by Tania Carver
‘Just pretend.’
Stuart nodded, pointed to Mickey as if about to impart wisdom. ‘Ah, now, y’see, that’s why I never commit anything to paper. I mean, that’s bad enough, but electronics is worse, innit? I mean, you never know who’s listenin’ in. Someone could be listenin’ in to us now, couldn’t they?’
Mickey frowned, lost. ‘What? Who?’
Stuart pointed up to the clouds. ‘Up there. Satellites. They can beam right in from space with pinpoint accuracy, listen in to what we’re sayin’. Take photos an’ all. They can.’
‘Right. So what did this text say?’
Stuart sighed, shook his head. A teacher exasperated that his thick pupil had failed to grasp the lesson. ‘That I’d found out somethin’ about this Weaver guy. Like you asked me to.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘He runs this import-export company with this Lithuanian guy. An’ we all know what import-export means, don’t we?’
‘Covers a multitude,’ said Mickey.
‘Yeah. An’ none of it legal.’
‘What Lithuanian guy?’
Stuart screwed up his eyes, tried to think. ‘Bul … Bol … ’
‘Balchunas?’ said Mickey. ‘Is that the name?’
Stuart clicked his fingers. ‘Yeah, that’s him. Balchunas. Yeah. That’s the fella.’
‘And that’s it? That’s the big news?’
‘Course it’s not. Don’t be stupid. I heard they got a big shipment comin’ in tonight.’
‘Of what? Drugs?’
Stuart shrugged. ‘Dunno. Prob’ly. He’s into all sorts of iffy stuff, what I heard. But just a big shipment. That’s all I … my sources could tell me.’
‘And it was definitely tonight?’
‘Yeah.’ He rubbed his stubbly chin. ‘Worth a lot of money, I reckon.’
‘Thought you didn’t know what was in it?’
Stuart looked confused. ‘What? The shipment? No, I meant me. My information, what I’ve just told you. That’s what’s worth a lot of money.’ He shook his head as if he was dealing with an idiot.
‘So where’s this shipment coming in to? Did you hear that?’
‘Harwich. Well, the ship’s comin’ in there. Then they’re takin’ it to their lock-up. Well, I say lock-up. It’s this place they got outside of Harwich, along the coast. Huge, it is. Where their base of operations is.’
Mickey took out his notepad, started writing this down.
‘Can’t miss it,’ said Stuart. ‘Full of those metal containers, the ones that come off the ships and get put on to lorries, know what I mean? Piled up high, they are. Huge. Like a big tin city.’
‘And that’s definitely tonight.’ A statement requiring clarification, not a question.
‘Definitely. Stake my life on it.’ He reconsidered. ‘Well, sure as I can be. From what I heard. You know what these things are like, don’t you? You know what I mean.’
‘What about time? Did you hear anything about that?’
Stuart raised his hands as if in surrender. He made an incredulous face. ‘Come on, Mr Philips, do I look like I carry the shipping timetable on me?’
‘Take an educated guess.’
Stuart sighed. ‘When it’s dark. Best I can do.’
Stuart stopped talking. Mickey looked at him. Knew that was as much as he was going to get from him.
‘Thanks, Stuart.’ He took out some money, peeled off a couple of notes, handed them over.
Stuart took them, looked at them. ‘That it? I risked life and limb to get this for you, Mr Philips.’
‘Really? When it’s dark. Hardly the most accurate thing you’ve ever given me.’
Stuart sighed. Waited.
Mickey peeled off another note. Handed it over. Stuart took it, made it disappear inside his jacket like the others. Mickey had budgeted for the third note. It was a ritual they had got into. The way they transacted business.
‘Be a bit more specific next time,’ Mickey said, turning to go.
Stuart stopped him, hand on his arm. ‘Mr Philips.’
Mickey turned.
‘You want to watch yourself. They’re bad people, this lot. Very bad people.’
‘So why haven’t I heard of them before this, then?’
‘Because they’ve got some very heavy protection, I’ve heard. That’s what makes them so bad.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Mickey said, and walked off the bridge.
