Skelgill listens grim faced. The fact that DS Eve has a foot in DI Smart’s camp makes him think that her speculation is probably founded on fact. He has been reluctant to sit down, but now he sinks into his seat and begins to slurp at his tea. It seems to have some palliative effect – his brooding countenance slowly becomes one of contemplation. He drains the mug, and puts it down carefully and exhales.
‘What’s the latest?’
His gaze is lowered and his question is aimed at neither of his subordinates in particular. But it is DS Eve that speaks first.
‘I met with Lily Hall.’ She hesitates, to allow the name of the reforming addict to register with her colleagues. ‘Naturally she was never going to be exactly forthcoming – but there is more than that. She is frightened. Terrified, I should say. And of course she has a pre-school child from whom she is separated. No doubt she has been threatened.’
‘What – by the girl?’ It is DS Leyton that interjects.
DS Eve shakes her head.
‘When I told her about Anna there was a reaction of concern – if only a flicker, she could not disguise it – despite that her presence was probably what had tipped Lily Hall over into needing rehab. She said she had known her for six months – since Christmas time – and that she had met her about town – that was all she claimed to be able to remember. She said Anna liked the child and sometimes visited her house – she doesn’t know where she was living – which may or may not be true. But she did raise an eyebrow when I put it to her that the girl appeared to have moved into her place. Lily Hall has been in rehab for the past month – the staff told me she is on a twelve-week programme – and so far she appears to be sticking to the schedule. Her motivation is to get her child back. She is trying hard. But it’s clear she doesn’t want to say anything that she perceives will put either of them at risk.’
‘I can understand that.’ DS Leyton’s tone is introspective.
‘As for Anna – some progress from the hospital. Her condition is stable – although they are treating her with methadone. The Slovak nurse has spoken with her and confirmed she is a compatriot – the girl told her she is from Košice near the border with Ukraine and that she is from the Roma community. The nurse’s opinion is that she has been trafficked – but the girl is both weak and reluctant to speak about how she came to be here. Quite likely she fears repercussions – for the safety of her family. The hospital estimate it will be at least a few days before she will be in a condition for us to interview her.’
Skelgill is listening, rather vacantly, it must be said – although he has not pinned any hopes on these leads; such has been the pattern of this investigation. He clears his throat.
‘What about the property – Lily Hall’s place?’
His question is directed at DS Eve.
‘A certain symmetry with 26 Hempstead Avenue – other than the main resident was not present, obviously. But there is very little to connect us to the brains of the operation. As we know, Hempstead Avenue was thoroughly cleaned out – here we have a girl with no paper trail – if she had a passport or ID documents, you can bet someone else is holding them. Otherwise she seems to have been operating beneath the local authority’s radar. The main item of interest would be a mobile phone – of which there was no trace. Quite likely the person we disturbed managed to snatch a few such essentials – indeed was in the process of doing so when we entered. There was a scattering of drugs – cannabis and a variety of tablets that are being analysed. But no heroin. It looks like that was administered – laced with fentanyl – by a person or persons unknown. Take your pick of the BMW or the Mercedes.’
‘Ah – Guvnor.’ DS Leyton jumps in. ‘Interesting bit of info from the door-to-door inquiries. Chap who lives across the road – he was watching the World Cup on the telly – seems like most folk were, what with England reaching the quarters.’ Skelgill glowers impatiently, as if this is a subject he does not wish to be reminded of. DS Leyton hurries on with his explanation. ‘He got up from the settee to draw the curtains – and he reports seeing two people, a man and a woman enter through the front door without anyone letting them in. That must have been you and DS Eve, Guv.’ (Skelgill is implacable, but DS Eve is nodding.) ‘He thought it was a bit odd – so he continued watching – next thing some geezer comes legging it round the corner of the house, jumps in the Mercedes, and drives off.’
‘What did he see then?’
