Читать книгу No Place to Hide - Jack Slater - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Steve Patton here. Fire investigator. Sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you, but I’ve been kind of busy.’

‘Hello,’ Pete replied. ‘No problem. Thanks for calling. What have you got?’

‘Nothing basically. The caller blocked his number.’

‘Oh.’ That sounded suspicious right off the bat.

‘Yeah, so all I can tell you is, it was a youngish-sounding male.’

‘Nothing distinctive in the background?’

‘Nope.’

Pete grimaced. ‘OK. You couldn’t send me over a copy of the tape, could you?’

‘I haven’t got it – the call centre have. But I can get them to do it, yeah.’

‘Great. Thanks, Steve.’

‘You got something, boss?’ Jane asked as he ended the call.

‘Nothing useful, no. Just, whoever called in the fire at Tyler’s didn’t leave their details and blocked their number when they made the call.’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe they just didn’t want to get involved further than doing their civic duty.’

‘Maybe.’ But, how many people would even think of blocking their number for reasons like that? Not many. And the fact that it was a ‘young-sounding male’, made it seem even more suspicious.

Pete put his phone away and headed for the DCI’s office.

*

‘Again?’ Silverstone put down his pen and sat back in his chair. ‘What is it this time, Detective Sergeant?’

‘I’ve got some bad news, sir.’

‘Strangely, I’m not surprised. What is it?’

‘Operation Natterjack, sir.’ The DCI’s pet project had been a huge force-wide synchronised series of raids designed to wipe a large proportion of the two counties’ drug dealers and pushers off the streets in one go. It was the reason that Pete had been recalled two weeks early from compassionate leave, to provide cover here in the station while the raids were carried out.

‘What about it?’

‘There was a comprehensive and glaring omission from it, sir. I’ve been speaking to a CI I developed recently and to the governor of the city jail and it seems that there were no arrests at all amongst the Armenian community, yet there definitely should have been.’

‘Explain.’ Silverstone’s dark eyes turned cold as he sat forward, hands clasped on his desk.

Pete quickly laid out the facts.

‘And, what does Jim have to say about this?’

DS Jim Hancock was the local drugs expert and the man who had originally arrested Steven Lockwood for possession with intent to supply Class A drugs.

‘I haven’t spoken to him, sir. In the circumstances, I thought it best to bring this straight to you, as someone who definitely doesn’t have an axe to grind.’

Silverstone’s eyes widened. ‘You’re suggesting that Jim Hancock might be . . . ?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir. I’m eliminating the possibility. I thought it best, in the circumstances. As I said, not only was the Armenian left out of the frame, so was his entire crew, or family or whatever they are.’

‘So, you immediately suspect your colleague, a man you work with . . .’

‘I don’t suspect anyone, sir. Not without evidence. But there’s only one man in this nick that we can be sure has no local connections that might have jeopardised any part of Operation Natterjack. And that’s you. So, here I am.’

‘Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, Sergeant. I think. But how would you suggest we proceed from that point?’

‘Cautiously, sir. Cards close to the chest. My team weren’t involved in the operation and we developed this conclusion between us, so they’re under strict orders to tell no one else about it. For now, we’re intelligence-gathering. Does the Armenian really exist? If so, what connections does he have? Where is he? We have a name for him, but is it real? Then, we go from there.’

‘Very well. But, if this gets out, Sergeant . . .’

‘I know.’ I’ll have your full support – not.

Silverstone shook his head. ‘You don’t know the half of it. You’ll be a pariah. Your career as a police officer will be over.’

Pete drew a slow breath, fighting down his anger. What the hell had he expected? Silverstone didn’t want his record tarnished, his rise through the ranks jeopardised or even delayed. ‘I don’t want it to be true any more than you do, sir. These are people I’ve worked with for years. Friends, some of them. But if it is true, then it needs dealing with. And, if I can be frank – from your point of view, it’s better dealt with promptly than discovered later, after you’ve moved on, isn’t it? I mean, if someone else came in after you and uncovered it, there’d inevitably be questions asked about why it wasn’t dealt with sooner.’

