‘No, I don’t believe he’s involved,’ he answered, choosing his words carefully, ‘but it is important that he’s fully eliminated from the inquiry. We wouldn’t want doubts to remain.’ He let the last words hang in the air for a couple of seconds, and it made me think that he was more than happy for any doubts to stay put. Poor old Stegs. He really did have enemies.
Finally, Flanagan continued. ‘I am, however, getting the feeling that the solution to this crime is not going to stand up and smack us right in the face. It’s going to take a lot of legwork. What we’ve got to do is keep digging. Keep asking around. See what clues, what physical evidence, we can turn up. If we can get O’Brien’s shooter, then we’re going to be able to crack the whole thing. At the same time, Tina, you have raised an important point, so I want you and John to look into the backgrounds of Stegs and Vokerman and see what, if anything, crops up. As I’ve said, it’s important that everyone involved in Wednesday’s operation is eliminated from the inquiry.’ I noticed he didn’t include himself in this. ‘And the pressure for a result is going to be massive. More intense than any case I can remember for a long, long time.’
Final pep talk over, he then brought the meeting to a close, checking with each pair of detectives what their tasks were for the day, and making sure that every angle was covered. When he got round to Tina and me, he gave us both a grim smile. ‘Nicholas Tyndall, Strangleman Grant’s boss. He operates off your manor, so I want you two to pay him a visit and rattle him a bit, make out that we know a bit more than we do. Get him down here to make a statement and see what you can get out of him.’
‘He probably won’t talk,’ I said. ‘We’ve never got anything out of him before.’ Which is the case with a lot of the more serious criminals. They don’t build up their little empires and stay out of nick by being co-operative. I guessed that Tyndall would do nothing more than point us at his lawyer.
‘Well, see what you can do. This is important.’
He gave me a look that suggested he didn’t think my attitude was positive enough, but I looked away, deciding that I didn’t like DCS Noel Flanagan. I’d met his sort before. Ones who think they’re born to lead and everyone else is born to be led.
The annoying thing is they’re often right, but what they tend to forget is that it doesn’t actually mean they’re going to be any good at it, and Flanagan was a case in point. In Vietnam, he’d have been shot by his own men.
And would probably have deserved it.
14
Trevor Murk was annoyingly good-looking. He had finely chiselled features, unblemished olive skin that hinted at summers spent in warmer climes and ancestors from the mysterious south, naturally tousled jet-black hair and deep-brown eyes that twinkled with mischief and easy charm. He was six feet two and he always dressed in clothes that fitted him perfectly and flattered him to just the right degree. It was annoying not only because his first name was Trevor rather than Enrique or Antonio and his last name Murk rather than something exotic, but because, for all his physical advantages, coupled with no small measure of intelligence, he would never amount to anything more than a petty criminal and grass. Put bluntly, he was too fucking lazy. Trevor Murk wouldn’t get off his arse if it was sat on a nest of fire ants, and it was well known that he’d never completed a morning’s work in his life, let alone a full day’s, and, moreover, was proud of the fact. He wasn’t work-shy, he was work-allergic.
However, it was still difficult not to like him (although Stegs tried hard enough) because in the end he was a good laugh, and his cheerily amoral demeanour was somehow infectious. Spend too long in his company and even a Godsquadder like Brian the vicar or Vokes’s missus would have probably ended up mugging old ladies or sacrificing chickens as an offering to the Dark One.
The place where he and Stegs met on those occasions when they had business to discuss was the quaintly named Cherry Tree Inn, a huge, hellish place of fruit machines, loud carpets and all the atmosphere of your local job centre, situated in Enfield, a short drive from Barnet. It suited their purpose because it was big and soulless with plenty of space between the tables, making eavesdropping or even accidentally picking up snippets of conversation a near impossibility. It also had eleven different lagers and a similar number of bitters on tap, and served big chips with the food, so it at least had a few things going for it. Not that Stegs was hungry as he pitched in there at five past one that afternoon, waiting to hear what interesting tip Murk had for him. He’d already had a McDonald’s Big Mac happy meal down the road and it had just started to repeat on him. That was the thing he hated about Big Macs: they took about ten seconds to eat and about ten hours to get rid of.