Stuart stayed where he was. Lit another roll-up.
Stared down at the speeding traffic once again.
95
The place was at the bottom of North Station Road. It had been an old warehouse, converted to a hotel and Indian restaurant. But to Phil it still looked like an old warehouse. Stuck on a corner in between a car exhaust centre and another business in terminal decline, and opposite a row of greasy-looking fast-food outlets, it appeared that the minimum of renovation had been done.
The restaurant at the front was in darkness, the double doors locked. It looked to have been a long time since anyone had entered through them. Phil and Don, with the two suited men behind them, were marched down the side of the building and through a door marked ‘Welcome’ that clearly didn’t mean it. It was the hotel entrance.
‘Move.’
They moved.
The men hadn’t spoken all during the journey. Phil had resisted showing them his warrant card at the house. Depending on who they were – or who had sent them – that might not be the best thing to do.
He had tried to engage them in conversation in the car, get them to open up, find out where they were going. Nothing. No response. Instead he had sized them up. One more laid-back, treating it all as a job. The other one, with sore-looking red eyes, seemed more angry. Regarding the whole thing personally. He would be the one to look out for.
‘I know this place,’ said Phil, going through the double doors. ‘Been raided loads of times by Immigration. Well, not just Immigration. Plenty of agencies.’
‘Shut up and get inside.’ The red-eyed one becoming exasperated. Irritated.
Phil and Don entered. There was no one about. A dimly lit hallway and an empty reception desk. Red Eye indicated upstairs. Phil and Don shared a look. Knowing they had no choice, they climbed the stairs.
A vacuum cleaner had been left on the landing along with a pile of bedding and towels for laundry, very dirty, very worn.
‘Nice,’ said Phil. ‘Very ambient.’
Red Eye grabbed hold of him, turned him round. ‘That’s enough of your lip. Now get in there.’
He gestured towards a cheap, plain wooden door. Number six. Phil opened it, entered.
It was an unimpressive hotel room. Cheaply furnished, badly maintained. Worn carpet, dirty bedcover, threadbare net curtains. In one corner, made from plastic sheeting, was an ill-conceived en suite shower room, mildewed at the joints. On the bed was a woman, mixed race, light-skinned, cheaply dressed, with a small child clinging to her.
Red Eye closed the door behind them. He turned to the woman on the bed.
‘Recognise these two?’
The woman looked very scared as she answered. Scared but defiant. ‘Should I?’
‘You tell me. We found them breaking into your house.’
The woman’s eyes jumped wide in shock. Then she recovered, examined Phil. He knew she had identified him as police.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
‘Good.’
Red Eye put his gun away, motioned Phil and Don to sit on the bed. They did so.
‘Right,’ said Red Eye, ‘you’re no friend of hers.’ It was clear from his tone what he thought of the woman. ‘That might be a good or a bad thing, depending. So who are you, then?’
‘I’m going to put my hand inside my jacket,’ said Phil, ‘and bring it out very slowly.’
The two men shared a look. It was clear they realised from his words what, if not who, he was.
He produced his warrant card. Showed it to the
m. ‘Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. This is Don Brennan, my … ’ He hesitated. Looked at the old man. Then back to the other two men. ‘Father. And an ex-detective. Brought in to advise on a current case. And you are?’
The two men looked at each other, then back at Phil and Don. They too reached into their jackets, produced warrant cards.
‘Detective Inspector Al Fennell,’ Red Eye’s partner said.
Detective Sergeant Barry Clemens,’ said Red Eye. ‘SOCA. Serious Organised Crime Agency.’
They put their warrant cards away.
Phil nodded. He had been expecting something like that, his suspicions having been raised on the journey. He hadn’t got a gangster vibe from them, or even a common criminal one. He’d wondered if they were from some special security outfit. He wasn’t far wrong.
‘Do you often kidnap fellow police officers at gunpoint?’ he said, feeling anger rise at his treatment. ‘Is that your standard operating procedure?’
