Gagged & Bound (14 page)

‘No, thanks. I’m driving.’ While she waited for him to fetch his next drink, Caro thought about trying to help Trish by asking whether he’d ever heard of a terrorist called Baiborn, then she realised Fred couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than she was and wouldn’t know anything useful.

‘You look worried,’ he said, slumping back on the bench beside her. ‘Still the thought of Stephanie getting to you?’

‘No. Something completely different. A mate of mine’s a lawyer and she’s researching a case from the early seventies when a factory got bombed.’

‘IRA?’

‘It was a student thing. Did you ever hear of it? X8 Pharmaceuticals and a whole lot of children killed in a bus.’

He shook his head. ‘Before my time.’ He poured the last of his
pint down his throat and said his wife would complain if he didn’t get off now.

Caro stayed, unworried about drinking on her own even in a pub as rough as this, thinking it was a pity Bill Femur hadn’t been able to give Trish any more help with Baiborn.

‘Arsehole pig! What’re you doing drinking on my ground?’ The filthy insult, shouted in a hoarse voice, made her look up, ready to deal. But it hadn’t been directed at her.

A thin young man in jeans and a fleece was backing away from a shaven-headed thug wearing decorator’s overalls. With difficulty she recognised the thin man as one of the uniforms from her nick. She put down her glass and edged along the bench so she could intervene if necessary.

‘I didn’t realise you owned the pub,’ said the off-duty PC in a commendably firm voice.

The other man laughed and looked round at his mates to collect their input. Soon they were banging their glasses on the tables. At first they produced only a random clattering sound, but once they settled into a regular rhythm, like war drums, the intimidating effect built up with every beat. Caro stood up and strolled casually over to the group.

‘Hey, Greg!’ she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. Let’s go.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Not till I’ve finished my drink.’

‘The food’ll get cold. Come on.’ She tightened her grip on his shoulder, knowing how easily men like these could provoke an inexperienced officer into giving them the excuse they wanted to have a go at him. ‘Now.’

She pulled at his shoulder and felt him yield. Chatting inconsequentially about ‘the car’, she urged him outside the pub. In the street, he pulled away.

‘Just who the fuck are you?’ he said, sounding remarkably polite in spite of the way he’d phrased his question.

‘Inspector Caroline Lyalt,’ she said, flipping open her warrant card. ‘Luckily I’ve seen you around the nick, even though you clearly haven’t clocked me. Someone should have told you that the Redan isn’t a pub to use on your own when you don’t know who’s who.’

‘You were there.’

‘I wasn’t on my own and I
do
know who’s who. What made you choose that pub to drink in?’

‘I was on patrol today and caught a couple of teenage brothers mugging an old dear for her pension. I called it in and waited till I had backup. Then, when I’d seen the lads into the van, this bloke who’d been watching it all strolled over and said I’d done a good job and if I came to the Redan tonight and asked for Big Dave, there’d be a drink in it for me.’

‘That’s what I meant.’ Caro felt sorry for him. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been had for a bit of a mug yourself. That was Big Dave Collins who was needling you just now. Ring a bell?’

‘Collins?’ he said, his eyes opening wider. ‘That’s funny – the two boys …’

‘Were called Collins too,’ Caro supplied. Seeing him blush, she added, ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s the kind of thing that happens to all of us. But do try to get used to the idea that even though vulnerable old ladies still think of us as friendly guardians, there are a lot round here who’d happily see us all on a bonfire with Catherine wheels round our heads and rockets up our bums.’

‘Thanks, Ma’am,’ he said, his narrow green eyes glinting in amusement at the image.

‘Pleasure, Greg. Now, have you got a car round here, or can I give you a lift to the tube?’

‘A lift to the tube would be great. How d’you know my name?’

She laughed. ‘I heard you being commended by your sergeant the other day, and it stuck.’

This time the blush on his thin cheeks was even more vivid. She decided to keep an eye on him, liking the little she’d seen so far. When she dropped him at the tube, he grinned, looking nearly as affectionate as David.

