by Pete Trewin
‘Shouldn’t that be a sack of spuds?’
‘In your case it would be a sack of turnips.’
‘Ouch!’
THIRTY TWO
Chris put the mug of tea on the table He sat down and pulled the laptop over so that it was under the reading lamp. The rest of the room was in shadow.
‘Well, did you get it?’
He jumped to his feet. Someone was sitting in the armchair.
‘What the...?’ Chris yelped. The figure moved. Chris could see who it was now. Pudgy, round face. Straggly hair and beard. Lump on his forehead.
‘Porky! You scared the life out of me.’
‘Sorry about that, old bean. But you haven’t answered the question. Did you get the money?’
‘What money?’
‘Look, I know you think I’m a pathetic fool, but, really. I just heard you before on the phone arranging to go and get the money for someone. I thought we’d made a deal.’
‘What? I said I would think about it. In any case, why have you been rummaging in my personal things. Reading my letters. That’s not very nice, is it?’
‘What you did to me wasn’t very nice. Ruining my life.’
‘It wasn’t me, though, was it?’
‘We’ve been through this once already. You could have helped but you didn’t. Joint enterprise law. It means you are just as guilty as the actual killer.’
‘Except you didn’t get killed did you? You’re sitting in front of me. Very much alive.’
‘Grievous Bodily Harm? Rape? In any case, it’s not the legal thing so much as the moral side of it.’
Neither said anything for a few moments.
‘Have you ever thought that you might have brought it on yourself?’ said Chris.
‘How do you make that out?
‘Being so sarcastic. Nasty. Telling tales.’
‘We were schoolboys. You were no angel yourself. Does any of that justify what you and that big lug did to me? Anyway. I’ve decided to end it here and now.’
Porky reached down by the side of the chair and pulled a large jerrycan forward. He unscrewed the cap and sloshed some liquid into the floor. He reached into his pocket and got out a cigarette lighter.
Chris could taste the sharp smell of petrol in the top of his nose.
‘For fuck’s sake...!’ he cried, half rising from his chair.
‘I’d just sit down if I were you,’ Porky said calmly. He clicked the lighter but it failed to spark. ‘Fuck it!’ His sleeve caught on something and his shirt ripped open. A strand of barbed wire.
Chris charged across the room. He grabbed Porky’s arm and tried to wrestle the lighter out of the other man’s grasp. With surprising force, Porky rose from the chair, pushing Chris back. They struggled for several moments before Chris sensed that his strength was beginning to tell. Porky grabbed at Chris’s face, seeking out his eyes. The lighter went spinning across the room. Chris twisted his head away and dragged Porky into the hall, crying out when one of his hands caught on a strand of barbed wire. Porky began to gasp for breath and Chris dragged him to the front door.
‘Ah, you nasty cunt!’ Porky gritted through bared teeth. Chris opened the door and thrust Porky though it. He noticed a big rucksack by the door. He dragged it to the doorway and shoved it out.
‘I owe you nothing!’ Chris yelled as he slammed the door shut. He turned the key in the deadlock and hammered home the bolt at the bottom of the door. He ran around the house making sure that all the windows and doors were locked.
In the living room, he screwed the cap back on the petrol can and collapsed into the armchair with an immense feeling of relief.
THIRTY THREE
The front door took a long time to open. Eventually he could hear bolts being drawn. The door banged onto a chain. Alison peered out. Her hair was uncombed and her eyes were bleary.
‘Yes?’
‘Come on Alison, I need to check your security.’
‘I’ll need to tidy up.’
‘OK, I’ll do the outside first.’
He walked around the house and grounds, making notes on a pad, The morning sky was grey and featureless. He went back to his van which was parked on the road outside. The gate closed behind him. He sketched the layout of Alison’s house and its grounds on a notepad on his knee.
