Everyone Lies (40 page)

‘And you were approached to act as liaison.’

He nodded.

‘When was this?’

‘Two months ago. First few weeks, it was phone contact only. She was careful. She showed up late for our first face-to-face – turned out she’d been watching me from across the street for half an hour.’

‘Describe her.’

‘Knock-out,’ he said. ‘I mean drop-dead gorgeous.’

‘Height, Detective,’ Simms said, giving him a dry look. ‘Hair colour, that sort of description.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Blonde, about five seven, long legs, carried herself like a dancer.’

She looked at Fennimore. The description fitted Marta.

‘Tell me about the dynamite intel.’

‘She worked in a massage parlour – Francine’s. It’s run by two brothers, Sol and Frank Henry.’

‘
They’re
the suppliers?’ she said. ‘That doesn’t tally with what your superintendent told me.’

He nodded. ‘Our intel was they dibbled and dabbled a bit – just on a recreational level. But Kelly reckoned they were importing and distributing smack on a
big
scale.’

‘How could they do that and stay clear of the law?’ Simms asked.

‘She told me people who cross the Henry boys disappear or turn up in bits. Literally.’

That would explain why George Howard wouldn’t name the Henrys as his alibi. A glance towards Fennimore said he was thinking along the same lines.

‘Kelly was due for a try-out at Howard’s place. The brothers put her up to it. They wanted her to find something they could use against him as leverage.’ Another piece of Marta’s story slotted into place. ‘She rings me that same night,’ Parrish said. ‘There’s a regular at Francine’s – guy called Rob. A bit of a fixer, she gathers. She saw Rob go into the Henrys’ office with a sports bag and come out with a briefcase in his hand and a bloody great grin on his face. Now, she’s a bit of a favourite with Rob, and he’s in a good mood, so he invites her for a meal. She’s got the appointment with Howard, but that’s not till later, and she’s curious, so she says yes, thinks maybe she’ll get something out of him during the meal.’

‘And did she?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah. She rang me from the ladies’ while they were waiting for coffee. Rob had splurged on the booze, and he was very nicely irrigated, but she was none the wiser. He’d kept the briefcase with him – hadn’t let it out of his sight for a second – so she’d agreed to head back to Francine’s for a session, see if she could get a squint inside the bag.’

‘And you
let
her?’ Simms said.

‘I told her she was bloody crazy, tried to warn her off, but she hung up on me.’

‘I thought you said she was careful.’

He shrugged. ‘Up to a point. But it was like she got off on it, smiling in their faces while she ripped the guts out of their operation. A couple of weeks back, she was delivering a package to one of their mixers – a mad bastard they call Bug. He locked her in his flat. No explanation. She’d been asking questions – thought they’d sussed her, thought she’d never get out of the place alive. Bug kept her for two hours then let her leave. Sol was waiting – told her there’d been a lot of police activity around the place, so he’d called Bug and told him to delay her.

‘She asked Sol why Bug didn’t just tell her, and Sol said, “I didn’t tell him
why
. That’s the difference between you and him: Bug doesn’t need to know
why
– he just does as he’s told.”’

‘Punishment,’ Fennimore said. ‘A warning they owned her.’

Parrish nodded. ‘She still went back the next day though.’

‘And a week later, she was dead,’ Simms said. ‘Why haven’t you taken this to your boss?’

Parrish’s gaze skittered to the door, then back to her. ‘The night she died, maybe an hour or so after she called me from the restaurant, I got a panicked text from her.’ He took a breath and exhaled shakily. ‘She said someone on the job was involved with the Henrys – supplying them with drugs.’

Simms slid a look from him to Fennimore.

Parrish looked confused. ‘You know about that?’

‘We knew someone on the job was recycling drugs.’

His eyes widened. ‘You thought that was me?’

‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘But Marta … Kelly – whoever she was – she was right.’ She had to take a breath before she could say it: ‘Police
are
involved.’

She wasn’t ready, just yet, to tell him about Renwick, but what she had said was enough.

Parrish’s face seemed to sag. ‘Oh fuck.’ He rubbed his hand over his cropped hair. ‘I’ve been sweating blood over this – couldn’t make up my mind whether to tell you or go to the nearest pub and get bladdered.’

‘Regretting your decision, Detective?’

