If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (37 page)

‘They all make mistakes, DS Millhaven,’ replied Groombridge, looking about him thoughtfully. It makes the mistakes harder to spot when the sodding criminals knew what they were doing, he didn’t add. The phone ping had already come back as pay-as-you-go and switched off. Savvy villains knew the tricks. Bloody thing probably had a new SIM card already.

The Fire Brigade had the blaze out and the local SOCO team were waiting for the steaming wreck to cool down. Groombridge chose the first and most obvious of the footpaths, which turned under the flyover and came out below by a smaller road.

Tucked under the flyover there was a small public car park encircled by security fencing. They crossed to the nearest concrete staircase, went up on to the flyover and down the far side to the railway station. There was another car park on this side too. Both had CCTV, limited but worth checking, the station, too, and most buses these days. ‘Train or bus wouldn’t have been smart – too easy to see where you got on and off.’

‘The car parks, Guv?’ suggested Stark.

‘Nice and dark under those flyovers,’ agreed Fran.

They checked for signs of broken glass, evidence of breaking into cars, and found a depressing number in both car parks.

‘Guv.’ Stark was pointing at the CCTV camera on an eight-foot pole. It had been sprayed out with black paint. A quick scan showed there were no other cameras covering that car park, the surrounding streets or buildings. Stark squinted towards the railway station. ‘What about those, Guv?’

The platform cameras were high on a pole. They tramped back up and over to the station side. Stark was noticeably slower this time, his breath laboured when he thought no one was looking. Groombridge shook his head but said nothing. The man in the ticket office reluctantly let them in to see the monitors. They were not of the finest quality, but the relevant camera had sufficient elevation to pick up the distant entrance/exit of the car park.

They rewound to roughly when the Focus had been dumped and three figures in caps appeared, entered the car park, then disappeared into the gloomy undercroft. A minute later a dark grey saloon exited.

‘Ford Mondeo,’ suggested Fran.

Groombridge nodded. ‘They all make mistakes.’

They returned to the station with all of the footage. The car-park camera had been fine until five forty-five the previous afternoon when a hand had appeared from below holding a spray can. The platform camera showed a man arrive on foot, spray, and leave the way he’d come. A minute later the grey Mondeo came around the same corner and disappeared into the car park. A black Mercedes pulled up outside and what looked a lot like the vandal emerged, got in on the passenger side and the car drove off. Too far for faces or plates.

‘Can we enhance it?’ asked Stark.

‘Not on this,’ replied Dixon.

‘Email a copy to FSS and see what they can do,’ said Groombridge. ‘What else have we got?’

‘Just spoken to the crime-scene manager, Guv,’ said Fran. ‘Melted remains of a toothbrush handle found on the floor of the burnt Focus.’

Groombridge nodded. Nikki’s shiv – anything a prisoner could grind to a blade on brickwork or a concrete floor. Toothbrush handle was a common choice.

‘The car’s plates were cloned but the engine compartment serial number showed it was nicked in Chatham this morning. Some prints found on surviving paintwork. Officers have been sent to fingerprint the owner and her family for exclusion. We’re collating footage from traffic cams in the area but they’re few and far between. We’ve got incident signs up in case anyone wants to call and uniform are still canvassing.’

Exactly the kind of work Stark didn’t miss about uniform. Not that sitting in front of a monitor was much better. He, Dixon, Williams and Bryden were left to search the traffic-camera footage for signs of the Mondeo and Mercedes under the watchful eye of DS Harper while Groombridge and Fran spread the net nationally.

‘Christ, talk about a needle in a haystack!’ complained Williams.

‘Look for both cars together,’ suggested Stark. ‘If they were lazy they might’ve convoyed there.’

Harper huffed. ‘Another clever idea from Trainee Investigator Goldenballs. Listen to this one, lads, he’s destined for greatness.’ Masquerading as a joke, there was enough poison in the sarcasm to raise Stark’s hackles. Harper looked to Bryden for laughter but received only a smile of acknowledgement, not a convincing one. Tolerance for his humour was wearing thin. There was a frayed look to the man this week. He hadn’t turned up with any new cuts or bruises but he was clearly tired and stressed. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him. Stark had kept his own mental health and family apart; Harper’s wife could not do the same and it was important to remember that, even as the man pecked away with his petty revenges.

‘Got them, I think,’ said Williams, suddenly. ‘Here.’ His screen showed the Mondeo following the Mercedes turning right. A rear view so no faces, but the licence plates of both were discernible.

‘Where is that?’ asked Stark. Williams gave the location and they traced the direction towards the nearest camera.

‘We’ve got them twice coming and once going, different routes, but both instances we lose them south of Abbey Wood. And traffic cameras are always on sodding poles,’ said Fran. ‘With caps on …’ You couldn’t see faces.