The warmth didn’t distract her for long. As she drove home, she thought of Fred Walley’s suggestion that Stephanie’s death had been an in-house punishment that had gone too far. Unspeakable though the idea was, it would let her stop worrying about Stephanie’s suspicions of John Crayley. Could it be true?

‘Why do you want to know about the Slabbs?’ Benedict Wallsford asked in an old-fashioned drawl that suggested he should be wearing tweeds and brogues and carrying a shotgun or a fishing rod. In fact, he had on jeans and a leather jacket, of the sort that looked rough but cost a month’s salary and would last for ever. They looked a bit too cool for his conventionally cut grey hair and lined face. His watch was one of the more discreet Rolexes. ‘Is there some kind of fraud case coming up? Or is it money-laundering?’

‘Why should you imagine either?’ Trish asked, looking up from the menu.

‘Wishful thinking. I want one of those bastards publicly convicted, so that I can have at least some of my book published.’ The drawl was overtaken by something much more urgent. ‘I worked for three hellish years on it, and put myself in real danger. Then the sodding lawyers scared Motcomb and Winter so badly they’ve refused to have any more to do with me. I’ve offered them four separate ideas to die for since and they’ve rejected every one with the most spurious excuses you can imagine.’

So maybe some of Bee’s terror is for her future career, Trish thought.

‘Which seemed less than just, given that it was they who’d
asked me to write the wretched book in the first place,’ Benedict added, with a grimace that made his long, distinguished face look more lively.

‘What happened about the advance? Did you have to pay it back?’

‘At one moment I thought I would have to, but my agent managed to finesse it so I could keep the tranche I’d already had – and spent. But I didn’t get the last two-thirds. It was a lot of work down the drain, and a huge hole in my tax reserves at the year end. A fair amount of pain too. It was a bugger of a book to write.’

‘I’m sure.’ Trish signalled to a waiter. ‘Look, what would you like to eat?’

When they’d chosen and she’d ordered a bottle of Sauvignon at his suggestion, planning to drink no more than one small glass herself, she asked with genuine curiosity whether he’d spent the whole of the three years working on the project.

‘God no! I was – and am – a busy freelance.’ He looked quizzical, as though he couldn’t believe she could be so ignorant of his importance. ‘Lucky enough to turn away work, but it still bugs me that the book has never seen the light of day. I couldn’t even make them let me take out the bits that worried the lawyers and have the rest published. It would have been a pathetic mealy-mouthed offering – as they always are when you lawyers have filleted them – but better than nothing.’

‘Why were they so scared?’

‘Because the Slabbs and at least two of the other families I’d written about have smart lawyers whose threats to sue for defamation are enough to keep their names out of the public eye whenever they want. It’s censorship by fear, and it shouldn’t be allowed.’

‘Quite right. So tell me about them,’ Trish said, itching to know whether John Crayley was the paragon his mother believed or the greedy criminal of Stephanie’s warning. ‘All I’ve
ever heard is that they have fingers in a lot of illegal pies, kill disloyal members of the family, and have a violent way with anyone else who threatens them. Oh, and someone called Jack is said to be the big cheese at the moment.’

‘That’s all true enough. But it’s not usually family they kill; family members tend not to grass them up.’

‘Why not?’ she said, remembering Femur’s account. ‘Are they all involved in the crime business?’

‘Mostly, and those that aren’t keep their mouths shut for the sake of a share of the spoils. I did hear rumours of one of the daughters shocking the rest by cutting all ties when she left school. No one wanted to say much about her. All I heard was that she’s never said a word to the police about what she must know, while refusing to take any family money or have anything to do with them.’

‘Where is she now?’ Trish asked, thinking of the way coincidences could make links between the strangest people, and of the way Stephanie Taft had been obsessed with the Slabbs. Could she have been the estranged daughter? Was that why she’d seen their influence behind John Crayley’s evasiveness?

‘I couldn’t find out. And, believe me, I tried. She’d have been the coup to end all coups. As soon as I started to ask specific questions – like where she lives and which of the Slabbs is actually her father – the few people prepared to say anything clammed up completely.’

‘Pity,’ Trish said, just as the wine waiter appeared with their bottle.

