‘Carter’s?’ Figgis sounded surprised. ‘It’s a waste disposal station and breaker’s yard. They were brought to our attention for a couple of possible infringements, but they’re old news. Sam Fleetwood was trying to build a case against them, attempting to gather enough evidence to bring them to court. But when we looked at what he’d got, it wasn’t enough. Plus, the owner is getting on a bit and suffers with his health. To go ahead with any kind of prosecution would have risked having them sue for distress caused. Sam was advised to drop it, and he took that advice. Like I told your colleague who came here, he’s a smart lad.’
‘So there would have been no reason for Fleetwood to have gone out to Carter’s last weekend?’ said Bingley.
‘None at all,’ said Figgis.
Bingley hung up, and was about to give that up as another dead end, when he noticed DC Khatoon’s note: has more to say?? beside the name Zara. He rang the agency switchboard and asked to be put through to her. Fortunately for him, there was only one Zara in the department. ‘I’m just following up on your conversation with my colleague,’ Bingley told her carefully. ‘In which you expressed a particular opinion about your boss, Mike Figgis.’
There was a pause. ‘Is this about Sam?’ said Zara cautiously.
‘You told DC Khatoon that you didn’t trust Figgis,’ said Bingley. ‘Could you elaborate on that?’
Silence. Then, exhaling, Zara seemed to come to a decision. ‘It’s our job to collect evidence of malpractice and build cases against companies that can go to court, much in the same way as you do, I suppose,’ she said.
‘And?’
‘Mike Figgis reviews each case and makes the decision about whether it can go further.’
‘So he gets the last word,’ said Bingley. ‘And there’s a problem with that?’
‘It’s just that in the past there were some cases that on the face of it were watertight that Mike threw out for insufficient or weak evidence,’ Zara told him. ‘At first the feeling was that he was just lazy. But then there were a couple of instances when, shortly after cases were rejected, he happened to go off on an exotic holiday, or change his car. This job doesn’t pay massively well, not even at middle management level.’
‘He was taking backhanders?’ said Bingley.
‘I don’t think anything was ever proven,’ said Zara. ‘But management must have got wind of the rumours because about six months ago he was hauled upstairs on a disciplinary.’
‘And since then?
‘I think he must be on some kind of probation, because ever since then he’s been super-efficient.’
‘Could Figgis have taken a pay-off from Carter’s?’ asked Bingley.
‘It’s possible,’ Zara said. ‘Certainly Sam found infringements of regulations. And he was sure there was a lot more going on. Mike didn’t think what he’d got was enough, but Sam was on a kind of crusade. He was convinced Mike was wrong. They had heated words in the office more than once.’
‘So what’s the position with Carter’s now?’
‘I think officially Sam dropped it, but I’d be surprised if he really did,’ Zara told him. ‘Sam can be like a dog with a bone.’
‘And what would be the outcome of a prosecution, if the Carters are violating regulations?’ Bingley was trying to keep up with all this and take useful notes.
‘They’d get a hefty fine,’ said Zara. ‘And there’s an outside chance they might get closed down. In the most serious cases the owner might even get a custodial sentence.’
‘What kind of fine are we talking about?’ Bingley asked.
‘The last successful prosecution we brought was for £200,000.’
Bingley whistled; that was big money. ‘And Sam Fleetwood is sure the Carters are up to all this?’
‘You develop a nose for this stuff after a while,’ said Zara. ‘There’s another complication there too. Carter Senior is an old guy and shortly after Sam started poking around he had a heart attack and had to undergo major surgery. Given his age it’s probably no more than coincidence, but his sons don’t see it that way. I think Sam had some threatening emails from them. All a bit pathetic really.’
‘Would it be possible to get hold of those emails?’ asked Bingley.
‘I doubt it. Sam would have deleted them. But he reckoned on Danny, the youngest son. He’s an inarticulate thug.’
‘Did Sam report these threats to the police; to us?’ Bingley asked.
‘He wouldn’t have bothered,’ said Zara. ‘It’s not really that uncommon in our job. Usually it’s people just venting their frustration. I take it Sam hasn’t shown up yet then?’
