Crossing The Line

by Catriona King

  Before they could ask more Lomax was on his feet and out the door, returning a moment later with the dark-haired, green-eyed vice officer, who Andy thought was even prettier up close.

  “This is D.C. Wickes.”

  A game of musical chairs ensued as all three visitors offered Rebecca Wickes their seat, until the constable solved the dilemma graciously by shaking her head and leaning against a wall.

  Lomax restarted the discussion, bemused; he knew that Rebecca was attractive, although not to him, he couldn’t stand tattoos and she had several, but seeing three grown men acting flustered around her was quite a show.

  “Rebecca, these are the officers from the Murder Squad that I told you about. Update them on what you found out from your snouts, please.”

  Andy braced himself, fully prepared to have his fantasy shattered the moment the Vice officer opened her mouth, as had happened so many times before when a gorgeous looking woman had turned out to have a voice like a fork being dragged across a plate. But he was pleasantly surprised when a soft voice with a country accent emerged that said the D.C. hailed from somewhere west of the Bann, possibly even as far away as Donegal.

  “I checked with all my contacts and no-one knew anything about counterfeit drugs, meds or otherwise, except for two croupiers, and even they didn’t know much for a fact. But they had heard rumours about some counterfeit diazepam circulating-”

  Ryan’s finger shot up and she stopped to let him speak.

  “How did they know they were counterfeits?”

  “I asked that too and they both said that they’d seen the tabs and they’d had rough edges where the top and bottom halves joined. I’m not even sure real diazepam is made in halves, but apparently the sides needed filed down to make them smoother and whoever had produced them hadn’t bothered with that.”

  A quick glance at her boss to make sure he was satisfied by her answer and she went on, either not seeing or deliberately ignoring Andy’s increasingly adoring gaze.

  “So then I asked if they’d ever heard of a two-drug combo and one of the girls had. She hadn’t seen any of them but she said there was a rumour that something big was coming and people would soon be able to order exactly the drug combination they liked-”

  Lomax interrupted. “So the drugs will be made to order?”

  His junior shrugged. “Some I suppose, sir, but that would be really expensive, wouldn’t it? I think a bespoke version would only be offered at the top end, for people with real money. But if I were a dealer I’d be mass-producing some basic combinations as well, the ones that are likely to be popular in the clubs. Someone could make a fortune if they got the dose right and got them out to the kids en masse, especially if they were packaged like-”

  Aidan cut in. “This croupier, does she work in a specific casino stroke entertainment club?”

  Wickes’ round eyes narrowed. “She does. But she won’t talk to anyone but me.”

  He nodded, smiling at her defensiveness. “I understand, but that’s not what I was implying. My question would be is that particular casino the place she thinks the combos will be originating from?”

  Her eyes widened again as she realised her error. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t ask. We were talking generalities not specifics.” She glanced at Lomax. “But I can go back and get more detail.”

  As he nodded she added, “Although it would help if I knew more about what was going on before I did.”

  Sensing that they might be putting her in danger Andy decided it was time to speak, albeit in such an under confident voice that it made Ryan picture him as an awkward teen asking out his first girl.

  “You’ll need to be very careful asking questions about this. It mightn’t be safe. We’re not certain yet but there could be violent gangs involved here.”

  He thought he saw a glimmer of warmth enter her eyes, although it might just have been the light.

  Emrys Lomax nodded in thanks.

  “I agree. Rebecca, speak to your informant again and see if she can give you anything more, but arrange to meet her on neutral ground and take one of the others with you. I don’t want you going to that casino alone again.”

  As her mouth opened immediately to object Andy saw his ember about to snuff out, so he got in first.

  “What if one of us went with you? I’d be happy to.” He didn’t dare look at the other men for fear that he would see them smirk again. “If this casino has something to do with the sale or delivery of these drugs then we need to know about it.”

  Lomax glanced at his officer, and to his surprise she gave a nod.

