Running Scared (DI Mike Nash Book 10)

by Bill Kitson

  The net result of their raid would be to clear up many of their unsolved cases, which only left the most serious ones, the murders of PC Riley and the two victims found at the picnic site. In another mood, Clara might have been disheartened by this, but she refused to allow herself to get depressed by it, or by the fact that they were still no further forward in tracing the source of the drugs found in the motorhome. That topic was fresh in her mind when Lisa Andrews walked in.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lisa announced. ‘It’s to do with the Newsome place. There was something illogical about what we found there.’

  ‘Illogical? In what way?’

  ‘Well the house was a real mess, scruffy, smelly, and dirty.’

  ‘That’s certainly no exaggeration from what little I saw of it. What’s your point?’

  ‘It just seemed to me illogical that they should have such a revolting house, and yet they’ve a rather smart motorhome on the drive.’

  ‘Well, people like the Newsomes are more interested in their toys and gadgets than they are in new home furnishings.’

  ‘I know that, but I checked up on the price of motorhomes and I was quite staggered at how much they cost. A vehicle similar to the one on their drive is worth thousands. I mean quite a lot of thousands. My thought was that they must have bought it on the drip, so I did an HPI check and it showed up clear. I couldn’t believe that even the most lax of finance companies would have passed either of the Newsomes as creditworthy. My other thought was that it could be borrowed or hired, but the DVLA record shows Patrick Newsome as the registered keeper. It’s also properly insured, which I admit surprised me. The insurance premium alone could set them back over fifty pounds a month, plus all the other running costs. So if anyone can tell me how they manage all that with no income apart from benefit cheques, I’d love to hear it.’ Lisa looked at Clara for an answer.

  ‘Given that we know they were involved in drug trafficking, perhaps buying the motorhome would be a good way of laundering the money?’

  ‘It would, except that the dealer would need proof of where such a large amount of cash originated. They have to check up by law. So I started wondering if there was more to it than that.’ Lisa went on to outline the rest of her theory.

  Clara thought about it for a while. ‘You could be right,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll tell you what; I’m due to meet with Jackie Fleming and the chief constable later. I’ll see what they think. If they agree that it’s worth following up, we’ll start working on it. And don’t worry; I’ll make sure they know it was your idea.’

  Chapter eleven

  The chief listened to Clara report the successful outcome of the search of the Newsome house, followed by Jackie Fleming who catalogued the crimes they could now add to their clear-up statistics.

  ‘That’s good,’ O’Donnell told them. ‘However, there are still three unsolved murders. Has there been any progress with those enquiries?’

  They admitted there was nothing new. ‘There is one concern, ma’am,’ Mironova said. ‘PC Riley’s in-laws might try direct action if they think nothing else can be done.’ She repeated what Binns had told her.

  ‘It might be worth having a word with them,’ O’Donnell instructed. ‘Both to warn them off and to discover if they have any suspects we don’t know about. If they can give us a name or two, point us in the right general direction, that might lead to the breakthrough we need.’

  Clara agreed. ‘I’ve already suggested to Jack Binns it might be wise to speak to them, I’ll get him to ask. He knows them better than anyone. They might open up to him.’

  ‘Is there anything else to discuss? I’ve a meeting to attend in Manchester, and I need to set off soon.’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Clara said. ‘It’s to do with the Newsome family. It’s an idea that Lisa came up with that might be worth following up.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s to do with where we found the stash of heroin.’ Clara explained about Lisa’s enquiries in to the ownership of the motorhome. ‘When she found out how much those vehicles cost, she wondered how they could afford it. That was when she remembered what I’d told her about the report from the Drugs Intelligence Unit. Her idea is that Newsome and others like him are being used to bring the drugs inland from the coast. That would give them the cash to fund vehicle purchases. And thinking about this area, what’s more natural to see than a motorhome travelling between here and the coast, especially in summer?’

