The sausage sandwich with fried onions and tomato ketchup tasted divine, but then he didn’t think that he had ever felt so hungry. He could probably eat three of them, one after the other. Micky Lemon had remembered him, which was strangely moving – it made him feel that he was a part of something after all, that he belonged – and Micky Lemon had said, go and sit yourself down, I’ll bring it over. It was late, after eleven, and the place was almost empty when Waters had walked in with the slow purposefulness of a man who needs to think about the way he is walking. He sat down where Micky had told him to sit, and then he was in there alone because the only other person present – a youth the same age as himself but a bit of a sad loner by the look of it – had upended his can of Coke and left. Nothing personal, I’m sure – no way they could tell who he was, what he was, in here having something to eat after a night out. He smiled at Micky behind the counter, and took out his phone but there were no messages, and it didn’t look as if Micky Lemon had yet invested in wi-fi for his customers. He would suggest it when he ordered another sandwich.
Micky came out from behind the counter, a tea towel in his hands, walked over to the door and turned something around – closing here as well, and Waters thought that it was time to start thinking about going home. His stomach had concluded that it didn’t need any more fried onions after all, and then he saw Micky step back from the door as it opened. Micky didn’t say anything then, he didn’t say we’re closed or anything. He just stepped back and looked around at Waters.
Two men, one nearer twenty, the other nearer thirty, came into the café. They stopped and the older one said something that Waters could not catch to Micky, who turned around and closed the door behind them. Then the younger one said “Coffees”, and Micky went back to his counter. They were not English, Waters knew that from the way the man had said that one word. There was a hiss of steam and water from the coffee machine, and then silence.
The older man moved first, coming directly towards Waters’ table, and the younger followed. There were plenty of tables, maybe a dozen, all of them empty, and for a moment he found it almost comical when the first man sat down next to him and the second sat opposite, and then he realized. Micky Lemon was busy behind the counter but every few seconds his eyes looked up at what was going on – and his eyes seemed to be saying something but Waters could not make out what it was.
They might have been brothers. The hair was short and dark and very thick, fitting around the skull like a cap, and the eyes, all four of them, were blue, the older man’s slightly paler and somehow more intimidating when Waters looked from one to the other. He kept his eyes on theirs but below the unsmiling faces he sensed bodies that were lean and hard and quick – bodies that were used to working for a living. He had enough sense left to decide not to think about that just now, and enough sense left to say nothing at all.
The minute or so that they sat there, the three of them, was probably the longest minute of Water’s life, and all the while he was hoping that he might get the chance to experience longer ones sometime in the future. He didn’t hear the café door open but he heard it close. A bigger, older man was there, his back to the three of them. The man looked down at the door handle, saw the key and turned it in the lock. Micky Lemon saw it too before he reached up to the shelf and took down a third cup.
When the newcomer turned around, it took all the self-control that Waters possessed not to show that he recognized him. To show that would have been foolish indeed. He kept his gaze steady as the man came from the doorway towards them. Once the fourth seat was occupied, Waters was trapped in a corner with nowhere to go, no way out.
The man squinted a little and said, ‘Have we met before?’
Waters said, ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think I’d remember.’
That might have sounded almost insolent but they all knew what he meant, and the youngest of the three, the one who had ordered “Coffees”, smiled because it was true – nobody was going to forget a faceful of tattoos like those.
Bridges said, ‘Alright – maybe.’
He twisted half around, looking at Micky Lemon as if he was checking up on the drink situation. Then he turned back to Waters with a friendly enough smile.
‘So, what can I order for you? Apart from a coffin.’
There was a baseball bat under the counter. A bit of a cliché these days, thought Micky Lemon, but it might still scare off a couple of twelve-year-olds. Many years ago he might even have fancied his chances with these three, baseball bat in hand, but then, in that case, many years ago he might have got himself beaten to a pulp – and that was looking at the situation optimistically. The fingers of his left hand felt along the shelf, not for the bat, then, but for the little plastic tub full of bits and pieces, odds and ends. That’s where it would be, if it was anywhere.
He couldn’t hear what was being said but the chances had to be against this turning out well for that young copper. He didn’t know them, and they hadn’t honoured his café with a visit before, but he knew who they were, or, to be a little more precise, he knew what they were. Word gets around, even when you’re not personally involved. Nothing would happen in here, naturally, and he wasn’t about to get his living trashed, but he might end up being a material witness if they decided to escort the young man out into the night and deal with it elsewhere. He didn’t want to be a witness to anything like that, he didn’t want to be put in any sort of position like that, and besides, apart from being three to one, it was unfair to the point of cruelty, those characters versus a skinny, fresh-faced boy.
When he found it, he took the box out and put it on the counter, making it just a part of his clearing up for the night routine. Next he took out his phone and laid it flat on the table behind him, next to the till which was there to be deliberately out of the reach of thieving fingers. Back to the tub, taking the lid off and flicking through the contents, trying not to look intent on anything. He’d only ever used it once before but that was years ago, and he couldn’t be sure that it was here, didn’t look as if it was here... Now what? But his fingers kept searching, right to the bottom, and then he found it.