  “Just as long as it’s none of our guys, sir. They give me a hard enough time for being a girl.”

  “OK, then, that’s settled. D.C.I. Angel here will be in touch.”

  Aidan ignored the unreadable look being exchanged between the new teammates and returned to the point in hand.

  “This casino. What’s its name?”

  “Zenith. It’s in Warehouse Lane in the Cathedral Quarter.”

  Lomax added more detail. “It opened last year. It’s owned by a consortium of people from here and mainland Europe. We don’t have their names yet, although it isn’t for lack of trying. It’s listed at Companies House under something called Rosco Enterprises. That’s bound to be a front but our analyst hasn’t got behind it yet.”

  Aidan nodded phlegmatically. They’d come across front companies many times and always with a common theme; hidden ownership meant that there was something shady going on.

  A cough made him turn to see Ryan tapping his watch. It was almost time to head upstairs. As the murder cops rose to their feet Aidan made their farewells.

  “Thanks, Emrys. We’ve a briefing to prepare for now, but Andy will be in touch. I’ll pass the Rosco Enterprises info on to our analysts and hopefully by tomorrow we’ll be able to tell you a bit more all round.”

  That more would include the detectives reporting that there had been a second death.

  ****

  Mahon Prison.

  John Winter stood unmoving in the middle of Filip Pojello’s cell despite the flurry of jump-suited people around him, covering every accessible surface with fingerprint dust and tweezering barely visible fragments of material into plastic bags and then passing them across to Des Marsham to peruse under a light. After ten minutes of doing that the forensic scientist was just about to quit the room in favour of a drain inspection when Craig and Liam entered, bringing the number of people in the tiny space to eight and prompting him to clap his gloved hands together as loudly as was possible and yell, “Everyone who isn’t a cop or a doctor of something get out.”

  Des would later be chided that the words had sounded elitist but at the time they did the trick. Thirty seconds later the cell was empty apart from the four of them and Craig shut the door firmly on the babble outside.

  He gazed first around the whole room and then at the scientist, until finally he could avoid it no longer and he allowed his gaze to fall on his best friend.

  “Thanks for coming, John.” Adding awkwardly, “And you too, Des, of course.”

  The detective sounded to like the inexperienced host of a student party and Liam stored the episode away for future jokes, then he attempted to defuse the tension by gesturing at the dead man on the bed, now covered from the chest down by a plastic transport bag but his exposed face still the unspeakable horror that they’d seen an hour before.

  “Nasty.”

  When no response came but a nod from Des, Craig took his life in his hands and moved closer to the pathologist, rationalising that at least the presence of others would prevent him from being overtly rude.

  “What can you tell us about the victim, John?”

  The response was quick and if Craig was being honest, predictable.

  “He’s dead.”

  It was part of his punishment for not telling him that Katy was pregnant and he was willing to take it on the chin, but Liam wasn’t; if he was able to deal with the fact Craig hadn’t
confided in him when he spent all day every day with him then the Doc should just act like a bloody grown up and suck it up.

  He let his opinion show.

  “Ach, we know he’s dead, man! Can you not get past your sulk for long enough to tell us what made him that way?”

  A thumbs-up from Des said that Liam had at least one vote in his favour, and when John and Craig both turned on him at the same moment the D.C.I. knew that his work there was done.

  “You can’t speak to him/me that way!” rang out in such a whiney chorus that it made first two, and then all four men laugh.

  “This isn’t over, Marc” from the pathologist and a nod from Craig said that whatever arguing remained to be done by them would be done at another time, and a rundown of Filip Pojello’s likely manner and cause of death followed, confirming to the detectives that the Lithuanian had gone the way of his erstwhile friend, Derek Smyth.

  Liam turned to the subject of forensics. “Did you see the bag of tabs we found? And the phone?”

