Black Daffodil (Trevor Joseph Detective series) (15 page)

‘Let’s hope that at least one, and preferably more, of our missing personnel will turn up in the next few hours.’ Peter opened the door and walked out of the office.

Kelly wound the handles of the plastic bag she was holding so tightly around her hand that they cut off the circulation; but she didn’t notice, even when her fingers turned white and numb. She glanced over her shoulder as the taxi drove closer to the tower blocks that had been home territory, until she’d been old enough to move away.

‘Drop me here.’ She leaned forward uneasily when they were within five minutes walk of the first block.

‘You sure, love? It’s no trouble to drive you to whichever one you want to go to.’

‘Stop here!’ She pulled out her purse, handed him a ten-pound note, opened the door and ran.

‘Hey,’ he shouted after her. ‘Don’t you want your change?’

‘Keep it.’

‘Ta.’ He smiled at the thought of the extra four quid she’d given him, pressed the central locking and drove away. Normally he demanded money up front to drive to the area but the girl looked as though a puff of wind would blow her away. And she was on edge. He’d never had anyone quite as nervous in the back of his cab before. He wondered if she was a dealer the coppers had sussed. It was obvious she was running from someone. But then, whatever she was, or wasn’t, it was none of his business.

*          *          *

Feeling as though eyes were watching her from every window and balcony in the surrounding blocks, Kelly headed for one particular building. She knew exactly where she was going. She even pictured the interior of the flat. It was shabby, grubby with the unkempt look so many old people’s homes acquire when they lose interest in their surroundings – and life.

Amber had kept two keys back when they had handed the others over to the council six months ago after their gran’s funeral.

‘Most of the blocks are half empty. No one wants to move into the flats so the Housing Association won’t bother to clear it or do it up. It’ll be a bolt-hole if ever we need one, Kelly.’

Neither of them had thought they’d ever need the place. Not then.

Kelly entered the foyer, and tried to ignore the latrine stench that was common to all the buildings. Strange, when she’d lived on the estate it hadn’t bothered her. She hadn’t even noticed it until she’d started making the odd trip back to see old friends after she moved to the Bay.

She walked past the lift without checking to see if it was working, ran up nine flights of stairs and walked down a corridor to a door at the furthest end from the hallway. She looked over her shoulder, unlocked the door and slipped inside.

Trevor opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat when they reached the car. Peter didn’t even try to argue. They drove out of the plush end of the Bay into the narrower meaner streets of the 1960s estate where people dressed differently. Not more cheaply, Trevor decided, when a girl walked past in a floor-length, fur-trimmed leather coat that must have been stifling considering the temperature. But in clothes that seemed to have been chosen for their vulgarity.

The jewellery was shinier and larger. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes showed flesh that would have been more alluring if it had been covered. Men who looked as though they were, in police jargon, ‘carrying concealed weapons’ swaggered as they walked. Children stood at the sides of the road and watched the world pass by with what Peter described as ‘in your face’ expressions.

‘I can’t believe upstairs are willing to drop this operation after all the man-hours that have gone into it.’ Peter reached for his cigars.

For all the joking, Trevor realised they really were his partner’s dummies. ‘It’s the expenditure in lives Dan is thinking about.’

‘Dan seems certain the locals didn’t know anything about our operation – only the outside team who loaned Bill the office – and those of us who went in on Bill and Dan’s orders.’

‘You still think the leak came from the outside team?’

‘I prefer to think that, rather than consider the possibility that it came from one of us. Maria and Michael, Lee and Alfred are out …’

‘Unless one of them
was
the leak and they were wasted as soon as they were of no further use to whoever wanted to shut down our operation.’ Trevor assumed the role of devil’s advocate again.

‘You always have to come up with something that is not only diametrically opposed to what I say, but bloody plausible,’ Peter grumbled.

‘Are we agreed the leak shopped the operatives to the gangs they infiltrated?’

‘Alfred, Maria, Michael – and Lee were all targeted by their ‘new friends’ as Lee’s wife probably was. They were killed or kidnapped as a warning to anyone else with thoughts of trying to infiltrate the ‘in crowd’. But Andrew?’ Peter questioned. ‘Why take Andrew? He hasn’t joined any criminal fraternity, yet he’s disappeared.’

