He wished he’d never met fucking Fernley-Price. He’d told him that the problem with the surveillance was sorted. Why the fuck had the wanker taken it on himself to interfere? He had got at this Nestor bloke and opened up a second front.
Doyle stopped short as it struck him: could Nestor have killed Gina, then topped himself out of guilt? No. He kept walking. It didn’t make sense. If Nestor was the boss then all he had to do to protect his investment was stop the investigation. Why bother to murder the informant?
It was doing Doyle’s head in. He had to get hold of his bloke at the Agency. He would know by now the dead informant was Doyle’s daughter. God help him. God help them all. He threw the rest of the cake into the gutter. Let the rats have it.
41
DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR Thompson returned from the canteen just in time to witness Acting Detective Sergeant Flint slam down the phone.
‘You won’t believe this!’ exploded Flint.
Thompson thought that he probably would; he was accustomed to disappointment.
‘I’ve just got off the phone after twenty minutes arguing with some cow who is supposed to be Law Enforcement Liaison at the telco. They got the RIPA authority, oh yes!’ He brandished a photocopy of the form required by the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act. ‘But there was a technical problem and a whole lot of stuff got dumped. They just didn’t bother to tell us! I said, what about the bloody EC Data Retention Directive?’
‘And what did she say?’ said Thompson mildly.
‘She said “so sue me” and hung up. Jesus Christ! What can we do, boss?’
‘Nothing,’ said Thompson.
It was obvious Flint was gutted. Thompson also detected contempt; he knew Flint thought he just rolled over when they faced this sort of obstacle. Flint had been all for reporting Dempster to Professional Standards after their run-in with him over the Berlin woman. Thompson had been forced to remind him that they had been operating outside the guidelines themselves and it would only open up a can of worms. He had suggested they move on to their next target. But he knew Flint thought he was a spineless old fool.
‘Their logs show that Berlin deleted all her messages, and now their back-up has gone. So that’s that? Fuck me! Why do we bother?’ said Flint.
Thompson knew that eventually Flint would stop asking, and would stop bothering, too. He sat at his desk and woke up the computer.
‘Here’s a piece of good news,’ he said, reading from an email. ‘The Poplar Public Mortuary has forty-two fridge spaces and eleven deep freeze spaces. Due to a backlog of post-mortems the mortuary is now full. HM Coroner for the Inner Northern District of Greater London, exercising powers under HM Coroners Act and the Coroners Rules 1984, has directed that in all cases where an inquest has been adjourned pending the outcome of a police investigation the case will be transferred to the Inner West London Coroner’s District forthwith.’
‘Meaning?’ said Flint.
‘Meaning our bloke Nestor will be shipped down the road for a P-M so we’ll finally know if he chucked himself into the Limehouse Basin or if he had encouragement.’
Thompson looked around at what was supposed to be his senior team in the Major Incident Room. Three empty desks: one detective on long-term sick leave awaiting the outcome of an inquiry into the bashing of a suspect, one on a management course down at Bram-shill, and one out in the field re-interviewing witnesses because it hadn’t been done properly the first time. Then there was Flint.
Thompson opened up the computer files and checked recent entries in the activity log by the outside team. There wasn’t much. He checked the scene log, managed by the Action Allocator, and the policy log, where he was supposed to record the reasons for instigating certain lines of inquiry and discarding others. Not one log was up to date.
‘This investigation is at a standstill. We still haven’t got anything on Gina Doyle,’ grumbled Flint.
‘She’s as big a mystery as her old man,’ mused Thompson.
He remembered Flint’s challenge to Berlin at the first case conference concerning the informant’s motives. Was the dead woman a good citizen, Doyle’s disenchanted squeeze or one of his victims? Turned out it was none of the above. She was his angry little girl.
Doyle had told them she had always blamed him for her mother leaving home. It was plausible. Thompson knew that fury and resentment from childhood, real or imagined, could flourish even in the most mature of adult breasts.
But Thompson wanted more than just Doyle’s account before he’d be satisfied. There was an entry in the sparse activity log from the detective assigned to background on the Doyle family. Apparently there was an old paper file relating to them.
So why wasn’t it on his desk?
42
BERLIN WASN’T FRONTING Coulthard without a union rep, even though the union seemed doubtful that she would keep her job. Failure to obtain authorisation to run a CHIS was a hanging offence, and failure to follow a lawful direction to cease an investigation was where the drawn and quartered bit would come in.
Nonetheless they had grudgingly sent someone to keep an eye on the proceedings, a snotty graduate no doubt slumming with the union to build his credentials for the main game: a shot at preselection in a safe Labour seat. They had met in the lobby at four forty-five precisely, so Berlin could brief him. Now she watched as a stand-off developed.
The union bloke was pissed off when the receptionist at the Agency told them Mr Coulthard had left the office early and wouldn’t be back today. He demanded to know why they hadn’t been informed via that new-fangled device, the mobile telephone?
No question, he had mastered labour relations.
The receptionist made it clear that she didn’t like his tone and she wasn’t Coulthard’s secretary. He was only ‘acting’ in the role and she hadn’t been Nestor’s assistant anyway. All executive assistants had been retrenched in the latest cuts. In fact, her own hours had been reduced and she was only on reception part time now, so maybe if he was from the union he could do something about that while he was here, instead of giving her a hard time?
