Stealth

by Margaret Duffy

  ‘You’re assuming they know who’s behind it – the threats might be delivered over the phone.’

  ‘I can’t believe the grapevine doesn’t have a few ideas.’

  ‘Apparently none of the snouts has the first clue.’

  ‘They’re probably looking after their own hides as well.’

  ‘No, I don’t want you going in.’

  I cleared my throat and said to Greenway, ‘What we must have is evidence. Can’t Clement Hamlyn be pulled in and confronted with what Daniel Coates said to me in Cannes?’

  ‘He’d deny everything saying it was the word of a convicted criminal against his.’

  ‘We don’t have to mention that Coates is a crook. If Hamlyn knows that, how does he?’

  ‘I did see him boarding the boat too,’ Patrick put in.

  Greenway frowned thunderously at his paper clips which he had formed into a complicated pattern on his desk. ‘I think we need more ammo to use against him before we do anything like that,’ he said finally. ‘And as we know, he writes crime novels. With an imagination like that he’d be able to cook up all kinds of fantasies. Miss Smythe’s letters aren’t enough either. Any brief worth his salt would tear those to shreds as the work of a silly old woman spitting mad because she’d been given an ASBO for being a local nuisance.’ He looked me right in the eye. ‘D’you reckon he killed her?’

  ‘There’s every chance he did,’ I replied. ‘Once a hit man . . .’

  Patrick jerked to his feet. ‘I loathe working in a vacuum.’

  ‘Nevertheless, don’t go off and talk to crime bosses,’ Greenway told him.

  True to his orders Patrick went off and shot one instead.

  No one but the two of us knows the truth behind this and there was no question of the victim being able to identify his attacker. He did not even see him and nor did his two minders. The shot, at night, neatly taking him in the right leg as he left a nightclub in Stratford, caused a flesh wound that kept him in hospital for just over a week, under arrest and with an armed guard. The Met had been trying to locate him for a while to help with a murder inquiry so, hopefully, there would soon be a short but meaningful queue of people waiting to talk to him when the doctors announced him well enough.

  Angelo da Rosta – right on trend insofar as it was not thought to be his real name – was known to be a drug dealer and also rumoured to be running a prostitution business employing various illegal immigrants and attendant heavies. He had recently, according to low-life gossip and having been released from prison only a few months previously, organized the ‘removal’ of another dealer who had tried to take over his ‘patch’, his body having been discovered in the boot of a stolen and abandoned car. There was some evidence to suggest that da Rosta was involved.

  Officially, we were at home for a long weekend and now, at six fifteen on the Sunday morning Patrick had been in the house just long enough to tell me all this having raided my purse to pay off the taxi as he was broke. You do not carry credit cards or chequebooks when working undercover.

  ‘Was selecting da Rosta just a shot in the dark, if you don’t mind the pun?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not really. Someone said he was as jumpy as a cat and had disappeared for a while. Now he was back and on the lookout for a couple more lads as bodyguards. It sort of figured.’

  ‘And that someone was?’

  ‘One of James Carrick’s old snouts. It took me twenty-four hours to find him.’

  Detective Chief Inspector James Carrick of Bath CID is a close friend of ours and used to be in the Met’s Vice Squad.

  ‘I hope you didn’t tell James what you were going to do.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And, obviously, you didn’t use your Glock as you’d stowed it in the safe in the car.’

  ‘Very easy to buy a gun in London these days. It’s somewhere deep and watery right now.’

  ‘You won’t be able to claim for that on your expenses.’

  He went off to make himself presentable before any other family members saw him, having been away for the best part of three days without a wash or shave and sleeping rough, by the look of him.

  Patrick had the Monday off and stayed quietly at home, catching up on sleep and enjoying spending the rest of the time being a family man, wandering around in a tracksuit and generally relaxing. Early feedback courtesy of secure Met and SOCA websites indicated that da Rosta was actually grateful for police protection and had been almost beside himself with terror when admitted to hospital. His minders had bolted at the first sign of trouble, something I could quite understand as he had kept saying that the invisible gunman had called to him from an alleyway across the road, ‘like something from the dead’.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ I asked.

