Run Before the Wind (27 page)

"I'm sorry no one told you, Peter Patrick," I replied, "but we were a bit too shocked to think of telling you, I suppose."

He nodded.

"I know the papers are saying Denny O'Donnell did it, but I shouldn't be surprised if some of the local lads think Mark had something to do with it, seeing the body was found near the cottage."

"I'm afraid some of them do think that," I said. I told him about what had happened to me an hour before.

"A .. . uh, policeman arrived at the right moment."

He nodded.

"Good. The red-headed fellow sounds like Red O'Mahoney. I know a fellow who knows him. I'll have a word.

You shouldn't be bothered by that lot again."

"I hope not."

"Will, if anything else like this happens--if anything else at all happens--I think it would be best if you came to me first, do you take my point?"

"All right."

"Mention that to Mark, too, would you? I haven't seen him for a bit. I think I can be of assistance in seeing that you have no more local bother through the completion of the boat, but remember, if anything else should happen, see me first."

We said good night, and I drove on. I wondered if he really meant that, should we find another dead body on the foreshore, we should come to him first.

BLACKIE macadam spent the afternoon of New Year's Day in a sauna club in Kensington, sweating out his Parisian excesses. He would have to be dry for a few days in order to make his deadline of the fifth; there was a weekend in between and that shortened his working time. Late in the afternoon, on nothing more than a hunch, he called an acquaintance, a librarian at the Times.

"What can I do for you, Blackie?"

"I want to know if a bloke has been in the papers during the last month or so."

"Public figure?"

"Hardly. Name's Pearce"; he spelled it.

"Patrick Fitzgerald Pearce."

"How much of a search am I doing, Blackie?"

"Twenty quid's worth if you can do it quick."

"I don't know; fellow's a nobody, after all; could take time."

"Don't stretch it, mate, I know bloody well what you've got in your head; you're not going to be pouring over the stacks until midnight."

"Know anything at all about him?"

"There might be something to do with a company called Avondale Enterprises."

"Avondale, eh? Give me your number."

Blackie hung up and gave in to the ministrations of a tiny Japanese girl, who walked up and down his back for twenty minutes, pressing on the low ceiling for leverage. He tried not to think about booze, not even hair of the dog. The girl had hardly finished when there was a call for him.

"Got it, Inspector."

"I'm listening."

"Pearce was an accountant with Avondale; he made The Observer a short time back when he turned over a set of books to the public prosecutor which dropped Avondale right in it for exchange control violations."

This was interesting to MacAdam, but not very. He had a feeling there was more to it; thirty years of snooping told him there was something sexier here.

"Come on, mate, there's more to it than that; let's have it."

There was a chuckle.

"Too bloody right there's more. Avondale is Derek Thrasher's."

"Boy wonder Thrasher?"

"The very same. Thrasher's in it for possible criminal charges on moving lots and lots of twenty-pound notes across the Channel.

They might already have charged him, but he's gone to ground;

nobody's seen him since or has the foggiest where he is."

Now the light went on. He knew where Thrasher had been less than twenty-four hours before: in the bedroom of a Paris flat, listening to Blackie MacAdam talk with the Greek/Arab/Jew.

Something else occurred to him.

"Didn't the Proves park a car bomb outside Thrasher's offices a while back?"

"Right, and Pearce is Irish, but there doesn't seem to be a connection."

"Anything else?"

"A statement out of the prosecutor's office, but nothing more about Pearce. I doubt if he's ever had his name in the papers before; certainly not since."

"Your twenty will be in Monday's post." MacAdam hung up.

Oh, yes, very sexy. He had a feeling there would be more than 500 quid in this for him before he was done. He eased himself into a hot tub and let the Japanese girl scrub his back. The booze seemed less important now.

On Saturday MacAdam drove down to Streatham, a grim. South London suburb, and found the house where Pearce lived, not far from Streatham Common. He wanted a look at the man, and he didn't have to wait long. Pearce came out of the house looking sleepy (not an early riser; it was past two) and walked a block and a half to a pub, the Bramble. MacAdam followed him, collecting a newspaper along the way. At the bar Pearce ordered a pint of Guinness and a sandwich and read his own paper. MacAdam made himself comfortable at a table and ordered a sandwich. Pearce chatted with the barman, stole an occasional glance at MacAdam,

and nursed his pint until closing time at three, either too cheap to buy another or, for an Irishman, amazingly uninterested in drink.

"Time, gentlemen," the publican called and shooed his customers toward the door. MacAdam didn't move. The publican looked at him, then locked the door and walked over to the table.

