by Bill Kitson
Lisa held up the key-ring.
‘Couldn’t they be from his house?’ Clara objected.
‘No, I think I know what these two are for, but I can’t be sure,’ – she indicated two large bronze keys – ‘but this other one is a mystery, so I checked with Tom and when he looked at the inventory of Mrs Newsome’s property. She only had house keys, front and back; nothing that matched these.’
‘I’ll ask him about the keys when we get to interview him. I’m beginning to suspect there’s far more to Patrick Newsome than we thought.’
Lisa grinned. ‘I reckon Mrs Newsome might be about to discover that as well.’
‘I’m not sure if Newsome will give us the information, but I think I know of a way to get his wife to tell us,’ Clara said.
‘By the way,’ Lisa asked, ‘does the name Machin mean anything to you? I thought when I saw it that it should mean something, but I wasn’t sure.’
‘Machin? Do you mean Lee Machin?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Is he out again? That shows how time flies, I thought he was still inside. Lee Machin is an unpleasant character who lives in a flat on the Westlea when he isn’t being put up at the taxpayers’ expense. His hobbies are porn, blackmail, and flashing his todger in front of young girls. He lives with a scrawny female who puts up with his evil little ways because he keeps the pair of them in Class A substances. Mind you,’ Clara added, ‘if she didn’t live with Machin, she might not need the fantasy world that cocaine gives her. In answer to your question, yes, I know Machin only too well. Why, what’s he done now?’
‘Nothing. At least nothing criminal.’
‘There are those who would hold the view that his very existence is a crime.’
‘Do you know, you’re getting to sound like Mike?’ Lisa grinned at the face Clara pulled. ‘His name is on a list Tom Pratt sent me. You remember asking me to check out the owners of motorhomes in the area? Well, it seems Mr Machin has one.’
‘You’re joking? No way. That has to be wrong. Lee Machin hasn’t enough money to be able to afford to buy a set of hub caps, let alone a motorhome.’
‘In that case, do you think he might be another courier like Newsome?’
‘I think it’s a fair bet. How he got the money to buy something like that, I’ve no idea, but I can guarantee it won’t be legal. Straight as a corkscrew, is our Lee. If I needed anything to convince me your theory about the drugs is right, the fact that Lee Machin is involved does it for me. I’m interviewing most of the day, but Viv should be back around lunchtime, I sent him home to get a couple of hours sleep because he’s been up all night. Take him with you to the Westlea and have a word with our Mr Machin. He’ll act like he’s as thick as two short planks, but don’t let that fool you; he isn’t the halfwit he pretends to be. Oh, and watch out for his partner, a nasty little madam with a foul mouth on her. She’s more than capable of sounding off; big style. Especially if she’s under the influence, which she usually is. One more thing, be sure and wipe your feet on the way out. Neither of them knows one end of a vacuum cleaner from the other, and anything as basic as cleaning they regard as a waste of time and effort.’
Lisa rolled her eyes. ‘Now I’m really looking forward to visiting them.’
With Clara’s warning in mind, Lisa drove into Westlea estate with Viv in the passenger seat. As they passed through the first few roads where many of the residents had bought their property from the local authority, the houses were for the most part neat, brightly painted and well maintained, with tidy gardens, manicured lawns and closely trimmed hedges.
‘It looks as if there’s been a leylandii salesman round offering huge discounts,’ Viv suggested. ‘What’s the great attraction about them above other hedges?’
‘I reckon people go for them because they want quick results. They’re fast-growing and evergreen, which gives greater privacy, and they only need trimming a couple of times every summer.’
There was no such evidence of pride in the appearance of Lee Machin’s property. ‘If an Englishman’s home is his castle, then this is a ruin,’ Viv said. ‘I feel sure it isn’t a coincidence that this place reminds me of Newsome’s house and garden.’
‘Hardly a leading contender for the Britain in Bloom competition, I agree. Not unless they’ve a category that awards prizes for cultivating weeds.’