  ‘Payback time. Just that.’

  ‘Voice-from-the-grave style.’

  ‘Um. I’m good at those.’ He demonstrated.

  Horrible.

  EIGHT

  If Commander Greenway had any suspicions regarding the shooting he gave no sign of it, the notion that SOCA undertook in-house mobster reduction simply not to be countenanced. Therefore I am sure he did not want to know, no doubt in my mind, if indeed he did harbour a little iffyness, that modest suffering caused to da Rosta now was better than possible death. Also, as the Met had their man for questioning and possible conviction for murder, it prevented more criminal activity on the suspect’s part and also removed him from further danger with regard to the threats that it now really looked had been made to him. Patrick told me he had factored all this into his thinking. To expect any remorse from him – echoes of the Sussex affair notwithstanding – was unreasonable for when you have survived being blown up by a grenade and consequently have a right leg partly of man-made construction, a flesh wound is peanuts.

  ‘We just need to interview him,’ I said.

  ‘The Met has first bite. That’s happening the day after tomorrow unless he suffers a setback.’

  ‘And meanwhile?

  ‘Back to work to take a look at the area where da Rosta was shot, as would be expected of any good investigator. Coming?’

  It was one of those areas of London that would look better at night – that is, when you could not see most of it. The shops that were not boarded up in this seemingly forgotten corner of Stratford had heavy shutters to be rolled down at closing time, the only one that I saw without them having heavy grilles across the windows instead. Outside a greengrocer’s, sad-looking boxes of fruit and vegetables had gone well past the stage of being revived by the thin drizzle that fell from a wall-to-wall grey sky.

  ‘The club’s housed in the basement of that defunct church,’ Patrick said. ‘I understand the whole thing’s due for demolition soon.’

  ‘It’s not exactly advertised,’ I said. The building itself was hideous, a brick-built Victorian monstrosity.

  ‘There is a neon sign but you can’t see it from here as it’s over the entrance, down the steps.’

  ‘What time did all this happen?’

  ‘Oh one five three. Da Rosta emerged with his two minders bringing up the rear. That was their first mistake. Then—’

  ‘Patrick, how the hell did you know it was the right man at night?’ I broke in, but speaking very quietly.

  ‘Not difficult. He’s six foot four and almost as wide. It’s one of the reasons I chose him. And according to James’s snout he nearly always comes here after he’s eaten at the Bull’s Head just down the road and sometimes pops in, or rather rolls in, for a quick one, or six, at another club on the way here as well.’

  ‘OK. Go on.’

  ‘There’s not a lot more to it.’ He turned aside into an alleyway and I followed, squeezing passed some boxes of rubbish and several dustbins.

  Two men were in the alley – somehow one just knew they were CID – kicking the litter to one side to enable them to examine the ground. ‘This is a crime scene,’ one of them called. ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘If you�
�re searching for evidence you should have it taped off,’ Patrick said. ‘SOCA. What have you got?’ He waved his ID in their general direction.

  There was an exchange of stares and he won. ‘Nothing,’ the same man muttered.

  ‘Pity. No sign of the weapon?’

  ‘No, it’s probably in the Waterworks River by now.’

  ‘No witnesses?’

  ‘Not one. There never is after shootings like this.’

  ‘Have you questioned the management of the club?’

  ‘Just after it happened. Waste of time. They’ve no idea who it could have been, know of no disgruntled members. But he must have been a bloody good shot. Or lucky.’

  ‘Unlucky if he meant to kill him. And, for God’s sake, the man’s the size of a barn door. So I reckon you’re actually looking for a lousy shot.’

  ‘It happens all the time. Turf wars.’

  ‘Perhaps he hadn’t paid up.’

