by James Nally
‘So you won’t object if I get up and walk back out again.’
‘There are some things I think you should see,’ he said.
He walked over to his safe, dropped to his haunches and twisted the dial. He heaved open the door, plucked something out, closed it again with a decisive thud and re-spun. He walked over briskly and showed me a piece of paper.
I recognised Tammy’s list right away.
‘Who gave this to ya?’
‘I’m formally telling you, Mr Reilly, that I want to leave. Right now. If you stop me, you’re breaking the law.’
‘Oh, you can go, Lynch. Just tell me one thing. How many of our girls did you talk to last Saturday night?’
‘Lots.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said, grimacing, ‘because if you don’t tell me which girl gave you this list, I’ll have to go back through the CCTV and get rid of ’em all.’
I stood. He glared.
‘I can’t have a fackin’ grass here,’ he roared, eyes ablaze, head wobbling in wild fury.
‘Is that why you killed Liz and Georgie?’ I said.
‘We don’t play fackin’ detectives. But right is right. I got a grass. On my daughter’s life I’ll fackin’ kill ’em all. It’s right, Lynch. It’s right. Right is right. On my daughter’s life. I know what I’m gonna do. On my baby’s life, I’m gonna cut ’em ’til they talk. One by one. I’m gonna go to them “I’m the cant. I’m the cant” and fackin’ carve ’em up. Do you understand? On my baby’s life. I’m gonna fackin’ do it.’
He spun around, decimating his desktop with a failing forearm.
‘Their blood will be on your fackin’ hands,’ he screamed as I bolted through that oak door.
Bernie stood in the foyer. My clothes lay on the reception desk.
‘He’s out of fucking control, Bernie, and you know it. Don’t let him hurt any more of the girls.’
‘Who says he hurt any girls?’ he said.
I grabbed my trousers first.
Bernie spoke quietly: ‘That list he just showed you is a photocopy. I could see where the original sheet had a piece ripped off the bottom.’
I got into my shirt next, then my socks.
‘This piece,’ he said, and I froze. He’d found Tammy’s phone number jotted on that ripped-off piece of paper in one of my pockets.
‘Bernie, please, I don’t want any more bloodshed. I’ll walk away from this whole thing now.’
‘I’m not sure I can let you do that.’
‘Bernie, I’m begging you. Please. I’ll burn the fucking list and never bother any of you again.’
‘Like I said, I’m not sure I can let you do that,’ he said, holding the slip of paper out for me between thumb and forefinger.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘You need to be more careful, copper.’
Chapter 31
Regent Street, London
Saturday, April 10, 1993; 16.20
I walked down Regent’s Street reeling and raging.
Jimmy must have killed Liz and Georgie. Where the hell did that leave Valerie Gillespie … Robert Conlon? I’d have to figure it all out later. Right now, I had a woman’s life to save.
I found a phone box, called Tammy’s number and made it clear to the man who answered that it was an emergency. He assured me she’d call back in five, so I stayed put.
Somehow, I had to stop Reilly hurting her. How could I save the other girls who spoke to me Saturday night? Could Tammy warn off Lenka and Kate? What about the girls who spoke to Fintan? Were they in danger? What about the other four IT girls on Tammy’s list?
‘Fuck,’ I cried.
Fintan had been right. We should have taken it all to Shep. Because now it had spiralled out of anyone’s control.
The phone rang. Tammy sounded cagey. I told her what just happened. She didn’t speak for several seconds.
‘You fucking asshole,’ she said, finally. ‘You’ve just gone and completely fucked my life. Asshole!’
‘You can’t go back there Tammy,’ I said.
‘What do you mean, I can’t go back there? If I don’t show up, they’ll know it was me. Jimmy will find me and kill me, for sure. Look what happened to Liz and Georgie.’
‘Listen to me, Tammy, he’s probably looking at us on the CCTV tapes right now. If you go in tonight, I don’t think you’ll come out again alive. Can’t you call in sick? Get Lenka and Kate to do the same?’