‘You’d broken into a house we had under surveillance,’ said Fennell, his voice dispassionate, eminently reasonable. ‘We had no idea who you were. We brought you back here for questioning.’
‘SOCA?’ said Don. He turned to Phil. ‘Aren’t they supposed to tell you if they’re in the area?’
‘Yes,’ said Phil. ‘They are.’ He looked at the two men, clearly not happy. ‘So? I’m a DI in MIS. If anyone should have been informed about your presence it would have been me.’
‘Ordinarily, yes,’ said Fennell.
‘And if it had been any other kind of operation, you would have been,’ said Clemens.
‘But?’ said Phil.
‘This one’s different. More delicate.’ Fennell.
‘Especially,’ said Clemens, ‘given who you are and where you work.’
‘Not to mention who you work for.’
Phil frowned. They were confusing him. ‘Are you two a double act?’ he said. ‘The way you finish each other’s—’
‘Sandwiches,’ said Don.
The woman on the bed laughed. Phil smiled. Fennell and Clemens just looked irritated.
‘All right,’ said Phil. ‘Why should who I work for make a difference?’
‘Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Brian Glass?’ asked Fennell.
It wasn’t the question Phil had been expecting them to start with, but somehow it seemed like the right one. ‘Yes,’ he said, guardedly. ‘I do.’
Don wasn’t so guarded. ‘And he’s a bastard.’
Clemens smiled. It made his eyes water.
‘Then I think we’re all going to get along,’ he said.
96
‘The first thing we have to do,’ said the Portreeve, ‘is to welcome our new member.’ He pointed to the left. ‘The Missionary.’
The new Missionary smiled. ‘Is good to be here. Thank you.’
‘Unfortunately we don’t have time for any further pleasantries. Down to business. Thank you for coming to such a hastily convened meeting. I’m sure you think we could have done all this by phone, but with things getting to a critical point, it may be too risky.’
They were back in their usual meeting room, round the table. There was no water this time.
The Portreeve looked along the table. ‘Teacher?’
The Missionary laughed. The Lawmaker stared at him. He didn’t laugh any more.
‘Perfect from my point of view. Couldn’t have been better. In every respect. Mission accomplished. He took the bait and the information was successfully planted. And I quite enjoyed planting it too.’
The Portreeve shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Sorry.’ The Teacher hesitated, then continued. ‘But everything went to plan.’
The Lawmaker leaned forward. Had picked up something in the Teacher’s hesitation. ‘You sure about that?’
‘Absolutely. Wouldn’t mind doing it again.’
The Lawmaker sat back. ‘That won’t happen.’
The Portreeve turned to the Lawmaker. ‘And you? How’s things at your end?’
The Lawmaker waited until he was sure he had their full attention, then began. ‘Fine, generally. The boy has been successfully returned. Our tracks have been well covered there. There’s no way Lister can be traced back to us.’
‘Shame to lose him,’ said the Teacher. ‘He was a good client.’
‘There’ll be others,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘The investigation is stalling. Into both Weaver’s death and the boy’s abduction. And it doesn’t look like the escapee, Faith Luscombe, is going to trouble us either.’
‘Care to elaborate?’ said the Portreeve.
The Lawmaker shrugged. Clearly not happy to elaborate but going along with the request. ‘One detective has been removed. There was a chance he could have been getting too close.’
‘Removed?’ The Portreeve.
‘Suspended. And another has been removed also.’
‘Suspended again?’
‘No,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘This was in a more permanent capacity.’
There was silence round the table. Just the hum of the air-conditioning.
‘Dead?’ The Portreeve spat the word out like it would contaminate his mouth.
‘Let’s just say permanently removed,’ said the Lawmaker, as nonchalantly as possible. ‘We don’t know who might be listening. She’d worked things out. Got too close. She had to go. Faith Luscombe’s partner has been blamed and framed. So … ’ The Lawmaker shrugged. ‘Every cloud … ’
The Portreeve leaned forward. ‘You’re sure about this? This isn’t going to—’
‘Come back and bite us on the arse?’ said the Lawmaker. ‘No. I’m sure of it.’
