heard from him?’

  Lowry shook his head. ‘Not for a long time. But I worked pretty closely with him on a story a few years back.’

  ‘Frank Crosby?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Tell me about that.’

  ‘You must know most of it,’ he said. ‘About four or five years ago. Eddie Barham was researching a story for the Echo about kids who were sleeping rough on the streets in Birmingham. It was going to be one of those social conscience pieces, you know. Shocking that this could be happening on our doorstep. He got to know one or two kids who used the drop-in centre on Alcester Street, the one run by the Streetwise charity.’

  Mariner nodded, he’d driven past the place frequently.

  ‘They do some good work I’d heard.’

  Lowry snorted, ‘Most of the time, yeah. Anyway, Eddie Barham got to know this one kid in particular, built up a friendship with her. She was bright, articulate, but had a bad start. Stepfather had knocked her about, so she’d run away. She’d ended up sleeping rough and God knows what else.’ Lowry told the story as if it was a normal every day occurrence which, in his line of work, it probably was.

  There but for the grace of God, thought Mariner, grimly.

  ‘Anyway, one evening this kid had arranged to meet Eddie for an interview, but she didn’t show. Next time he saw her, the explanation was that the guy running the drop in had offered her some alternative work, and as it was well paid, she’d gone for that instead. Barham managed to wheedle out of her that this “work” was of the largely horizontal variety, in a seedy hotel with a fifty-year-old Dutch businessman who was visiting our fair city. When pushed, she admitted that it was common practice. Other kids, girls and boys, from the drop-in were regularly “employed” in exactly the same way. Some of them considerably younger than her.’ Lowry paused to allow that to sink in.

  ‘Under age?’

  ‘As young as eleven and twelve.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘No, Paul Spink actually; one of the workers on the project. Seemed he had a direct link with Frank Crosby and was lining his pockets nicely by procuring youngsters for Frank’s customers. If the kids turned him down, they were no longer made welcome at the drop-in. And most of them weren’t in much of a position to refuse.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Rumour had it that Frank supplied them, too. If they didn’t cooperate, it was cold turkey time, whether they liked it or not.’

  ‘Shit.’ Blackmail was never more cruel or effective.

  ‘Over a three month period Eddie Barham documented all this, with the help of the girl. Then he did the sensible thing and brought it to us,’ Lowry went on, ‘on the understanding that he got the rights to the story and a couple of good quotes from yours truly. I was impressed. He’d been bloody thorough—had photographs, dates and places. He as good as handed us Paul Spink and a couple of prominent local councillors on a plate. The rest is history. The news story exposed the drop-in for what it was, the guy working there was successfully prosecuted and his little racket was stopped.’ So Eddie Barham wouldn’t exactly be flavour of the month.

  ‘What about Crosby?’

  ‘He was the weak spot. Although Eddie Barham wrote a damning indictment of his involvement, Crosby’s no mug.

  He must have known that it was only a question of time and he’d been very good at covering his tracks. We couldn’t get anything in the way of hard evidence to charge him on.

  Apart from a bit of adverse publicity, he got away scot free.

  Barham was pretty pissed off about that, as you’d expect.’

  ‘Did anybody else go down for it?’

  ‘A couple of councillors lost their jobs over it, but Spink, the guy working the shelter, was the real scapegoat. He was the only one to get time. About eight years if I remember rightly, for procuring minors.’

  ‘Is he still inside?’

  ‘No idea. He had no previous, so it’s possible he could be out on parole by now.’

  And thirsting for revenge, thought Mariner. ‘What happened to the girl?’

  ‘Vanished before she was due to testify. Not that we were dependent on her. She and Barham had already given us enough. It wouldn’t surprise me if Eddie Barham helped her to get away. Protecting his source. I think he felt sorry for her.’

  ‘And Barham hasn’t been back to you since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that Frank Crosby deals in more up-market stuff, too. Escort agencies, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Frank Crosby deals in any shit that’s going. He owns a lot of properties across the city, rents out to all kinds of undesirables.’

  ‘Would he have anything to do with in the kind of agencies that might supply their clients with optional extras, chemical optional extras, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘He was probably the market leader. Why?’

  ‘Looking at what he left behind, Eddie Barham seems to have developed a recent interest in that area, too.’

  ‘Really?’ Mariner waited patiently while cogs turned in Lowry’s head. ‘You think he was planning to have another pop at Crosby?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think Eddie Barham wasn’t the sort of bloke to let someone like Frank Crosby get away with it.’

  Precisely what Mariner was thinking. ‘And if Frank Crosby got wind of it, he’s unlikely to sit back and wait for Eddie Barham to come to him,’ he completed the equation for both of them. ‘One more thing,’ he took out the photo of ‘Kay’. ‘Do you know this girl?’ Lowry didn’t.

  ‘Could she have been Eddie Barham’s source?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never met her. Like I said, Eddie was protective.’

  ‘Do you remember her name? Could it have been Kay?’

  Lowry shook his head. ‘Eddie gave the girl an assumed name, but I don’t think that was it.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a Sally-Ann something, possibly Sally Dean?’

