Murder of a Dead Man (14 page)

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Every selection committee knows men are cooler, calmer, less emotional and better managers than women.’

‘I’m a member of a minority group. And everyone knows a policy of positive discrimination operates in the force these days.’

‘Not on super selection committees.’

‘You should never do that.’ She changed the subject as he opened one of his foil containers.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Order curry at a Chinese. It’s not one of their traditional dishes. The Indians do it better.’

‘It always tastes good to me.’

‘You’re the legendary cartoon copper, Peter.

Temper worse than a two-year-old and a psyche to match. You live on slabs of grease and spices strong enough to blow your mind, think you’re hard, but underneath it all you’re boorish.’

‘I congratulate you on your insight.’ He refused to allow her to annoy him. ‘Have you always eaten rabbit food?’

‘Since I was old enough to make my own decisions.’

‘When was that? Last week?’

‘Cheap remark, Peter.’ She pushed her fork into her mess of vegetable and stirred it. ‘You been undercover around Jubilee Street before?’

‘Trevor and I have had the misfortune to itch many times. This your first foray?’

‘Undercover? No.’ She poured herself a glass of water from the bottle Peter had set on the table.

‘Where did you go last time?’

‘A pub. I went in as a barmaid when I was with Vice Squad.’

‘You were involved in the Dog and Whistle case?’ He looked at her sideways.

‘I was.’

‘Cracking piece of work, that.’

‘It earned me my sergeant’s stripes.’

‘Did it now?’ He shovelled the last of his curry down. ‘Want a beer?’

‘We’re on duty.’

‘As we’re going down Jubilee Street we should smell like the natives.’

‘I’d still prefer coffee.’

‘While it’s brewing I’ll change in the bedroom.

You can use the bathroom.’

‘You’ve given up on me, haven’t you?’ She pushed her plate aside. Leaving the table she walked over to his chair. He rose warily to meet her.

Wrapping her hands around his neck she looked up into his eyes. Disentangling her arms, he held her by the wrists and pushed her away.

‘I don’t like women who tease,’ he said thickly.

‘Who’s teasing?’ she murmured.

‘We’re on duty.’

‘Not for another –’ she looked at her watch.

‘Hour and a quarter.’ She thrust herself forward. His grip on her wrists relaxed as she meshed her body close to his. ‘Will that be long enough for you, Sergeant Collins?’

Peter whistled as he opened his wardrobe door and lifted out a black plastic sack. He rarely threw out his worn clothes. When he had to dress down to go undercover he preferred wearing his own cast-offs.

Tipping it out, he selected a pair of jeans with the back pocket hanging off and a hole in one knee.

Pulling them on over a pair of black boxer shorts Anna had found amusing for some unaccountable reason; he viewed himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. He put on a pair of faded cotton socks. He found a nightmare of a blue and purple patterned shirt his ex-wife had bought him, and a black cotton sweatshirt that had once been his favourite, but had been relegated to the rag-bag when holes had appeared in the neck as well as the elbows. He topped his outfit with a navy-blue anorak. It was faded but clean. The last time he’d come out from undercover he’d taken it to the dry-cleaners who had only agreed to deal with it after a fierce argument.

The finishing touch was a pair of broken trainers. The last thing he did was lift out the bottom drawer in his bedside cabinet. On the floor beneath it was a ten inch silver rod. He pressed a button set discreetly in the base and looked at the stiletto blade that shot out of the tip. Retracting it, he tucked the knife into the back of his sock and shoe. Ruffling his hair, he went into the kitchen and made coffee.

Carrying the mugs to the bedroom he knocked on the bathroom door. Anna opened it and studied him.

‘You look like a Hollywood version of a tramp.’

He almost dropped the mugs. She didn’t look like a dosser; she was one, right down to the filth on her jeans. Her cropped blonde hair, no longer sleek, shining and well cut, stuck out in greasy tufts at right angles to her head. Her face was pinched with exhaustion and grey, as though she hadn’t washed in a month. The man’s shirt she was wearing over a torn black vest had lost most of its buttons, and sported an enormous rent in the back.

‘You look like a bag lady.’

