Deep Cover (18 page)

‘Rather suspect you're right.'

Gerrard scanned the missing persons report. ‘Went to work as usual, humbly cycling on her old black bike, and just did not return home that afternoon. Her employer said she left at the usual time, about half past midday, having prepared the food for lunch and left it on a hotplate. So why is New Scotland Yard interested in her?'

‘We are . . . well . . . how to put this . . . we are more interested in her employer, Curtis Yates, who is using the name Pilcher.'

Gerrard's jaw dropped. ‘Pilcher is Curtis Yates!'

‘You know the name?'

‘Do I know the name? Do I know the name? He's a real villain, the Drug Squad have been interested in him for a long time. My brother is a detective sergeant there. He has mentioned that name a few times . . . fly . . . and slippery. We never had cause to suspect him.' Gerrard glanced at the file. ‘You see, he gave his name as Pilcher and it was a mis per enquiry. All we can do is take statements until the person or the body turns up.'

‘Of course.'

‘Well, well . . . so now we know where he lives. That's been a puzzle for a while. He has an accommodation address but he doesn't live there.'

‘We are interested in talking to him about a number of folk who go missing or are murdered in his orbit of influence.'

‘Including a middle-aged cook?'

‘Including a middle-aged cook.' Brunnie stood. ‘I'll go and pay a call on her husband, if he is still with us. He'll be late-sixties now, possibly older. I'll also let my governor know of the Drug Squad interest in Yates.'

‘I'll phone my brother—'

‘No!' Brunnie said sharply, sensing then why Gerrard had not risen in the police force. ‘We must keep the communication within official lines.'

‘Mrs Davies?' The woman was much older than Yewdall had anticipated. She was also alone, and not, as Yewdell had expected, accompanied by her husband. She hoped the shock did not show on her face.

The woman stood. ‘No, I am Mrs Owen – Gaynor's grandmother and her closest relative.'

‘I see, thank you for coming.'

‘Her mother is in Jamaica. She went off with a West Indian seaman she met in the docklands of Cardiff. She left Gaynor with me . . . just dumped her on me. I did my best, I wanted to be a tidy parent but she was a difficult girl.' Mrs Owen was short and frail, with curly silver hair. ‘You know she would sit on the kerb looking lost and forlorn, telling the neighbours I wasn't feeding her, and I would have my lifelong friends hammering on my door telling me to feed Gaynor. It's like that in Quakers Yard you see, everyone knows everyone else and their business. Eventually the Social Services took her into care because she was stealing from shops – out of my control. Well, if your mother dumps you on your granny when you are just five years old what can you expect? First they tried to foster her with younger adults but that didn't work out. Eventually she went to live in a specialist children's home in Pontypool. Then she ran away to London.'

‘Any contact?'

‘A postcard or two and a letter – she said she was working for the “big man” with a big house in the south of London, but Gaynor, you could never believe anything she told you.'

‘Did she mention a name?'

‘Just the location of the house. It was like an American state. It has slipped my mind . . .'

‘Virginia Water?'

‘Yes.' Mrs Owen smiled. ‘Yes, that was it, Virginia Water.'

‘So . . . shall we view the body?'

‘Yes.' Mrs Owen took a deep breath. ‘Yes, it is what I came for. I won't believe it unless I see her for myself.'

‘It won't be like you might have seen on television. You'll be separated by a pane of glass, a large pane of glass.'

‘I see.'

‘She'll be tightly bandaged with just her face visible and it will appear that she is floating in space, floating in blackness.'

‘That sounds very sensitive.'

‘It is – it's very clever the way it's done. Shall we go?'

Mr O'Shea was tall but frail, with liver-spotted hands and face. His house smelled musty and was cluttered with inexpensive items collected by him and his wife over the years, so it appeared to Brunnie – mainly souvenirs from southern holiday resorts like Margate, Southend-on-Sea, Brighton and Ramsgate. ‘She was a worried woman.'

‘Worried?'

‘Seemed frightened but she felt she had to go to work to bring in the money. I'd just retired with no pension to speak of. I told her we could manage on the State Benefits but she wanted that extra bit to be able to buy the grandchildren something on their birthdays and at Christmas. So off she'd cycle each weekday morning.'