  ‘That’s true,’ O’Donnell acknowledged. ‘My husband complains when we get stuck behind one.’

  ‘What use can we make of it, though?’ Fleming asked. ‘Even if Lisa’s theory proves to be correct, I don’t see how it helps?’

  ‘Lisa thinks it’s worth checking others in the area, to see if anyone else has been buying vehicles that are way beyond their apparent means.’

  ‘If the people behind this racket have got to know about the drugs seizure they’ll have gone to ground, surely,’ Fleming suggested.

  ‘I’m not so sure. Who will have told them? We haven’t announced it. Patrick Newsome certainly won’t have told them. He’d be far too frightened about reprisals. In any case, knowing how such gangs work, they’ll have made sure they can’t be traced.’

  O’Donnell nodded. ‘I agree with Clara. I think it’s worth pursuing. For the effort involved, the rewards could be enormous. Breaking up just one of these gangs would be an immense bonus. I’ll leave it you two to sort out the ways and means.’

  Despite her earlier statement about the meeting she had to attend, after Fleming and Mironova left, O’Donnell picked up the phone. ‘I have news that I think will interest you.’

  Patrick Newsome was content – certainly as content as a man on the run from the police could be. He was lying on one side, watching Sharon. She was asleep, her face relaxed, smiling in her dream. Was that about him? Patrick wondered. Certainly their passionate encounter before they slept was enough to cause pleasant dreams.

  He should have done this long ago. As he looked at Sharon, as he remembered their lovemaking, he wondered what on earth had caused him to stay with Eileen as long as he had. It certainly wasn’t her looks, for she couldn’t hold a candle to Sharon in the beauty stakes. Nor was it from love, for any affection between them had died long ago, probably stillborn at that.

  No, Sharon was a far better choice. Would she let him stay? Would she consider making it a permanent arrangement? Patrick hoped so, and couldn’t see a reason why not. It wasn’t simply for the sex, although that was terrific. Other things linked them together, things they didn’t talk about, but were tacitly understood.

  There would be problems, though, obstacles to be got out of the way. Eileen was the biggest of these. Presumably, the police had searched the motorhome and found the drugs by now and Eileen would waste no time, spare no effort in putting the blame fairly and squarely on him. He knew her far too well to harbour any illusions that she might stay silent and take the rap for him. That would involve a level of loyalty; loyalty that Eileen simply didn’t possess.

  Although he was relaxed, he felt isolated. Being out of touch with what was going on was a bit unnerving. When he thought about the type of people he worked for, Patrick knew they would be less than happy about his silence. Arguing that it was through no fault of his would not stand him in good stead. They weren’t the kind to accept excuses, even if they listened to them.

  Now he was just grateful that he was absent from the house when the police descended on it. Fortunate that he’d been able to turn to Sharon, come here for a bolt-hole, and shelter until the heat died down. The only problem with that was the heat might not die down for a long time. He might be forced to lie low for months, years even. He grinned; the idea of spending such a long time imprisoned in Sharon’s bedroom did have its redeeming features.

  Where Patrick had been unlucky was that at the time Eileen had sent the text warning of the police at their house, his mobile battery was already running
low. Before he had chance to do anything about this, the phone had died. Without the charger he was helpless to call anyone. All the people he needed to speak to were only available via the contacts list on his mobile. Above all else, he needed a replacement charger, the one Sharon owned didn’t fit his older style mobile. But he wasn’t exactly in a position to go shopping.

  Patrick glanced sideways. There were a couple of phone shops in the town, Sharon would have to buy one for him. Once the mobile was fully charged he could phone the people he worked for. Telling them the bad news about the loss of the drugs consignment from the motorhome wasn’t going to be pleasant, but it would be necessary. If he didn’t give them the information and they found out by other means, they might suspect he still had the goods; that he had concocted the story of the police raid to hide the fact. If they thought he was holding onto the drugs, maybe even setting up for himself in competition, the consequences would be unpleasant, to say the least.