‘What sort of fucking detective are you? I mean how obvious is that gonna look?’
‘I’ve got an idea. Can you meet me this evening, before you go to work? There’s a pub on Greek Street called the Coach and Horses. Say six o’clock?’
‘I guess I’ve got no choice. Asshole.’
Next I called Fintan and told him the news.
‘I’ve just had an audience with Jimmy fucking Reilly and he showed me a copy of Tammy’s list.’
‘Jesus.’
‘You were right. We need to get the big guns involved here. If that means Shep then …’
‘Already done,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I saw Shep Thursday. The four girls on Tammy’s list are under surveillance. He tells me they’re flying out to Malaga tomorrow. He’s got a customs squad ready to swoop when they fly back in Monday night.’
‘Jesus. You can’t just steal my investigation and give it to someone else.’
‘You said I was right Donal. What just happened to you proves it. Feel free to thank me later, once your male pride recovers.’
‘I’ve arranged to meet Tammy in the Coach at six, before she goes into work. I really don’t know how I can protect her, or the others. The way Reilly was behaving … he’s ready to kill.’
‘I’ll get Shep along too. I’m sure he’ll think of something,’ he said, before ending the call.
I’d missed several calls from Zoe, and as I dialled her number, decided against telling her today’s news. She worried too much already.
‘Has anyone ever told you you’re a genius,’ she gushed.
‘Er, no, I can safely say that has never happened.’
‘Well, I think you are. We found Bernie’s fingerprint on a fifty-pence piece in the electricity meter. The expert here reckons it’s a couple of weeks old. We also recovered an ear print from the front door with a distinctive gap in the upper lobe. I think I can say with complete certainty that Bernard Moss has been outside and inside 42 Ennerdale House in the past three weeks.’
‘You’re the genius, Zoe. Believe me, you’ve delivered this in the nick of time. Any news from the paint people?’
‘That’s less clear-cut, unfortunately. How’s your chemistry?’
‘You know the term non-existent? Well, it’s a couple of notches below that.’
‘Okay, well, they can’t tell us what the paint is, but they can tell us what holds it together. It contains an unusual binding agent called Epoxyester D4. Also the zinc in the paint isn’t new. It’s been reconstituted. The good news is there’s only one plant that distributes this binding agent. The bad news is it’s in Dortmund. However, undeterred, our paint geeks are getting a list of all their British clients by fax as we speak.’
‘Epoxyester … any idea what it’s used for?’
‘The hulls of yachts, they said. What are you doing tomorrow night?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘An old friend from my drama days is in a play at the Hen and Chickens in Islington. I’ve just bought two tickets. Fancy it?’
‘You’re on. So long as it’s not Guys and Dolls. I’ve had enough gangsters and molls for one week.’
Chapter 32
Soho, London
Saturday, April 10, 1993; 18.00
I arrived to find Shep in full flow, his neat double Scotch screaming for a refill.
‘It all stems from intelligence-led policing, Lynch,’ he lectured Fintan. ‘We had it back in the seventies with all those supergrass scandals. When the cop and the criminal wan
t the same thing, it creates an environment in which corruption flourishes. It’s the policing equivalent to insider trading.’
Fintan editorialised to catch me up. ‘Shep reckons Reilly is a registered informant, handled by Spence.’
I laughed. ‘No way can Reilly be a grass. Not after what he said about grasses today.’
Shep shook his head in disbelief. ‘You don’t believe any of that “honour amongst thieves” nonsense, do you, Lynch? All major criminals are informants. They have to be. It’s the only way they can flourish. They just hate the fact that others are playing the same game.’
‘They can’t all be …’
Shep talked right over me. ‘Earlier this month, one of my team had a tip from a Turkish heroin dealer he handles about a load coming through Folkestone. This tip directed all of customs’ resources towards one particular lorry, which was seized with forty kilos of heroin on board. Great result. Customs look good. The handler looks good. The Turk gets a hefty reward. Of course, the Turk had his own lorry load of heroin on that same ship, which sailed through unscathed.