‘No, but we’re following a number of lines of enquiry,’ said Bingley, giving the standard neutral response. But Zara wasn’t an idiot. She’d draw her own conclusions.
NINETEEN
Following the call, Bingley sat back, chewing his pen, until the top came off and he almost swallowed it. In the short space of one conversation, two possible leads and motives had emerged. No surprise in the circumstances that Mike Figgis had been less than candid about his conflict with Sam Fleetwood, especially when Fleetwood’s persistence might have threatened his lucrative little sideline. Equally if Sam was still pursuing the Carters then they wouldn’t think much of that either. Out of interest, he did a quick search on Crimint and turned up one Carter in particular. They were a lively lot, but Danny had a number of previous cautions, including one for assault.
Bingley tried Mariner’s mobile, but he must still be in the mosque because it was switched off, and there was no telling when he would be available. Instead, Bingley made his way apprehensively along to Superintendent Sharp’s office, but he could hear from halfway down the corridor that she was engaged in a conversation of her own, and probably wouldn’t welcome the interruption. He didn’t need anyone’s permission to go and take a look at Carter’s. He was following a legitimate line of enquiry, so if an area car was available that’s what he would do. If it turned out to be nothing, he wouldn’t be gone long, and no one need ever know. ‘I’m just nipping out,’ he told one of the admin staff.
As he travelled out towards Wythall and bumped over one of the many canal bridges along the way, Bingley remembered that not so long back there had been problems with pollution in the water around here, when the canals had turned orange. He wondered if that had anything to do with the Carters.
What came into view first was the sign announcing ‘Carter’s Waste Management and Reclamation Facility’. Yawning steel gates opened on to two great slag heaps of rubbish, monuments to twenty-first-century consumerism, and behind them was the grey cube of an industrial incinerator. This area was part of the green belt and he’d passed a number of large country properties, whose owners were no doubt thrilled to have an operation like this ruining their rural idyll. Bingley wondered how they’d even got their licence. He drove on past and parked a little further down the lane. Getting out of the car, he considered the wisdom of putting on a stab vest, but decided against it. He wasn’t looking for confrontation.
Walking back, Bingley could see that the complex stretched over several acres and comprised two separate sites: one for general waste and the one next door a typical breaker’s yard, with flattened vehicles piled high in precarious-looking stacks. Between the two sites, behind a screen of conifers, was what looked like a family home, while in the yard itself a couple of caravans seemed to double as offices. Towards the back of the main compound, material was being shunted around in a seemingly random fashion by a single mechanical digger, and to one side three Dobermans prowled in their cage.
To avoid alerting either the dogs or the digger driver, Bingley slipped into the scrap yard first. A caravan in the corner of this yard had curtains at the windows as if someone lived there, and he felt obliged to knock on the door, but as he’d anticipated and hoped, there was no response, so, out of sight of the digger operator, he began his patrol. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, and after several minutes starin
g at rusting junk, he was starting to think this had been another wasted effort. But then the sun emerged from behind a cloud and glinted off something in the far corner of the yard that stood out from all the dull brown metal around it. It was the shiny bodywork of a gunmetal grey Vauxhall Astra, not unlike like the one he’d recorded as belonging to Sam Fleetwood.
Bingley went across to take a closer look. The registration plates had been removed, but attached to the roof was what he recognised as a bike or ski rack. The front end of the car looked in tip-top condition, but from close quarters, he saw that the windscreen was opaque from smoke, with a large crack running across it from one side to the other. Looking in through the side windows he could see that the front and rear seats were burnt out, the upholstery melted away from the springs.
‘What the ’ell are you doing?’ said a voice right behind him.
Bingley turned and found himself face-to-face with a hulk of a man, with untidy dark hair and a leathery complexion coloured by years of outdoor working. Faded tattoos covered forearms that were as thick as shoulders of lamb. One of the Dobermans strained silently on the leash beside him.
‘Mr Carter?’ said Bingley, wishing he had a bit of Mariner’s authority in his voice. He fumbled for his warrant card and held it up for Carter to see. ‘PC Bingley,’ he said. ‘Is this your scrap yard?’
