The sound of a vehicle rumbling up the drive grabbed his attention. He glanced at his watch: 09.09 hours. The engine note signalled a four-by-four. Sure enough, an ugly-looking Jeep powered across the gravel, a woman driving, two children strapped into the back. She pulled up, got out of the vehicle, let out a little girl with long blonde hair trailing across her shoulders. The child definitely looked to be older than his niece, he thought, zooming in, probably six or seven years of age. The way she skedaddled across the drive towards the house suggested that she knew the place well. Tallis narrowed his vision, snapped off some shots, his eyes moving to the front door. It was open, Kennedy standing in the entrance. He was wearing a brilliant white shirt, open-necked, navy chinos. His eyes, which were heavy-lidded, had lost their vulpine quality. The smile was broad and warm as he swooped down and picked up the child, tickling her as only a father would. In that brief moment of time Tallis found it difficult to believe that Kennedy was the bastard he’d heard so much about.
After a brief, amiable exchange, Kennedy moved back inside with his child, the woman heading off down the drive in the Jeep. After that, nothing much seemed to happen. Hours ticked by. Tallis used the time to scan the area, dividing the ground in front of him into sections and examining each. During one of the sweeps, his gaze locked onto another building to the right of the main house, some distance away. With the aid of his binoculars, he could make out what looked like a summerhouse. Further inspection revealed an octagonal structure with a roof of beaten copper. There were drapes at the windows, cushioned seating in bold navy and gold stripes. It would make a good doghouse after a row with one’s other half, Tallis thought, not that he ever imagined someone like Kennedy feeling the need for one.
Next, Tallis measured the distance between his hide in the willow tree and the main house. Although the light was bad, often making objects and people seem further away, he estimated the length between the two points to be roughly the same size as a football pitch. This was further corroborated by the fact that when Kennedy popped out of his house, Tallis could identify him clearly. At one hundred metres, definition was clear. One hundred and twenty metres and more, distinguishing details start to blur and become indistinct.
For the next two hours, Tallis scanned, watched, and waited. He noted Kennedy cracking open a bottle of bubbly at noon, speaking to a soberly dressed middle-aged woman with a clipboard several minutes later, and the bloke who’d pissed on him at 12.37. Their discussion lasted no more than seven minutes during which Kennedy’s body language was relaxed, his face showing no sign of strain. An hour later, another bloke entered the frame. Coal-skinned, black hair in dreadlocks, and with the kind of build you saw in a local gym, he looked every inch a henchman. More discussion took place and then he disappeared. As there was no sign of a vehicle, Tallis could only surmise that he was staying somewhere in the house.
By two in the afternoon, and estimating that the family would soon be eating Sunday lunch, Tallis decided to head off. Kit packed away, and on the point of sliding back into the pool, he heard the sound of another vehicle travelling up the drive. He dropped back down, edged forwards, using his elbows, stomach flattened into the soggy ground. Stealthily drawing back a curtain of leaves, he was in time to see a black BMW draw up and a single white male step out. Tallis blinked. The man was thinner. Skin drawn back tightly across the skull, green eyes glinting, head shaved. The front door opened, Kennedy’s main man standing there in greeting. Tallis’s eyes clicked back to the man who’d just stepped out of the Beamer. Even in the lesser light, he felt he’d recognise that venal smile from two kilometres away. Was this an official visit from the master, or something else? Either way, he wondered what business exactly had brought Kevin Napier to Shakenbrook.
15
* * *
NAPIER stayed for two hours. Three of them, Kennedy, Napier and Pisshead, as Tallis had christened him, spent much of that time in the summerhouse. Was this where Kennedy felt most at home, or where he couldn’t be overheard, or both? Tallis thought. Like most former police officers, he knew of tales of handlers getting too close to their informants, but so many rules and regulations were now in place, procedures to follow, it was no longer that easy to circumvent the system. Know a guy called Kevin Napier? It had been Garry’s opening gambit, Tallis remembered.