He ordered a pint of Kronenberg in the front bar, then made his way round to the much larger lounge bar and dining room, which was roughly the size of a provincial bingo hall but, today at least, was a lot less crowded, with only about a third of the tables occupied. He was disappointed but not surprised that Murk was nowhere to be seen. He’d once told Stegs that he never rose before eleven and, if entertaining, often didn’t make it out before the early afternoon, depending on the lucky lady’s looks and stamina.
Stegs found himself a seat in the corner next to a window overlooking the Cherry Tree’s beer garden: a hunched, cobbled backyard containing a handful of forlorn-looking plastic chairs and tables that was surrounded on every side by a high wall and had probably not seen the sun since some time in the nineteenth century. Then he lit a cigarette and waited, trying not to think of what Murk might be up to at this very moment in time because it would only make him jealous.
Five minutes later, just as he was putting out the smoke and thinking about whether or not it was worth lighting up another one, he saw Murk emerge from the front bar, carrying a pint of his own. Stegs acknowledged him with a cursory nod and a tapped finger on his watch, and Murk gave him a rueful grin in return. He looked about as guilty as the Guildford Four. A girl at one of the tables with her boyfriend eyed Murk subtly but admiringly as he passed and he gave her a cheeky little grin in return before sidling over to where Stegs was sitting and clumping himself down in the seat opposite.
‘Long time no see, Stegsy,’ he said, putting out a hand.
‘That’s right,’ said Stegs, taking it reluctantly, ‘about fifteen minutes longer than I thought it was going to be.’
‘You know me, my man, I don’t like to be shackled by the chains of time. You got a spare fag?’
Stegs pulled one out for himself, then slid the pack along the table. Murk teased one out and smoothed it between his lips, accepting a light from Stegs. It was amazing. The bloke didn’t hurry anything.
‘So, you had something I might be interested in.’ Stegs was keen to get down to business.
Murk tried without success to stifle a chuckle. ‘That’s right, I have.’
‘What’s so funny, Trevor?’
‘All right, all right, cool it a mo, sweetboy. Don’t get peeved. I’ve got a very tasty morsel for you. It’s just that every time I think about it, it makes me laugh.’
Stegs took a drag from his cigarette, and noticed with annoyance that the girl who’d been looking at Murk earlier was watching him again. There was no justice in this world.
‘Go on.’
Murk leant forward. ‘I’ve told you before I’ve been in a few pornos over the years, haven’t I? You know, support roles, so to speak?’ He was trying hard to look serious but it wasn’t working. Stegs didn’t bother replying, he simply sat glaring at Murk, wondering what the fuck sort of tip it was that he was offering. ‘Well, I did one once called Ass Lovers in London.’
‘Am I meant to be impressed?’
‘Not particularly, but the point was it was quite a big film by porno standards. You know, a big budget and all that. And the star of it was a bloke called Tino Movali, better known as Tino Ten Inch. You might have heard of him.’
‘Why would I have heard of a bloke called Tino Ten Inch?’
‘Because he’s b
een in loads of them. As porn stars go, he’s like A-list. Anyway, during the making of Ass Lovers we got quite matey.’
‘I’m not sure I want to hear about that.’
‘No, no, no, no. Not like that.’ He shuddered theatrically. ‘What I’m saying is, when filming was over, we went and had a few drinks together, got friendly – you know, in a having a grin together sort of way, and all that. He even offered me some work over in Amsterdam. He’s Dutch, by the way. I didn’t take it because I had something else on at the time, but I sort of kept in touch with him, and when I was in the Dam a few months back spending some taxpayers’ on a much-needed weekend R and R, we met up for a few drinks. So we’re like mates.’ He paused to take a drag from his fag. ‘Anyway, we went our separate ways, and I hadn’t heard hide nor hair from him since then, until suddenly out of the blue he gives me a bell the other night, and do you know what he’s saying?’
‘Go on, surprise me.’
‘He’s saying,’ whispered Murk, leaning forward, ‘that he’s got gear to sell, and he’s looking for a UK buyer, and would I be interested.’