‘I used to be an actress.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Three years in drama school and I have the papers to prove it. When I left, I was engaged as a chorus girl in a summer show in Blackpool. And that was it. My only time in the spotlight. After six months of sitting on my rear end waiting for something to turn up, I decided that season was all there was ever going to be, and having a gut feeling that there had to be a better future for me than starving on benefit, I went to police college.’

‘After the bag lady, I’ll elevate you to the romantic lead.’

‘If you’re playing as well I’d prefer soft porn.’

She pushed him away as his hands wandered beneath her shirt. ‘Down boy. You need a dirty face.’ She picked up a make-up purse from the bathroom shelf.

‘Will you take it off afterwards?’ he asked as she shoved him into a chair and rubbed grey greasepaint on to his cheeks.

‘If you’re good.’

‘I could get used to you being around, Anna.’

He wanted to but didn’t dare put it in stronger terms.

‘One step at a time, Peter.’

‘Does that mean you’ll run another marathon with me tonight?’

Anna concentrated on smudging a dark line on his forehead. She knew already that what they had was good. But it was also new, and fragile. She didn’t want to rush it. She wanted it to be right. To last. But if a week or two was all there was going to be, why shouldn’t she take all he had to offer.

‘Marathon or pentathlon?’ she smiled as she zipped the bag.

‘Got it?’ Trevor asked Peter and Anna.

Peter studied the rough sketch Trevor had drawn. ‘Right side of building as you face it from the front. Fifth window along second floor has loose boards. Climb up…’

‘There’s a rope tied to the radiator below the windowsill, but if you wait until the kids come along, they’ll lower it.’ Trevor looked out of the window at the rain teeming relentlessly down. ‘On an evening like this, they won’t hang around the streets.’

‘The place under surveillance?’

‘Bill has officers in the Port Offices. Chris Brooke is with the security guards at the dock gates.

Andrew phoned in half an hour ago to say a couple of kids have gone inside, but they’ve pulled the rope up behind them. Neither he, nor Brooke has seen anyone answering the description of our man.’

Peter looked at the map for the last time and left it on Trevor’s desk.

‘Where do you go once you’re inside, Anna?’

Trevor prompted. She seemed distant and he wondered if she’d heard a word he’d said.

‘Walk straight across the room from the window. The door into the corridor is directly opposite. Once out of the door, turn left, walk along the passageway past the men’s, ladies’, and manager’s office until you come to a stairwell with an iron lift cage in the centre. Up one flight. First door on right.’

‘Good.’

‘I have a retentive memory,’ she explained.

‘It seemed like bloody miles to me,’ Trevor warned.

‘You’re crippled,’ Peter said.

‘Got torches?’ Trevor asked.

Anna pulled one out of an inside pocket stitched into her anorak and held it up.

‘Candles, matches?’

‘And this.’ Dan entered and laid a gun on the desk.

‘We’re dealing with a down-and-out,’ Peter protested.

‘A down-and-out, who may have already killed one person. It would look bad for the force if either of you were next. Trevor has told you that you have back up in the Port Authority buildings and the security booth at the entrance to the docks?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Anna replied.

‘Try to make contact every half hour. We won’t be able to watch you through those boarded up windows. Murphy, Brooke and myself are all the super could spare for something that may be nothing, but if you hit trouble we’ll radio for back-up.’

‘Sergeant Joseph’s night off to cuddle his lady love?’ Peter needled.

‘His night for interviewing doctors who carry out face transplants,’ Trevor replied.

‘In a nice warm office. Want to play swaps?’

Peter asked.

‘Not tonight.’ Trevor wondered what Peter would say if he’d known the interview would be in a restaurant not an office. And who the doctor was.

Rain lashed inland, harsh, penetrating and salty from the sea as Peter and Anna walked along the quayside towards the old factory. Dan had dropped them off at the gates at the sea end of the docks on the premise that no native of Jubilee Street would go near a security booth. Shivering, huddled in their respective anoraks, they kept their heads down and their hands in their pockets as they made their way towards the squat.

‘You imagining a cosy room with a glowing fire and a comfortable bed?’ Anna asked.

‘The first thing I learned in this line of work is to kill your imagination.’ Peter shuddered as a vicious gust of wind brought tears to his eyes.