  Patrick thought of the man he’d met only once, the man with the fearsome reputation. He thought of the weapon the man always carried, and something inside him cringed in terror. No, he certainly didn’t want to meet Stanley again.

  There was another reason he needed the phone charged up as soon as possible, also connected to the people he worked with. Patrick’s gaze strayed to the chair near the bed, and the clothing he’d dumped on it in his haste to get into the sack with Sharon. He thought about the contents of one of the jeans pockets, and what those contents represented. Yes, getting that charger was vital. He would have to try and get Sharon to go shopping first thing in the morning. Patrick thought he knew how to persuade her.

  Sharon entered the phone shop, clutching the piece of paper with Patrick’s mobile details on. Patrick might not be every woman’s idea of a perfect partner, but Sharon didn’t mind that. She didn’t mind his lurid past or his slightly dodgy reputation either. She was convinced that much of what he’d done, or what he was rumoured to have done, was down to that woman’s influence. Sharon never thought of Eileen Newsome by name, to her she was always ‘that woman’. Not that Sharon spent much time thinking of her, not a moment longer than was strictly necessary. In fact, whenever she did, Sharon got wound up and angry by the knowledge that the woman had cheated her of so much of Patrick’s life and done her best to ruin him into the bargain.

  Sharon was by no means blind to Patrick’s imperfections. If love is blind, in Sharon’s case it was the blindness of ignorance. She didn’t ignore his misdemeanours; it was simply because he omitted to tell her all of them, or their gravity.

  She was unlucky in the first phone shop, and fared no better with the second so-called specialist. However, her luck changed when she went into Good Buys supermarket. A short while later, she left the store, the blister pack containing a replacement charger nestling amongst the groceries in her carrier bag.

  Patrick was pleased with the charger, appreciative when she explained the trouble she’d had in getting it. If he had any concerns, they surrounded the possible reaction from the people who paid him to bring drugs in his motorhome, or rather the one they had provided for him. The news of the potential loss of such a valuable consignment was not likely to be well received. Whilst Sharon had been out shopping, he’d switched the TV on and watched the local news bulletins, and retuned the radio to Dales FM. Nowhere was there any mention of drugs, so he still harboured hope that the packets were still hidden under the seat where he’d stashed them, unlikely though it seemed.

  He plugged the charger in, and was shocked to see that the phone didn’t register anything. ‘This is going to take longer than I thought,’ he told Sharon. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to use the phone until morning, by then it should have some charge.’

  ‘Oh well, we’ll just have to think of some way to pass the time until then.’

  Chapter twelve

  A week before the grim discovery of the bodies in the picnic area, far away, in a small town in France, a young North African girl, Shakila, stood behind the kitchen door of her home listening to her parents’ conversation. She listened, hardly daring to breathe for fear of discovery. The conversation was about her. They were talking about the anger and distress she had caused, and the shame they felt she had brought upon them. Shakila could hear their fury reflected in their voices.

  She heard her mother ask, ‘What are you going to do about this? The situation is intolerable. It is your duty to act.’

  Shakila listened to her father’s angry reply. ‘You know very well what I have to do. It is what is expected of me. More than that, it is demanded of me. If it isn’t done, we will become pariahs and everything we have worked for will be lost. Not only that, we will never be able to obtain good marriages for our other children. Shakila has brought disgrace on all the family. She refuses to cover her face, refuses to wear discreet clothing. She causes a scandal every time she walks down the street. She is disobedient, hangs around with young men who are not of our people, not of our way of life. And now she has insulted one of the most prestigious families in the region by refusing to entertain their son in the marriage that was arranged for her years ago. A marriage that cost me a lot of money to fix. Money that could have gone into the dowry of her sister. By refusing to honour that marriage contract she leaves us with no choice. I have talked the matter over with our eldest son and my brother. We are agreed, so when they come here in two days time we will ask her one final time. If she persists in her obstinacy, we will have no choice. Then we will have to decide.’