The house itself was large, old and rambling with countless opportunities to break in. The whole site was bounded by a high stonewall and the only entrance was via camera-controlled gates which had no obvious horizontal bars for climbing over. The wall was almost three metres high and constructed from smooth-faced sandstone blocks with flush-pointed joints, impossible to climb. He had tried and couldn’t even get off the ground. And there was a rounded coping on top offering no purchase for your hands. The problem was that, although the gates and wall would keep out the kids and the scallies, they wouldn’t stop a determined burglar or psycho equipped with ladders, grappling hooks and the like. But you’d have to find that out on a first visit and come back with the necessary gear. There was one place where a tree grew close to the wall and you might get your hands on the top. He had tried but even after committing himself couldn’t get a grip and had to jump off. And once inside, the grounds were well vegetated with lots of places to hide. There was a CCTV system but the cameras were easy to spot.
He opened his mobile. The NCA number was busy. He listened to it beep for a while then rang the office.
‘Jeanette? Listen, could you give Stuart at the NCA a bell and ask him to give me a couple of days to get the evidence he wants? Tell him we’re having problems but nothing insurmountable. If he’s heard about this business with Simon, tell him we’re sorting it out.’
‘What do you mean “this business with Simon”? Tell it like it is. He’s dead.’
‘Come on, he might have been a bastard but it’s still an awful way to go. Did he have any relatives?’
‘A brother in Cardiff. He’s coming up to sort things out. Listen, Chris. This firm is going to go belly up if we don’t do something.’
‘I know. Any ideas?’
‘Yes. You.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You should take the reins. You were in with Simon. I know he went paranoid at the end but you know more about the business than anyone. All the staff agree. We had a meeting.’
‘I’ll have to think about it, Jeanette. What about the legal side? Will I be responsible? If it went pear-shaped would I lose everything I’ve got? It’s not much but...’
‘We can sort all that stuff out. The thing is the company’s almost bust. Almost. Assets just about cover the liabilities so there’s only one way. Up.’
‘OK, I’ll think about it.’
He went in to see Alison. At least the camera on the gate worked.
She was in the living room lying on the sofa, staring out of the window and drinking coffee; her legs to one side, the tight blue jeans emphasizing her figure. She poured him coffee.
‘It’s strange this, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘We should be enemies. I hope you’re not making notes for when you bust me.’
‘Don’t be silly, Alison. Come on. Let’s get your CCTV system reorganized.’
He spent a good hour on the system, adding several hidden cameras. At first, she followed him, suspicious. After a while she left him to it.
He found a ladder in the back of the huge garage and took it out to the back garden. He found a vague trail through the undergrowth to the back wall. It took a while but he found the place where the tree grew close to the outside of the wall. He placed a camera high up on a tree on the inside.
He went back into the house to check the layout and the position for a camera in the back room. Emile was sitting on a sofa and playing on his iPad. He was wearing a jumper and jeans for once rather than the red tracksuit. His full lips were pursed as he concentrated. He looked up as Paul came in, carrying his big bag of tricks.
‘What are you doing?’ Emile said.
‘I’m s
etting up cameras to protect you from people like that man yesterday.’
‘I can look after myself. How do you record it?’
‘Memory stick. You take it out, put it in a laptop and play it back.’
‘Battery operated? Don’t the batteries run out of power?’
‘Good question. It’s triggered by movement. So it only works if there’s someone moving around. What game are you playing?’
‘I’m not playing a game, I’m reading.’
‘Reading what?’
Emile showed him.
‘Lord of the Flies?’ Paul exclaimed.
‘Yeh. You get them free or dead cheap on Amazon. I read Frankenstein last week. Got that one for nothing ‘cos it’s a classic. It’s nothing like the film. This scientist creates a man. But it goes wrong. He’s not a monster like in the film. Before that, I read Treasure Island. That wasn’t so good. There should have been more smuggling. That used to happen a lot in those days.’
‘Those days? When was it set?’
‘The eighteenth century. They usually get it wrong in the films. Like Pirates of the Caribbean.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, the types of ships, the weapons. They usually get it wrong.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it. Have you always been interested in pirates and smuggling?’