‘England got a penalty, Guv – so he went back to the TV – forgot all about it until we came knocking.’ DS Leyton draws the fingers of one hand through his tousle of dark hair. ‘That’s when Jamie Knobble scored the winner, Guv.’
Skelgill glowers at his sergeant’s postscript. DS Eve quickly interjects.
‘So at least that confirms the Mercedes driver was not the elderly lady to whom it is registered. Do we have a description?’
DS Leyton grimaces and glances at his notes.
‘Male – like I say – he was wearing a dark blue or black tracksuit with the hood pulled up. The witness described him as moving like a younger man – but under forty was as far as he would go. So far we’ve not managed to track down any CCTV in the immediate vicinity.’ He gazes appealingly at Skelgill. ‘If we could deploy extra resources we could probably find which way the car went – it’s quite a distinctive model – could have been picked up passing a shop or a pub or a petrol forecourt.’
Skelgill screws up his features.
‘Even if we could, Leyton – what would that tell us? Happen it’s not turned up back at the owner’s address?’
‘As of last night, negative, Guv.’
There ensues a silence, sufficiently prolonged for DS Leyton to switch tack.
‘How about you, Guv – how did you get on? I mean on Monday at the car dealer’s – what is it, Marty’s Motor Mart? Hah – sounds like a chip off old Arthur Daley’s block.’
Skelgill looks suddenly rather discomfited – for of course his investigations in this regard began and ended with his rather strained telephone conversation with the mercurial Trish – from whom he is reminded he has not received information as promised. But he is in something of a cleft stick as far as she and others are concerned. One of his tenets is that if folk know they are being investigated their behaviour becomes entirely inimical to productive inquiry. It is for this reason – and not just that the likes of Marty or Mouse or Megan Graham are his relatives, albeit distant – that he has maintained an arm’s-length approach.
‘Work in progress, Leyton.’
Skelgill glares belligerently at his sergeant, who recognises the signal and responds accordingly.
‘Righto, Guv – I know where you’re coming from – I’ve got the same kind of issue with the Jam Eaters. DS Underwood couldn’t really come up with anything off the cuff – but he’s had a chinwag with a brother-in-law who’s got a pal that used to be in the gang. This geezer’s still got connections – so there’s a good chance we can get the low-down on what they’re getting up to. Might have to grease a palm or two, Guv – I left that with DS Underwood – he seems to know what he’s doing.’
Skelgill reacts sullenly. He harbours an almost pathological aversion to paid-for information. The temptation to embellish or even to invent is just too great when the carrot of used banknotes is dangled. He would prefer trusted sources – one of whom – his most trusted source – appears to have been rendered incommunicado.
*
‘No matter how hard you look, she won’t appear, cock!’
Skelgill – much to his chagrin – can’t help starting at the voice from behind; such is stealing up the scourge of carpeted open-plan offices. He jerks about from his perusal of the papers that are neatly arranged on DS Jones’s desk, cases in progress, each docketed with a precise action list. DI Smart’s accent seems all the more grating than usual, that there is a Manchester theme permeating this case – an aspect from which he has been largely excluded. He notices that DI Smart, despite all his Cheshire cat brav
ado, keeps a distance of a good two paces. He preens the lapels of his designer suit and regards Skelgill with disingenuous concern. But it is plain he is inquisitive as to why Skelgill might be checking the desk.
‘Something I can help you with, Skel?’
‘I doubt it, Smart.’
DI Smart affects offence – although it is arguably merited by Skelgill’s unfriendly manner – but Skelgill is not about to kowtow – it is bad enough that the Mancunian has seemingly co-opted DS Jones’s part-time position into some full-time role, and that Skelgill has not been consulted or even made privy to such. To admit to his being in the dark and give DI Smart the satisfaction of superior knowledge is simply not an option – even if it means cutting off his own nose to spite his face. He can go and complain to the Chief – but he can accurately predict, he is certain, that she will simply confirm the situation – that DS Jones is on an undercover assignment, on a need-to-know basis – and that, right now, he does not need to know. It is part of the bigger picture to which only certain officers are privy. He will be dismissed with a flea in his ear and orders to continue his fruitless quest amongst the grass roots.
