Читать книгу Stolen - Paul Finch - Страница 11

Lucy drove back to Wellspring Lane at speed. All the way, three sentences replayed themselves over and over through her head.

I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the thin end of the wedge.

If they’re prepared to do this, what else are they up to?

Those first two, courtesy of the laconic Joe Cullen.

Completely unconnected with the original complaint …

That latter the homespun street-wisdom of Sister Cassiopeia.

It was now very late, past midnight, so though Wellspring Lane was at the extreme southern end of the borough, away from most residential districts and edging onto the famous Chat Moss, there was almost no other traffic on the road. Lucy got her foot down nevertheless, concerned that the search of Mahoney’s premises might be approaching its end.

She was only just in time, bouncing her Suzuki Jimny down the rutted track to the farm cottage, swerving at speed around the abandoned vehicles there, and seeing Malcolm Peabody and three other constables outside the building, next to what looked as if it was the last divisional van on site. They were still in protective clothing, but even as Lucy arrived, gloves were coming off and the press-studs down the fronts of overalls being plucked open.

Peabody advanced, grinning, as she screeched to a halt in the farmyard.

‘We’ve bagged and boxed everything,’ he said. He tapped the side of the van. ‘We’ve got enough here to do such a number on this Mahoney wanker that he’ll never forget it.’

‘Did you find the jewelled collar?’ she asked, jumping out.

‘Erm, no.’ Peabody pondered. ‘But he’s banged to rights. Photographic have only just gone, and they’ve got loads of stuff too.’

‘Any other animals?’

‘Only the ones we found before.’

‘What about the black van?’

He shook his head, frowning as he sensed her displeasure. ‘No sign of any van on these premises. We’ve been through all the outbuildings. But Luce, we’ve got him – we caught him at it.’

‘We’ve got him for dog-fighting, Malcolm – not something that’s going to see him do serious time.’ She entered the cottage via its still open door. ‘Everyone, come in here, please.’

The other officers trooped inside, joining her in a small, cluttered kitchen.

All kinds of revolting mess filled its central table and surrounding worktops. The dull lighting and low, beamed ceiling only added to the gloom and the cramped atmosphere. The door had been open for hours now, but there was still a staleness in the air, a vague odour of spoiled food.

‘How thoroughly have you searched this house?’ she asked, her gaze roving from one blank, tired face to the next.

‘We’ve had a look around,’ Peabody answered, ‘but we gathered so much evidence from the barn and the outbuildings—’

‘So you’re saying you’ve not searched it at all?’ she interrupted, visibly vexed.

‘We’ve had a look around.’

‘What does that mean, Malcom? A cursory look? You’ve checked in a few drawers?’

No one spoke, but several shamefaced glances were exchanged.

‘Come on, Lucy,’ Peabody protested. ‘We’re looking for evidence of organised dog-fighting. And we’ve found it outside. Stacks of it. What exactly could he keep in here?’

‘I found some paperwork,’ a young policewoman called Laurie Darlington chipped in. ‘It was in a cupboard in the dining room. So I put it in the van.’

‘Show me,’ Lucy said.

They went back outside and opened the van. PC Darlington rummaged among the boxes and various plastic bags before lifting a clear plastic envelope tagged LD1, containing a bundle of dirty documents stapled together. Lucy didn’t unseal the paperwork but examined what she could of it through the plastic. Though the top sheet had been scribbled on almost unintelligibly, close analysis suggested that it was a customer log, detailing names and the services provided, plus payments and the like.

‘This is good,’ Lucy said. ‘In fact, this is excellent. But just at present it’s not what we’re looking for. Inside again, everyone, please.’

Lucy held the same rank as the search officers, but they deferred to her naturally, not just because of her length of service, twelve years, but because she’d been point-man on this operation from the start, and because, even though a lowly divisional detective, she already had a rep for breaking tough cases.

‘Here’s the deal,’ she said, when they were back in the kitchen. ‘We’re fully authorised to search this pad, so I want every inch of it going over, yeah? If necessary, it needs physically ripping apart.’

There were thinly veiled groans. Most of these officers, including Peabody, had been on duty for several hours after their normal shifts had supposedly finished. They were being paid for it, but inevitably fatigue was setting in.

‘Seriously, Lucy?’ Peabody groaned. ‘All this for a dog-collar?’

‘Anything we can hit this bastard with, we have to do it,’ she said.

‘Won’t he have sold it on by now?’ another copper asked. ‘I mean, if it’s worth that much … why would he hang onto it?’

‘We’re not walking away from here without having a good look around,’ she said simply. ‘That dog-collar’s too valuable.’

More irritated expressions; more shuffling feet.

‘At least,’ she said, ‘that’s going to be the official line.’

Immediately, their expressions changed. Feet stopped shuffling.

‘Pricks like this guy Mahoney always have their fingers in more than one illegal pie,’ Lucy said. ‘So that’s what we’re really looking for. Anything else we might be able to use, but it’s got to be good.’

‘Aren’t we only supposed to be looking for stuff relevant to the case?’ someone queried.

‘Section 19, PACE,’ Lucy said. ‘A constable engaged in a lawful search of a premises may seize anything if he or she has reasonable grounds for believing that it is evidence in relation to an offence he or she is investigating … or any other offence.’