  Des nodded. “I’ll print them both first thing in the morning, but they could take a bit of time to match. We’ll have to run them against all the inmates and staff. I’ll check the tablets’ constituents as well, although my guess is they’ll be the same as the ones you found with Smyth.”

  Liam was about to make the scientist’s job easier. “Try matching the prints against Pojello, Smyth, and a scrote called Jim Morris. He’s a guest here.”

  Des heavy eyebrows shot up. “You think he did it?”

  His answer was a nod by both policemen and then Craig carried on.

  “We’ve just interviewed Morris and he was in here this afternoon, ostensibly to leave back a book to Pojello but we believe to swop his usual tabs for spiked ones. His cell’s being searched for the real diazepam tablets now. Actually, Liam, could you nip out and see what they’ve found. If there are any tabs there Des should take those with him too.”

  The forensic scientist followed him out. “I’m going to take a look at that drain you found, and I’ll need a copy of the fibre-optic tape to take back with me.” He had just exited when he stuck his head back around the door, “You’re filthy, Marc, did you know that? And you smell like... actually, I don’t know what you smell like but it isn’t good. No pressure... just in case you ever fancied a shower.”

  Then he disappeared with Liam and Craig heard the two men guffawing as they walked away, leaving him alone in a six by eight space with his still disgruntled best friend. He decided to bite the bullet.

  “I’m sorry, John, I should have told you. But, well... things were pretty uncertain between Katy and me for a while so we weren’t sure what to say...”

  He got an unimpressed, “Hmmm...” in response.

  Deciding that he might as well be hung for a sheep than a lamb the detective continued. “OK, so, I was going to tell you this tonight over a drink, but it’s likely to be late when we finish the briefing and you might want to get home...”

  He stared down at his feet in silence for a moment, wondering how to frame his next words, and then deciding that there was no easy or elegant way of saying what he needed to so he should just blurt it out.

  “We’re married as well! Katy and I, me, we’re...married...” He decided to go the whole hog, “Twice actually. In a registry office and then, well, the parents went berserk, so we did it again in church the week before last.”

  He heard the pathologist gasp, and although he didn’t want to look at his face his eyes were drawn there inexorably. What Craig saw there wasn’t fury as he’d expected, but the martyred calmness of a wronged yet still charitable man.

  “Congratulations.”

  The detective gawped at him. “Congratulations? That’s all you’ve got to say? Not, you should have told me, Marc, or, I’m furious?”

  John gave a pained sigh. “No, although I’d be entitled to say all of that... But what I’d really like to know is when everybody else knew.”

  Craig shook his head, hurrying to reassure him. “They don’t know. My team don’t know a thing except for Liam, and I only told him yesterday. Even our parents didn’t know that we’d got married the first time.”

  A small smile twitched at the medic’s lips.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “Smiling, not laughing, and it’s at you for being such a stupid dick. You’re so secretive it isn’t normal, Marc. You realise that, don’t you?”

  It was Craig’s turn to huff. “I’m entitled to keep my private life private.”

  “Not to this extreme! It’s pathological! When were you planning on telling people that you were a father? When the kid goes out to work?” He warmed to his theme. “And Katy’s just as bad, although in her case it’s more shyness than paranoia, but I can’t believe that no-one at work knew she was pregnant until it was written up on a bloody board! What’s she embarrassed about? That you have sex? I’ve news for the new Mrs Craig; you’ve been doing that since you were seventeen! I knew your first girlfriend, remember.”

  Craig’s eyes widened. “For God’s sake don’t call her that!”

  “Call her what?”

  “Mrs Craig. She’ll never speak to you again. She’s staying Doctor Stevens.”

  John sighed in empathy; he had his own challenges over names at home. “And when the baby arrives? What’s it going to be called? Baby Craig-Stevens, Stevens-Craig? Or maybe Staig or Crevens?”

  Craig palmed his face. “Agh... don’t. One challenge at a time is all I can cope with.”