‘Andrew knew everything there was to know about the operation, including all our identities. His office was the clearing house for information. If there’s a leak, Andrew would have been pinpointed as the officer who knew the most. I think he’s been taken by whoever’s behind the sale of the formula of Black Daffodil, because they see Andrew and what little remains of this operation as an obstacle. They’re afraid we’ll frighten off the Russians and track them down as the vendor.’ Trevor closed the car window against a blast of rap music emanating from an arcade.

‘And Darrow?’ Peter asked.

‘Let’s get back to Black Daffodil. The first time it’s noticed is when it surfaces in Jake Phillips’s and Alec Hodges’ bloodstream after a party in Darrow’s penthouse.’

‘And the next time is when it kills and sends people crazy on a no go estate geographically if not socially close to Darrow’s penthouse,’ Peter murmured. ‘We know that Kelly and Lucy were at that party …’

‘Blast! I meant to telephone Lucy to arrange a private visit.’

‘As the case is closed, there’s no point. But we can carry on brainstorming.’

‘The next time we hear of Black Daffodil the formula’s being sold to the highest bidder.’ Trevor turned out of the older suburbs and entered the wasteland dominated by the tower blocks. ‘The profit potential is unlimited, which is why the Russians and Albanians are prepared to pay millions for the formula. Probably the manufacturer of Black Daffodil, or a representative, was at that party giving out free samples. Perhaps they even wanted to test the drug and sold or gave it to Alec Hodges.’

‘That person has to be one of the Darrows,’ Peter persisted.

‘You’re beginning to sound like a stuck CD.’

‘Both Darrows are evil sods.’

‘As I keep saying I can’t see either of them getting mixed up in something as blatantly illegal as this.’

‘I can think of fifty million reasons.’ Peter bit back.

‘The manufacturer’s an amateur,’ Trevor declared.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘If it was one of the major players there’d be no need for an auction. They’d sell it alongside their existing merchandise and rake in the profits for themselves.’

‘An amateur wouldn’t have the wherewithal to organise an auction among the big time dealers.’

‘Not without help,’ Trevor admitted.

‘And that’s where the Darrows come in,’ Peter smiled, feeling vindicated.

‘I concede Eric Darrow is shady. He wouldn’t stop, and probably hasn’t stopped, at murder. But I think he’d steer clear of big-time drug dealing that will attract the attention of the major players who enjoy slitting their rivals’ throats.’

‘Which is why he’s selling the formula to the Russians.’ Peter clung to his theory like a limpet to a rock.

‘He’s got it too pleasant on the outside to risk being put away for the rest of his natural.’

‘If not Eric then it’s Damian. He was the one who hosted the party.’

Trevor considered the idea. ‘It’s possible Damian wants to stand on his own two feet and say “look Daddy, I’ve done all this by myself”.’

‘It wasn’t an amateur who informed the gangs about Lee, Alfred and the others. And it wasn’t an amateur that set up the auction,’ Peter said.

‘That’s why I think a career criminal is involved. Supposing the manufacturer offered Black Daffodil to someone who saw its potential but didn’t have the infrastructure to manufacture and distribute it. And that someone set up the auction – but at that point we moved in and he found out about us …’

‘Through the leak?’

‘Yes.’

‘The organiser of the auction has access to a leak.’

‘Stay with me. The amateur manufacturer and professional criminal organiser – two separate people, possibly two separate groups, spotted us moving in. We knew a number of new people moving in at once was a risk, but Dan and Bill took it because of the lethal nature of Black Daffodil. We could have been unmasked because we were recognised from previous cases. The seller also knew if we cottoned on to them the deal would never be made and they could kiss goodbye to millions. That’s when the professional criminal looked for someone on the inside who was prepared to sell us out. Taking the knowledge he paid for, he tipped off the gangs knowing they would take out the undercover officers. He guessed that every available officer would be detailed to investigate the murders of the police officers …’

‘Which were carried out by the gangs, not by the seller or manufacturer of Black Daffodil?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And the seller of Black Daffodil could carry on making plans to sell the formula without hindrance from us.’ Peter stuck his cigar between his lips. ‘If Andrew is still alive, whoever has him could be torturing him as the Triads are Lee.’

‘Yes,’ Trevor said shortly.

‘The chances are that, even if Darrow was the only one who knew about us before Andrew disappeared, Andrew has fingered us by now. And Chris and Sarah.’

‘We’d be fools to think otherwise.’ Trevor slowed the car when he saw glass on the road. A sign they were close to the tower blocks.

‘How long do you think Andrew will hold out without telling whoever has him all he knows?’

