Dark Side (22 page)

‘It was as Mrs Smithson said,' Patrick recollected. ‘He used the alley to the rear of the houses. No mistaking that rotund outline against the street lamp in the adjoining road and I could smell him, just like the house, as you said pubs used to, of stale beer and cigarette smoke, almost before he appeared – which was quite something seeing as the whole place stank of tom cats.'

I made a play of moving a little farther away from him. ‘No one saw you?'

‘No. And what was interesting was what he said. When I surprised him, grabbed him, he started blubbing about doing what he was told and now being part of what he referred to as “it”. But he clammed up when he realized that I was just after his personal possessions. I could hardly question him any further.'

‘Part of a gang?' I guessed.

‘It would follow.'

‘It's horrible that a policeman's son has gone that way.'

‘As we both know, Ingrid, it's not a cosy world.' Having said that Patrick paused just before taking a sip of whisky. ‘You don't suppose they could have got to his father through him? If, as his mother said, he's been knocking around with the unemployable since he was a teenager perhaps he could have gone from there to what he might regard as bigger, better things.'

‘Surely gangs wouldn't want to involve themselves with someone who had a relative in the Met?'

‘It would depend on the gang. Those involved in trying to bribe policemen might.' Again he broke off and then said, ‘It's not a good idea to bring him in for questioning – not yet anyway. And there's Mrs Smithson's safety to think of.'

‘At least he's unlikely to report what happened tonight.'

‘Not to the police, anyway.'

‘There's one thing I'm sure of,' Patrick said after we had spent a fruitless morning looking at hundreds more photographs on the official Records website, and it goes without saying that you can't just Google this. ‘And that is that the men who jumped Carrick and me at the back of Beckford Square – barring the bar staff from the night club – were not the same as those we happened upon that night at the club. The first lot, I'm convinced, were pros, possibly the ex-services bods Cooper was on about.'

‘We shall just have to concentrate on following up Squint and Scar from our club night,' I murmured, massaging my aching temples.

‘I shall email our DI friend in Bath with our suspicions. Never let it be said that SOCA doesn't cooperate.'

‘Do these two have last known addresses?'

‘One was thought to live in a caravan on a farm near Frome. I've noted down the name of it. The other inhabits various squats in Bristol.'

‘Better and better,' I said grumpily.

‘At least they were likely to have been in the Bath area,' Patrick countered, sounding offended. ‘Anyway, Avon and Somerset can check it out.'

‘Then tell Lynn Outhwaite. You can always say that it was too thin a clue to bother Campbell with.'

Patrick made no response but must have taken up my suggestion because half an hour later he received a call from the DS with the news that both men were known to her and her colleagues. The squint, Terry – or sometimes Gerry – Baker, had been forced to leave his last squat as the building was about to be demolished. He had been glimpsed around Bath and was perhaps sleeping rough. The other man, known as Sid Byles but whose real name was anyone's guess, had, according to an informer, also been forced to leave where he was living as he had managed to set fire to his caravan during a drunken binge and it had been completely destroyed. His whereabouts were not now known and neither man had been spotted for at least a fortnight.

‘No, they're here,' Patrick said to himself. ‘Right here in the capital.'

Later, as we silently consumed sandwiches in the canteen, Patrick no doubt working on his next move and I wondering whether I ought to be involved in whatever it was, his phone rang. He quickly handed it to me as he had a mouthful.

It was a DS in the Met reporting that two men had been arrested in connection with the murder of Bob Downton, Sulyn Li Grant's husband. They were members of a gang that operated in east London and their names had been mentioned by another gang member who was ‘helping with enquiries' after the death of a local drugs dealer. A raid on a house in Ilford, the home of one of those in custody, had resulted in the discovery of a handgun, ammunition, assorted drugs with a street value of several thousand pounds and, among other almost certainly stolen items, a wallet containing credit cards and a driving licence in Bob Downton's name. Both men were now wildly blaming each other for his murder.

