Читать книгу Death’s Jest-Book - Reginald Hill - Страница 29

As Sergeant Wield approached Turk’s his clear and well-ordered mind, long used to separating the various areas of his life into water-tight compartments, had no problem with setting out what he was doing.

He was an officer of Mid-Yorkshire CID, on duty, going to meet a nineteen-year-old rent boy who might possibly have information which would be of interest to the police.

He was alone because said rent boy was not a registered informant (which would have required the presence of two officers at any meeting) but a member of the public who had indicated he wanted to speak to Wield only.

So far, so normal. The only abnormality was that he was having to remind himself!

Then through the grubby glass of the cafe window, he saw Lee sitting at the same table they’d occupied on Saturday night, looking like a kid who’d bunked off school, and he broke his stride to remind himself again.

Turk returned his greeting with his usual glottal grunt and poured him a cup of coffee. Lee’s face, which had lit up with pleasure or relief on Wield’s entrance, had resumed its usual watchful suspicious expression by the time the sergeant sat down.

‘How do?’ said Wield.

‘I’m fine. Survived your sarney then?’

‘Looks like it.’

There was silence. Sometimes in such circumstances, Wield let the combination of the silence and his un-readably menacing face work for him. Today he judged that whatever point was going to be reached would require a path of small talk. Or maybe he just wanted to talk.

He said, ‘Lubanski. Where’s that come from?’

‘My mam’s name. She were Polish.’

‘Were?’

‘She’s dead. When I were six.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah? Why?’ His tone was sceptically aggressive.

Wield said gently, ‘Because no age is good to lose your mam, and six is worse than most. Old enough to know what it means, too young to know how to cope. What happened then?’

He didn’t need to ask. Like Pascoe in pursuit of Franny Roote, he’d done some research that morning. Lee Lubanski had a juvenile record, nothing heavy: shop-lifting, glue-sniffing, absconding from a children’s home. Nothing there about rent-boy activities. He’d been lucky, or clever, or protected. A conscientious social worker had pieced together a brief family history when the boy first went into care. Grandfather was a Polish shipworker active in the Solidarity movement. A widower with dodgy lungs and a fifteen-year-old daughter, when General Jaruzelski cracked down on Walesa and his supporters in 1981, Lubanski, fearful that he wouldn’t survive a spell in jail and fearful too of what might become of his daughter if left to run loose, had somehow got out of the country on a ship which docked at Hull. Seeing no reason why the UK authorities should be very much different from those back home, he’d slipped through the immigration net into the murky waters of metropolitan Yorkshire, only to find that what he’d fled from in Poland awaited him here. After a few months of precarious existence, he died of untreated TB, leaving a pregnant daughter with a basic knowledge of English and no obvious way of making a living other than prostitution, which was her profession when Lee slithered into this unwelcoming world.

The new mother touched surface just long enough for her son to be registered officially and for her to get the minimum benefits offered by a caring state, but then her father’s fear of authority took over and she slipped out of sight again until Lee came of school age. Now the Law got a line on her, but by the time it was ready to pronounce on her status as an illegal alien, she was too far gone with her father’s illness for there to be argument over anything but who was going to pay for the coffin.

Her son too was, as might be expected, tubercular, but happily at an early enough stage for treatment. The assumption of the social worker’s report was that he’d been the product of an unprotected encounter with a client, but in this alone did Lee’s fragmented account differ from what Wield had read.

‘My mam were going to get married, but she couldn’t ’cos she were only fifteen, so she had to wait till she were sixteen, and something must have happened with my dad …’

Had some bastard lied to the girl in order to get her into bed for nothing? Or had she lied to her son so that he wouldn’t have to grow up thinking he was the product of a five-quid shag up against a garage wall?

Whatever, it was clearly important to the boy. To the young man. To the nineteen-year-old male prostitute who’d got him here on the promise of useful information.

Wield sat up straight and looked at his watch to break the thread of confidentiality.

‘OK, Lee,’ he said. ‘I’ve got things to do. So what did you want to see me about?’

For a moment Lee looked hurt, then his features became watchful and knowing.

‘Thought you might like to hear about a heist that’s coming off,’ he said with an effort at being casual.

‘A heist?’ said Wield, hiding his smile at the use of this Hollywood word.

‘That’s right. You interested or wha’?’

‘Won’t know till you tell me a bit more,’ said Wield. ‘Like, what? Where? When?’

‘Friday. Security van.’

‘Good. Any particular security van?’

‘You wha’?’

‘You may not have noticed, lad, but the streets of our city are pretty well jammed with security vans at the busy times of day.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s one of Praesidium’s.’

This was better. Praesidium was a newish Mid-Yorkshire security company which by aggressive marketing was making its presence felt in a growth industry.

Wield close-questioned Lee about the cargo, time and location, but the boy just shrugged, and his only response to enquiries about the source of his information was it was guaranteed good, this with a double dose of that knowing look.

‘OK, Lee,’ said Wield. ‘It’s not much to go on, but I’ll mention it to my boss. He’s a payment-by-results man, by the way.’

‘Payment? What payment?’ said the youth angrily.

‘You’ll be wanting something for your trouble, won’t you?’

‘It was no trouble, just a favour, for what you did for me last night. Or should I have offered you money for that? Or summat else maybe?’

The implication was clear, but the indignation seemed genuine.

Wield said, ‘Sorry, lad. Picked you up wrong. My line of work, you think … well, you know, you don’t often get owt for nowt. Sorry.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s all right,’ said Lee.

‘Good. OK. Listen, how can I get hold of you?’

‘Why should you want to get hold of me?’

‘Just in case anything comes up. About the … heist.’

Lee thought a moment then said, ‘I’ll be in touch if there’s owt, don’t worry.’

Wield said, ‘Sure, that’s fine,’ not doubting he could get a line on the young man whenever he wanted. ‘Got to go now. Cheers. You take care of yourself.’

This time he didn’t look into the cafe as he walked by the window, not wanting to risk another glimpse of vulnerability. For the moment all that mattered was this tip. It was too vague to be of much use as it stood. He could imagine what Dalziel would tell him to do, so he might as well do the do-able part before he got told.

Back on his bike, he headed for the estate that housed Praesidium Security.

Praesidium’s boss, Morris Berry, a fleshy man with sweaty palms, was unimpressed. He called up the job sheets for Friday on his computer and after a quick examination opined that, if the tip were true, they must be dealing with a singularly unambitious gang of heisters as the only job worth the risk of a hit was the rural wages round. This delivered wage packets to various small businesses across the county. OK, with Christmas bonuses included, the initial amount carried was larger than usual, but it still only amounted to thousands rather than hundreds of thousands, and of course with each delivery, it got less.

Wield checked for himself and had to agree with the conclusion. At least it narrowed down the likely time of the hit as the gang must know that the longer they waited, the less they were going to get. Berry laughed and asked what made him think crooks were that clever. This lot must be really thick to contemplate attacking one of his state-of-the-art vans with the latest tracker devices installed so he knew their exact location all the time.

He demonstrated this with a computerized map of Yorkshire which showed van-shaped icons flashing away at various locations. Then he zoomed in on one of them.

‘There we are, Van 3 on the A1079 approaching The Fox and Hen. If the bastard stops there, he’s fired!’

The bastard, happily for him, kept going. Wield, impressed enough to have even more doubts about Lee’s tip, glanced at his watch. Jesus, it was two o’clock. Time for a pint and pie in what should by now be the CID-free zone of the Black Bull.