  Lowry hadn’t. But then, who had?

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Mariner. ‘Eddie Barham came into some money a couple of months before he died,’ Mariner said. ‘It was paid in from some obscure offshore account which we’ve yet to trace. Does Frank Crosby have any connection with organised crime?’

  Lowry was doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Frankie moved in such sophisticated circles, but on the other hand…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wouldn’t rule it out either.’

  It was what he’d wanted to hear, and Mariner emerged from Lloyd House into blissfully cool, fresh air and an unexpected burst of spring sunshine with adrenaline pumping through his veins again. It was beginning to fit.

  Back at Granville Lane, Tony Knox was less optimistic.

  Before Mariner had even had the chance to take off his coat, he appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I must have phoned every bloody massage parlour in the city,’ he complained. ‘It’s a wild fucking goose chase.

  Nobody’s heard of Sally-Ann anyone.’

  ‘That’s because we might be looking for Kay instead.’

  ‘What?’

  Mariner showed him the photograph and told him about Jamie’s reaction. ‘You may need to start again.’

  ‘Oh thanks, boss, I had nothing else planned for the next
three years.’

  ‘What about those bank accounts?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘We’ve identified the bank: Charlemagne Investment Trust.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Could be because it’s based in Belize. I’ve faxed through the access warrant and they’re “following their security procedures”. They’re going to get back to us with the account holder.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m not holding my breath,’ said Knox. ‘Any chance of letting me in on where all this is going, boss?’

  ‘In the right direction,’ said Mariner.

  ‘What are we trying to find?’

  ‘The same two things that Eddie Barham was in pursuit of before he died.’

  ‘Money,’ said Knox.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  ‘Frank Crosby.’ Knox was as blank as a new cheque.

  Mariner persevered. ‘A little while back, Eddie went to his boss with a new proposal that would happily combine both of those interests; a follow-up to the expose he’d written in 1995. You remember I told you about the original case?

  Well, our Eddie wasn’t happy with the way that it ended, and I think he wanted to have another go at Crosby. He knew, probably through his earlier research, that amongst other things, Frank Crosby deals in high-class call girls who also illegally supply drugs.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘How about: Eddie decides to find one that he likes; a brunette say, Sally-Ann maybe, or Kay, who’s also run by Crosby. He cultivates a relationship, invites her to his place, then asks the girl to supply the additional extra, too.

  He captures it all on film. He gets a great story and also the potential to get Crosby put away for running a highly illegal operation.’

  ‘So why didn’t it happen?’

  ‘Eddie’s boss wouldn’t buy it. According to him, Frank Crosby is old news. And why would Echo readers be interested in the sordid lives of hookers. It lacks the sympathetic “this could be your daughter” element of the earlier piece.

  But Eddie could have decided to go ahead with it anyway.

  The only thing he wouldn’t get out of it would be the money, unless…’

  ‘He got it by extortion,’ said Knox.

  ‘Right.’ Mariner felt a surge of elation. If Knox could so easily reach the same conclusion he had, then it must be beginning to make sense.

  ‘Christ. He really did have a death wish if he was trying to blackmail Frank Crosby.’

  ‘Eddie was desperate for the money. Without it he couldn’t afford respite for Jamie. This way he could kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘What do you think went wrong?’

  ‘Crosby found out what was going on and saw his own chance to get Eddie Barham off his back once and for all.

  He played along with it, let Sally-Ann/Kay go with Barham, but then he sent over a couple of minders. They sorted Eddie Barham for good, got rid of the tape, and rigged it to look like suicide. Sally-Ann disappears. QED.

  I just hope to God that we don’t have another body show up. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds feasible.’ Though Knox didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  ‘All we need is some firm evidence.’

  Knox shot him a look. ‘Oh, that all?’

  ‘And first I’d like to find out whether Crosby had an accomplice, someone else with an equally powerful motive.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I was wondering what became of Paul Spink.’

  It didn’t take long to locate Spink on the computer files.

  After an initial stint in Winson Green, his ‘exemplary behaviour’ had earned him a transfer to Hewel Grange category 5 open prison, between Birmingham and Bromsgrove.

  Mariner put through a call. ‘Have you still got a Paul Spink in residence?’

  The person at the other end went away, returning a few moments later. ‘Not any more.’

  This was looking promising. ‘He’s out?’

  A pause. ‘In a manner of speaking. Spink hanged himself in his cell last March.’

  ‘Shit.’ Mariner passed on the good news to Knox.

  He was philosophical. ‘Okay, so the joint revenge theory’s down, but that still leaves Crosby trying to guard himself against another onslaught from Eddie Barham. And that must be solid enough.’

  Mariner agreed. ‘We need to go back to the small ads.

  The brunette holds the key. Let’s concentrate our efforts on her.’ In between uniformed duties Knox had done a sterling job in phoning round the agencies, but so far had achieved nothing. It was time to try a more personal approach.