He considered the question carefully. After a long silence, he said, ‘Haven’t made my mind up yet.’

Simms smiled. ‘Why’d you come to me?’

‘I’m the new boy on the squad, like I said. I don’t know who I can trust. And everybody thinks you’re a pain in the arse.’ She could see him listening back to what he’d just said, and although he didn’t show any overt signs of alarm, he added, ‘I meant that in a good way, ma’am.’

‘It’s “Boss”,’ she said, allowing another fleeting smile to play across her features. ‘Did you record your conversations with her?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘
No way
would she agree to that.’

‘So you’ve no proof of any of this?’

‘Only my notes. Her calls to my mobile should be on the calls log, and I’ve kept the text.’

‘Does the text say she was in Francine’s when she made this discovery?’

‘No.’ He scrolled down his phone screen and showed her the text:

‘He is police,’ it said. ‘He sold drugs to Frank and Sol.’

‘Why does it matter where she made the call?’ Parrish asked.

‘Because Francine’s is probably our primary crime scene,’ Fennimore said. ‘And this Rob could be our killer.’

Parrish nodded. ‘So what do I do?’

Simms thought about it. She should talk to Superintendent Spry – this was way above her pay scale. But Spry wasn’t in the mood to listen, and they didn’t exactly have incontrovertible proof. She was tired and frightened and sick to the pit of her stomach, and a part of her wanted to give up, send everybody home, get into bed and pull the covers over her head. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was Parrish standing there, asking for her help because she was the only person he knew who was bloody-minded enough to trust; maybe it was hearing of Marta’s reckless courage in the face of violent men. Whatever the reason, when she looked at Parrish again, she knew she had to follow this through to the end.

‘Feel like doing some digging?’ she said.

Parrish replied with a cautious, ‘Okay …’

‘I want to know who was in charge of Operation Snowstorm. And specifically who signed the log supervising the destruction of the drugs.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, and she could see him working it through in his mind. ‘I can do that.’

41

Night fog gave way to a cold, dismal morning. It was 9 a.m. and Fennimore and Simms were in the Cemetery Office at Blackley in the northern outskirts of the city.

No, the ruddy-cheeked official told them, there was no ‘Rika’ buried in a pauper’s grave. She waved Simms’s copy of the coroner’s report.

‘I know exactly who you’re looking for,’ she said. ‘I didn’t say she wasn’t here, only that she isn’t buried in a pauper’s grave.’ She shoved her chair back and began rummaging under her desk. ‘I’ll show you.’

Kate winced. ‘Really, Nesta, that won’t be necessary.’

‘No trouble,’ the administrator said, her voice muffled under the desktop. ‘I could do with a breath of air.’ She came out from under the table flustered and glowing, with a pair of shiny black rubber overshoes in her hand. She crammed her feet into them, then struggled into a bright red duffle coat which she’d hung on the back of her chair. She riffled through a pile of buff folders halfway down the high-rise tower of files on her desk, extracted one and glanced at an A4 sheet inside.

‘Follow me,’ she said.

They sloshed their way along the slushy curve of the access road to the far north corner of the cemetery, and the tip of a wedge-shaped section, hedged in by winter-grey trees. A wood pigeon mourned in a treetop behind them, and the persistent
did-didn’t, did-didn’t, did-didn’t
chirrup of sparrows in the lower brush sounded like children embroiled in a tedious argument.

Fennimore scanned the rows, picking out those with a plain wooden marker; state-funded burials did not run to the cost of a headstone.

‘It’s on the fifth row,’ Nesta said, pointing to a new granite upright, half buried in snow.

Fennimore brushed away some of the powdery drift. The granite was carved with the inscription, ‘Veronika Aizupiete, aged 19.’

‘Veronika,’ Simms murmured.

‘Yes,’ the official said. ‘
Not
Rika. Though of course that was the name we had originally.’

‘Who paid for this?’ Fennimore asked.

‘Her sister. She put us right on the name when she requested permission to erect a headstone. Of course she had to cover burial costs and actually buy the plot before she was allowed to—’

‘The sister’s name?’ Simms interrupted.

‘Marta,’ she said. ‘Marta Aizupiete.’

Simms glanced at Fennimore, her eyes glowing. They had a name – a genuine, verifiable name.

‘Did Marta give a contact address?’ she asked.