He saw the change in Silverstone’s expression and wondered if he had taken a step too far. ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ the DCI said with exaggerated calmness, his dark eyes glittering with barely suppressed anger. ‘But be absolutely clear. If it’s true, I want it weeded out, quietly and efficiently. If it’s not, then woe betide the man or woman who lets it out. Even a hint of a suggestion of it.’

‘Sir.’

‘Find what’s to be found, Sergeant, tell absolutely no one and bring it straight to me. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

*

Walking back into the squad room, Pete saw that Dick Feeney was back at his desk from his afternoon’s mandatory training. The other three teams looked and sounded replete with returned bodies, too.

‘Nice nap, Dickie?’ he asked as he took his seat.

‘Well, it comes but once a year. Be rude not to take the opportunity, wouldn’t it?’

‘Have this lot filled you in?’

‘Yes. Bit of a dodgy wicket, isn’t it?’

‘You haven’t heard the half of it, matey. Fast-track is not a happy camper. I thought he was pissed off this morning, but now I’m really off his Christmas card list. We’re on our own on this. No one but us must even get a hint of a breath of a clue about it until we’ve reached a conclusion and taken it to him, in person. He doesn’t want it screwing up his promotional prospects.’

Dick laughed. ‘And there’s the real rub, eh? Never mind any other implications.’

‘Well, at least we know where we stand,’ Jane said from opposite Pete.

‘Yeah, on a cowpat in the middle of a slurry pit,’ Dave agreed.

‘Doc Chambers called while you were in there,’ Jane said. ‘He’s been on to the coroner and got two exhumation orders for other potential victims. He’ll keep us updated, he said.’

‘Any news on the foreign fellow we were talking about earlier?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Dave said.

‘Well, keep on it. If he’s out there, we need to find him before he gets nervous and does a disappearing act. I’ll be back in a minute.’

*

Although there was a staff canteen on the top floor of the station, a small storeroom opposite DCI Silverstone’s office had been converted into a kitchenette. White cupboards and a cheap grey worktop held a microwave, toaster and fridge as well as a hot-water geyser above the sink. Pete got six mugs out of the cupboard and spooned in the makings of four coffees and two teas. Then he took out his phone and tapped the speed-dial for home.

It was picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Button. How was your day?’

‘OK. You’re going to be late, aren’t you?’

Pete swirled the tea bag in the second cup until it looked the right colour. ‘Afraid so, love. We’ve picked up a new case and it’s a complicated one. We need to get the basics done before we call it a night. Fish and chips?’

‘What time?’

‘Half-seven at the latest.’ He hooked out the tea bag and dropped it in the pedal-top bin.

‘OK.’

‘Sorry, Button. I know you miss me. But not as much as I miss you.’

‘So you say.’

‘What does that mean? Are you taking your mum’s side now?’

Louise resented the fact that he’d gone back to work long before she was ready to do the same. It followed on, no doubt, from the arguments they’d been having for some time before their son went missing about the hours he put in, here at the station. He couldn’t understand why, as a nurse, she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – grasp that his job was as much a vocation as hers, the main difference being that, when her shift ended, there was someone there to replace her whereas he didn’t have that luxury.

‘It means actions speak louder than words, Dad. It’s one of the things I learned about at school today.’

‘I’m going to have to have words with that teacher of yours.’

‘She’s right, though, isn’t she?’

‘Who – your mum?’ Pete lifted milk from the fridge and started pouring it into the six mugs.

‘No, silly. Miss Jennings.’

He sighed. ‘Yes, Button. She is. At least, mostly. Me, I’m conflicted. It’s a special case. I’ve got two places I need to be and I can’t be in both at once. Anyway, I love you and I’ll be home as soon as the wicked DCI lets us out, OK? How’s your mum?’

He finished pouring the milk and put it away.

‘She’s OK. She’s watching Countdown.’

Pete’s lips pressed together. Louise had started to improve, recently, from the semi-catatonic state she’d inhabited for months after Tommy’s disappearance. His showing up in the Rosie Whitlock abduction had helped, even if he did vanish again at the first opportunity. But the fact that he clearly wasn’t coming home had knocked her back almost as soon as the fact that he was alive had spurred her on. ‘OK, love. I’ll see you later. Soon as I can, all right? Tell your mum for me. Love you.’