‘That depends on what they do to him.’

‘He never struck me as the heroic sort.’ Peter looked out of his side window.

‘None of us are, under torture.’

‘So, we are walking dead,’ Peter said with an incongruous cheerfulness.

‘If whoever is in charge of the auction thinks we know who they are, or are in a position to stop the auction, yes.’

Peter returned his cigar to the box. ‘If I was the leak, and I worked inside the force, I’d be shit scared.’

‘You’d be wise to be. Because we police can be nasty when it comes to turncoats. And you,’ Trevor glanced at Peter, ‘have proved that you can be nastier than most.’

‘Upstairs,’ Peter murmured slowly. ‘It has to be someone upstairs. Or Alexander or Justin.’

‘Only because you don’t know them, as well as you know me, Chris, Sarah, Dan and Bill.’

‘You’re dead right.’

Trevor pictured his colleagues. People he’d worked with for years. He couldn’t bear to think that one of them was capable of selling him out, or any fellow officer. Not even for a share of fifty million pounds.

Chapter Fifteen

Trevor drew up outside the tower block and switched off the ignition. A dozen kids who should have been in school were raiding a bottle bank in the car park and hurling the contents against the wall.

‘That explains the broken glass.’ Trevor left the car, waited until Peter had closed his door and locked it.

‘Hey you,’ Peter shouted to one of the kids.

He received a chorus of ‘Fuck off’s and raised fingers in reply.

‘Want a tenner?’ Peter held up two five-pound notes.

‘You’ll get flattened in the rush,’ Trevor warned as another half a dozen kids appeared from nowhere and charged towards them together with the ones they had seen playing ‘smash the bottles’.

Peter looked at the kids ranged in front of him. ‘I’m going in there.’ He pointed to the tower block. ‘You see anyone mess with this car, you come and get me.’

‘You calling on the druggies, mister?’

Peter looked at Trevor who shrugged.

He held up one of the five-pound notes. ‘Who gets the money?’

‘She does.’ Fortunately they all pointed to the same girl. She looked about ten although she had five studs in both ears, one in her nose, one in her eyebrow, another in her lip and when she opened her mouth, Peter saw one in her tongue.

‘You said ten.’ She snatched the note from Peter’s fingers.

‘Five now, five when I come out – if the car is still in one piece.’

‘It’s deal.’

‘“You calling on the druggies, then, mister?”’ Peter mimicked a child’s voice as he and Trevor walked towards the block.

‘I’d forgotten how communal communal living is on these estates,’ Trevor said.

‘Forget the cup of sugar. Now, it’s can I borrow half a gram of weed or Charlie.’ Peter raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached Chris and Sarah’s door he banged on it and Tiger barked. He put his eyed to the spy hole. ‘It’s me,’ he shouted.

The door opened. Chris ran out, almost knocking Peter over.

‘Hey!’ Peter complained.

Chris was down the stairs before Peter had time to remonstrate further.

Peter stepped inside, glanced through the window and raced after Chris.

Trevor joined Sarah and looked across at the neighbouring block. Two figures swathed in black, their heads and faces hidden by balaclavas, which, apart from eye-slits, covered their entire skulls, were standing in front of an open window on the tenth floor. One was holding a girl by her wrists, the other her neck. They were feeding her though the window. Desperate, she kicked, thrashed and fought to stay inside the room.

Her long blonde hair fluttered in the breeze as her head was forced outside. Soon, there was more of her outside the window than inside the room.

Trevor reached instinctively into his pocket for his Glock, although he knew it was useless at that distance.

Sarah moved beside him. ‘There’s no way Chris and Peter will get there in time,’ she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene.

Trevor looked down. Chris and Peter were racing over the car park towards the building. The girl’s attackers saw them. They moved in unison and gave one final push. Trevor watched in horror as she tumbled out of the window. She floated slowly downwards for what seemed like an eternity although it could only have been a few seconds. Afterwards, he was never sure whether he had heard the sickening crunch of her bones smashing on the glass strewn concrete, or imagined it.

‘Stay here, lock the door.’ He thrust the Glock into his pocket.

Sarah was already dialling her cell phone.

‘The police as well as the ambulance.’ Trevor ran out.