The Portreeve sat back, looking at the Lawmaker. Uneasy about the change that had come over him. He seemed calmer. Darker. As if during the events of the last few days he had really started to find himself. Discover his true personality. The Portreeve wasn’t sure he liked it.
Wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be next.
‘And the boy is back with the Gardener?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ said the Lawmaker, folding his arms. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’
The others waited.
‘We discussed this earlier. I think it’s actually time to implement it.’ He gestured to the Missionary. ‘We have our new friend here. We have our new source of income just about to go online. We have no need of the, shall we say, old ways.’
Silence.
‘Go on,’ said the Teacher.
‘Let’s offer him up to the police. Let them have the collar. They catch a deranged serial killer, we have a diversion away from our shipment arriving.’
‘That sounds like a plan,’ said the Teacher. ‘But what if he talks when he’s been arrested?’
The Lawmaker shook his head. ‘Credit me with some intelligence, please. He won’t be arrested. There’ll be a team of armed officers ready to take him down. And they will do.’
‘Sounds … excellent,’ said the Portreeve, unconvincingly. ‘You sure you can make this work?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘D’you know where he’ll be?’
The Lawmaker nodded. ‘The back-up location. The one Faith Luscombe was taken to.’
‘The one she escaped from,’ said the Teacher.
Anger flared in the Lawmaker’s eyes, just for a few seconds. But long enough to unnerve everyone else around the table.
‘It’ll be fine,’ the Lawmaker said.
‘So if the Gardener’s going,’ said the Teacher, ‘what about the Garden? Will that go too?’
The Lawmaker smiled. ‘I don’t think so. I think it’s about to be repopulated.’
‘Good,’ said the Portreeve, looking at his watch. ‘Then I’ll see you all later.’ He looked round the table, ensuring eye contact with everyone there. ‘And we mustn’t lose our nerve. We’re so close, and there’s so much at stake. We can all look forward to a prosperous tomorrow.’
The Lawmaker leaned towards him. Smiled. It sent a shi
ver down the Portreeve’s spine.
‘My nerve’s fine,’ he said. ‘How’s yours?’
The meeting was over.
97
Marina was standing at her desk in the main MIS office, bent over, the space before her spread with charts and maps. Mickey approached, hovered by her side, moving slowly from foot to foot. Said nothing. Eventually she looked up.
‘You all right there, Mickey?’
‘How’s it going?’
Marina sighed, straightened up. Pushed a hank of stray hair behind her ear. ‘Slowly. I’m seeing if I can create a geographical profile of our would-be killer based on the calendar and where we know he’s been.’ She looked down again. ‘Seeing if certain areas are more suited to different times of the year, that kind of thing.’
‘Any luck?’
She looked up at him. ‘Not yet. It takes a while to do this kind of profiling properly, and you need more information for effective triangulation. I was seeing if I could use the calendar as a short cut.’ Her hair fell down, and once more she pushed it back. ‘What can I do for you?’
Mickey looked round, as if nervous. Or fearful of eavesdroppers. ‘Can I have a word?’
‘Sure.’
‘Not here.’ Still looking round.
Marina did likewise. ‘Where, then?’
‘How about your office?’
‘Come on.’
She picked up her bag, walked out of the office, Mickey following her. Down the corridor, up the stairs.
‘How’s Phil?’ asked Mickey.
‘He’s … as well as can be expected,’ said Marina, not turning to him, her face in profile.
‘What a bastard.’
‘The situation? Or Glass?’
‘Both.’
‘Couldn’t agree more.’ Said quietly, more for herself, he thought, than him.
They reached her office. She unlocked it.
‘Take a seat.’
Mickey sat down in one of the two armchairs in the centre of the room. Marina took the other one. Crossed her legs, sat upright. Waiting. Then, realising that looked too formal, uncrossed them, leaned forward. Mickey could see she was trying not to make this chat into a therapy session. He hoped he could do the same.