‘What sort of gear?’
‘Es. He’s got five thousand pills he wants to sell, and if the price is right he can get hold of a regular supply. As much as five thousand a week. Apparently, the first batch is already in the country, waiting to be flogged.’
Stegs looked at him sceptically. ‘If he’s as big a star as you say he is, how come he’s getting involved in something this risky?’
‘He’s a victim of market forces,’ answered Murk in a voice that suggested he was imparting some great wisdom. He took another leisurely drag on his Marlboro Light and sat back in his seat, nodding sagely through a cloud of smoke. ‘You see, the thing is, these days porn stars ain’t meant to look like porn stars. It’s all like amateur stuff now; the girls and the boys are meant to look like everyday, normal people, not like beautiful models with plastic tits or giant wangers. Tino’s a handsome bloke with ten inches’ worth of prime sirloin, an allover tan and a funny accent, and nowadays that’s just no good. You’d have more chance than him at the moment, Stegsy. It’s just the way it’s going.’
‘I’ll take that as some sort of back-handed compliment.’
‘You might want to think about it, you know. It’s an easy way to make a few quid. It’s not hard work and you get to fuck some very attractive young fillies. As long as you don’t mind being watched and you can get it up on demand, then you’re laughing.’
For one terrifying moment, Stegs actually did think that it might be quite a nice little career move. It would certainly solve his ongoing problem of not getting a great deal of action domestically on the bedroom front. The passionometer chez Jenner had been stuck round the zero mark ever since the missus had got pregnant, close to a year and a half back now. But he quickly scotched that one as he pictured himself stark bollock naked and freezing cold in someone’s front room with a balding director in a medallion who thought he was Martin Scorsese telling him what position to get in while a camera crew prodded around his nether regions trying to get close-ups of areas best seen from long distance and on panoramic. In Stegs’s experience, there was no such thing as easy money. Unless, of course, you were Trevor the Murky one.
‘So he’s out of work then, is he? Your mate?’
‘Yeah, things ain’t going so good for him at the moment. There’s been a bit of a scandal as well. He’s only a young lad, our Tino, and a bit overenthusiastic where the chicks are concerned.’
‘And?’
‘And, he got caught fucking a fourteen-year-old.’
‘Christ! The dirty dog.’
‘It wasn’t like that really. I mean, they’re a bit more liberal about these sort of things over in Holland. The age of consent’s like twelve or something, so it’s not frowned on like it is here.’
‘Perverts.’
‘No, no, come on now, Stegsy. When in Rome, and all that.’
‘I’m not in Rome.’
‘You know what I’m saying. Anyway, as it happens, the porn fraternity share your concern at such unwelcome actions. They don’t like that sort of thing – the shagging of chicks so young by their up-and-coming stars. It’s not good for the export business. So they’ve sort of frozen him out. And then there was his accident.’
‘His what?’
‘His accident. He was doing a film a few months back fucking this bird in the wheelbarrow position – you know, holding her up in a semi-handstand while doing her from behind.’
Stegs was horrified. ‘What? That’s a real position?’
‘Come on, Stegsy, get with the Kama Sutra. Of course it is. Provides just the sort of deep penetration a young woman requires. Plus it’s very useful exercise. Builds up your biceps and triceps.’
‘Sounds fucking knackering.’
‘Ah, well, there’s the problem. Tino’s perhaps not as fit as he thinks he is. Too many late nights, and all that. Anyway, there he is, doing this bird at ten to the dozen, just building up a head of steam for the money shot, when he gets a sudden attack of the cramp, mid-thrust. He yelps in pain, stiffens up, so to speak, and can’t fucking move. The director’s going mental, the bird on the receiving end wants to know what the fuck’s going on because obviously she’s a little uncomfortable, and Tino’s just stuck there, legs bent, rooted to the spot, with all the lower-body flexibility of a breezeblock.’
Murk stopped to savour the moment, chuckling heartily. Stegs joined in, unable to help himself.
‘What the fuck happened?’ he asked.
‘Apparently, he was stuck like that for three hours. They had to take him to Casualty in the back of an ambulance with both of them stark bollock naked and him still inside her.’