‘If what we suspect is true there might be even more weed inside the house than in the garden,’ Viv suggested.
Lisa groaned. ‘If you’re going to make any more bad jokes I’ll drive off and leave you to make your own way back.’
He ignored the threat. ‘I don’t suppose I ought to mention that the grass is overgrown then.’
‘Any more?’
‘No, I think that’s it. I was going to mention snow, but I might have made a hash of it.’
‘I sometimes wonder what Lianne sees in you. It isn’t your sense of humour, that’s for sure. Come on, let’s get it over with. Which flat is it?’
Viv pointed to a dirty window on the ground floor. They walked up the broken concrete slabs that had once been a path and entered the block where Pearce hammered on the flat door. There was no response, so he subjected the peeling paintwork to a further assault. The only result from this was to dislodge a large piece of flaking paint that floated, feather-like to the ground.
As they waited, undecided, they heard a slight cough behind them. ‘Shitheads are out.’
They swung round to find an old man watching them from the adjacent doorway. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ Lisa asked.
‘I told you, the shitheads are out. All three of them, Mummy Tart, Baby Tart, and Daddy Wanker. Buggered off about an hour or so back. Probably be out of it by now. Got their benefit money this morning, didn’t they. They’ll be well-juiced by the time they get back. By the weekend, Mummy Tart will be climbing the walls for more. Probably send Baby Tart out on the streets plying her trade.’
‘You’re obviously close friends as well as neighbours,’ Pearce suggested.
‘Bah! If I’d to pay council tax I’d claim a rebate for living next door to that scum.’
‘Any idea when they’ll be back?’
‘If I had my way: never. It wouldn’t break my heart if I didn’t see any of them again.’
The old man nodded to them, a farewell gesture they realized, as he shuffled back inside and slammed his door. In the silence that followed, Lisa heard Pearce humming a tune. It was some seconds before she recognized the theme from Neighbours.
That did make her laugh, but then she asked, ‘What do we do now? I hardly think they’ll respond if we leave them a note, do you?’
‘From what we’ve heard, they’ll probably scarper. Mind you,’ – Pearce gestured to next door – ‘that’ll make the old man’s day. As we’re here, I suppose it won’t do any harm to have a look around.’
Outside the block he walked along in front of the window and peered in through the only gap between the curtains. ‘Ugh! What a tip. How people can live like this, I’ll never understand.’
Lisa joined him and shielded her eyes with her hands as she looked through the grimy film that covered the glass. Even the curtains at the window were soiled and she could clearly see cobwebs along the tops. ‘Clara warned me about the state this place would be in. She certainly wasn’t exaggerating.’
They retraced their steps and went round to the rear. Here, the wilderness was even worse than the front, if that was possible. ‘It’s like the Serengeti,’ Viv muttered. ‘Any minute now I expect to see a bull elephant walking towards us.’
One area had been cleared, however, the only indication of anything approaching maintenance they had seen. In the midst of the jungle, gleaming incongruously by comparison with its surroundings was a motorhome, its registration number indicating that it was no more than four years old. ‘Is that the vehicle from your list? Or could it belong to someone in the other flats?’
Lisa checked the note she had made. ‘Yes
, that’s the one.’
‘No way Machin bought this with his own money,’ Viv said. ‘Apart from the state of the rest of this dump, they don’t sound the types to be traipsing across to Scarborough with their buckets and spades.’
‘Clara said much the same. Unless the dealer was offering a ninety-nine per cent discount and hire purchase terms on the balance.’
‘I’m not at all sure that caravan dealers are either that generous or desperate enough for business—’ Viv was in the middle of saying, when he stopped suddenly.
Lisa glanced at her colleague. Viv was staring at the motorhome, his expression stunned, almost as if the vehicle had suddenly turned into a UFO. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I’m trying to remember something I saw earlier. On the way back, can we drive round via Newsome’s house? I want to check the motorhome that’s on his drive.’