‘It's not far to travel if they used the Woolwich ferry in order to dispose of the body,' Patrick commented. ‘That's good news insofar as we can write off that line of enquiry.' He re-acquired his phone and, knowing that the commander was out of the building, rang him to tell him the news and remind him to be careful in case he was still in danger.

Greenway listened carefully, as is his habit, then told Patrick that he would bear it in mind but did not say he would put in place any personal safeguards. Patrick gave me this reaction and then glumly finished his lunch.

‘Back to plan A?' I queried over coffee.

‘I don't have a lot of choice, do I? But it's a distraction and wastes time.'

‘Shall I go home?'

‘You may as well.'

As the wife of a serving soldier I had learned to cope with Patrick's absences, not with a smile on my face, just cope. Perhaps wrongly, I had refused to live in army married quarters as I had my own home at Lydtor, Devon, bought with money my father had left me and the meagre royalties I had squirrelled away from my first few novels. Writing had been a good way of blotting out the loneliness and it was my own fault that I had rather selfishly shut myself away, preferring this to what I had regarded as the boring chatter of other women. Until our relationship had started to go wrong, at least I had had his letters to look forward to.

Years later this present situation was worse as there would be no contact at all until he either had to give up or completed his mission. As had happened before, he had left all personal possessions with me, including his gold watch and wallet containing his driving licence and credit cards, carrying only some cash and a mobile phone kept especially for the purpose that has only three contact numbers in the memory. Two are bogus, the third is an emergency one that is only put through after a code number has also been keyed in. Otherwise any caller has to listen to ‘Auntie Mabel' – me – wittering on endlessly.

I had a feeling, no, a fear, that once undercover and James's reputation – not to mention career – at stake, Patrick would go after Hamsworth alone and I might not hear from him for what could be quite a long time. When I had first joined MI5, my role initially that of ‘female companion', there had been no reason why I should not gallivant off into all kinds of hazardous situations with him. Then, once pregnant with Justin, everything had changed and because Patrick had been told that following his injuries it was unlikely he could father children, ‘only firing blanks' as he had so characteristically put it, the news had been a real shock.

Now we were responsible for five young people.

Several days went by, during which, again as on previous occasions, I tried to bury myself in domesticity and my family. I could not concentrate on writing. I told the children and Patrick's parents that he was working ‘away' – perfectly true and the latter were aware that I could not go into details, even if I knew any. This was not to say that I did not keep abreast with local developments and on the fifth morning, after arriving back home and having heard that he was now a lot better, I went to see James Carrick.

‘There have been no real developments,' he replied in answer to what was inevitably my first query. ‘Lynn keeps me informed and I understand that a senior officer from Complaints, no name yet, is going to bless us with his presence in order to interview me. Which, joking apart, is a good idea as even Campbell has admitted that there's been a clash of personalities. The sooner it happens the better as far as I'm concerned, as I'm desperate to put all this behind me.'

‘Campbell has no real evidence against you,' I reminded him. ‘Anyone could have put that knife in your hand.'

‘It's just the dreams, though, hen,' he said, imitating a Glasgow accent. ‘In them I killed Cooper several times. Perhaps they weren't dreams.'

‘How did you kill him?' I asked baldly.

‘Oh, shot him, stamped on his face, threw acid over him and watched him melt away into a revolting puddle …' The DCI stopped speaking, not wanting to evoke any more memories.

‘But you didn't hit him over the head with the hammer from your car and then cut his throat?'

‘No.'

‘Funny old thing then, as that's the way he was killed. Haven't they found the hammer yet?'

‘Lynn told me this morning that they've sifted through everything within throwing distance with no success.'

‘Then the gang, or just Kev, got rid of it another way. Haven't they traced
any
of these men?'

‘Not yet. And I'd be the last to say that Campbell isn't trying.'

‘What's happening about the night club?'