‘Ah, fuck this, you’re making it up.’
Murk nodded, still chuckling. ‘I am, as it happens. That last bit, anyway. Still, I have heard it’s happened before. And on a porno as well. The rest of it’s true, though. Tino’s not having it easy getting hold of money, and one of his contacts within the industry is this director who’s also fallen on hard times. Apparently, the fourteen-year-old Tino shagged was this bloke’s girlfriend, and he’s like fifty or something. Anyway, he’s the one who’s the source of the gear. Him and Tino have gone into partnership. The director’s producing the goods and Tino’s job’s to find a buyer and transport the stuff to where the transaction’s going to take place. Which is where I come in. I think I must have mentioned to him at some point that I liked to indulge in tablets of a recreational nature, and so he thinks maybe I’d be a useful business partner as well. He was offering the whole batch at six grand.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I wasn’t in the market – cashflow problems, and all that – but I knew a bloke who might be.’ He grinned happily. ‘My mate, Stegsy. As reliable as he is trustworthy. Though I did say you’d probably only pay five for that sort of bulk.’
Stegs nodded. ‘A wise move. I don’t like to fork out too much for my pills.’
‘Exactly. Anyway, I told him I’d try to make contact with you and set up some sort of meeting. What do you think?’
Stegs thought it incredible that informants like Trevor Murk could be quite so blasé about double-crossing and thereby ruining the lives of people they were meant to like, and, since he was suspended, he said as much. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that your actions are going to send that poor bastard down for two, even three, years, minimum?’
Murk looked genuinely upset by the question, as if Stegs had just accused him of something heinous he hadn’t done. Like shagging his best friend’s missus in the wheelbarrow position. ‘I can’t fucking believe you’re getting like that. You lot survive on the sort of info people like me are good enough to provide – at considerable danger to ourselves, I might add. I didn’t ask him to come offering me gear, did I? If he’s stupid enough to try and flog five thousand tabs to someone he once starred in a porn film with, he’s got to accept the, you know, consequences, h
asn’t he? It’s dog eat dog out there, Stegsy. You know that. You don’t bite, you don’t fucking survive. Anyway, you were the one who called him a pervert. Why are you suddenly getting all moralistic about it? Found God or something?’
Stegs stubbed out his cigarette and took a drink from his beer. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘If I found God, Trevor, I’d put him back. No place for someone like him in my life.’
He smiled from behind his near-empty pint glass, pleased that he’d riled Murk. It was a small victory, but it still felt good. He had an urge then to tell him to fuck off. To tell him that he could go and peddle his nasty little tales to some other mug, that he didn’t want anything to do with it. He thought it might even be quite a hoot to print up some posters of Murk with that smug fucking grin of his, and plaster them all over Barnet with the message in bold black letters that here was a grass who made money out of putting fellow scumbags behind bars. Then maybe someone would end up wiping that smile off his face for ever.
But if there was one thing Stegs had learnt over the years, it was never to cut off your nose in order to spite the rest of your face, and already an idea was beginning to form itself in his mind. An idea for a nice little piece of payback. He’d always been good at improvising.
‘Tell him I’m interested,’ he said, ‘and let’s set up an initial meet. As soon as possible.’
Murk grinned, Stegs’s alleged defamation of his character forgotten in the desire to make a bit of cash. ‘That won’t be hard. He’s flying in tomorrow.’
‘Good. Like I say, as soon as possible.’
Murk licked his lips. ‘And, er . . . how much are we talking for this? Gonna be a nice little collar, innit? Nasty Class A peddler, ex-porn star to boot, foreign. That’d look sweet on your record, wouldn’t it?’
He spoke the words coaxingly, like a lustful adult to a child, and another truly unpleasant smile spread like gangrene across his face. The love of money. It really is the root of evil. And all for five hundred-odd quid, which would be the maximum he’d get for a collar like this, courtesy of the taxpayer. Not that, sadly for him, he was going to be seeing any of it. The germ of Stegs’s idea was growing fast. It had potential, real potential. And best of all, it didn’t involve Murk.
The Crime Trade Page 14