‘A nice warm mug of spiced mulled wine, a blanket and…’

‘You’re a bloody sadist.’

‘I’ll show you just how much of one later, but work first,’ she said as the old factory loomed before them.

‘Let’s hope it’s a short shift.’ Peter realised that for the first time in months, if not years, he had something worth looking forward to at the end of his day. ‘See anyone?’ he asked as they rounded the corner and out of the worst of the howling gale.

‘Like who? Jack Frost?’

‘Like anyone who’ll see or hear me contacting Andrew Murphy.’

She glanced around the waste ground that surrounded the building. It was deserted. ‘You’re safe.’

Peter whispered into the receiver tucked into his pocket. Seconds later Andrew’s voice crackled thinly back.

‘Eighteen people in the building, no sign of our man.’

‘Do we stay outside until he shows?’ Anna huddled close to the wall.

‘Do we hell? I’m not standing around here freezing my balls when you’ve promised me I’ll need them later.’

They rounded the corner. The rope was exactly where Trevor said it would be. Peter eyed a young girl who was shinning up it.

‘Nice legs,’ he commented. ‘Ladies first.’

Anna climbed the rope, quicker than the young girl. As soon as her legs vanished beneath the board he followed.

His arms were aching from the unaccustomed exertion by the time he’d finally hauled himself up to the windowsill. Anna had lit her stub of candle.

He saw her face illuminated in its delicate glow, and behind her two more flickering lights.

‘How did you find out about this place?’ The voice was angry, challenging, the speaker the young girl whose legs Peter had admired.

‘Man told me and my boyfriend about it in the social. Bastards wouldn’t give us an emergency cheque when we came in today.’ Anna’s cockney twang was spot on.

‘In from where?’ a masculine voice demanded.

‘London. We thought we’d stay with my brother until we got on our feet. But his girlfriend’s moved back in with him and seeing as how we can’t stand one another there was nothing for it but to hitch back down here. This is my boyfriend, Eddie.’

She turned as Peter clambered into the room. ‘He comes from round here, so we thought we might be able to sort something out.’

‘Like what?’ the man sneered.

‘What’s it to you?’ Peter rose to his feet.

‘It’s everything to me. We don’t like strangers butting in on our squat.’ The man stepped threateningly towards them.

‘We heard this was an open squat.’ Peter looked around as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom.

The room was empty apart from dust balls and two men and the girl. ‘It looks big enough to take all of us.’

‘Looks can be deceiving.’ The bruiser took another step forward.

Peter pulled out the flick-knife he’d pushed into his trainer and pressed the button. The blade shot out and the man retreated. ‘Mess with me,’ Peter snarled, ‘and I’ll mess with you. All we want is to be left alone to doss down for a night or two. If you’ve something to say about that, say it now.’

‘Just as long as you keep away from us.’

‘We will. We don’t like the way you smell.’

‘Say that again?’

‘You heard me.’ Peter slipped his arm around Anna. ‘Let’s find somewhere private, love.’

Trevor drove home, showered, shaved, and spent ten minutes flicking through the rails in his dressing room before changing into a pair of cream slacks and a cream silk shirt. Picking out a light grey silk tie and a lightweight grey jacket, he tried the effect.

Deciding he liked it, he knotted the tie while agonising over the choice of restaurants the town had to offer. He didn’t want to take Daisy to any of the Indian or Chinese places where they’d be likely to run into someone from the force, or worse still the hospital. Relations between him and Lyn were strained enough, without the added problem of someone carrying gossip back to her. There was a good Greek restaurant – would Daisy like Greek food? A couple of Italian places, a Mexican place that was about as Mexican as an Italian western…

After slapping on a quarter of a bottle of his most expensive after-shave, he ran down the stairs.

Lyn had left a copy of the local paper on the coffee table. He flicked through the pages searching for a feature on eating out. He found one, and in the corner an advertisement for a new Turkish restaurant. He checked the address, and discovered it was on the marina. Picking up his car keys, he left. He started his car then remembered he’d left his wallet in his work jacket. The telephone rang as he was closing the door for the second time.

‘Trevor?’ Lyn’s voice echoed down the line. ‘I was hoping you’d come home to change.’

‘I have and I’m on my way out,’ he hadn’t meant to sound curt.