‘Yeh, we used to go on holiday in Cornwall. You could visit the places where they used to land the stuff.’
‘Did you go with your dad?’
‘Yeh, we used to go camping. It was great. OK, sometimes it rained but I didn’t mind that. I was with my dad.’
He looked down. Chris noticed a tear running down his cheek.
‘Could you lend me some of those books?’ Chris said. ’I’ve always wanted to read them.’
‘Got a Kindle or an iPad?’
‘No. I’ve been meaning to get one.’
‘You need one to read the books.’
‘I’m afraid I’m an old-fashioned git. I need a book in my hands, made out of paper and card.’
Emile went over to a chest and opened one of the drawers.
‘Here’s my old iPad.’ He showed it to Chris. ‘This is how you get it going and this is how you view books. Here, I’ll transfer them for you.’
‘This place you used to go camping. Was it near St Ives?’
‘No, Portreath. The campsite’s right by the smugglers cove. I’ve got it marked on a map. Here it is.’
He showed Chris on the iPad.
‘Like an old pirates treasure map?’ Chris said.
The door opened.
‘Come on, Emile,’ Alison said. ‘Time to tidy your room.’
It was about two and a half miles around the perimeter of Sefton Park, so if you varied it a bit you could get in a nice three mile run. What Chris liked about it was the variety. One of the world’s great Victorian parks. Constructed in 1867, it had everything. Undulating mature parkland. Lakes, lodges – like the one he rented. Monuments, mansions around the edge.
The park had been built to a master plan. Not nature but something better. Marrying beautiful things made by men with nature. Well, apart from the dog shit, graffiti, broken glass, litter, vandalism, muggings and the rest. And the construction of some concrete tower blocks within the park’s boundary by a brutalist, philistine council in the sixties. Still, you could ignore these attempts to destroy the place and enjoy a nice run.
He followed the usual trail of joggers around the edge of the park for a while then cut along the boating lake, with the little islands formed by coots’ nests. Then it was across the grass and into the woods.
He felt a bit stiff at first and had to stop to do some loosening up exercises. With all the crap going on in his life, he’d not had much chance to get out running or climbing. After a few minutes, he settled into a nice easy stride, relaxing and enjoying the views, features and wildlife.
A woodpecker drumming away in the near distance. The ‘skaark!’ of a jay. The soft, sultry ‘uh-huh’ of a wood pigeon, like Barry White cajoling one of his sexy little lady friends into bed. It reminded Chris of making love on a blanket outside on a warm summer’s day.
Lost in his thoughts, he emerged out onto Aigburth Drive at the monument and eased past a couple of jogging girls. Just as he was crossing the road before Lark Lane, a car hooted him. It was parked by the side of the road. Bert Robinson was leaning out of the window. The green trilby hat was perched on a thatch of white hair. A big grin under the white muzzy, displaying a startling variety of yellow-stained and blackened teeth – with the odd gap for contrast.
‘Going for gold are we, Chris? Just pop over here for a second will you!’
‘Not heard that one before,’ said Chris as he got into the passenger seat.
‘I don’t reckon all that exercising stuff is good for you,’ said the copper, lighting up a cigarette. ‘And now they’re trying to force it down your throat. Like stopping you smoking in pubs. And now they’re even trying to stop you smoking in your own car.’
‘Trying to force what down your throat? Healthy food? You’d be better going along with it. I thought you were suspended?’
‘Yeah, well, I had a chat with my boss about Simon Chester. According to the autopsy his heart attack was induced by a speedball special.’
‘A speedball?’
‘It’s a mixture of cocaine and heroin. Usually addicts take the drugs separately but this is delivered all at once. Masks the symptoms of an overdose. Killed many famous people. Like John Belushi. And the special is often used by gangsters to get rid of troublesome addicts. They mix it with potassium chloride which induces a heart attack and is difficult to trace. Until now. The forensics people have worked it out. To put it bluntly, someone messed with his drugs and murdered him.’