  ‘Oh, you lot know about that theory then. But it is only a theory. Personally I don’t go for it. Too many mobsters and not enough potential loot to go round’s the real reason for these attacks.’ He turned his back on us and carried on with his search. ‘Turf wars, mate,’ he finished by grunting.

  Thus dismissed, we made a play of examining the entrance to the alley.

  I gazed around and, deliberately quite loudly, said, ‘Normally there might have been a light over that side door but the bulb’s broken and bits of glass are on the ground which leads me to think that the gunman smashed it.’

  ‘Highly likely,’ Patrick agreed. ‘It would have made it very dark.’

  ‘And then he would have made his escape down the alley to get rid of the weapon.’

  ‘That figures too.’

  We headed in that direction.

  The two detectives were looking at something one of them had just picked up.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Patrick enquired as we went by.

  ‘A West Ham ticket for last Saturday’s match,’ replied the previously silent one.

  ‘That narrows it down a bit then.’

  We completed our little piece of theatre and made our way back to the club via a side street. The sign over the basement door, not lit and half grown over with ivy, could have been Mo’s, Joe’s or even Flo’s. I found myself not caring all that much.

  As we might have expected the door was locked but someone soon opened it after Patrick had removed a bit more of the peeling paint by battering on it with half a brick he had found nearby on a small pile of rubble that appeared to have fallen from the building.

  ‘Serious Organised Crime Agency,’ he said, pushing aside the man who had done the unlocking. ‘Where’s the boss?’

  ‘He don’t live ’ere,’ said the man.

  ‘Who’s in charge right now?’

  ‘’is bruvver.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to him.’

  The lighting in what must have once been some kind of crypt, complete with deep-arched alcoves with tables in them, was harsh from large unshaded overhead bulbs, no doubt switched on to assist two middle-aged cleaning women, one with a vacuum cleaner, the second half-heartedly dusting the bottles behind the bar. The vacuum cleaner stopped.

  ‘This effin’ thing’s packed up again!’ the woman shrieked, mostly at Patrick.

  ‘It’s no good shouting at me,’ he said. ‘If you always yank it along like that you’ve probably snatched at the cable and broken a wire in the plug.’

  She mouthed something at him and stumped off.

  ‘Who wants me?’ said a man, approaching from somewhere at the rear.

  ‘Gillard,’ said Patrick, producing his ID. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Hutton, John Hutton.’

  ‘Thank you. The man, da Rosta, who was shot and injured outside here in the early hours of this morning is a regular customer, I understand.’

  ‘He came in here several times a week,’ the man answered with an uninterested shrug. Possibly in his fifties, overweight and pallid, he appeared to have only just woken up having slept in his clothes. He waved us over to one of the tables and after putting the chairs back on the floor we sat down.

  ‘Were you a friend of his?’

  ‘I try never to make friends with customers, especially men I know to be criminals.’

  ‘So you didn’t have conversations with him.’

  ‘We . . . spoke, that’s all. Look, I’ve been asked questions like this already by the police – at half past two this morning.’

  ‘Sorry, but please bear with me. I’ve been told that he was afraid for his own safety, something that might have a bearing on what happened last night. Did he say anything to you about having received threats?’

  ‘No, but I could tell he was nervous by the way he bit his nails. He’d hired the two boys – that’s all they are really, boys, teenagers from a sink estate – and I knew he was on the lookout for a couple more as he asked me if I knew anyone who wanted a job. I didn’t – I don’t want to get involved with anything like that. But they never gave me any trouble so I put up with them. You might think this place a den of thieves but it isn’t. Most of the folk who come in here are as good as gold. It’s all coming down soon to make way for a supermarket and I shall retire.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘He’s younger than me and plans to open up somewhere else. But he’s bone idle, hasn’t bothered to learn the business and is hardly ever here so God knows how he’s going to get on.’

  ‘Did da Rosta meet others here – people who might have been working with, or for him?’