‘Not to worry, Skel – I reckon I’ll have it cracked by the weekend – then you can get your crew back onto rounding up sheep and chasing tractors with no road tax.’ He cackles – though a note of uncertainty creeps into his voice as he sees that Skelgill’s left hand is balled into a fist at his hip. ‘Must fly – got a drug baron to put behind bars.’
He grins malevolently, and turns and strides away, his pristine leather soles slipping silently over the carpet. Skelgill, stiff like a sentry that has been ticked off by his sergeant major, watches him go – then brings up the balled fist in front of his chest. He stares at it – and unfurls his fingers. In the palm of his hand is a small yellow Post-it, now slightly crumpled. In what he recognises as DS Jones’s flowing hand with its generous curlicues is written #Baghdad. The word brings an ironic smile to Skelgill’s lips. The explanation – for this is a locational message intended for him – is not that she has been despatched further afield than anyone is prepared to admit – nor some trending social media meme – nor even that she is to be found at some western Asian restaurant (although an eatery is certainly likely to be closer to the mark) – but that this is a coded 7-digit telephone number. The brainchild of DS Jones, the simple version would be that A equals zero, B equals one, C equals two – and so on up to J equals nine. However, in good spying tradition, DS Jones had scrambled the first ten letters of the alphabet. They wouldn’t want anyone trying to crack the code thinking they were daft country coppers, would they? A further security device is that Skelgill must determine the area code – for the seven digits refer only to the local number. Additionally, Skelgill must remember where he has put the cipher – for unlike DS Jones he has not memorised the sequence. As he wanders away he crosses his fingers that the area code will not prove to be that of Manchester, 0161 – and that maybe the glove compartment of his car is a good bet for the cipher.
16. DECEPTIVE APPEARANCES
Thursday, morning
It is a while since Skelgill last frequented Workington’s shopping centre – he had forgotten about the precinct and has ended up parking in nearby Portland Square – on another day a place to linger, a little oasis of Georgian charm, with its irregular cobbles and perpendicular geometry. For the time being it suffices as a spot where he will not attract attention to himself. He locks his car and strides briskly away downhill through narrow lanes. Crossing a busy Washington Street he enters the pedestrian zone. It had come as a relief to find that DS Jones’s coded telephone number was that of a coffee shop herein. It was his first attempt – 01900 for Workington being an educated guess (or wishful thinking?) – and, frankly, if it had been Manchester, what could he have done? A speculative trip here in Cumbria – no problem. But he couldn’t just ‘pop’ down to Lancashire on the off chance that she would appear at one of their pre-agreed times, 11am, 3pm. He ponders where would have been next on his list – Penrith, Keswick, Whitehaven? He shrugs – no matter, he hadn’t needed to try – the odds of a café or pub in some such place having the same phone number must be billions to one against; DS Leyton could probably tell him. But what about the odds of the phone number spelling out Baghdad?
He is a little surprised she has chosen one of the swanky chain coffee houses. If she has gone under cover in the manner he anticipates, a greasy spoon or sleazy bar would surely have seemed more apposite. Then again, maybe that would be too predictable; and he would stand out as an improbable patron. He sees her straightaway, and he knows she has seen him, though she continues hunched over her mobile phone – evidently not her regular handset, as he has made numerous unsuccessful attempts to get responses from that. (No doubt they will have given her clean kit with no compromising information.) The café has a handful of other customers, all female as it happens, of the mum-with-toddler-and-granny variety, all suitably preoccupied. He walks up to the counter – and is immediately conflicted – to his way of thinking coffee flatters to deceive like no other beverage; such a tantalising aroma, but he could drink a gallon and still feel thirsty. He scowls; the crafty coffee marketers have folk paying more for a fancy concoction than the price of a novel that takes a year to write and a month to read! But he has little time for novels either. He orders a straight tea, and swallows the price tag.