  ‘Decide what?’

  Shakila heard the fear in her mother’s voice. It reflected the pain in her own heart. Although she listened for her father’s answer, in truth, she already knew it. The confirmation, when it came, was no less of a shock.

  ‘Decide if we can allow Shakila to remain a dishonour to us, or if we rid ourselves of this stain forever. Only by doing that will we regain the respect we have lost.’

  Although it was a warm evening, Shakila shivered uncontrollably. Her eyes widened in fear. She clasped her hand tightly across her mouth to stop the scream that threatened to burst forth. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks. Tears of terror mixed with tears from pain as she bit her finger almost to the bone. She had just listened to her own father pass sentence of death on her. The house she once knew as her home had become her prison, the room she had slept in since infancy was now a condemned cell. Her own family, those she had held dearest, those she had loved the most, were now her enemies. They would soon be her executioners. She had little chance to escape the doom that awaited her. Her choices were stark; her prospects less than bleak. Either she had to choose marriage to a man she loathed; or escape. If she could not face the one or achieve the other, her own family would kill her. But if she succeeded in getting away, where would she go? How would she travel? She had neither money nor passport.

  For the moment, all she could do was remain silent; pretend she didn’t know what was planned and think of a way to escape. She had two days before her brother and uncle arrived. Two days to live. Shakila crept silently to her room and closed the door. She wedged a chair against it then cast herself down on the bed. It was only then that the flood gates truly opened, and she wept uncontrollably in solitary desolation.

  Shakila had packed everything she dared take with her into a rucksack. It was as much as she could secrete without her mother noticing. Her room had been searched more than once recently. These searches were unannounced, often without Shakila being there, and she knew if she took too much out of her wardrobe it would give the game away. What she dare not take would have to be abandoned, a small but inevitable price to pay for her life. The day before her brother and uncle were due to arrive dragged slowly by, each hour causing her mounting stress as she fretted that her plan might be uncovered.

  The first phase had been easy, or relatively so. Knowing that her father only banked the shop takings on a Friday, Shakila had removed as much as she dare from the house safe, without ma
king it obvious that the cash was missing. Two-thousand euros was not much on which to build a future, but the alternative was no future at all.

  Eventually, as the house quietened down for the night, Shakila started to entertain the hope that her plan might stand a chance of succeeding. During the interminable day, neither of her parents had spoken to her, averting their gaze whenever she was near. Was that from anger, or shame at what they intended to do? With something of a shock, she realized that she no longer cared. By planning her death, they had severed the last fragile thread of family loyalty that had remained. If she succeeded, Shakila would leave without a trace of regret.

  It was 2 a.m. when she guessed the family would be fast asleep, that Shakila made her move. She cautiously slid her bedroom window open. It moved easily, for she had greased it the previous day. Every detail she could think of had been taken into account and planned well. She reached below her bed, pulled out the rucksack, and lowered it out of the window, letting it fall onto the soft earth below. Although it made only a slight thudding sound as it landed, to the girl above, her nerves stretched to breaking point, the sound seemed as loud as a cannon’s roar. She turned towards the inside of the house and listened, trying to catch the slightest whisper of sound that might indicate that someone’s sleep had been broken. There was nothing, but she waited, distrustful even of her own senses.

  Eventually, impatience overruled caution and she climbed out of the window, a manoeuvre she had practiced several times the previous night. She reached across and clung to the drainpipe, her ladder to freedom, her escape route to survival. The next part was the trickiest. Holding on to the pipe with one hand and with her feet braced on the support brackets bolting the drainpipe to the wall she reached across and pushed the window closed. If the house became cold someone might wake up and notice. If they noticed, they might come and investigate. Shakila had checked the weather forecast which promised a strong breeze from the north. A draught could have given her away as easily as a slamming door. It might be unlikely, but she wasn’t prepared to let chance shorten her odds.