‘There's been some progress as they've traced a couple of the girls who worked there, including the one who was told to throw herself at me that night so someone could get a couple of pictures. But that's only one small bit of bother out of the way.'

‘It's made Joanna happy, though,' I said with a smile at her. She was seated on the sofa, cradling a sleeping Iona.

Carrick smiled in her direction too and then said, ‘The place is still boarded up and likely to remain so even if it hadn't been flooded.'

Joanna said, ‘So shall
we
go and look for this damned hammer then, Ingrid? My first instincts are to give Campbell a black eye but …' She shook her head in mock regret.

‘That's a very good idea,' I replied, really meaning it.

‘Was the club searched for the murder weapon?' Joanna went on to ask.

The DCI was not sure and phoned Lynn Outhwaite. It appeared that the answer was that it was searched but not specifically for that. He was about to end the call when Joanna impatiently signalled that she wanted to talk to her.

‘Hi, Lynn. I don't think we've met but I used to have your job and was so damned good at it my boss married me so he would have sex and a thinking woman on tap. Ingrid wants me to help SOCA search the club for the murder weapon. Are the keys available or do we break in?'

James was staring at her in total disbelief but she forestalled any comments after the call by saying, ‘This is your wife reverting to cop. You can swap to mother.' And to me, ‘She'll meet us for coffee at Mario's in about an hour. With the keys. Coming?'

It must be said that since travelling from her native Cumbria some years previously Lynn Outhwaite, once rather straight-faced, has developed a sense of humour and had difficulty, when first spotting us, Joanna's remarks still fresh in her mind, in repressing a smile.

‘The place
was
searched,' she was at pains to point out. ‘And as you know we found drugs plus a firearm and ammunition. Counterfeit fifty-pound notes were hidden behind a drawer in another part of the building. But I can't say that we tore the club apart looking for the murder weapon in the Cooper case as the DI was still reluctant at that time to connect that death with the gang leader who appears to have been running it. I have to say that, personally, I find it hard to believe that the killer would have kept anything connected with the crime where we must assume he was hiding out.'

‘And Campbell's
thinking now
?' Joanna enquired, stirring her coffee, the two words dripping with scorn.

‘He's like an oyster with regard to communication but at the same time a committed and professional policeman. And you mustn't forget that although we have a strong suspect we still have another ongoing murder inquiry: the woman whose body was found near Oldfield Park station,' Lynn responded diplomatically. ‘You know my position on this and also the fact I can't let you have the keys is the reason why I'm coming with you.'

Which, thought about for a couple of moments, was another very good idea. I glanced at Joanna and saw my own conclusions mirrored in her expression.

‘Thank you,' she said.

Mario's was right opposite the police station so all we had to do was cross the busy road and make our way to the parking area at the side of it where Lynn had left her car. A few minutes later we had arrived at the club.

There was a new metal bar secured by two padlocks across the main door and, judging by the number of keys on the bunch that the DS was wielding, the same standard of security on the other entrances. It was good to know that Hamsworth and Co. could not have sneaked back in.

‘This Kev character,' Joanna mused. ‘Who the hell is he?'

‘God knows,' Lynn muttered, lifting off the bar and starting on the original door locks. ‘He doesn't appear to have any local form – and by that I mean in this force – and if you key in Kev, or Kevin, on the national database you get around two million of them. Those staff records you forwarded to us, Ingrid, weren't much use in that direction either.'

‘It doesn't pay to keep records if you're involved in anything illegal,' I said.

The place still smelt horrible but at least some form of temporary lighting had been restored on the floor that housed the club itself, at the request of the police, Lynn went on to inform us, in order to search it. At the time the lower cellars had been deemed too dangerously unhealthy to enter. I did not remind her that SOCA had already trawled through them.

After putting on the gloves that Lynn handed out we crossed the so-called dance floor and had a quick look behind the bar. This possessed all the miscellaneous items and gadgets one might expect together with a few left-behind coats, gloves and scarves, plus a couple of umbrellas and someone's dry cleaning.