‘It belongs to the family,’ said Carter, displaying a couple of gold fillings. ‘My brother, Danny, manages it.’
So this must be George, Bingley concluded. ‘Does he live in the van?’
‘Yes, but he’ll be out right now, doing the rounds in the pickup.’ One of those, no doubt, whose crackly loudspeakers were part of the city soundtrack. It never ceased to amaze Bingley how quickly they appeared when something of interest had been left outside a house. He turned back to where the Astra sat. ‘How did you come by this?’ he asked Carter. From his reaction, Bingley would have guessed that Carter was as surprised to see the car there as he was. Bingley wondered if he recognised it.
‘I expect it was abandoned somewhere,’ said Carter, trying hard to sound unconcerned. ‘It happens. We pick up quite a few vehicles that way. You’d be astounded.’
‘But this one in particular?’ Bingley persisted.
‘I don’t know.’ Carter shrugged. ‘You’d have to talk to Danny. Him or one of the other lads will have come across it. People know where we are, so they dump stuff nearby in the hope that we’ll pick it up and save them the bother of getting rid of it. The boys don’t need my permission to go and get it. They will have used their initiative.’
‘And brought it here without your knowledge?’ Bingley queried.
Carter raised an arm. ‘Look around you. Do you think I monitor every single item that goes in and out of here?’
‘You’re supposed to,’ Bingley reminded him. ‘Especially items as big as this. It looks like the latest model too. Isn’t that a bit strange?’
‘I expect it was stolen and dumped by kids, joyriders,’ Carter replied. ‘We get all sorts. And it will be down in the record book. I expect I just hadn’t clocked it yet.’
‘Have you had a visit from the Environment Agency lately?’ Bingley asked.
‘Not for a while.’ Carter stared at him, weighing the significance of that question.
‘Well, I have reason to believe this vehicle may relate to a missing persons’ enquiry,’ said Bingley. ‘So in the absence of any clearer explanation about how you came by it, I’ll need to impound it for further examination.’
Carter regarded him evenly. ‘Knock yourself out, mate. I’d be careful, though,’ he added. ‘These sites can be dangerous. Wouldn’t want any accidents to happen.’ And with a last long glower at Bingley, he walked away, tugging the Doberman after him.
It took just a couple of phone calls and Bingley scrabbling about on his hands and knees with a torch for a few minutes, to establish that the chassis serial number of the Astra in Carter’s yard matched the one belonging to Sam Fleetwood, so seizure of the vehicle was, to his relief, fully justified. It seemed to him to be the first strong indication that Sam Fleetwood was not missing of his own volition. Careful not to touch anything, he scrutinised the inside of the vehicle as best he could through the murky windows, but it was too much to expect that there would be anything of value left there.
Next Bingley contacted the forensic service, and learned that it would be at least an hour before they could get across to Carter’s with a low loader. He had no choice but to stick around until it got here. Finally, he left a message on DCI Mariner’s phone: ‘I’m at Carter’s waste disposal site by Wythall,’ he said. ‘I’ve found Sam Fleetwood’s car.’ Now at least, should George Carter get threatening, someone would know where he was. There was another cause for anxiety too. He’d been out of the office a while now and had come unprepared. But he had no other option than to stay close by the Astra. He couldn’t give Carter the opportunity to tamper with or destroy the evidence. Great, and now he wanted to pee.
Mariner had naturally put his phone on silent whilst in the mosque. He’d checked it when he came outside again, but saw nothing of any importance, and now he and Jesson had come to the mortuary, so it was back on silent. Bingley had missed him by mere minutes.
Mariner and Jesson were observing Stuart Croghan as he carried out the post-mortem on Talayeh.
‘This is a funny old business,’ said Croghan, who was no stranger to the anomalies of human existence.
‘It is,’ Mariner agreed. ‘She took us all by complete surprise, poor girl.’
‘Well, the first thing to tell you is that there’s a blunt trauma injury to the skull.’