He put the card between his phone and the till so that it could easily be pushed underneath the latter if needs be. Then he managed with one finger to type in the number and select ‘Send a message’. It had to be short, just an SOS really – One of yours in trouble here – Micky. That would do it if, and it was a big if, Sergeant Smith had his phone on at this time of night, and wasn’t sound asleep. Then he picked up the tray with the three coffees and went to the table, avoiding looking at anyone directly but especially the copper. Nothing was said while he was anywhere within hearing distance.
Five minutes seemed like fifty, and there was no answer. He glanced down at the card again, wiping the counter for the third time. The number was the one he’d just used, printed on the card that read Detective Chief Inspector D C Smith, Kings Lake Central Police. Years old, of course, and then he remembered that it was Sergeant Smith now and realized that all sorts of other things might have changed including the mobile number. Something made him flip the card over and there was another number hand-written on the back, not in his writing and he had no idea whose it was. It might not be a policeman at all, and he daren’t send a random text into the ether.
Chairs scraped behind him, and he pushed the card out of sight. All three of them had stood, leaving the boy looking up at them. This was the moment. If they grabbed him or dragged him towards the door, Micky would have to do something else but he had no idea what. Then they walked away from him, heading for the door.
As they passed him, the tattooed face said, ‘Our friend’ll pick up the tab,’ and then they were gone. After the door closed, it went very quiet. The striplight was humming to itself and somewhere there was the plip of a dripping tap every few seconds.
Micky said across the room, ‘You alright, son?’
The policeman took a breath
and nodded. He was very pale and almost certainly going to be sick, and that was the last thing Micky Lemon needed tonight.
He said, ‘The bog’s through that door to your right.’
After he had gone, Micky cursed and dialled the second number on the card. It rang three or four times before a male voice answered and asked who was calling. Best not to give a name at this point.
Micky said, ‘I’m trying to get hold of Sergeant Smith.’
There was a muffled noise, the sound of someone covering the phone, and then the voice said, ‘Well, it was a decent effort. You’re speaking to Detective Constable Murray. What can we do for you?’
Chapter Seventeen
‘That is no ordinary bacon. That pig lived a life of luxury, frolicking on a hillside near Lakenham before he shuffled off this mortal coil. I know the bloke who manages the farm shop.’
As if to emphasise the deliciousness of the said cured meat, Smith cut another slice from the rasher on his plate, dipped it into the runny fried egg and then raised the forkful to his mouth. Waters had to look away. It was very kind of Smith to cook him breakfast like this but not so kind of him to make Waters feel guilty for not consuming it with the same relish; in fact, the suspicion passed through Waters’ mind that Smith was enjoying his breakfast even more than usual this Saturday morning.
‘Of course, I don’t have a full English every day but when I’m doing long shifts or late ones, I think it’s a good idea – the extra protein, slow release of energy throughout the day. Something like that, isn’t it, it’s all very scientific these days. Sheila used to like that black pudding as well. Ever had it? You know what it is, don’t you?’
Waters’ stomach turned over for the fourth time since he had got up. It was conceivable, just, that he could force down a slice of the bread and butter. Perhaps that would silence Smith.
Nothing had been said since last night, and even then the conversation had only been about where the bathroom was. Smith seemed to have told him that several times before leaving him on the slowly revolving bed, the nightlight switched on, as if he was a child in need of the comfort. Sleep had come in the end, and he had not needed to find his way to an unfamiliar bathroom, which wasn’t so surprising after the time he had spent in Micky Lemon’s facilities. But something had to be said, and it looked as if Smith was leaving it up to him.
‘DC, I’m sorry about last night.’
‘Oh, right. Which bit?’
Fried egg and fried bread this time, with a dash of brown sauce. Waters decided to concentrate on the mug of tea in which, inexplicably, Smith had put two spoonfuls of sugar – had he forgotten that Waters took it without? Whatever the explanation, it somehow made it more drinkable this morning. But before he could answer, Smith had spoken again.
‘I mean, it could be just the state you ended up in, frightening Micky Lemon half to death, getting us called off a surveillance or is it the remarkable decision you made sometime last night to fly solo with the Red Baron in town? Or is it perm any two from the four?’
He didn’t seem to be angry – more mildly interested in what Waters was actually trying to apologise for.
‘The fact that Micky had to call you. That was really stupid.’
‘You think Micky did a stupid thing?’
‘No, not at all.’
Smith had stopped eating – he was watching intently Waters’ face. This was what it felt like to be questioned by him when you were on the wrong side of the fence.
‘Well, you can forget about pulling us off the job. I was taking John home when you rang, so Micky’s was on the way.’
Waters nodded – perm any two from three, then.
He said, ‘Did you get anything useful last night?’
‘Not much. Did you?’
Waters wanted to say, I don’t know, can we talk about something else, but that was not a possibility; Smith would want to examine his encounter with Bridges in minute detail, line by line, because, despite the unfortunate way in which it had come about, it was their first lucky break in the case – though which case, as yet, he wasn’t sure.