  The man sighed wearily. ‘What you must understand is that people drift in and out of this place all the time, from the moment we open at six p.m. until around two a.m. It gets packed, they drink like there’s no tomorrow and then they go away.’ A wan smile. ‘That’s why I’m able to retire soon.’

  ‘Please think. Can you remember anyone coming here and talking to da Rosta who might have been connected in some way with his fear?’

  A deep frown creased the man’s forehead. Then he said, ‘I did notice, a while back, a man at his table. If he can he always sits . . . He’s not dead, is he?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘. . . sits at that table over there in the corner.’ He pointed to one of the alcoves. ‘The boys had been sent away, which was most unusual, seeing that their role was to protect him. The man didn’t stay long, just perched on the edge of a chair and I only noticed him because he was so tall. But we were very busy and when I next looked in that direction and could see for all the customers he’d gone.’

  ‘He didn’t stay for a drink?’

  ‘Just helped himself to da Rosta’s, tossed down his single malt in one.’

  ‘Exactly how long ago was this?’

  The man drummed his fingers on the bar, staring into space. Then he said, ‘Around two months, as far as I can remember. But, you must understand, one day in here is very much like another.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else about this man?’

  ‘Only his height, a bit taller than you. It was pouring with rain and he wore a long mac with the collar turned up and a hat, a fedora kind of thing.’

  ‘You didn’t see his face?’

  ‘No.’ Hutton then smiled again, broadly this time. ‘Perhaps it was the ghost. Some local people say this place is haunted as there are graves under the floor, but I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.’

  The drizzle had turned to heavy rain and we postponed a debriefing until we got back to the car. I felt that I had contributed nothing to the interview other than to take notes but had to admit that Patrick had asked all the important questions.

  ‘Clement Hamlyn?’ Patrick said, grabbing the windscreen wiping cloth to rub some of the wet off his hair and then handing it to me to do likewise.

  ‘It could easily have been him. But it’s still not evidence.’

  ‘OK, we’ll jump to conclusions
to try to get results. Clement Hamlyn killed Rosemary Smythe. He turned over the house to make it look like a burglary but couldn’t resist stealing the best bits of her jewellery because he’s like that. Therefore he either still has it or has sold it on, probably the latter. Where does this bloody man live?’

  ‘He has a website. It just says the Shepherd’s Bush area.’

  ‘I might just hang out around there for a couple of days, low-key – starting with the pubs and bars.’

  ‘He has seen you before,’ I reminded him.

  ‘He won’t know me.’ Patrick brooded, back in his mental ops room.

  ‘D’you reckon that man at the club is doing his brother out of most of the takings?’ I said a minute or so later.

  Sometimes you really can see the effect of men’s brains recalibrating when you bounce them from deep thought on to another track. Patrick started slightly as though I’d stuck a pin in him and said, ‘I did note that he’s retiring soon and bruvver is carrying on working. Good luck to him and serve the lazy little sod right.’

  ‘I’m also wondering if DI Branscombe has had any luck tracing Miss Smythe’s jewellery.’

  ‘Good thinking. Let’s ask him.’

  The task – and I was really admiring Branscombe for not just forgetting about it – had been handed over to a DC Jameson, who regretted that he had had no material success at all. The only certainties were that Miss Smythe had not placed any items of jewellery for safe keeping at her bank, nor were there any fairly large deposits in her bank account within the past few years to suggest that she had sold them. Patrick had then gone on to ask him about fences but all the man could do was refer him to Metropolitan Police files where there were very, very long lists of known offenders connected with this particular offence.

  ‘Shepherd’s Bush,’ Patrick decided after finishing the call and relating what had been said. ‘Tomorrow. D’you want to tag along?’

  No, but thank you, dearest heart. Slumming it around pubs playing darts and poker with the locals for money isn’t my thing at all. It is definitely Patrick’s and always has been, nothing whatsoever these days to do with making a good job of roughing it undercover. It had not gone down too well with his superior officers in the Devon and Dorset Regiment either.