Groombridge stared at the camera stills, baseball caps and gloved hands. ‘Oh, for a distinguishing tattoo.’

‘But …’ She slid a still image on to Groombridge’s desk. There was no mistaking Dawson in it. ‘From the prison-visit camera, Guv. He visited Nikki four times. Guards say they held hands affectionately.’

Groombridge made a face. ‘Doesn’t sound like our Nikki.’

‘Gives us a motive for Dawson, though, if she’s more than just his foot-soldier.’

Groombridge made a face of distaste. ‘Just when I thought nothing in this job could make me shudder. Visits to Gary?’

‘Just his mother. But Dawson visited Tyler Wantage once.’

‘Roping him in,’ suggested Groombridge. ‘What about the vandal?’

Fran slid another picture in front of him. ‘Just after they dropped off the Mondeo. Best FSS can do with the image.’

The grainy enlargement was still inconclusive. Shorter than Dawson, slim, thin-faced beneath his cap: that was about all you could say. Groombridge stared at it thoughtfully. ‘The cars?’

‘Both on cloned plates. The Merc is the same class and marque as Dawson’s but we can’t tell the model.’

‘Dawson’s was de-badged too,’ offered Stark, uselessly.

‘A Mondeo matching the description was stolen two nights ago in Gillingham.’

Groombridge nodded, still staring at the vandal. ‘If I had to guess,’ he said slowly, ‘I’d say this was Billy Whelan.’

‘Guv?’

‘My old guv’nor, DCI Darlington, liked Whelan for the getaway driver.’

‘For the van heist?’

‘Whelan was a usual suspect. Breaking and entering mostly, bit of drugs, but nicking cars was his speciality and he had links to Dawson. I always thought he was too small-time. Anyway, once the case against Dawson fell over, we had nothing on him. But this could be him – he was a skinny little toerag. Though last I heard he was still driving a cab.’ Groombridge sighed. ‘I don’t know, I’m chasing ghosts today.’

‘So where do we start?’ asked Stark.

‘
That
is a good question. If Dawson is smart he’ll be working in his office like nothing happened.’

‘With four employees swearing he’s been there all day,’ added Fran.

‘As for Whelan, he hasn’t shown up on my radar for a while. Uniform might know him. Work up associates, family, known hangouts and lock-ups.’ Groombridge tapped the image of the Mondeo on the pinboard. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll find it parked in plain sight.’

A constable stuck his head round the door and passed a note to Groombridge.

‘Okay, the guard is out of surgery and stable. They’re confident he’ll recover, no thanks to Nikki bloody Cockcroft.’ Groombridge crumpled the paper and tossed it into a nearby bin. ‘All right, everyone, it’s leg-work time.’

‘You’ll like this, Guv,’ said Stark, hanging up the phone. ‘Billy Whelan is still a registered private minicab driver. Greenwich Council tell me they received a cancellation notice two years ago. Whelan re-registered with
Chatham
Town Council. They gave me his mobile, cab registration and home address, two streets from where our silver Ford Focus was boosted.’

Fran smiled. ‘Shall we ask HQ to ping the mobile?’

Groombridge shook his head, pained. ‘It’s all a bit circumstantial. The authorizing officer is a stickler. Let’s try this the old-fashioned way first. Call me a cab, would you, Trainee Investigator Stark?’

‘Happy to, Guv.’ Stark used his mobile so Whelan wouldn’t see the area code and put it on speakerphone. It rang but went to answerphone. Stark tried again.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi, is that Billy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I order a cab for tonight?’

‘Nah, sorry, mate. I’m off.’

Stark thought on his feet. ‘Come on, mate, I won’t take long. Jonny said you’d sort me out.’ He didn’t try to modify his accent: his own was just as likely.

‘Jonny who?’

‘Jonny! Probably didn’t use his name – he’s a bit cute like that. He got your card from last time, said you sorted him out.’

‘I’m off tonight.’

‘Come on, man, there’s this party. It’s not far. I said I’d sort everyone out with tickets.’

There was a long pause. ‘What d’you need?’

‘Five tickets. And some biscuits, how many can you get?’

‘How many d’you need?’

‘Twenty.’

‘Too many. I don’t know you.’

‘I can pay.’

Another long pause. It was a delicate balance. It had to be enough to distract Whelan from his current activities, but it was a lot to ask for a first-time contact calling out of the blue. Too much, probably. A ticket was phone speak for a wrap of cocaine, a gram wrapped in a folded square of paper, like the ones he’d pulled from Gibbs’s rubbish. A disco biscuit was one of the original ecstasy tablets,
circa
1988, but was still used as generic slang. Approximately forty to fifty pounds per ticket, and eight to ten per biscuit. Cheaper than getting drunk and prices kept falling.

‘Sixty a ticket. Fifteen a biscuit.’