The union bloke left. Berlin’s irritation that he had just walked out, after all the trouble she’d gone to, was mitigated by relief that her discipline hearing had apparently been postponed. Relief was quickly replaced by anxiety and suspicion. What sort of game was Coulthard playing?
The receptionist told Berlin that, just between them, things had gone to hell in a handbasket since poor Mr Nestor passed away. There was a rumour that the government was going to fold the Agency into another department, which meant, of course, that more jobs would go sooner rather than later. People were jumping before they were pushed, although there was nothing out there to jump to. Coulthard probably had a last-minute job interview somewhere. She wouldn’t be surprised.
Berlin found it difficult to believe that Coulthard would easily sacrifice an opportunity to humiliate her, maybe even deliver the coup de grâce. She needed to talk to someone who could, and would, give her a heads up on Coulthard. It was a very short list.
Berlin was on her second Scotch by the time Del arrived. He nodded at her while he waited at the bar. She watched him scan the busy pub.
‘Don’t worry, there’s no one here from work,’ she said when he sat down.
‘Yeah, sorry. You know, we’ve all been warned off you, and the way things are job-wise I’m trying to keep a low profile.’
‘I get it, Del. I know you’re risking it by even talking to me. Thanks for coming,’ said Berlin.
‘No problem, mate,’ said Delroy.
‘Now tell me about Coulthard,’ she said.
‘He got a call, went as white as a sheet and left without a word. Just left the troops sitting there, so everyone packed up and went home.’
It was no way for an Acting Manager to behave, thought Berlin.
‘After you rang I spoke to his girlfriend, thinking it might be a domestic drama or something,’ continued Del.
‘And?’ said Berlin, anxious to cut to the chase.
‘She said he came home, told her there was an op on and he might be late, then went straight out again. She saw him getting into the back of a black Merc.’
‘That’s it? Did she ask why you were ringing?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t want her to worry. He’s a pillock but she’s okay. I told her there’d been some confusion about the debrief. She said she’d get him to call me. He’s not answering his mobile.’
Del gulped down his pint. She could see he was nervous just being there with her. ‘First Nestor, now Coulthard’s gone off the radar. Is it a conspiracy or has Coulthard just taken a package and dumped the girlfriend?’ he said.
‘Who’s in charge when Coulthard’s not there?’
‘Good question,’ said Delroy. ‘The rumour is the axe is about to fall, so everyone is scrambling to get a new gig. Apparently senior management are falling over themselves to take redundancy while the packages are still good.’
‘No one gives a shit about the job,’ said Berlin.
‘Never did. It’s been flavour of the month for five minutes, but it won’t last. There wasn’t a prosecution for illegal moneylending for donkey’s years before our team was set up,’ said Del.
‘Yeah. You were more likely to get a medal for services to the Empire or a seat in the Lords,’ she said. ‘Do you want another drink?’
At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.
‘Look, er, I better get going. You know.’
‘Yeah, I know, Del. Thanks.’
She watched him leave and decided to have another. She was used to drinking alone.
Berlin thought about the black Merc that had been waiting for Doyle outside the Limehouse Police Station. She ran through the sequence of events: an aborted investigation, a murdered informant, a dead Nestor. Now a black Merc waiting for Coulthard.
Confirming a connection between Doyle and Coulthard would go a long way towards addressing her disciplinary proceedings, and could lead to Gina Doyle’s killer. Was Coulthard capable of murder? Maybe Doyle was wondering the same thing.
The phone number Doyle had written on the newspaper was now stored in her contacts as ‘Billy Bunter’. She didn’t think he would find this flattering. It wasn’t his size, it was more his peevish quality that led her to use that name. His was a kind of blind, almost innocent, greed, a sense of entitlement that, when disappointed, would turn cruel. Doyle would cry, Bunter-like, ‘Why is everyone always so beastly?’ as he yanked out your toenails.
She tried his number, although she wasn’t sure what she would say if he answered. Hello, Mr Doyle, can I have a word with Johnny Coulthard? In the event, a robotic female voice invited her to leave a message. She declined.
She knew Doyle would never take Coulthard to his own place, or that of his associates. Men like Doyle always had a neutral space somewhere, anonymous, safe from prying eyes and CCTV. Doyle lacked imagination, so in his case there was one strong possibility. He would stick to what he knew.
*
Nino was surprised to see her so late in the day. ‘We’re closing soon,’ he said.
‘Time for a quick pastry and espresso, Nino?’ Berlin said, giving him a smile.
He smiled back, indicating she should take a seat. ‘I’ll bring it over.’
She sat close to the counter rather than in her usual corner. ‘Mr Doyle in this morning?’
‘Now you mention it, I haven’t seen him today.’
She knew Nino had seen them talking recently, so maybe he would think it was a casual inquiry. ‘Is his lock-up around here?’
There was nothing casual about that.
Nino put the coffee and cannoli on the table in front of her and folded his arms. ‘How should I know?’