Back at home, after a hot bath and meal, Tallis continued to mull over the day’s observations. Perhaps, as Asim had intimated, Napier had been posted to Turkey; SOCA had a large network overseas. It would explain how his and Garry’s paths had crossed. And as Asim had said, Kennedy had been seen at the Byzantine café only a few weeks before Morello’s death. We know that he visited the Byzantine café the same week Morello was in Turkey. What was he doing there? Was Napier babysitting Kennedy, or was something more sinister going on? Had Kennedy contacted his old mates and ordered the hit? No, Tallis thought, he’d turned informer. He was one of the good guys now. However things were viewed, Tallis decided to take a leaf out of Asim’s book. Never accept the first version of events.
That evening he called Gayle Morello, but got no reply. Leaving a brief message of support, he rang off with the promise of calling again soon. Bored with the thought of television, he wandered outside. The rain had stopped. Sunshine flooded a lawn pocked with molehills. The blackbirds were going mental. Tallis immediately spotted next-door’s cat sitting on one of the brick pillars supporting the wall. The cat eyed him venomously. Something in its arrogant expression reminded him of Napier. Unreeling the hose from the wall, and switching on the outside tap, he swung round and blasted it with water, watching as it dived for cover. Then the home phone rang. Tallis went back inside, picked up the call in the living room. It was Finn.
‘Got the information you wanted.’
‘Fantastic,’ Tallis said, reaching for a pen and notebook.
‘Sure you know what you’re getting into?’ Finn’s voice was sober.
Tallis tried not to sound like he noticed. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘My source told me that Johnny Kennedy once had some poor sod thrown off a motorway bridge.’
‘Gangster folklore,’ Tallis said, dismissive. ‘So what have you got?’
Finn let out a sigh, seemed to be on the point of saying something then changed his mind. ‘Johnny Kennedy married Rena Lennox in 1976, had a son, Billy.’
‘Same year?’
‘Fashionably ahead of their time, year before.’
Making Billy the same age as me, Tallis thought.
‘The marriage foundered two years later. Kennedy got custody of Billy as Rena was deemed unstable.’
‘Unstable?’
‘She had a drink problem. Died ten years ago. Kennedy married former glamour model Samantha Sheldon. They had a daughter, Melissa, born shortly after Kennedy was sent down for fraud.
‘During the time Kennedy was in the clink, Billy was involved in a hit-and-run, the driver a bloke coming back from a party held by Birmingham City Council.’
‘Drink drive?’
‘No.’
Tallis rested the pen on the table. ‘Then why did he flee?’
‘Panic, fear, confusion. He turned up an hour later at his local nick and gave himself up.’
‘Very public-spirited of him.’
‘Want a name?’
Tallis flipped over to another page, picked up his pen again. ‘Yup, go ahead.’
‘Simon Carroll.’
‘What was the outcome?’
‘According to witnesses, including three other men travelling in the car at the time, it was Billy’s fault. He stepped out in front of them.’
‘Deliberately?’ Tallis frowned.
‘Never established.’
Tallis scrawled some more. ‘Know where this bloke Carroll lives?’
‘He rather sensibly moved out of the area. Reported he fled to the West Country.’
‘Know his former address?’
Finn told him.
‘And what was C
arroll’s occupation? You said he was coming back from a party held by the Council.’
‘He was a planning officer, part of a planning management team specialising in retail.’
Tallis made a note. ‘Do we know much about him?’
‘My source on the Post reckoned he was a bit of an earnest type, eager to please, to better himself.’
Interesting take, Tallis thought. Journalists, Finn possibly the exception, were more often concerned with the personality and character traits of victims rather than offenders.
‘Something you may find of interest,’ Finn said, ‘I’ve downloaded a photograph of Billy Kennedy, taken before his unfortunate accident, and emailed it to you.’
Tallis thanked him and, after a bit more disconnected conversation, hung up. It was only when he was face to face with Billy Kennedy that Tallis understood what Asim meant. He himself really did bear an eerie resemblance to Kennedy’s son.