The children Peter had spoken to were circling around the victim, pushing and jostling, hoping to get a better view of the girl although Trevor sensed a few were hanging back. When he drew closer, he realised why. The girl had landed face upwards. Her long blonde hair, splayed out like a halo behind her head, was splattered with blood and tissue. Her face was bruised, her eyes open. Surprisingly blue irises shone out from swollen discoloured sockets, reminding him of the glass eyes in china dolls.

‘She’s dead, i’n she, mister?’

Trevor turned to the small boy. He couldn’t lie to him. ‘Yes.’

‘Can I touch her, mister? I never touched a dead body.’

‘No.’ Trevor overcame his initial revulsion at the question when he glanced at the rest of the children. They were staring at the girl in much the same way he assumed they would a television screen. He hoped the horrific reality of the girl’s death would be treated in the same way; as something to be seen and forgotten as soon as something else came along to distract them.

‘All of you stand back,’ he ordered.

‘She needs an ambulance,’ the girl Peter had given the money to declared.

‘No point. Her brains have come out of her head. Just like my cat when she got run over. She’s dead.’ Another boy pointed to a split in the girl’s skull.

‘Move back. Now!’ Trevor waited until the children had shuffled back a few feet before studying the victim. Her thin, pinched face looked vaguely familiar. She was dressed in cut-off blue jeans and a shoestring, strapped red top. He looked for, and found bruise and needle marks in the crook of her elbow. He slipped off his jacket and hesitated. His initial instinct was to cover her face so the children could no longer see it, but the police forensic team wouldn’t appreciate his sense of propriety. They needed to examine murder victims exactly as they lay with the attendant DNA of victim and murderer intact.

The police officer in him won over the gentleman. He kept a grip on his jacket and looked up. The window was still open, swinging wide in the breeze. Peter looked down at him. He shook his head at Peter. He wasn’t sure why. It was obvious no one could have survived a fall from that height. Peter pointed to something behind him. He turned and saw the flashing lights of an ambulance hurtling up the thoroughfare. Peter pointed to the ambulance and to the room behind. He nodded to show he’d understood before speaking to the children.

‘Clear off, kids,’ he said quietly, making an effort not to sound threatening. ‘Haven’t you homes to go to?’

‘The other mister promised us another fiver if we looked after your car.’

‘Then go and look after it. Stand around it to make sure no one touches it.’

‘Will you or the other mister give us the money?’

‘The other mister, but only if you go to the car.’ Trevor watched the children move away, before looking back at the girl the ground. The sight of any murder victim was distressing, but someone so young, who should have had the best years of her life in front of her, tore at his heartstrings.

He had seen from the way she had fought her attackers how much she had wanted to live. Death was an inevitable part of his job but not death seen in the company of children who shouldn’t be exposed to it.

Siren blasting, the ambulance screeched to a halt. Two paramedics jumped out and ran towards him.

‘One of you is needed up there.’ Trevor pointed to where Peter was still leaning out of the window.

‘I’ll go.’

The remaining paramedic knelt next to the girl. ‘What happened?’

‘She was thrown from that window.’

The paramedic looked up. ‘Ten floors! She was thrown down ten floors?’

‘Yes,’ Trevor confirmed.

‘Then it’s murder. She’s way past any help I can give her. You sent for the police?’

‘They’ve been called.’

‘Did you see who threw her?’

‘Yes. Two of my …’ Trevor only just stopped himself from saying ‘colleagues’, ‘friends went after them.’

‘Them?’

‘I saw two people.’

The paramedic peered at the needle marks in the dead girl’s arm, but was too much of a professional to touch the corpse. ‘Poor thing. Hope your friends don’t get the same treatment if they find the bastards who did this.’

‘They can take care of themselves,’ Trevor assured her.

‘The police will want to talk to you.’

‘Will you stay with her until they come?’

‘Where you going?’

‘To help my friends. There may be more than the two we saw pushing her out of the window.’

‘I have to stay here. This is a crime scene. Someone has to make sure it’s not tampered with.’

‘I know,’ Trevor said dryly.

‘I’ll tell the police what you told me.’

‘Do that,’ Trevor entered the building. The lift doors were open, the panel that held the buttons smashed. Electrical wires dangled loosely from it. He quickened his pace and raced up the stairs counting off floors as he went. He reached for his mobile and hit the speed dial number for Andrew’s office.

Dan answered on the second ring. He updated him in between gasps for breath as he continued to charge up the stairs. After extracting a promise from Dan that he’d deal with the local police and take the heat away from him, Peter and Chris, he switched off the phone and stopped on the tenth floor landing.