‘So with one tip off, he guaranteed the safety of his monster load of smack and brought down a competitor. So you can bet Reilly is at it too. These days, a criminal can’t afford not to be. Reilly’s intelligence has probably made Spence’s career.’
‘There’s got to be more to it,’ I argued, ‘for Spence to hand over Tammy’s list like that … Reilly must have him by the balls.’
‘I had a little look at Spence today,’ said Fintan. ‘Get this, he attends Gamblers’ Anonymous and still has accounts with three bookies, owing several thousand to each. He’s also paying out a monthly sum to one credit company. I won’t be able to check it out until Monday but, if I were a betting man …’
Shep grimaced impatiently. ‘Reilly’s name won’t be on any of that credit company’s paperwork.’
Fintan smiled. ‘Of course not, but I’ve got a list of the directors and secretaries who front all his other legit companies. If any of their names turn up, then we know what’s happened. Reilly found out about Spence’s gambling problem, bought his debts and used it to break his balls.’
‘I saw him coming out of a bookies’ with half a dozen betting slips the other day,’ I said. ‘When did he start making these monthly payments to the credit company?’
‘Almost two years ago,’ said Fintan.
‘My God, so Spence has been in Jimmy’s pocket for two years. We should trawl through all the cases he’s headed up during that time, see if we can identify any other favours he might have done for Reilly.’
Shep gave me the Clint squint. ‘Lynch, you didn’t tell Spence who gave you that list, did you?’
‘No, thank God. He has no idea.’
‘Good man. Okay, so we don’t have anything solid linking Jimmy to any of these murders,’ said Shep.
‘Not so fast,’ I said, relishing the moment. ‘Today we found Bernard Moss’s prints inside and outside 42 Ennerdale House. Both had been left in the last month.’
Fintan’s eyes widened. ‘With Bernie’s signature on the lease document, surely you’ve got enough to at least question him,’ he said. ‘That’d put the wind up Jimmy.’
Shep scoffed. ‘You know what Bernie will say. He rented the flat for an old friend and has no idea what we’re talking about. We need more.’
He registered our disappointment.
‘We’re still in the box seat,’ he said. ‘Monday night, we’ll find out what those girls have been doing for Jimmy. The four of them are booked on the same flight in and out of Malaga and they’re staying in the same hotel. Today they all picked up cash at a Bureau de Change in Paddington. Monday evening, customs are primed to stop all four, separate them and conduct a search. Whatever they’re bringing in for Jimmy, we’ll find it either on their person or in their luggage. We arrest them, break them and then we take down Jimmy Reilly. If we’re lucky, we’ll also find out why Liz and Georgie were murdered, and who did it.’
‘Whatever these girls are up to,’ said Fintan, ‘they’ve been getting away with it for years. Why haven’t they been stopped by customs before now?’
‘They’re all registered employees of some obscure Angolan airline called Ibis, owned by one of Reilly’s dodgy pals,’ said Shep. ‘We suspect they wear the Ibis air stewardess uniforms on these trips and just waltz through unchecked. Now, more pressingly, I’m supposed to be taking the missus to the pictures tonight. Where’s this Tammy girl?’
‘She’ll be here,’ I said, but a large part of me feared otherwise. She sounded fatalistic, almost reckless on the phone.
‘Tell me about her,’ said Shep. ‘Everything she told you.’
I ran him through our encounter, then asked how we could protect her, Lenka and Kate from the homicidally vengeful Jimmy Reilly, first tonight, then forever.
He said yes to a Scotch from Fintan and cradled his jaw in thought.
‘The club doesn’t open Sunday or Monday nights, correct?’
I nodded.
‘So if we can sort out tonight, that buys us three days to make this stick?’
I kept nodding.
He accepted the neat whiskey from Fintan, downed it in one and produced a mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket.
‘DS Shepard,’ he barked into it. ‘A serious allegation has been made against the Florentine Gardens Club in the West End. A serving police officer claims he was abducted, held there against his will and threatened. We need to seal it off for forensics.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, right now.’