Smith said, ‘Before you answer, let’s get the other stuff out of the way. From what you were mumbling last night, you’ve had a falling out with Clare, right?’
‘More than that. It’s over.’
‘Right, well, when you’re feeling up to it, you can borrow a couple of books from my Barbara Cartland collection. Anyway, you then thought you’d go out and drown your sorrows whilst at the same time setting off in lone pursuit of the mysterious tattooed man. Come to think of it, this is starting to sound like a Barbara Cartland novel... Now, as far as bringing you home is concerned, I have to say that I was really only returning a favour, wasn’t I, because a couple of months ago I did something slightly stupid myself and you and Charlie Hills got me back here. I haven’t forgotten that. But what I did was only slightly stupid compared to what you did last night, which was...?’
‘Incredibly stupid.’
‘So incredibly stupid that we’re not going to mention it to anyone else, and we’re going to say prayers every day that should a court case ever arise from any of this, your midnight meeting with a chief suspect can somehow be avoided in evidence. This bit is quite serious, Chris. I’ve known QCs sink prosecutions with less.’
Waters hadn’t considered that at all. At the moment, he couldn’t even manage the piece of bread and butter that he had been eyeing for a few minutes. Smith, however, had resumed eating.
‘Moving on, you should put things straight with Micky Lemon, face to face. A bunch of carnations won’t do. I think he likes a tot of rum, so get down the offy and buy the most expensive bottle they’ve got. Last but not least, how come you’re still alive?’
Waters began at the beginning, explaining how he had used the I’m-new-in-town-and-looking-for-a-deal story to start conversations with a few people. It hadn’t got him very far which was why he went a little further with someone in The Cutter – who, asked Smith. Write down the details later, everyone that you spoke to, anything that might help to find them again if it becomes necessary. Waters couldn’t see how it ever might be but knew that he was in no position to argue, and Smith had been right too often since he had worked with him to question it now. Anyway, in The Cutter he had mentioned “some bloke with tattoos”, pretending that someone else had said this to him earlier in the evening. There had been a group, three or four around the table, and everyone said they had no idea who that was, but one of them must have mentioned it to someone else, or even made a phone call.
Smith said, ‘But how did they know you were in Micky’s café?’
Waters remembered then – the youth who had got up and left as soon as he had arrived there.
‘Would you know him again?’
‘I think so.’
‘For someone new in town, our Mr Bridges seems to have a network already. We had some of Stuart Routh’s boys going into The Wrestlers last night, assuming that they are still Routh’s boys – they didn’t look too unhappy about being there.’
Waters’ stomach was settling down again and he managed a sip of tea.
‘But you didn’t see Bridges there? It would be funny if you’d followed him to Micky Lemon’s, wouldn’t it?’
‘Hilarious.’
It was difficult to know which Smith he had in front of him at the moment, and so Waters kept quiet then. Smith finished his breakfast in silence and drank the tea before he spoke again.
‘Did he threaten you?’
‘Not much. He mentioned getting me a coffin at one point.’
That didn’t go down too well – there was another silence.
‘Did he ask if you were a copper?’
‘Yes. I said I wasn’t.’
‘That can go either way – he might have backed off in view of the fact that there was a witness. Where was your ID, by the way?’
‘In my pocket.’
Smith closed his eyes and rubbed the fingers of one hand acros
s his forehead.
‘For future reference, and despite what regulations say, when working undercover in potentially threatening circumstances, we don’t carry that around with us – unless we feel an arrest is likely. Did you feel an arrest was likely?’
‘Not really. Sorry.’
‘Regret is pointless, but so is experience if you don’t learn from it. So how did you talk your way out of it?’
‘I gave him the same story, that someone in another pub had said that they’d heard a bloke with lots of tattoos might be able to sort me out. I just played dumb, really.’
‘It comes easier to some of us than to others. No, don’t say sorry any more. Let’s get something out of this. Give me the detailed version now – everything that you’ve missed out. What’s he like, how does he talk? What about the two Rottweilers? Were they our Albanians? Everything, line by line. And you’re not getting down from this table until you’ve eaten some breakfast.’
Smith waited until Waters was in the shower and then he called John Murray.
‘John, you’ve got tonight off. No, don’t thank me – I could see how much you wanted to get re-acquainted with Maggie’s family, it’s no trouble at all.’
He frowned at what was coming down the line, and wondered whether Murray had had another sleepless night. If so, all the more reason to tell him to stay at home with the wife on a Saturday. Eventually Murray got it out of his system and asked a question.
Smith said, ‘Oh, it’s partly about the girlfriend, Clare. I think the wheel’s come off, to be honest. And he’s got to make a decision about what he does next; I’ve done my absolute best to make sure he leaves Lake Central but you just cannot help some people. I’m going to keep him with me today, he can do the obs tonight and then I’m going to send him home, back to Dougie and his mum tomorrow. He’s not had a day off in nine months, so he can take a couple now. Talking of nine months, how is Maggie?’
Persons of Interest: A DC Smith Investigation Page 22