He took a moment to regain his breath while making a mental note to exercise more. And not just to accommodate the demands of the job. He might be in his mid thirties but he wanted to enjoy fatherhood and that included being able to kick a football around the park with his son.

Keeping a firm grip on his gun, he opened the door to the corridor, and walked cautiously forward. Graffiti-smeared walls studded with graffiti-covered doors lined both sides of the passageway. There were no windows. The only light came from a small glazed panel set high above the door that opened on to the landing behind him. He found a light switch and hit it. Nothing happened.

It was then he noticed every single lamp and light bulb in the corridor had been smashed. He stood still, held his breath and heard a low murmur of conversation coming from an open door at the far end. He visualised the outside of the building and realised that it was the apartment the girl had been thrown from.

He could hear no other sounds – no music – no conversation – nothing. He wondered if the inhabitants of the other flats were lying low because they didn’t want to get involved in anything that might be ‘trouble’. Or if the flats were empty? There were doorbells and nameplates on every door but they could have been left by the last tenants.

He continued to walk towards the end flat. The door was open. He stepped towards it.

Peter and Chris whirled around and pointed their guns at him.

The paramedic was bending over a girl on the floor. She was motionless but he could see a pulse flickering in her scrawny neck.

‘It’s Kelly.’ Peter said. ‘She was out cold when we got here.’

‘She has a lump on her head but it doesn’t look as though anything’s broken.’ The paramedic straightened up. ‘We’ll take her into hospital just to be sure.’

Chris was looking out of the window. ‘The police have arrived.’

‘Want a hand to carry her down?’ Peter asked the paramedic.

‘I have to wait for a stretcher.’

‘Stretcher my arse. She weighs less than a bag of sugar,’ Peter said dismissively.

‘Health and safety regulations …’

‘Are made up by bloody civil servants who drive from their smug semis to their smug offices where they sit on their backsides all day dreaming up regulations that hamstring common sense. Can I or can’t I pick her up?’

Trevor’s phone rang. He stepped away from the argument and out into the corridor. Dan’s voice echoed, strained and tinny down the line.

‘Daisy Sherringham has disappeared. We think she’s been kidnapped. I’ll see the locals leave you and Peter alone. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

Every inch of Daisy’s body ached, especially her head. All the other pains in her body seemed to emanate from it. She was lying on the floor of a back of a car, trussed like a chicken in an old-fashioned butcher’s shop. Her hands and feet were fastened by plastic ties that skinned her wrists and ankles. The ties had been looped together, forcing her arms and legs high behind her back, placing an intolerable strain on her knees and elbows. Her lips were plastered shut with tape. Rough sacking covered her head. Coarse and abrasive, it stank of oil and rancid grease. A pile of suffocating, heavy blankets – she knew they were blankets because she had seen them when she had looked in the car – had been piled on top of her.

She didn’t want to breathe because each breath she took was laden with exhaust fumes. She knew the car was moving because she could hear the engine and her body throbbed every time the wheels jolted over a pothole.

She forced herself to think slowly and logically in an effort to stem her rising panic. She needed to plan an escape. All kidnappers made mistakes – didn’t they? All she had to do was be ready to take advantage of it when it came.

She had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Peter would laugh and shake his head at her in mock despair when she told him about it – if she ever had the opportunity.

She recalled her blunt refusal to go to a safe house. Her insistence on being allowed to continue working unhindered. She replayed yesterday’s conversation with Peter in her mind.

‘Look here, Daisy …’

‘Look here, Peter. I’m your girlfriend not your doormat. I have my job, you have yours.’

‘But …’

‘But nothing. There is no way that I am going to allow any mess that you have got yourself into …’

‘Mess?’

‘Yes, mess …’

That morning had been like any other. She had left her bed, showered, dressed, driven to work and parked in the bay that was reserved for her. Her ego received a boost every time she looked at her name on the plaque fixed to the wall behind it.
Dr Daisy Sherringham.

She recalled wondering if she should change her name to Dr Daisy Collins when she and Peter married. She had been weighing up the pros – having the same name as Peter, against the cons – would people still connect her with all the research papers she had published under the name Sherringham – when she had walked past a car illegally parked at the end of the run of bays at the drop off point for A & E.

An ambulance was next to it, close to the back door, obstructing it from fully opening and now, with hindsight, she realised also blocking the car from the view of anyone walking in or out of A & E.