  The house looked like any other large rambling Victorian detached one along Birmingham’s outer circle route. Set into the thick beech hedges that topped the boundary walls was a discreet sign, saying rather unnecessarily, ‘The Beeches’.

  Anna pulled on to the small tarmac driveway and sat for a moment, critically inspecting the exterior of what could potentially become Jamie’s new home. From the outside appearance the building could have been anything, from a retirement home to a dentist’s surgery. Everything on the outside looked well cared for, paintwork was in good condition and the hedges were neatly trimmed. A promising start, and Anna approached the main door high on anticipation.

  This marked the first step towards reclaiming her life. It was going to be so much better for her and for Jamie.

  Going to the main entrance, she pressed the security buzzer next to the door, which crackled into life with a muffled ‘Hello?’

  ‘Anna Barham,’ Anna spoke enthusiastically into the speaker. ‘I have an appointment to look around.’

  ‘One moment.’ But it was several moments before the huge panelled door swung open and Anna was greeted face to face by a smiling middle-aged woman in M & S spring range skirt and sweater, who introduced herself as Linda Kerr, the manager of The Beeches. ‘Please do come in.’

  Anna stepped into a wide, ornately tiled vestibule and into a very specific atmosphere. The combined smell of ammonia and boiled cabbage was heavily reminiscent of the nursing home in which Anna’s grandmother had spent her final years, and the first impression was everything she’d hoped it wouldn’t be. And when, thirty minutes later, she emerged from the same door, her enthusiasm had been all but extinguished.

  The contrast between the homely exterior of the building and the functional, institutional interior was stark. An occasional picture on the wall and a pile of dog-eared magazines on one of the tables in the communal lounge was the extent of the finer touches. Elsewhere, walls were grubby with finger marks, and the carpet stained in places and there were few comforts.

  ‘As you can see,’ Linda said, encouragingly. ‘There’s a lovely outlook from the back of the house.’ A large lawn surrounded by shrubs and dotted with benches. ‘The residents spend a lot of time out there in the summer months,’ Linda was saying. A sudden graphic image appeared in Anna’s mind’s eye of Jamie, sitting alone on one of the benches gently rocking, as dusk fell around him. She felt a sharp inexplicable pain in her chest.

  Upstairs, the small, cubicle bedrooms were simply furnished. A single bed, wardrobe and nightstand in each, some adorned with soft toys and posters of sports or pop stars, while others, by far the majority, were bare and impersonal, like cells. Anna thought of how confining Jamie would find it.

  ‘Do all the, er, residents have autism?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Oh no. Most of our younger clients have learning difficulties of some kind, but we also have one or two older EMI residents.’

  Anna tried vainly to work out what EMI meant, but couldn’t. Later she discovered that it referred to Elderly Mentally Infirm. Hardly Jamie’s peer group.

  ‘Normally we try to group according to age and ability,’ Linda was saying, ‘but with staff shortages, we sometimes have to be a little more—flexible.’ She was honest at least.

  The tour over, Linda took Anna back to the reception area and the offic
e, so that she could ‘take some details’.

  This appeared to involve completing a long and detailed questionnaire on every aspect of Jamie’s life so far. And Anna stumbled on the second question, Jamie’s date of birth. She knew it was March, and she knew he was twenty-nine, but the exact date eluded her. Unable to bring herself to admit her ignorance, she took a guess. If it was wrong, she’d have to change it later and tell them she’d made a mistake.

  The written application complete, Anna stood to go, but Linda hadn’t finished. There were, she said, some ‘more sensitive’ issues to discuss. ‘Does Jamie have any, er, challenging behaviours?’ she asked, her attempt at sounding casual not quite succeeding.

  Now we’re getting to it, Anna thought, not unless you count public masturbation. She played ignorant. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Violent outbursts?’ Linda suggested. ‘Smearing.’

  For a moment Anna really didn’t know what she meant, Jamie wasn’t exactly up to spreading malicious gossip about anyone. ‘Smearing?’ she repeated.

  ‘Faeces,’ said Linda calmly, but with obvious distaste.

  ‘No!’ Anna was horrified, Linda clearly relieved.

  ‘And how is his sleeping?’ she asked, moving quickly on.

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said Anna, candidly. Even after the climbing Jamie had only lasted four hours the previous night.

  ‘And does he take any medication for that?’ asked Linda.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you considered it?’

  ‘No.’ Was it her imagination or did Linda suddenly appear less welcoming?

  ‘And where does Jamie live at present?’

  ‘He’s staying with me, but it’s really not convenient. If he was to come here, how soon could he move in?’

  ‘Well, as I said on the phone, we do have a waiting list, but clients do “move on”, especially the elderly ones, if you know what I mean. We could probably take your brother in about two months.’ Two months? That was eight weeks.

  ‘No sooner than that?’ Anna asked, in desperation, seeing her life slipping from her grasp again. ‘I can pay…’

  ‘I’m afraid we just don’t have the space,’ Linda reiterated.

  ‘But I can contact you as soon as we do. And we’ll send someone to see Jamie, too. We’d like to meet him first.’ To check on the challenging behaviour, no doubt.