‘Love you too, Dad.’

‘Bye.’ He ended the call, stirred the mugs and put them all on a tray to take back into the squad room for his team. They were going to need caffeine.

*

‘Thanks, boss.’

Jane leaned across to take the last of the mugs from Pete. He atood the tray against the end of his desk and sat down.

‘There’s news,’ she said quietly.

‘What?’ Pete looked up, frowning.

Her green eyes locked onto his with a rarely seen intensity. ‘Tommy.’

Pete froze, tension crackling through him. ‘What about him?’

‘The enhanced CCTV’s back from the Co-op where Burton claimed to have dropped Tommy off on the way back into town. Still nothing probative on the car, but the boy in the shop is definitely Tommy and he looks like he’s been through the mill. I had a word with Alan Westbury. He also said that they’ve finally got hold of the assistant from that night. She said he bought plasters and bandages and stuff. Claimed he fell out of a tree. She had her doubts, but she didn’t know him, so what could she do?’

Pete slumped back in his chair, feeling suddenly weak. His son was alive and out there somewhere, just beyond reach. The confirmation was a huge relief, but at the same time utterly depressing. The boy was hurt and alone, God knew where, and too scared to approach anyone. He looked up at Jane. ‘Hold on. You spoke to Alan about this?’

Alan Westbury was one of Simon Phillips’ DCs.

‘Yes. Why not? I was following up on a legitimate lead. Burton’s our case. He admitted dropping Tommy off there. And, according to Rosie, Tommy’s a potential witness.’

‘OK.’ He nodded slowly. ‘But, don’t push your luck on my account, all right? I don’t want you getting into trouble.’

‘Heard back from one of my CIs,’ Dave said. ‘He knows of an Armenian family that’s not exactly squeaky clean. He doesn’t know them, per se, just of them, but it might be a start. I’m going to see him later.’

‘Nice one, Dave. Anyone else got anything?’ He got no response, so checked his watch. ‘OK. If I hurry, I might just catch one of my blokes. Don’t stay up too late, kids. Long day tomorrow.’ He grabbed his jacket and hurried out.

Traffic was already busy on the Heavitree Road when he stepped outside, but he took the car anyway. Working his way around the one-way system, he reached the city centre in about as long as it would have taken him to walk and turned down onto Fore Street. The high, narrow buildings hemmed the street in on either side, telephone lines criss-crossing between them like a scene from a 1970s San Francisco cop show. The shops on the ground floors were closing up, the bars and restaurants opening. Car roofs gleamed under the street lights. The pedestrians on the narrow pavements were thinning out and getting younger, practical dress giving way to decorative as the evening crowd took over.

Pete found a parking space on the steep hill and pulled in. He walked down past the end of the dark alley that led past a cinema to the scruffy, blue edifice of Mamma Stone’s club. A couple of doors further on was the pool hall he was heading for.

The place was still fairly quiet, most of the guys around the tables. Just three stood at the bar, drinks in front of them. There was no sign of Darren Westley.

Back outside, he leaned on a lamp post just beyond the side street, took out his phone and pretended to play with it. A bus went past, barely fitting between the cars parked down one side and the narrow pavement on the other. A group of girls in short, sparkly dresses stepped past him and turned down towards the cinema and the nightclub beyond.

Pete wondered how on earth they managed to avoid hypothermia with more skin exposed than covered in temperatures that were set to drop near to freezing in the next few hours. Then he saw the distinctive mop of ginger hair weaving through the crowd towards him. He pushed away from the lamp post and put his phone away as he stepped past the girls and headed quickly down the hill.

He met Westley two doors beyond the pool hall. Put out an arm to wrap around the other man’s shoulder and turn him smoothly to one side.

‘Hello, Darren. Fancy meeting you here. Do you want to get a drink somewhere?’

‘That would screw my reputation, wouldn’t it – being seen with you? What do you want?’ Up close, Westley could be seen to be suffering. He looked ill. His always-pale skin was sallow and rough. There were dark rings under his blue eyes and his mop of hair hadn’t been washed in a few days. His jeans looked stained, too, as did the T-shirt Pete could see under his brown denim jacket.