Early next morning, Tallis was back on the beat, destination Lye. He’d already exchanged the Daytona for the Rover for the day
Kennedy’s online outfit, Sheldon Building Supplies, could be found in a short row of shops with a Tesco Express on the corner, a dozen or so parking slots at the front with a time limit of two hours. Nearby lay a derelict chapel, the place Tallis had already selected from the ordnance survey map as a possible vantage point for covert surveillance.
Tallis pulled up, got out and, taking the fluorescent jacket from his boot, put it on. Next, he bought a sandwich and sauntered past the double-fronted unit. At 7:02 a.m., it wasn’t yet open so he took the chance to take a good look through the windows. Inside, it appeared to be pretty much like any other office—rows of desks, banks of computers, telephones, white board at the back with target figures. A second storey suggested the premises extended further, something that could be confirmed once he was in situ in the chapel.
Making a mental note of the approach, Tallis carried out a 360-degree recce of the target area. With a few notable exceptions, the general environment was fairly rough—broken-down-looking boozers with cracked windows, one having a dirty brown door near the entrance marked ‘Off-Sales,’ 1930s-style semis where you walked in the front door and swiftly found yourself out the back, small industrial workshops. Shift-workers and cleaners with tired eyes trudged the dirty streets before making way for the next wave of manual labourers.
Like all the shops in that row, the unit had a staff entrance at the rear. Unlike the others, it had two private parking spaces and warning signs to that effect. By 7:20 a.m., Tallis had moved the Rover and parked it in a dossy-looking back street where it suited the natural habitat, and had installed himself in the belfry of the old chapel. Stinking of urine, littered with bent lager cans, cigarette butts and used syringes, it was clear others had been there before him.
At 7:30 a.m. a small, sandy-haired man, mid-forties, emerged from around the corner, walked along the row and, taking out a fistful of keys, entered the premises. After removing his jacket, he spent the next half an hour crawling under tables and desks then checking light fittings and telephones. Looking for listening devices, Tallis thought, making a note. By 8:00 a.m. four others had joined him, two men, two women, and the place was rocking. Tallis took photographs, made more notes, observing that upstairs was a lot more palatial in décor than down. Prints on the walls, big expensive-looking desk, lush blue-grey carpet, leather sofa and chairs, this had to be Kennedy’s office, he concluded.
At 8:30 a.m. a black Land Rover with tinted windows cruised towards the rear of the block. Further inspection confirmed that Pisshead was driving, Kennedy seated on the passenger side. The Land Rover pulled into one of the private parking slots, Pisshead alighting from it first, furtively checking that the coast was clear before allowing Kennedy out and into the building. After brief discussion with those downstairs, Kennedy disappeared to his lair in the top storey where he remained for several hours.
For the rest of the week, Tallis watched faces and routines. Although Kennedy frequently changed cars and venues, there were definite patterns of activity. Alternating between the Rover and Daytona, Tallis tracked Kennedy’s haunts. A picture was starting to emerge of a man with certain enthusiasms. He liked racehorses and casinos, fast cars, not fast women. In contrast, two days before, Tallis followed the Land Rover to a dilapidated club in Oldbury. Kennedy spent an hour inside with his minder. After they left, Tallis decided to check out the place for himself. Ten youths stopped what they were doing and turned their surly eyes on him. Some were playing pool, others cards. Adopting his very best Black Country accent, Tallis fell into the role of a motorbike courier who was lost. Ignoring him, the lads relaxed, returned to their pool cues, those at the card table playing a game called Shithead. Couldn’t be anything exotic like Canasta or Chemin de Fer, Tallis thought, edging his way out.
Twice, Kennedy attended a private medical clinic in Edgbaston, near Birmingham city centre. It was one of those places where there are ornately laid out paths and benches in the grounds, the service gold-plated, and the staff look fresh instead of knackered. Having no idea why Kennedy was there, Tallis could only presume he was suffering from high blood pressure or some other stress-related illness, a common condition for informers.
The Land Rover came in for special consideration. With reinforced glass, armour plating and tyres, the type of addons more often reserved for the likes of the security services, the vehicle indicated either a man worth protecting at all costs, or someone still very much in the game. But the strangest discovery of all was that someone else was also watching. And that someone was a woman.
