Rat Poison (19 page)

‘Does the name Adam Trelonic mean anything to you?'

Slowly, Jessop shook his head.

‘How about Brian Law?'

‘There
was
a bloke called Brian but I never knew what 'is other name was. God knows what 'appened to 'im. He was there at the start but I never saw 'im again.'

‘But he was one of you, one of the men employed by the London mob.'

‘Oh, yes. Real stoopid, mind.'

‘Thank you. I'll arrange for you to look at some mugshots. Will you make an official statement of everything you've just told us?'

‘If you promise you'll get her – and 'im.'

‘We're all throwing everything at it. Is there anything you need that I can get you?'

Miserable that he could not smoke, Jessop settled for some chocolate.

‘It looks as though Mike Greenway might be right in reckoning that Uncle used to be a man by the name of Fred Gibbons as Murphy called him Fred as well as Brad,' Patrick remarked when we were outside. ‘A hairy yob with tattoos was the description if I remember what he said correctly.'

‘And at last we have a connection with Adam Trelonic,' I said.

‘It's still not real evidence. All we know is that a man called Brian was there and that was the name Trelonic used for his false identity scam.'

‘I know the Jessops are yobs but they were horribly used, weren't they?'

‘And if Billy's right about Murphy shooting them  . . .'

My mind went back to the photograph of us on her wall: eyeless, holes roughly where our hearts would be.

‘I have to say that I thought there might be a problem,' Patrick said crisply. ‘Right here, at Bristol CID. No intelligence forthcoming, a mobster ostensibly gone right off the map. So are we talking about incompetence or are you hoping for an Oscar for finding him all by yourselves? Or do you have a really good idea where he is, ditto?'

This was not the way to talk to a Detective Chief Inspector whom you have not previously met, especially when you are nominally only of constable rank and your delivery is embroidered with carefully selected expletives which, obviously, I have omitted. But Patrick's frustration had boiled over.

DCI Ian Cookson stared back across his desk at us with hard dark eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses. He was an overweight, world-weary and brutal-looking individual with ugly greying stubble, both on top of his head and on his chin, or rather, chins. When he spoke his voice was deep and melodious, albeit unfriendly, with a hint of an east London accent.

‘I understand you used to be in the army,' he said.

‘That's right.'

‘You speak like someone who expects to be obeyed. Not this time.'

‘I worked undercover for most of my career. It's personality that keeps you alive.'

‘I fail to understand why SOCA wants to arrest Micky Fellows.'

‘I don't want to arrest him. He could be the key to smashing all these gangs.'

‘It's unlikely. We know he was conned into going into Bath that night by Charlie Gill and a city hoodlum who calls himself Uncle with the idea of—'

‘No, that's what the Met call him because he topped his nephew,' Patrick interrupted. ‘He's now assumed the name of Brad Northwood but his original name is probably Fred Gibbons. Joy Murphy, who as you're probably aware is his pet psycho, was heard to call him Fred during the shoot-out.'

Unabashed, Cookson wrote down some of these details and then said, ‘The point I was going to make is that Micky is
our
problem. Right, he was involved but only because other mobsters wanted him and his gang ancient history. You sort out the Bath end and I'll sort this. We're building a damned good case against him in connection with other unrelated stuff that'll put him away for most of the rest of his life. I'm perfectly content for there to be continuing liaison between us all but otherwise  . . . no.'

‘I'm not asking for your permission. Just telling you of my intentions.'

‘You won't find him without me.'

‘Yes, he will,' I said.

‘Then I'll have you  . . . discouraged,' Cookson said grimly, still addressing Patrick.

‘No, you won't,' I said before my other half could really lose it.

‘Lady, how do you
really
fit into all this?' the DCI furiously demanded to know.

‘As Patrick's just told you, I'm his wife and we work together. We worked together for MI5. Sometimes I have to act as a buffer between him and other  . . . colleagues. Like now.'