‘Just a quick word. And I was thinking about somewhere you wouldn’t be recognised. Somewhere nice, for example. Like that little place along Cathedral Passage. Plenty of noise, so you won’t be overheard if you say something impolite.’ Pete pulled him around, arm still around his shoulders, and headed back up the hill. ‘Look on the bright side. You look like you could do with a little something. Booze is better than bugger all, right?’

‘Yeah, well . . . That’s down to your lot, innit – the bugger all.’

‘What, the supply’s dried up, has it?’

‘Almost. And the price has nearly doubled.’

‘Supply and demand. The beauty of capitalism. So, it has started up again, then?’ Pete guided them across the road and up past the bus stop.

‘Yeah, just two or three days ago. It was dead for a week or so before that.’

‘So, who’s out there now? Anyone I might know?’

Westley shot him a sour look.

‘I’m not interested in shutting off your supply, Darren. I just need some information, that’s all. And they’re the likeliest source.’

‘You’ll be lucky. Bloody foreigners, ain’t they. Barely speak the bloody language, never mind having a conversation with the likes of you.’

Pete turned him into the end of an alleyway that led through to Cathedral Square. ‘You let me worry about that. All I need to know is where to find them.’

‘I only know one,’ Westley said dubiously. His sullen expression reminded Pete of his son, Tommy. The last few months before he disappeared, he’d often worn an expression just like that. Pete’s gut twisted. If only he’d spent more time with the boy, taken him out, played with him, even just watched him doing his own thing – the swimming, for instance – maybe things would have been different. He wouldn’t be gone. He wouldn’t have got tangled up with Malcolm Burton. He’d be . . . at home. Happy. Safe.

They reached their destination and Pete stopped, held out a hand. ‘Here we go.’ He nodded at the door to the small bar near the far end of the alley.

Darren frowned at him. ‘Seriously?’

Pete shrugged and held the door open, nodding for him to enter. One day, hopefully, he’d get to do the same for Tommy. If he could find him. If he could get him to come home.

When he found him, he corrected himself, as the noise hit them like a train. There was no if about it. There couldn’t be. He was going to bring his son home. Somehow.

The cacophony of raised voices, all trying to be heard over each other, was almost solid, a physical force pushing them back as they as they pressed into the small, crowded room, heading for the bar along the right side.

Pete kept one hand on Westley’s shoulder, letting him lead the way. There was no way they were getting through this lot side by side. At the bar, they squeezed in and he raised an eyebrow and jerked his head at the shelves behind.

Darren leaned in close to be heard. ‘Vodka,’ he shouted. ‘Straight.’

Pete nodded and waited to catch the eye of one of the three young guys in black shirts and trousers behind the bar. Raising one hand to cup Darren’s ear, he shouted into it. ‘Don’t worry. Like I said, I don’t want to arrest the bloke. Just ask him some questions. He’ll be back on the street in a couple of hours, tops.’

He caught the eye of the nearest barman and waved him over. ‘Vodka and a Murphy’s red,’ he called.

Westley was still looking at him sceptically. He leaned close again. ‘I need information and I’m pretty sure you can’t give it me,’ Pete told him. ‘Unless you’ve heard of somebody bumping off the undesirables of the city?’

‘What?’

‘Pimps, pushers, prostitutes. Druggies.’

‘Getting killed? Are you . . . ?’

‘Serious? Yeah. And I’m looking for a lead on who’s doing it. Your guy might know someone who’s supplied them with certain items. That’s what I’m after. A link in the chain.’

The barman put their drinks on the bar and Pete slapped a note down beside them. Nodded for the guy to keep the change, not that he guessed there would be much. Then he turned back to Darren, nodded to the drink and picked up his own.

Darren looked from Pete down to the shot glass and back again. Pete could see the decision being made in his eyes. ‘OK.’ He picked up the glass and downed the contents in one. Slapped it down on the bar. ‘The Firkin Angel. Big bloke. Shaved head, chin like an anvil and a nose like a bloody toucan. Same sort of colouring at the moment, too, especially round the eyes. Don’t fancy meeting the bloke that did it to him. Must be some kind of bad bastard. Or dead.’