The wine was good, crisp and sharp without being mouth-puckeringly acid. When their prawns were brought to the table and they began peeling them, she asked how many Slabb criminals there were.

‘That kind of detail was always hard to get, too,’ he said, licking butter off his fingers. ‘They’ve been at it for three
generations now. The first two were brothers. One had four sons and a daughter; the other, two daughters and one son. And so it’s gone on. Jack is the eldest son of the third son of the elder of the two originators.’

‘It’s hard to believe there’s enough lucrative crime to keep a tribe like that in business.’

He laughed. ‘I think you’ll find that crime in London is a bottomless pit. But some of the Slabbs shade into legitimacy. There’s one of Jack’s cousins who’s into property. It’s more or less legal, but the family muscle comes in handy when any of his tenants misbehave or try to withhold the rent.’

‘And I imagine some of the properties come in equally handy when Cousin Jack needs a safe house for anyone.’ Trish peeled another prawn and savoured the sweetness of the plump flesh for a moment. ‘Have you any idea whether that crack house where the policewoman was shot the other day could have been one of their properties?’

‘No idea.’

‘Could you find out?’

‘It’s possible.’ He looked keen but also relieved, as though he’d understood at last why he was being lavishly fed.

‘What I can’t understand,’ Trish said, taking advantage of it, ‘is how they’ve managed this amazing evasion of the forces of law and order. I see what you mean about the censoring effect their legal team has on people like you, but what about the police?’

‘A few of the Slabbs have done some time in prison. But as a family they’re even better at security than MI5. Their communications are virtually impenetrable.’

‘How?’ Trish remembered Caro’s comment about surveillance and wondered how much this man really knew.

‘Mainly by keeping abreast of technological developments. They’ve never used email because it’s so insecure. And, as soon as it came out that mobile phones could be tracked to their
geographical point of use, they stopped having any except pay-as-you-go, unregistered ones. They buy those with cash and discard them after each operation.’

‘That must come expensive.’

‘When did you last buy a phone?’ he asked in surprise. ‘You can get them for a lot less than fifty quid these days legally – and almost nothing when they’ve been nicked.’

‘True enough.’

‘The current theory is that they may have stopped even pay-as-you-go phones now and reverted to the written word,’ Benedict went on. ‘Someone suggested they’re copying the Mafia in using notes carried by a trusted courier, whose responsibilities include destroying the paper as soon as it’s been delivered and read. It’s probably the safest way of sending messages these days.’

‘Provided the courier is one hundred per cent yours,’ Trish said, thinking of Stephanie’s assurance to Caro that she had a piece of physical evidence that would connect John Crayley to the Slabbs.

Had she somehow got her hands on a note of instruction from the Slabbs or of intelligence about police operations from John? Could he have received one while he lived with her and not noticed that the courier had failed to destroy it properly? Surely not. So maybe he’d sent a note and Stephanie had seen the courier collecting it, realised what was going on, followed him and somehow got hold of the incriminating bit of paper.

‘Hey! Anyone in there?’

Trish became aware that Benedict was waving a hand in her face.

‘Sorry. I got distracted. You were saying?’

‘That the Slabbs must have people on the inside – within the police. They have to. There’s no other way so many of them could’ve stayed out of the courts for this long, however good their lawyers.’

‘Any idea who that could be?’

‘None. I couldn’t find out, and God knows, I tried. It would have been an even bigger scoop than tracking down the renegade Slabb girl.’ Looking frustrated, he took a swig of wine and swallowed. ‘None of my own contacts within the police could tell me anything.’

‘I see,’ she said, thinking again about the possibility that Caro had been set up by someone in the security services to flush the real John Crayley out of his hiding place. It was coming to seem more realistic, whatever Caro thought. ‘Have you still got a copy of the typescript?’

‘Of course. Why?’

‘Would you lend it to me? If I promised to return it?’

He stared out of the restaurant’s window, as though seeking inspiration or permission.

‘Oh, why not?’ he said, turning back to face her. ‘But the actual script is a bit bulky. Shall I send you a floppy? It’ll have to be in the post because email’s so risky. OK?’