The hint that he might shortly be involved in a serious train crash seemed to work and after a few thoughtful moments Cookson said to me, ‘You're the one who's been sending me emails with updates on investigations carried out by Carrick and his team and also liaising with DI Black, who's on leave, by the way.'

‘That's right.'

Cookson frowned into space for a few moments and then said, ‘I feel bound to tell you that I appreciated that.'

‘You never know when you're going to need a DCI on board,' I said with a smile.

He actually smiled back, or rather one took him unawares. ‘The grapevine has it that someone tried to kill the pair of you recently at a military and police firearms establishment. What was all that about?'

‘He was an ex-cop by the name of Warren Rouse who was known within Uncle's gang as Red,' I said. ‘He was probably under orders after a tip-off that we haven't got to the bottom of yet.'

‘And?'

‘He penetrated security with a false warrant card. He's dead. I shot him when he cornered me.'

The man's eyes seemed to grow even larger through his spectacles as he gazed at me.

‘Where is Micky then?' Patrick said.

‘Even if I tell you he'll sniff out a copper. He's damned clever despite being short of a few nuts and bolts.'

‘I have no intention of going undercover for this job.'

‘Then he won't let you get anywhere near him.'

Patrick just sat there like something evil carved out of a Dartmoor tor.

‘He'll take you apart,' Cookson warned, beginning to sound as though he cared. ‘The man's a competition-standard kick-boxer.'

‘I don't do kick-boxing,' said Patrick dismissively.

‘Then you're finished. I refuse to take responsibility if you go any further with this.'

‘Where is he?'

‘You're a fool! He's at least ten years younger than you are!'

‘Where
is
he?'

After briefly hesitating, and probably hoping by now that Patrick would get his head kicked in, Cookson told us.

‘The man had a point about my not finding him,' Patrick said when we had successfully solved the riddle of the return journey through the maze of corridors in the Bristol city centre police station and were making our way across the car park.

‘Yes, “Right now he's on a yacht in Plymouth Marina for the weekend” wasn't what I was expecting to hear either,' I said. ‘Why Plymouth, though, I wonder. There are plenty of places to moor a boat in and around Bristol.'

‘Business associates? A girlfriend? Perhaps he just likes the pubs in the Barbican. Whatever the reason, that's one of my home territories.'

Of course, Patrick had once had a flat in North Ope.

Perhaps the DCI had been trying to confuse us for the Plymouth marina, one of several, to which we eventually tracked down the floating gin palace, was more correctly known as Sutton Harbour. This was once the waterfront of the medieval fortified town of Sutton, the narrow streets and alleyways of which are now home to art galleries, boutiques, wine bars, cafés and a hell of a lot of heavy drinking. The whole area is generally known as the Barbican, the title referring to the gatehouse that once guarded the castle, now the site of the Citadel, a seventeenth-century fortress built to protect the coastline from the Dutch. It is still in use by the military today.

Cookson had told us that the boat was called
Fancy Lady
and we were given to understand by the harbour master that it was impossible to miss as it was painted black with oblique gold-coloured stripes. Needless to say this retired master mariner was not at all impressed with the vessel when we spoke to him in his quayside office but he himself conceded that there were plenty more afloat similar to it.

‘How are we going to play this?' I enquired when we had spotted what was probably the boat we sought moored to one of the pontoons.

‘Sorry, it's going to be one of those situations where we make it up as we go along.'

This had the effect of making me feel that we were somehow naked. In the past, especially during our MI5 years, we had often worked undercover, almost always assuming some kind of role or false identity, something I knew we were very good at. I could not think of any occasion where our cover had been blown through any fault of our own.

‘Don't look so worried,' Patrick said, putting an arm through mine. Then uncannily following my own train of thought, ‘The emperor'll just have to find a set of new clothes.'

‘But he was starkers!'

He laughed.

It was a fine morning – we had driven down the previous night – and the harbour area was thronging with both local people and visitors, which was encouraging as this particular bunch of gangsters was unlikely to start a war in public. I suddenly realized that we were indeed playing a part as, consciously or not, we had dressed like holidaymakers in jeans, T-shirts and trainers. In bad moments I sometimes wonder if Patrick always assumes roles, including those of husband and father, and even I, his wife, do not know the real man.