‘Did she say what she was frightened of?'

‘No, but once she was more edgy than usual and she said, “She's worse than he is and no mistake”.'

‘She?'

‘Yes . . . definitely. “She's worse than he is.”'

FIVE

H
arry Vicary turned off Commercial Road and drove down a narrow side street of mainly, but not wholly, Victorian era buildings and the easily located Continental Removals. The sign was loud – black writing on a yellow background – and evidently kept clean of East End grime. The premises of Continental Imports/Exports revealed itself to be a large yard set back from the road, a garage beyond that capable of accommodating three high-sided removal vans. It was surrounded on three sides by high, soot-blackened brick walls. To the left of the yard was a green-painted garden shed which evidently served as an office. Two men wearing overalls stood beside the shed and eyed Vicary with hostility as he left his car and walked towards them. ‘Morning,' Vicary said cheerfully.

‘Get lost, mate,' replied the taller of the two men. ‘Go on, sling it . . . vanish.'

‘Can't do that.' Vicary showed his ID.

The shorter of the two men said, ‘I'll go and get the boss,' and turned away, walking towards the door of the shed.

Vicary put his ID back in his jacket pocket. ‘Now tell me, why on earth would your friend want to do that?'

‘Do what?'

‘Go and get his governor – strange reaction for someone to have the instant they see a police officer's warrant card, don't you think?'

The taller of the two men glanced at the other man and glared at him as if to say ‘idiot'.

And that, Vicary thought, really makes me suspicious but he said, ‘So this is part of Curtis Yates's little empire, I believe?'

‘Maybe,' the tall man growled.

Vicary saw a slender, middle-aged woman emerge from the shed, followed by an equally slender woman in her early twenties; both had hard faces and cold eyes, and could have been mother and daughter, though Vicary doubted that that would prove to be the case. Fathers and sons in mutual villainy . . . but mothers and daughters . . . rare, very rare in his experience.

‘The Bill?' the older woman asked.

‘Yes, making enquiries about Curtis Yates.'

‘Why?' Her voice was hard-edged.

‘We believe he might be able to help us in our enquiries. We understand he has the property rental business in Kilburn and this business –' Vicary pointed to the yard – ‘importing and exporting to Europe, and they provide an income sufficient to support a large house in Surrey. What goes to Europe and what comes back from Europe?'

‘This is a legitimate business!' The younger woman snapped. ‘Kosher.'

‘And you are?'

‘Felicity Skidmore.'

‘Ah . . . now that name rings bells. Didn't you look after the office in Kilburn after Mr Dunwoodie was attacked and murdered?'

‘Yes, just two days; got another manager there now. I'm an East End girl, I don't like going out of the East End. We don't travel well 'cos we've already arrived. How do you know I was there anyway?'

‘My officers visited. I read their recording.'

‘Oh, you write everything down?'

‘Everything. I'll be writing this down.' He turned to the older woman. ‘You'll be the governor?'

‘Yes.'

‘Your name, please.'

‘Gail Bowler.'

‘You must have known Mr Dunwoodie?'

‘Yes, wrong place at the wrong time. It happens.'

‘You think?'

‘What other explanation is there?'

‘That he was targeted. You see, it was following up the leads in the Dunwoodie murder that we found out that Mr Pilcher, is also known as Curtis Yates . . . interesting why he should use an alias . . . and the witness—'

‘Witness!' Gail Bowler sounded alarmed. ‘You have a witness to Dunwoodie's murder?'

‘Yes. A very good one – gave a very good description of Mr Dunwoodie's attacker. In fact, since I am here, I wonder if you could look at the E-FIT we have compiled based on the witness testimony.' Vicary took a brown envelope from his inside jacket pocket, and from it he extracted a glossy E-FIT showing a bald-headed, moon-faced man which he handed to Gail Bowler. She took it and smiled. ‘No, I don't know him.'

‘We think he's about twenty years of age – a youth, high on drugs maybe, or someone sent to attack Dunwoodie.'

‘Well, I don't recognize him.'

‘How about you, Miss Skidmore?'

Felicity Skidmore took the E-FIT and glanced at it. ‘Nope.' Though she too showed some amusement, or some relief, at the sight of the E-FIT. She handed it to Vicary.