‘We can, it’s only round the corner from here. Why do you want to go there? It’s not that much more luxurious than this palace?’
Pearce explained. ‘In that case, let’s go now,’ Lisa responded. ‘Although it will be hard to tear myself away from this delightful scenery.’
Newsome’s house looked even more desolate, if that was possible, Viv thought. After they had checked the information they needed, which confirmed the accuracy of his memory, Lisa phoned the station and asked to be put through to Clara, only to be told that both she and Jackie Fleming were at Netherdale.
‘They’re conducting an interview with that drug dealer who was arrested last night,’ Jack Binns explained, ‘and straight after that they’re going to talk to Eileen Newsome again, so it could be some time before either of them are available. Is it urgent? I could phone through and get a note in if absolutely necessary.’
‘Would you do that please, Jack? We’ll wait here for her to ring, in case she wants us to take action over what we’ve found out.’
‘Care to tell me what that is? It might help persuade her, because she’s under a fair amount of pressure. I hear Mrs Newsome’s brief has been jumping up and down. He also represents Greasy Palms, which doesn’t surprise me. Like calling to like, I guess. Anyway, he’s been demanding everything from his clients’ immediate release to a full internal enquiry. Neither of which he’ll get, he’s just being bloody awkward. Nonsense, of course, but it isn’t helping.’
Lisa explained why they needed to speak to Clara. Binns responded instantly, ‘I can see why you think it’s urgent. Leave it with me.’
Chapter twenty
The solicitor wasn’t having a good day. Not that this was by any means unusual. It was the nature of his practice that he attracted a fair percentage of lost causes, clients others in his profession wouldn’t go near. As such, there were many he had to consider as almost charity work, but those he knew had the wherewithal to pay him, more than compensated for these. He told his junior, it was a question of risk assessment, and getting the balance right. On this particular occasion the balance was about perfect. One of his clients was a potential no-hoper; the other would pay handsomely for his services. The other plus point was that with both clients being held at the same police station, the travelling expenses would be minimal.
It hadn’t helped that the first of his clients, Greasy Palms, when interviewed by two female detectives had completely ignored his professional advice to say nothing that would incriminate him. To be fair, with what the police had found at the man’s house, he’d already done more than enough to incriminate himself. The client had asked him, more in hope than expectation, if there was a chance they could get a judge and jury to believe that the police had planted the drugs found in his bedroom wardrobe.
It isn’t exactly deemed to be professionally sound to treat your client’s statements to a dose of heavy sarcasm, but in this case the solicitor felt it was more than justified. ‘The stuff was found in a secret compartment within your wardrobe, a compartment that had been constructed specially for the purpose. Are you suggesting that a jury will believe that the police turned up at your house with thousands of pounds worth of drugs and a Black and Decker? That they sawed through the base of your wardrobe and planted the drugs simply to incriminate you? I think even Perry Mason or Rumpole would have difficulty putting that across successfully.’
His client wasn’t too sure who either Perry Mason or Rumpole were, but he got the message. That didn’t mean he had to tell the police everything, but on later reflection, the solicitor had to admit that there might have been some point in what his client had done. He’d listened with dismay at the line the detectives had taken. Despite his reassurances, the client hadn’t been convinced.
‘Listen,’ he told the accused man during the recess he’d requested, ‘they’re bluffing. All that business about charging you with murder if your DNA is found on the drugs wrapper is pure bullshit. Is it your DNA, incidentally?’
‘Of course it is. Why do you think I’m shitting myself? Murder means life. Supplying that amount of heroin probably means close to life as well. There are lots of people gunning for me, and inside they’ve got a perfect opportunity. The longer I get, the worse my chances of coming out alive are. Added to which, if I get done for murder they’ll put me in a high security wing with all the hard cases I’m trying to steer clear of. It’d be like issuing invites to my funeral.’
‘You’re going to have to face that risk wherever you get sent.’