A pause. ‘They’ll just have to shut for the night then, won’t they?’
Right on cue, Tammy appeared, looking older, meeker, no longer owning the room.
She stopped several feet from our table and threw me a bitter smile. I jumped up, escorted her over, made the introductions.
Shep stood, eyes glistening, clearly enraptured.
‘Charmed to meet you,’ he gushed, ‘I’ve always liked Americans. So polite.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ she said, looking slightly alarmed.
‘Now I don’t know what your full name is, Tammy,’ he said, ‘but I’m arresting you on suspicion of soliciting and living off immoral earnings. You have the right to remain silent …’
‘What the fuck?’ screamed Tammy as Shep spun her round and slapped on a pair of handcuffs.
‘Jesus, what’s he doing?’ I roared.
Fintan smiled. ‘I think he might be persuading her to go into the witness protection scheme.’
Tammy turned and glared at me. ‘You set me up, you fucking asshole.’
Chapter 33
Arsenal, North London
Sunday, April 11, 2003; 08.05
The mobile phone’s shrill ring levitated me fully a foot off the mattress.
‘I’ve got to figure out that volume control,’ I muttered, leaning over and picking up.
‘Donal?’ jabbered Fintan.
‘What?’ I groaned.
‘Listen carefully. Robert Conlon’s at the Pembroke Hotel, opposite Finsbury Park. You’re less than a mile away. Go get the fucker.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Someone just called in. He was right under our fucking noses all along.’
‘How … what?’
‘Pick up Da on the way. He’s waiting for you outside the Manor House pub.’
‘And where are you?’
‘The wrong end of London. For the love of God, will you just go?’
‘I need to borrow your car.’
‘What?’
‘Mine’s still outside Ennerdale House.’
‘Take it, this is your career-defining opportunity, Donal, but you have to fucking move. Fast.’
Before my brain mustered up enough revs to reason, Da was hopping into the passenger seat asking me if I knew the way.’
‘Of course I know the way,’ I hissed. ‘I can see it from here. What I’d really like to know is what you know. What the hell is go
ing on?’
He turned the Sunday News page seven lead story my way.
‘The Paedo Next Door’ screamed the headline.
‘Help Us Find Sick Kiddie Rapist’ thundered the sub-heading, next to a photo of Conlon inside a set of graphic cross hairs.
I sighed. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Today the Sunday News is offering a £10,000 cash reward to anyone with information about the whereabouts of a twisted child rapist and killer.
‘Robert Conlon, 45, dubbed the Beast of Brownswood by cops, is believed to be holed up in North London, plotting his next vicious attack.’
‘Oh, this is just great,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope we get to him before some vigilante mob. What was he thinking?’
‘Conlon stopped answering his phone days ago,’ said Da. ‘We needed to flush him out. Now drive for fuck’s sake.’
I floored it.
‘Remind me what your plan is again, Da? Please tell me you’re not packing a pistol.’
‘I’m just going to talk to him, Donal. If he hands that footage to the Brits, the IRA will kill him. He’s got to destroy it, before it destroys the best chance we’ve ever had of peace. If he tells me where it is, I can ensure that it never sees the light of day, and Conor will make sure no harm comes to him.’
‘And if he refuses.’
‘Then I did my best. That’s all they’re asking me to do. Try to make him see reason.’
‘Yeah, right. See reason or we’ll shoot you. For fuck’s sake. How you can morally support their carry-on, I’ll never know.’
Da didn’t even wait for the car to stop outside the Pembroke. I caught up with him at the reception desk, against which he’d planted a despairing forehead.
‘He checked out very early this morning,’ he muttered darkly. ‘They don’t know where he’s gone or what he’s driving.’
He turned to me, his face ashen. ‘He was in the company of a young woman.’
‘Top work, Fintan,’ I barked down the phone. ‘Conlon’s gone to ground with some woman that no one can describe, probably a desperate skank he picked up at Brownswood last night who he’s chopping into pieces as we speak.’
‘Oh, come on Donal, if you caught him, you’d be thanking me now for saving your career.’