  “The pathologist gawped at him. “You deal with murderers every day but you can’t deal with this?!”

  He reached inside his jumpsuit and brought out his wallet, taking out a business card and handing it across. Craig saw it carried the name of a doctor.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Amanda Beresford. She’s a relationship counsellor and she’s brilliant. Takes zero shit from either side. It sounds like you two might need her.”

  The dig made Craig wince, but he knew that he deserved it for not confiding in his friend.

  John gathered up his things briskly. “Right now, I’ve a van outside waiting to take Mister Pojello to the mortuary and I’ll do his PM tomorrow. What time are you briefing later? I might come.”

  “Six-thirty.”

  The pathologist made a quick call and then pulled open the cell door, beckoning to the guard outside.

  “The technicians will be here in a moment to remove the body and the CSIs are coming back. Seal the cell once everyone’s gone, please.”

  He turned back to see a doleful Craig still gazing at the business card, and smiled at how quickly the tables had turned.

  “Are you coming, Marc? I’d like to see this amazing drain before we leave. Oh, and I’ve a spare shirt in the boot you can have if you want it, but you really need to find somewhere to shower.”

  ****

  Garvan’s Bookies.

  “Well, that’s Pojello gone.”

  “So early?”

  “Yeh, he took the tab sooner than we thought.”

  The businessman gazed at Rory McCrae as he made the death announcement, allowing himself a moment’s reflection on the demise of a man that he had once called a friend. It wasn’t a long moment and there was no regret attached; Filip Pojello’s murder hadn’t been personal, although he conceded that it might have felt that way to him. But this was business, where there was no room for sentiment, so he returned to the task in hand without any further comment on the death.

  “The shipment is coming in at ten-thirty. Do you have everything in place?”

  The Loyalist took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out in a plume before he answered. He imagined that it made him look like Humphrey Bogart as Philip Marlowe. OK, so he wore trainers instead of cap-toed Oxfords and he didn’t have a fedora tilted back on his head, but in his immature, like a teenager’s but without the innocent appeal, view of the world, McCrae saw both himself and Bogey as hard men working outside the
law, making big deals in small, smoke-filled rooms.

  His own run-down office and his ally’s almost nineteen-forties’ elegance reinforced the delusion and encouraged him to reply to the question out of the side of his mouth, with his cigarette bouncing up and down as he spoke.

  “Yeh. Tomelty will be there. All it’ll take is a gun shoved in his face an’ he’ll hand over the shipment, no sweat.”

  His companion stared at him as if he was insane, wondering again why he was associating with such a low-life and planning to get shot of him as soon as he could.

  “Why are you speaking in an American accent?”

  “’Cos I’m-”

  The disdain in the other man’s eyes made McCrae stop short and straighten up in his chair, hastily stubbing out his cigarette.

  “I wuzn’t doin’ American!”

  It wasn’t worth arguing about so the man continued with his plan.

  “You will hijack Tomelty a mile from the docks and transfer the drugs to our van. Then you will threaten him that if he does not agree to work for us in future either we will blackmail him until he does, or we will kill him rather than let him speak to the police.”

  There was no question in the words; they were presented as a fact, or else.

  “OK. He’ll get the stuff marked inspected an’ then after the customs have gone he’ll drive it away. We’ll be waitin’ a mile down the road tee nick it. We can threaten him in an empty warehouse. There’re loads of them round there never used.”

  The businessman relaxed in his seat and tilted back the hat that he was actually wearing.

  “Explain to me again why the customs officer is going to mark the cargo legitimate?”

  “’Cos he trusts Tomelty. He’s spent months cosyin’ up tee him so they share the customs checks these days. They always work teegether on the night shift now, so it’ll be no sweat.” McCrae chuckled. “Decker trained him well. RIP Decker. You had your uses.”

  “He had better have. The operation depends on it. There is five-hundred-thousand pounds worth of drugs inside those containers and if we lose it then I will blame you.”