‘Gentlemen.' Vicary handed the E-FIT to the two overall-clad men, who both seemed anxious to look at it, and again, both held it, looked at it and smiled as they viewed it.

‘Sorry, squire.' The taller of the two men handed the E-FIT back to Vicary. ‘No recognition.'

‘Thank you anyway.' Vicary slid the E-FIT back into the envelope. ‘We'll ask around Kilburn, but since I was here I thought I'd take the opportunity . . . just on the off chance.'

‘So, just the one geezer attacked Dunwoodie?' Gail Bowler said, smart in a grey suit.

‘According to the witness.'

‘He wasn't a big man.' Gail Bowler spoke with a marked degree of satisfaction. ‘He couldn't have put up much of a fight. One man could easily have done it.'

‘Seems so.' Vicary paused. ‘So this is part of Yates's empire?'

‘Possibly.' Bowler again became defensive.

‘I see.'

‘Vicary? You said your name was Vicary?'

‘Yes, Detective Inspector, New Scotland Yard, Murder and Serious Crime Squad. Do tell Mr Yates I was asking after him.'

‘We will, don't worry.'

‘How long have you been working for Mr Yates?'

‘A little while,' Bowler replied.

Vicary glanced across at the two men and then at Felicity Skidmore. ‘Same,' the tall man said, ‘a little while.'

‘Well, do be careful.'

‘Careful? Why?' Gail Bowler asked with a note of fear in her voice.

‘Because,' Vicary replied, ‘because, you see, people who move in his circle . . . how shall I put this? They tend to disappear . . . or get murdered.'

‘You don't say.'

‘I do say. You see, the gofer of Mr Yates, Michael Dalkeith by name – strange story. You know he actually lay down in the snow on Hampstead Heath, as though he was committing suicide, but he lay down right on top of a shallow grave which concealed the corpse of a lady called Halkier, Rosemary Halkier, who we believe was romantically involved with Mr Yates when she went missing. It was as though Michael Dalkeith was leading us to her grave, and then at the same time, Mr Curtis Yates's old cook, Mrs O'Shea, went missing . . . and Mr Dunwoodie was beaten to death, and he was employed by Mr Yates . . . and the Welsh runaway who was found strangled in a room of a house belonging to Mr Yates. So, you see what I mean? He doesn't sound like the man you'd want to take home to meet your parents. Anyway . . . I'll say good day.'

Vicary turned and walked back to his car, which stood at an oblique angle to Continental Imports/Exports, and he saw out of the corner of his eye the two men and the two women walk into the garden shed, doubtless to make a phone call. He smiled. He thought he seemed to have put the cat amongst the pigeons quite nicely. ‘Just wait and see what springs out of the woodwork now,' he said as he unlocked the door of his car. ‘Just wait and see.'

That afternoon Vicary sat with his team in his office in New Scotland Yard; he glanced at Yewdall, Ainsclough, Brunnie and Swannell. ‘I took a leaf out of Frankie's book,' he said. ‘You don't mind?'

‘No, sir, reckon everyone knows anyway.' Frankie Brunnie held up his hands.

‘Frankie's method of obtaining Curtis Yates's fingerprints nudged the boundaries of questionable practice, but the upshot is that A-Ten are not taking any action.'

The team members grinned at Brunnie and Penny Yewdall gave him the thumbs-up sign.

‘And whether Frankie's actions brought on the murder of J.J. Dunwoodie . . . well, we'll probably never know . . . and Frankie could not have foreseen the consequences. As I said, I took a bit of a leaf out of his book – out of Frankie's book – and visited Curtis Yates's import and export company in the East End. Four people were there . . . one was Felicity Skidmore . . . the others I don't know. Anyway, I showed them an E-FIT of a thug we are looking for in an isolated and unconnected case, and told them it was the E-FIT of the person we want to talk to in connection with the Dunwoodie murder. They all looked very pleased when they saw the E-FIT because it clearly didn't look anything like Rusher or Clive “The Pox” Sherwin. So, I think I gave them the clear impression that we were not just barking up the wrong tree, we were in the wrong part of the forest entirely, but more importantly, they were obliging enough to take hold of the E-FIT, each in turn.'