‘That’s a bit steep!’ Stark grabbed his pad, scribbled one word and held it up to Fran – address!

‘I don’t know you.’

Fran pulled up online maps.

‘Oh, come on, mate, this is highway robbery!’

‘Take it or leave it.’

Stark paused as long as he dared while Fran searched for Chatham. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Joe.’

‘Address?’

Fran zoomed in on a residential area. ‘Meet you at the corner of Gordon Road and Portland Street. Nine o’clock.’

‘Where’s the party?’

Groombridge shook his head. Whelan was fishing. He wanted to drive by and check it out before he made the pick-up. Stark wouldn’t want to guess a location anyway. ‘I’ll tell you when you pick me up.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘So you can leave me standing in the street while you sell direct? I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘I’m only asking.’

‘Maybe, but I don’t know
you,
and you’re already overcharging.’

Whelan laughed. ‘All right, don’t get mardy. If you don’t dick me around tonight we’ll talk a better price next time. Bring your tokens. Don’t be late. We good?’

‘We’re good.’

Whelan hung up. Stark let out a long, deep breath.

‘Not bad.’ Groombridge chuckled. ‘Your first undercover work. What made you think of it?’

‘You mentioned drugs and his connection to Dawson. We nabbed a handful of Gosport cabbies for dealing, and some doormen.’

‘A universally convenient and lucrative sideline to both. But if he’s willing to show his face for pocket money he’s either stupid or uninvolved. I look forward to asking him. Put out a call on his cab, see if we can pick him up early. Otherwise Stark goes undercover for real.’

Fran shook her head. ‘Guv. His face …’

Stark said nothing. She was right. His face was too public, his scars too memorable. Undercover work would not feature heavily in his new career.

‘Maggie will sort him out. Swing by home for suitable attire on the way. Get on to Chatham for a bit of help.’

There was no sign of the Mondeo or the trio when Stark and Fran set off to Chatham. Whelan was late, probably coasting up and down the local streets to check for uniform cars. It was already ten past nine and Stark had been on the corner of Gordon Road and Portland
Street for twenty minutes without his cane. He was beginning to sweat.

A Skoda Octavia minicab appeared at the next junction along. Whelan peered at him for a moment, cautious, then pulled up alongside. ‘You order a cab?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Name?’

‘Joe. You Billy?’

‘Hop in the back.’

Stark did his best not to fall in.

‘I know you?’ said Whelan, looking in his mirror.

Stark had on casual clothes, a cap to cover the scars in his hairline and the cunning contents of Maggie’s makeup case masking those on his face. Harper hadn’t passed up the opportunity to suggest lipstick and a frock. ‘Must’ve used you before. Expect I was mashed.’

Whelan appeared to accept this. ‘Where to?’ he asked, pulling out.

Fran’s car pulled across the street forcing Whelan to stop. ‘What the … 
Oi!
’ he shouted out of the window and leant on his horn angrily. Fran waved cheerily. A local unmarked car pulled up behind and both put on their concealed blue lights. In the mirror, Whelan’s face was a picture.

‘The police station, please,’ said Stark, holding up his warrant card. ‘Billy Whelan, I’m arresting you on suspicion of possession of prohibited substances.’ Better to have him in cuffs before they mentioned assisting an escape. Possession, even in the amounts discussed, was less likely to send him running. The locals had wanted to wire Stark up and go for supply, but once they realized who he was it was obvious his face was too fresh in the public mind. His inexperience clinched it.

Whelan still looked panicked and fit to bolt, but there were already uniforms outside his door. A search of the car showed why. He’d brought extra, a lot extra, obviously hoping to resupply the party. The Chatham police understandably insisted on charging him at their nick before handing him over. It was gone midnight before Mick closed the cell door on Whelan in Royal Hill.

The buzz of the day had long fizzled out. Two-thirds of the team had been sent home to sleep. Those left looked out on their feet and
out of ideas. There had been several public sightings of the grey Mondeo, all mistaken, and nothing on the plate-recognition cameras. Liam Dawson had not turned up at his office or been tracked down at any of the clubs. Stark made himself busy, lest anyone point out that he shouldn’t be there. He picked up Whelan’s phone in its evidence bag and began copying its numbers into the database. He was tired, and it was several minutes before he thought to scroll down to L.

Keeping a lid on his excitement he double-checked before showing the number to Fran.

‘Liam?’ Fran looked at him. ‘A different phone from the one Callie Cockcroft texted at the courthouse?’

Stark nodded. They could request a ping on the new number’s location. ‘There’s more – that number flagged a connection in the database. Nikki Cockcroft had the same number saved in her smashed phone as D. And it gets better – while Dawson was smart enough to use a separate phone for the escape, Whelan wasn’t. His shows calls to and from Liam’s courthouse phone and the records might pinpoint locations.’