He sits alone at a table, facing out so that he can see the interior of the café in its entirety, the entrance and the floor-to-ceiling plate glass that gives on to the precinct on two sides. He pulls a crumpled copy of Angling Times from his jacket and tosses it on the table. Then he busies himself with several packets of sugar and a wooden stirrer. DS Jones is at the table beside him. Without looking up from her mobile, she speaks quietly.
‘Sorry, Guv – I was dragged away – almost literally. There was a window of opportunity and they didn’t want to miss it.’
Skelgill bares his teeth in a grimace; to an onlooker it would not be apparent that he even speaks.
‘What’s the plan?’
‘Manchester have got tabs on these dealers – the pair you have seen in the black BMW. They’re known as the Savage cousins. They’ve got form – there are warrants out for them – we really only need to pick them up. But Manchester want to catch them in the act – they’ve infiltrated the Savages’ social circle. The word is that they’re coming to Cumbria at the weekend to do some more cleaning up.’
Skelgill is leaning over his newspaper, staring at an improbably massive pike held sagging, its great guts spilling over the grip of a grinning gap-toothed angler who simultaneously manages to keep a half-smoked roll-up in the corner of his mouth. Skelgill hisses into the back of his hand, his tone laced with repugnance.
‘You make it sound like Bosnia.’
DS Jones does not answer directly.
‘Apparently there’s some local interference – it’s proving to be a thorn in their side.’
Perversely Skelgill finds a modicum of satisfaction in local crooks resisting the invasion that now sees most English counties in thrall to metropolitan drug gangs.
‘Aye – but that’s not a plan – that’s their plan. What’s ours?’
DS Jones still has her head bowed over her mobile phone – and her untrained hair provides a veil that hides her face. But now she straightens up and Skelgill glances casually sideways at her, as if attracted by the movement. An onlooker would simply see a guy optimistically sizing up a girl a decade his junior. But Skelgill has to hide his shock. The outfit she wears is just slightly shabby, trainers, jeans, and a denim jacket over a t-shirt – decent gear, but past its wash-by date – though it reveals her figure. However, it is not her apparel that disconcerts him, but her looks – for a young woman who turns heads when she wears no make-up, they have done a fine job in transforming her into a pale, drawn creature with a sallow complexion, dark crescents beneath her eyes, and hair that is unwashed, tangled and patchily dyed. Or
maybe she did this to herself? Whatever the answer, she looks the part. She does not return his attention, but leans back over her handset. Her words are just discernable above the clinks and cries and chatter of the café.
‘I’m in a council flat not far from here. The back story – I’ve left my violent partner in Penrith. I’m looking for drugs. But I’ve got a massive debt. So I’m also looking for extra work.’
‘Where’s your income supposed to be coming from?’
DS Jones seems to hesitate.
‘Beg, steal or borrow, Guv.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Social security.’ Her suggestion does not sound convincing, and Skelgill detects there is an element of her cover story she is reluctant to mention. But she anticipates his alarm. ‘Don’t worry, Guv – I shan’t be stealing anything.’
It is not the full answer – Skelgill makes a tutting sound – but he knows they have limited time.
‘How will you make contact?’
‘I already have, Guv. A young guy approached me after I’d had a benefits interview at the DWP offices.’
‘They don’t let the grass grow under their feet.’
‘Not when it comes to the next fix.’
Skelgill mechanically turns a couple of pages of his newspaper.
‘How did you know he was one of theirs?’
‘An undercover officer tailed him from Manchester last week.’
Skelgill is staring unseeingly at a photograph of a keep-net buckling under the weight of a great silver spangled haul of bream.
‘I still don’t see how you break in.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 46