And it wasn’t Charlie Lavender.
Tallis took a circuitous route to his bungalow. He’d spent what, on the surface, seemed a wasted day staking out Shakenbrook. Nothing of note had happened. Nobody, other than the usual suspects, made an appearance. No Napier. No clandestine meets in the summerhouse. In spite of everything that hadn’t happened, Tallis felt quiet satisfaction. He’d discovered a weak spot in security.
Each morning Samantha and Melissa were driven to school in a top-of-the-range Lexus by the dark-skinned heavy. No armour-plating, no bulletproof tyres, always the same time, always the same route. Likewise, the afternoon run, with the exception of Tuesday when the kid had a music lesson, was carried out with a similar monotonous if dangerous regularity. With a plot already hatching in his mind, Tallis aimed to contact Asim that evening. Freshly out of the shower and about to make a start on dinner, he received an unexpected visitor.
‘How did you get my address?’ Tallis demanded sharply.
‘Stu,’ Oxslade replied, cool. ‘You going to let me in?’
‘Sure,’ Tallis said, opening the door, leading the way, hastily clearing the sofa of newspapers. Fortunately, anything connected with Kennedy was out of sight in his bedroom.
‘Don’t bother,’ Oxslade said. ‘This won’t take long. I’m off to Holland in an hour.’
‘Cheese and clogs?’ Tallis said conversationally.
Oxslade was deadpan. ‘Cannabis and cocaine.’
By his stony expression, Tallis had already worked out that this was no social call.
‘Understand you’ve been snooping round Johnny Kennedy.’
Fuck, Tallis thought. Who’d rumbled him? Then he remembered the bloody woman watching Kennedy, watching him. Denials were pointless. Not that Oxslade seemed that interested. ‘You could get hurt,’ he said in a cocky, challenging tone.
‘By your own admission, Kennedy’s no longer in the game. How could I possibly get hurt?’ Tallis smiled.
‘Look, mate, I’m just warning you.’ Oxslade’s eyes flashed pale.
Tallis dropped the friendly stance. ‘Who sent you?’
A heavy flush spread from Oxslade’s neck to his cheekbones. His reply was imperious. ‘Nobody sent me.’
Tallis didn’t believe him. SOCA, he thought. He bet Napier was involved, nothing to do with the bloody woman at all. Only one way to resolve it—pull rank, mut
ter security services. He didn’t. Instead he thanked Oxslade for the tip-off and wished him well in Amsterdam. ‘I hear the Red Light district is impressive,’ he said, firmly shutting the front door.
In spite of wanting further clarification of his role, he didn’t call Asim immediately. He cooked himself sausage and mash, ate it while reading the Birmingham Mail, and slept like a dead man. The next morning, he got up and went for a three-mile run. Nagging at the back of his brain, he harboured the maddening thought that Asim was not being entirely straight with him. No surprises there. Asim, if previous dealings were anything to go by, specialised in dissembling. Tallis still found it frustrating. What the hell did Asim know that he didn’t?
He kicked hard off his left foot, feet pounding the pavement, really starting to motor. From his time in the police, he knew that a team of specially trained officers handled informers. Although they could be of any rank, they consisted of a contact, a surveillance officer and undercover officer. Tallis marked the woman he’d spotted as the surveillance officer. She was OK at her job, but not that accomplished. He felt certain deep in his gut that she hadn’t rumbled him.
After a shower and breakfast, Tallis drove in the direction of Bearwood. Rows of nine-storey blocks of flats jutted into a jagged skyline. Although there was a sign for an arts centre, Tallis couldn’t think of a place less likely to host one. Cops were out in force. A black man who wandered out in front of him as he pulled up at some lights looked as though he’d been smacked on the nose and was still suffering the after-effects of concussion. Driving through different layers of deprivation and shattered-looking streets, Tallis eventually came to a respectable road of Victorian houses that reminded him of parts of North London. Simon Carroll had lived in number thirty-one.
A bloke with acne answered the door. Tallis arranged his expression into a warm smile.
The Mephisto Threat Page 13