‘Maybe I should ask your granddad? He must have known Doyle’s father, Frank. He was a busy lad, apparently. During the war. He would have kept his stock somewhere close.’
Nino watched as she drank her espresso.
‘Everyone around here did business with him, from what I understand,’ she said. ‘Flour, tea, sugar. All rationed then. Tough for a small café.’
‘Leave Granddad out of it,’ he said.
Berlin reached for the pastry, but Nino snatched the plate away. Berlin didn’t move.
‘Granddad upstairs, is he?’
Nino hesitated. Berlin could see he didn’t want any trouble.
‘Bow Wharf,’ he said, and went to the door and opened it.
She took the hint.
‘You should look closer to home,’ growled Nino as she stepped outside.
She turned to ask him what he meant, but he slammed and locked the door behind her.
The café went dark. It was like watching the lights go down on another era. She would never taste those chips again.
43
BOW WHARF SAT at the junction of two canals: the Hertford Union and the Grand Union. As a distribution hub into the East End it would be difficult to think of a better location, particularly during the Second World War when there was petrol rationing, and horse-drawn narrow-boats and barges had made a comeback. Frank must have been involved in a bigger operation than the police at the time realised, thought Berlin.
The wharf had once housed an enormous glue factory. The warehouses around it had undergone the sort of haphazard transformation that went with property developers and gentrification during the boom. In the bust, it had become even more haphazard. The word moribund sprang to Berlin’s mind as she worked her way through the high grass surrounding empty ‘business studios’. The only signs of recent life were the fresh estate agent billboards.
She was looking for something from the past. Like a bloody archaeologist of crime, she thought, hunting the artefacts of endless generations of London villains. The lock-up must rank as one of the most ubiquitous.
Leaving the flimsy structures of the twenty-first century behind, she moved towards the remnants that slouched in forgotten corners of the site: sheets of corrugated iron, crates that had once held twin-tub washing machines, even an abandoned milk float. They were the first tidemark of development.
She made her way beyond these to an area where strange brick edifices protruded from the ground. She guessed these were the vents for long-abandoned tunnels or air-raid shelters. Beside them were great gobbets of rusted industrial plant that had defied all attempts to remove or destroy them. It was darker here and she trod carefully, wary of potholes and barbed wire. The sound of traffic fell away to a hum as she moved further into the wasteland. The only sound was the plop of rats dropping into the water.
She came to a standstill at a narrow channel that ran off the main canal. On the other side stood a row of concrete buildings, their worn walls revealing a rusted rebar skeleton. Lock-ups. A light bulb encased in a metal grille shone above a steel door, which looked to be of more recent vintage than the shed itself.
Berlin cursed as she realised that there was no way across the channel from this side. The water disappeared into the distance and she might have to walk a long way before she found a footbridge or it disappeared underground.
In the distance beyond the sheds she could just see the faint glimmer of streetlights. She would have to retrace her steps and approach the whole area from another angle, which would take an hour at least. The channel was only about five feet wide. Could she jump it? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. And if she missed her footing on the slimy bank it could be very nasty. Was it worth the effort to try to get over there, anyway?
As she pondered her options, the shed door opened. For a brief moment a shaft of light illuminated a black Merc standing a little way off. Then the door closed and it was dark again. Suddenly it was definitely and incontrovertibly worth the effort. Whoever had opened the door to step outside hadn’t gone far. She stood very still.
The sound of water splashing on metal told her someone was pissing on a pile of old cans.
As the door opened again and the man went back
inside, the sound that came from within made her blood run cold. It was the unmistakable sound of a man in pain. The steel door slammed shut, cutting off an agonised scream.
She picked her way back to the pile of corrugated iron, carefully dragged out a section and, clutching it with both hands, stumbled back to the channel, gritting her teeth and silently swearing every time she made a sound. Kneeling at the edge, she lowered it across the gap. It covered the channel with a foot to spare either side, but now it was suspended above the water she could see it was badly corroded.
On hands and knees she eased herself onto the makeshift bridge, trying to spread her weight evenly. The iron sagged as she reached the middle. She steadied herself and exhaled, as if by so doing she would weigh less. The slimy murk six feet below was visible through a row of holes where once there were bolts.
She kept going, not taking another breath until she’d reached the other side. The shed was close now and she could hear voices and a low, continuous moan. She got to her feet, but crouched low and crept closer. The voices grew louder, carrying across the still night.
The Merc was close to the door. The sheds had been built on a slight rise. A gravel track extended from them into the darkness and, she supposed, across the wasteland to the road. She tiptoed over to the Merc and peered inside. The key was in the ignition.
Inside the shed, Doyle sat in an old armchair nursing a cup of tea, watching the lads bring Coulthard around with a few slaps. He was sitting here freezing his bollocks off and they were getting nowhere.
The lads were bored and listless now, no heart in it. Doyle was willing to bet they’d gotten everything they could out of this numpty, but you never knew. Men reacted in strange ways to pain. Some made stuff up to appease you; some became defiant and wouldn’t even tell you what day it was. This geezer was an arrogant prick and fancied himself a hard man. Doyle sighed. Time to bring out the big guns.
In Her Blood Page 13