They pondered this.

‘Why do you think he’s coughed to the dog-fighting so readily?’ she asked them.

‘’Cause he’s no choice,’ Peabody said.

‘Maybe, but maybe also because he wants us out of here quickly … before we find something else.’

With a greater degree of enthusiasm than previously, and now under Lucy’s direction, the team went at it again, this time more robustly. First, they did the bedrooms, which were odious pits of filth and slovenliness, moving bookcases so they could look behind them, yanking out the contents of wardrobes and doors, checking under beds, lifting rugs and carpets, even dislodging loose floorboards and peering underneath. Downstairs, they investigated the under-stair closet, which was filled with what appeared to be rubbish, though there was a double-barrelled shotgun there. Knowing Mahoney, it was almost certainly unlicensed, but it was unloaded, and a vigorous search of the under-stair crawlspace provided no cartridges either, while the weapon itself looked so ancient that it might even be classifiable as an antique, which would exempt it.

In the cottage’s living room, they lifted more carpets, checked under more sideboards, dug behind and underneath the upholstery on the couch, probing through welters of crumbs and tattered newspaper. They prodded thick tufts of fluff gathered behind radiators, and pried loose skirting boards away, only for mice and cockroaches to scamper free. Some shelves next to the television were stacked with unmarked DVDs. They played a few of these and found they were nothing more than pirate copies of recent movies. Peabody suggested that this was another charge they could add, but Lucy called it ‘Mickey Mouse stuff’.

She was getting tired herself now, and deeply frustrated. The clock was ticking on her prisoners, and she couldn’t keep these officers on duty for ever. When she glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly three in the morning, she was ready to call it off. She was standing at the top of the cottage stairs contemplating this, when a voice came up to her from below. She went back down and found PC Darlington in the doorway to the ground-floor privy.

‘Could this be what we’re looking for?’ Darlington wondered.

Curious, Lucy stuck her head into the cubicle, where another PC, a tall lad, had stood on the toilet lid to check inside the cistern, which was high on the wall, and in so doing had accidentally hit the ceiling with the top of his head, dislodging a concealed but loose panel, from behind which a bulky plastic sack had tumbled. He’d already opened the sack and discovered maybe a hundred sachets of white powder, which he offered to Lucy in two gloved hands.

For the first time in two or three hours, she smiled.

Forty minutes later, Lucy was back in the Custody Suite at Robber’s Row police station. A few of the lesser miscreants, those who didn’t own dogs themselves, were already lined at the counter, being charged with attending a dog-fight and making bets.

DI Beardmore, who ought to have gone home hours ago, stood to one side, arms folded, looking sallow-cheeked. He’d even removed his jacket and tie and unbuttoned his collar, which was not his normal form. When he saw Lucy, he frowned all the more.

‘Can we get this show on the road, please?’ he said grumpily. ‘We’re running out of space in here, Lucy. The night shift have started nicking real criminals and we’ve nowhere to put them.’

‘Sir … Mahoney’s a real criminal.’ And she told him what they’d found at the cottage, and the phone-calls she’d made afterwards as she’d headed back here from Wellspring Lane.

A short time later, she walked down the cell corridor, produced a bunch of keys and unlocked one of the doors. Inside, Mahoney was lying on the narrow mattress, arms folded behind his head. He sat up and yawned. ‘About fucking time.’

‘Sorry about the delay, Mr Mahoney,’ she said. ‘We’re almost finished here.’

‘Don’t know how lucky you are, love. If I was as bad at my job as you are at yours, I wouldn’t make a penny. But you get paid anyway, don’t you? There’s the public sector, eh?’

‘The situation’s simple,’ she said. ‘You’re shortly going to be charged with causing dogs to fight, receiving money for admission to these fights, publicising these fights, accepting bets on these fights, possessing materials in connection with these fights, allowing your premises to be used for these fights, possessing videos of other dog-fights, and, to top it all off, causing unnecessary suffering to protected animals.’

It was quite a laundry list of villainy, but Mahoney shrugged indifferently, as if this was only to be expected.

‘But I wouldn’t make any plans to go home just yet,’ she said.

A man sidled into the doorway alongside her, wearing a sweater and jeans. He was tall and lean, with a shock of black hair and rugged, lived-in looks. He fixed Mahoney with a hard but unreadable expression.

‘This is DCI Slater of the Drugs Squad,’ Lucy said. ‘Once we’ve charged you with those offences, he’ll be re-arresting you on suspicion of possessing controlled drugs with intent to supply.’

The colour drained from Mahoney’s brutish, bearded face. He leaped to his feet.

‘If I were you, I’d think about getting lawyered up after all,’ she added.

She closed the door with a clang, though the prisoner’s voice all but punched its way through the heavy steel.

‘You flatfoot bitch! You can’t do that!’

Lucy walked back down the corridor, Slater, an old colleague, ambling alongside her.

‘Got a lot of tired officers going off-duty now, sir,’ she said, ‘who’d thoroughly appreciate it if you nailed that bastard’s bollocks to the wall.’

‘No promises, Lucy,’ Slater replied. ‘But that tends to be what we do.’