‘Fuck. But...what...’
‘I made a deal with my boss. If I can get a result on this then they’ll let me retire with a full pension. And that got me thinking about what we were talking about in the pub the other night. About your boss and this Ed Sefton.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Well, Simon was on drugs and Ed was supplying them. Funny combination that.’
Chris said nothing.
‘And you know nothing about it, of course,’ continued the copper. ‘You hated Simon Chester but little old Ed, who has no reason to kill him, no motive, does the deed. Now why would that be?’
‘I’ve got no idea, officer.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d be wearing a wire if you’re going for a run.’ Bert looked Chris up and down, taking in the tracksuit and trainers. ‘Well, here goes. This is off the record, of course. We want to sort out this whole business with the Kenny Mason empire. It was a stroke of luck Kenny and the entire crew drowning like that. Now there’s only his tart and this ape-man, Sefton, left to sort out. This way I get my pension and my boss gets one over on the NCA. Which kind of puts the kybosh on your little contract with them. And when that gets out your company’s reputation will be shite.’
‘It already is shite. Simon fucked everything up. I’ll be looking for a job soon.’
‘Well here’s the deal. Sefton switched Chester’s most recent delivery for a speedball. As in, he murdered Mr Chester. Help me get Sefton and we’ll do what we can to keep you in with the NCA. Incidentally, someone’s robbed the latest consignment of goodies. If you could locate that it would be helpful.’
‘As far as I know,’ Chris said. ‘Alison wants out of the drugs thing. She was never involved in it. She wants to build up her legitimate business empire but the NCA wants the laundered money back. Ed’s a bad lad. He probably robbed the drugs.’
Bert thought about this.
‘If we can get Ed and the drugs that’ll satisfy my boss. Do you know where the cunt is? He lives out in Frodsham, doesn’t he? We’ve got an address somewhere. We don’t want to make a move in Cheshire until we’ve got solid evidence. Or maybe he’s hiding in a cave like Fred Flintstone. He’d certainly loo
k the part.’ He handed Chris a card. ‘Give me a ring if you get anything.’
Chris could hardly tell him that the last time he had seen Ed Sefton he had been tied to a chair, tortured almost to death. Maybe Stroller had gone back to deal with the body?
‘OK, it’s a deal,’ Chris said.
THIRTY FOUR
It was getting towards evening when Chris reached Frodsham. He parked well away from the house and followed his usual path through the woods.
He clambered over the back wall, dropped down and squatted for a while, listening. Just the clack-clack alarm call of a blackbird. He edged forward under the huge beech trees, his feet crunching beech nuts, until he could see the half-timbered gables. The house was silent. The back door was unlocked. The place smelt of stale piss. The chair was empty. Splashes of blood and pieces of gaffer tape on the floor.
He did a quick recce of the grounds. The pile of brushwood on top of the mound didn’t look as if it had been disturbed since he’d last been there.
He went to the garage. The door was unlocked. He grabbed a pair of gardening gloves and a spade, and took them to the pile of brushwood. He pulled the pile back and set to work.
The digging was relatively easy in the sandy soil. He made good progress. About a foot down his spade scraped against something. He bent over the hole and wiped away soil with a gloved hand. It was the top of a drum. He kept scraping until he’d uncovered the edge of the lid, about eighteen inches across.
He went back to the garage and found a large, rusty screwdriver. The lid was well wedged in and it took a lot swearing and twisting to get it off. Eventually, it popped up. Inside was a package, plastic wrapped with gaffer tape. There must be many more in the drum. He sat down with the lid in his gloved hand.
This was a drugs stash. Cocaine most likely. Quite a lot of it. Lucky he’d put the gardening gloves on. He leapt up and put the lid back on, banging it down tight with the palm of a gloved hand.
He was about to fill in the hole when his mobile rang.
‘Mr Crosby?’
The voice was female, calm and low.