‘That would be great.’ Trish was relieved, though not surprised, that he did not realise ‘publication’ in the context of a defamation action could be a matter as simple as handing over a literary work to one other individual. She gave him her chambers address and, when lunch was over, watched him walk away, hoping he wouldn’t have second thoughts.

 

That afternoon, she put all thought of the Slabbs and Baiborn out of her head, ignored a note from Antony asking her to drop into his office, and powered through the outstanding work on her desk, suddenly seeing a way through the contract case that hadn’t occurred to her before. Only as she was mentally rehearsing her cross-examination of her clients’ opponents at the end of the afternoon did she remember Antony’s note.

Trying to keep the distracting thought out of her head, she pulled a fresh pad of paper out of her desk drawer and wrote the script she had mentally drafted, putting numbered stars by the danger points. She pencilled the same numbers on the relevant parts of the witness statement she was planning to reveal as the fiction she now believed it to be.

‘You look happy,’ Nessa said as Trish put down her antique pencil at last. It was a sleek affair of black lacquer and eighteen-carat gold, which Antony had given her at the start of their last big case together because, he said, he was sick of seeing her write with a well-chewed stub.

‘I’ve just seen the flaw my garagistes were trying to hide. It’s always a seventh-day kind of satisfaction when that happens.’

‘May I see?’

‘Sure.’ Trish handed the statement and her notes over to Nessa and watched as she worked her way systematically through both.

At one moment, her lips began to move, and a challenging expression narrowed her brown eyes. Trish knew she was imagining herself in court, putting the questions. It would soon be time to get her a case to try. Something simple in the magistrate’s court so her confidence wouldn’t take too much of a knock if she lost it. Trish made a mental note to ask Steve to find something suitable.

The phone on her desk rang. Antony wanted to know why she’d taken so long to respond to his request for a moment or two of her incredibly valuable time.

‘Coming,’ she said, ignoring the sarcasm in the same way that she ignored his extravagant compliments these days. ‘Nessa, I won’t be long. Can you put those back in my drawer when you’ve finished with them?’

‘Sure,’ she said, not raising her gaze from the papers.

 

 

Antony was lying back in his chair with his well-shod feet resting on the edge of the desk. Good, thought Trish as she sat down in the visitor’s chair, this isn’t a reprimand.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked. The sight of his creamy smile reassured her even more. He never looked as satisfied as this when he was about to shout at her.

‘Ask not what you can do for your head of chambers,’ he said, ‘but what he can do for you.’

‘I hadn’t realised you’d caught Steve’s habit of misquoting great men. What’s up?’

‘I?’ he said, in fake outrage. ‘I catch something from my clerk? Don’t be ridiculous! What can you mean?’

‘Maybe he doesn’t do it to you any more,’ she said, for once impatient with his playfulness. ‘He’s always lecturing me with adapted Churchillian sayings. Now, here you are doing it with Kennedy’s most famous line.’

‘Not as famous as the one about being a doughnut.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, come on, Dumbo, why are you so slow today?
Ich bin ein Berliner
actually means I am a cream bun, or something like that. Listen, I was at the Garrick for lunch today, chatting to old Simpkins. Know who I mean?’

‘“Old” Peter Simpkins, who’s a good six years younger than you – that one?’

‘That’s the one. He used to do a fair bit of local authority stuff in the early eighties, before he switched chambers, and he remembers all sorts of stories about your Simon Tick.’

‘Great.’ Trish’s irritation melted like butter on a corncob. She leaned forwards, wanting anything he could give her now, however dressed up in misquotation and childish teasing it might be. ‘Tell.’

‘There was a potential scandal that was hushed up at the time and never allowed to reach the press. Members of Tick’s staff in the housing department were thought to be selling the keys of
newly vacated council properties to illegal tenants – and sometimes in large numbers to illegal landlords.’

So that’s why he was so aggressive, she thought. No wonder he’s afraid of muckrakers. And he managed to make me feel guilty for it, too. Bastard!

‘And then, presumably,’ she said aloud, ‘making it look as though the refurbishment of the properties was taking a long time to hide the fact that they were making money out of illegal rents?’