‘Ye-es,’ the woman said. ‘And proof of identity – a passport and university student card.’

Simms stared at the folder clutched tight to the administrator’s chest. ‘Did you happen to keep copies?’

‘Of course,’ she said with prim disdain.

Kate took a breath and exhaled through her nose. ‘May
we
have copies?’ she asked, scrupulously polite.

Twenty minutes later they were on their way out of the office, the photocopies tucked away in Kate’s shoulder bag, when a man wearing a sharp suit and a bright spotted pink tie intercepted them.

‘You’re police?’

‘Detective Chief Superintendent Kate Simms, and this is Professor Nick Fennimore.’

‘Do you have proof of identity?’ he asked.

Simms showed her warrant card. ‘Your turn,’ she said.

He held up his staff card, hanging from a lanyard around his neck. ‘Tyburn,’ he said. ‘Section manager.’ He turned to the plump administrator. ‘Did you get her to sign a receipt?’

‘Um, well, no, Mr Tyburn,’ she said, her forehead colouring deeply. ‘They
are
police.’

‘By what authority are you here?’ he asked.

Fennimore wondered for one mad, paranoid moment if he’d been tipped off that Simms was no longer in charge of the investigation or, worse than that, he’d recognized them from the media coverage of the airport photographs.

Simms gave him a flat cop stare. ‘I’m investigating a murder, Mr Tyburn.’ She held up her warrant card again. ‘
This
is my authority.’

He flushed suddenly; apparently he wasn’t used to being faced down. ‘Don’t you people compare notes?’ he demanded. ‘We do have to consider client confidentiality, you know.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Simms said.

‘I went through all of this with your chap on Wednesday.’

Fennimore shot her a glance.

‘What “chap” is this?’ Simms asked.

‘Um …’

‘What did you give him?’

‘Everything – address, proofs of ID – the lot.’

‘And did you ask
him
to sign a receipt?’ Kate asked tightly. ‘Did you even get a
name
?’

‘He showed me his warrant card,’ he said. ‘A detective sergeant,’ he said. ‘Tall. Dark hair. Forty-ish?’ He reddened and fumbled to a stop.

‘A name would be really helpful,’ Kate said with icy civility.

‘He never actually said his name,’ Tyburn admitted, his bravado thoroughly punctured.

‘
He never actually said his name
.’ She sucked her teeth. ‘Think you’d recognize him again?’

‘Yes,’ he said, recovering a little. ‘Yes, I believe I would.’

‘Good. I might need to call on you. And Mr Tyburn?’ she added, her voice like silk. ‘You might want to make a note of our names, for future reference.’

‘The mystery sergeant,’ Fennimore said, as they walked back to the car. ‘Renwick?’

She nodded. ‘It was Renwick who told me that Rika had been buried by the state.’

‘Rika and Marta, sisters,’ he said, trying it out to see if he believed it. ‘It explains a lot.’

She nodded. Revenge, justice – they were strong reasons. ‘But Rika must have told her how dangerous the Henrys are. I can’t imagine why Marta would put herself in the same danger. ’

‘Maybe Parrish is right – she enjoyed the thrill. Or maybe it was better than sitting thinking about what happened to her sister.’

Simms glanced at him from under her lashes. She often thought that Fennimore’s restless activity was an escape from having to think.

Fennimore drove while Simms arranged for Scientific Support to attend Marta’s flat with her to take safe custody of any evidence. The route from Blackley Cemetery took them through Cheetham Hill, past the alleys and tenement blocks and their bin stores, where some of the early drugs death victims had been found. The pavements here were unsalted and the snow had been trodden down to dirty packed ice.

As they reached the mean row of shops where only ten days earlier they had leafleted the locals to warn them about tainted heroin, Simms wondered if Marta had crossed the street in front of her, on her way to make a delivery of heroin. Which of these nondescript buildings housed a crazy man named Bug? That shuttered and empty shop? That flat above a greengrocer’s? Marta hadn’t given DC Parrish an address, said Bug was ‘small potatoes’. It seemed that nothing less than the destruction of the Henrys’ entire empire would avenge her sister’s death. Simms kept replaying pictures in her head: Marta’s face battered beyond recognition; the whip marks, proof that the horrible torture inflicted on Rika had also been visited on Marta, too.

Fennimore glanced at her. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Just thinking – Marta’s mother was right.’