‘Is that what killed her?’ asked Mariner. ‘Could she already have been dead before the fire started?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ said Croghan. ‘Unfortunately what little tissue is left is not in a good enough condition to be able to tell if it was pre- or post-mortem. The damage could have been caused by debris falling on top of her. Some of those joists might still have been pretty solid when they collapsed, and part of the metal bed frame from the first-floor room was close to her head when we found her. I’ll know more when I’ve opened up her lungs. But the toxicology is interesting and something you might want to pursue,’ Croghan went on. ‘She was in such a state I didn’t think we’d get much in the way of readings, but what we have got in the initial screening is traces of alcohol. For that to have even registered, she must have consumed a substantial amount not long before she died.’
‘The Shahs are Muslim,’ said Jesson straight away. ‘There’s no alcohol in the house.’
‘But we already know that Talayeh didn’t like to conform,’ Mariner reminded her. ‘We’re still trying to establish her last known movements,’ he told Croghan.
‘Well, my bet would be that they involved a drinking session,’ said Croghan. ‘What are we doing about formal identification?’
‘Her sister is flying over from Sana’a,’ said Mariner. ‘She was able to positively identify the jewellery from photographs we emailed to her, and when she gets here we’ll follow up with DNA confirmation.’
‘Well, I’ve told you as much as I can at this stage,’ said Croghan. ‘I’ll let you know anything else as I find it.’
Mariner and Jesson left the hospital. ‘Say Talayeh did go off in the taxi as Salwa told us, with her coach fare in her pocket, but went to a pub instead and came back to the house roaring drunk,’ said Jesson. ‘She could have crept back into the house with no one knowing, zonked out from the booze, and then been overcome by smoke when the fire started. That would explain how Salwa didn’t know she was there.’
‘It’s possible,’ Mariner conceded. ‘But how many drunks do you know who can creep into a locked house, with no one hearing them? And it still doesn’t help explain who started the fire.’
‘Unless she started it herself.’
‘But how?’ Mariner asked.
‘If she was drinking over here, perhaps she’d trie
d smoking too,’ said Jesson. ‘Or maybe Gerry Docherty was right at the outset, and the fire was caused by electrical overload. It hasn’t entirely been ruled out.’
Mariner remained sceptical. ‘I’d like to look at the coach station CCTV and try and fill that gap between Talayeh leaving and returning to Wellington Road.’ He took out his phone. ‘I’ll see if Bingley has got anywhere with that.’ But before he could do so, he saw that he had a missed call from the constable. He returned it, but got no response. And when he rang back to Granville Lane, Bingley hadn’t checked in for a while either.
‘When did he go out there?’ he asked the admin.
‘A couple of hours ago at least,’ she said. ‘He took an area car.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Jesson, trying to follow Mariner’s side of the conversation.
‘Carter’s waste site,’ said Mariner. ‘We’ve had dealings with them in the past. They’re not nice people. And Bingley’s not responding to his comms or his mobile. Shit, he’s out there with a hostile Carter and an incriminating piece of evidence.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ said Jesson, with more confidence than she felt.
‘Maybe,’ said Mariner. ‘But I think we’ll go and make sure.’
They drove at speed, hastened by blues and twos, with Jesson continuing, unsuccessfully, to try and raise Bingley on his mobile. When they got to Carter’s they saw the squad car parked a little way down the road, but the waste site was unnervingly deserted, and the Astra stood unguarded. Mariner felt a chill of apprehension as he noticed the thin trail of smoke rising from the incinerator chimney. After some shouting, George Carter appeared, wiping his hands on a filthy cloth. ‘All right, keep your hair on, what’s all the noise?’
‘Where’s PC Bingley, the officer who was here with the Astra?’ Mariner demanded.
‘I don’t know.’
Mariner held his gaze. ‘Try his mobile again,’ he said to Jesson, knowing full well that if something had happened to the constable, Carter would have destroyed that too. But very faintly, and at some distance, an incongruous tinkling came back at them, not from the breaker’s yard, but from the neighbouring compound. The ringtone echoed around the space and it was some minutes before they located Bingley, by clambering over piles of rubbish to get to him. He lay on his back, eyes closed and perfectly still, with not a mark on him. ‘Oh God,’ said Vicky. ‘What’s happened? What have you done?’ She glared at Carter.
A Good Death Page 19