‘Yeah, but if I keep my head down and stay clear of trouble, in a couple of years or so they’ll send me to an open prison, which will be a bloody sight safer.’
Eventually, unable to persuade his client to any other course of action, when the interview resumed the solicitor had to settle for confirmation from the senior detective that the worst his client would face in respect of the deaths at the derelict house would be a charge of manslaughter. That, in exchange for all the dealer knew about the organization supplying the drugs was the arrangement they settled on, one that was slightly less than satisfying all round.
Even when he listened to his client’s revelation, the solicitor didn’t appreciate the importance of what he’d heard. Nor, to be fair, did Fleming and Mironova at the time.
‘I have to pay for the gear up front. It sometimes came the same day; sometimes I’ve to wait a week. I get no warning it’s on the way, until I got a note stuck through my door.’
‘Is it a handwritten note?’
‘No, it’s always typed, like on a computer. It comes in a plain white envelope, no name or address on. Just a blank envelope, but I always know what is inside. All the note says is, “shipment arriving Thursday” or whatever day it’s due. That meant I need to have the cash ready by then. Always cash. I’d wait in on the day. The guy turns up, takes the money and goes. It could be any time from first thing in the morning until late at night, but within an hour, the Royal Mail would arrive.’
‘The Royal Mail?’
‘That’s what I called them, the blokes who delivered the gear. I’d get a neat parcel, wrapped in brown paper, which I’d have to sign for, just like the Royal Mail.’
‘Did you know in advance how much you’ve to pay for the drugs?’
‘Yes, that’s in the note as well.’
‘And the man who took your money wasn’t the same one as delivered the drugs? That sounds an odd arrangement.’
The dealer shrugged. ‘Maybe, but that was the way they insisted it had to be.’
‘Did you ever get to meet or speak to anyone else?’
‘No, they only rang me once, right at the start. I couldn’t swear to it, but I had this idea that the man on the phone had a bit of a foreign accent. Well, not an accent maybe, not as strong as that, something in the way he spoke, it didn’t sound natural like.’
‘Can you remember what he said?’
‘I remember one bit of it, too well. I’d been getting the gear from another bloke, see, and when they rang me, they said he’d gone out of business. That made a bit of sense, because I hadn’t seen him for a few
weeks. Gone out of business, that was how the bloke said it. I read later this guy had been found in that big reservoir near the M62, where they do the boating.’
‘Had he drowned?’
‘Yeah, but only after he’d been shot five times. I’d no choice but to get the gear from the new lot. On the one hand I’d people hammering on my door, shouting and complaining that I couldn’t supply them, and then there was this offer, take it or leave it – but if you value your skin, don’t leave it. The only good point was the new people gave me a bigger cut of the profits. Not much, but a bit more.’
Fleming sat back and nodded to Clara, who took over the questioning. ‘Can you give us some names or descriptions of the men you did get to meet? What about the delivery men?’
‘I didn’t know their names. There were two of them, they used to alternate. I was never sure which of them would turn up. I can tell you something about one of them though. I saw him once, when he wasn’t delivering to me, I mean. He was driving one of those caravanette things. You know, not pulled by a car.’
‘A motorhome, you mean?’
‘Yeah, I reckon they must have been paying him a bundle, because no way he could have coughed up for one of them.’
‘Can you describe him? And the other delivery man?’
The dealer launched into detailed descriptions, and when he had finished, Clara asked, ‘What about the man who took the money?’
She waited, seeing the troubled expression on the dealer’s face. He clearly had reservations about this man, although he’d been quite open about the others. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t ... that is ... I’m not sure.’ He looked at his solicitor for help. None was forthcoming.
‘Everything you can tell us,’ Clara reminded him.
He’d already said too much as well as too little. It was obvious to the detectives that he knew more; obvious to him they wouldn’t settle for less. Giving the rest away was no longer an option, but the thought of the man he was about to describe chilled him.