Across the sparkling sunlit water in the narrow harbour over by the marine aquarium the loud two-tone warning siren on the lock gates started up – there is a pedestrian walkway across it – as a fishing boat approached and we took the opportunity of people's attention being diverted to slip through the marina entrance, which is strictly for the use of boat owners. I knew that Patrick would not want to have to start waving his SOCA warrant card around until forced to.

Fancy Lady,
the name painted in at least three places in large gold letters,
had several empty berths on either side of her as though the real boating fraternity, represented no doubt by the nearby Royal Corinthian Yacht Club, simply could not bear to be alongside something so ghastly. The vessel bobbed gently in the wake of a passing pleasure boat; the best part of a million pounds worth of floating bad taste. As we got closer we could hear loud rock music, a group Matthew assures me call themselves Road Hogs and Black Pudding
.

A large blond minder, painfully peeling with sunburn, was standing on the pontoon trying to look as though he was watching the seagulls. Patrick, a little way ahead of me, walked past the boat and then mimed horror, pointing at something in the water on the far side of it. He beckoned urgently to the bodyguard who hurried over. There was what appeared to be an accidental collision between the two and then a fountain-like splash.

‘He
can
swim,' Patrick said tersely, having to raise his voice over the racket, giving me a hand up on to the deck.

There was no one in what even in a vessel like this had to be called the wheelhouse but the top of the companionway that led below was guarded by another show specimen of manhood who looked extremely surprised to see us.

Patrick gave him a big smile and said, or rather shouted, ‘It's his birthday today, isn't it?'

The bodyguard shook his head and bawled back, ‘No idea. Who are you?'

The man over the side started shouting even louder, causing his colleague to run over to the rail. Seconds later he had joined him in the water.

We descended a short flight of carpeted stairs and found ourselves in a large saloon, brightly lit with eye-aching decor, light reflecting off mirrors and crystal chandeliers. I realized I was standing by the control panel for the music and hit every button until there was silence. The room appeared to be empty but then suddenly a couple of nattily nautically dressed young men appeared, little more than youths, running in our direction with obvious intent to eject us, no questions asked.

‘Episode three,' Patrick hissed at them.

They sort of fizzled out; he really can look quite intimidating.

‘I just want to talk to the boss,' Patrick told them.

‘He doesn't want to talk to you,' said a third man, his voice coming from somewhere at the rear.

For answer the nearest henchman, companion, toyboy, what have you, was unceremoniously clubbed into the nearest overstuffed satin-covered sofa, baby pink, where he remained, inert. The second started to flee but was reeled in by the back of his jacket, wrung unconscious by those bloody-awful strong fingers and tipped with a loud crunching noise into an oversized leopard-print furry bean bag.

‘But you don't do kick-boxing,' said the man who now appeared and who I already knew from mugshots to be Michael Fellows, aka Mick the Kick.

‘It's an exhibition sport,' Patrick said with a shrug.

‘Cookson asked me not to kill you.'

‘I'm delighted that you're on such friendly terms with Bristol CID.'

The man strutted forward. To my slightly trained eye he looked fit and lithe but I was worried about his fashion sense.

‘All I want is to discuss with you how we're going to get Uncle in the slammer,' Patrick said. Then, urgently, ‘I'm warning you. I have no desire to conduct a conversation with a man with a broken neck.'

Micky laughed and lashed out with a foot and then both fists.

Before joining special services Patrick went off on his own and learned things that he refers to as his survival package. He won't talk about it.

This was why.

As Cookson had said, this man was at least ten years younger than Patrick and although I was worried my instincts told me that the mobster's veneer as far as courage was concerned was thin. My insides were tying themselves in knots but it was important that I look cool, bored even, as there were others present now: two women, both young, everything about them proclaiming ‘sex industry', and another man I kept an eye on, my fingers curled around the Smith and Wesson in my pocket.