"Something I can do for you, sir?"

"I expect you know who I am," MacAdam said, folding his newspaper carefully.

"I expect," the publican replied. He had seen more than one policeman in his time.

"Sit down," MacAdam said, "and tell me about the geezer who just left."

The man sat down.

"Which geezer?"

MacAdam sighed wearily.

"Come along, now, don't annoy me."

"Oh, you mean the bloke at the bar. Pearce, his name is; Pat Pearce."

"Is it, now?" MacAdam began rolling the newspaper into a tight tube.

"Tell me all about him."

The publican shrugged.

"Not much to tell; comes in, has his pint, goes home; talks about the football." He was making an effort to be affable, but he was nervous.

In one motion, MacAdam swung the thick roll of newsprint across the publican's face, backhanded, then rose and followed as his chair spun sideways and spilled him onto the floor. The blow hadn't hurt him much, but the newspaper had made a hell of a noise inside the man's head, and his ears would be ringing.

MacAdam seized him by the back of his belt, got him up and walked him quickly on his toes toward the back room. He found two chairs, sat the man in one, and pulled the other up until they were sitting knee to knee, facing each other.

"This is a dirty little place you run, here," MacAdam said, conversationally.

"Why, I saw an illegal bookie taking bets in here not ten minutes ago, and if I was a betting man I'd wager with him that a proper analysis of the contents of the bottles behind your bar would reveal a shocking percentage of tap water. Now, a man of a more rigid frame of mind would close you down blindingly fast, but you're fortunate, because I'm a quite reasonable chap, unless I'm annoyed. Don't annoy me. Tell me all about your mate, Pat Pearce."

"He lives just around the corner there .. . used to live with his mum, but she died a year or so ago .. . he's a bookkeeper, or something like that, until recent had a job with a firm in the West End ... he quit, I think .. . but he's not short of a few bob his mum left him a bit, you see ... she sold her house in Islington a few years back and never bought another .. . moved out here and took a flat ... he's always been quite upset about that, says the fellow who bought the house did her wrong, didn't pay her what it was worth, then he tar ted it up a bit and sold it for triple or better to some advertising bloke or solicitor .. . goes on about that all the time, he does...." The man paused, panting.

"Who are his friends?"

"Doesn't seem to have any .. . he's always in here alone a loner type, if you ask me ... funny for an Irishman, they're usually great ones for a chat with the boys, but not Pat Pearce."

"Come now, you're not going to tell me that he isn't pals with some of that Irish rubbish you get in this place."

"Well, to tell the truth, they don't seem to want much to do with him .. . he's a bit eccentric like you see.... I think that worries them .. . they don't think of him as reliable, if you know what I mean...."

"You mean he's IRA, and he frightens the boys, is that it?"

"No, no, just the opposite, I don't think they'd have him .. .

he's too strange ... he told me he's got a brother, though, what's in with those lads, somebody pretty big ... he told me that when he'd had a bit much, after he quit his job ... he never talked about it but that once."

MacAdam stared quietly at the man, thinking.

"What was his mother's name?"

"Ah, Bridey, that was it, Bridey."

"And what street was her house in, in Islington?"

"I don't know, honest, chief, he never said, honest, he didn't ..."

"What else?"

"Jesus, that's all I know about him, honest to God ... I'd tell you if I knew any more."

MacAdam rose, removed a small notebook from his coat pocket and began jotting down the number of the coin telephone on the wall.

"Oh, yes you do, you know something else. You're just a bit flustered trying to think so hard at the moment, and you can't think of it. So I'm going to give you until opening time tomorrow to think about it, and then I'm going to ring you up and ask you, and you're going to remember what it was and tell me. Right?"

"Oh, yeah, right, sir. I'll dome best."

"Your best had better be good enough, son, or I'll come back here and break up this place with your limp body, do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"And I hardly need mention what I might do if you should let drop to Pearce that I've inquired about him. Now, unlock that door and let me out of this pest hole."

Pearce ducked away from the window as the big man and Tim, the publican, came out of the back room. He stepped into the doorway of the news agent's next door while Tim let the man out of the pub. As soon as the man was around the corner Pearce rapped sharply on the pub door, and shortly, the publican opened it but kept the chain on.

"It was about me, wasn't it, Tim?"

"Oh, Jesus, Pat, I didn't tell him nothing, honest I didn't."

Pearce knew from the fear in the publican's voice that he had told the man as much as he knew.

"Who was he, Tim?" Pearce shoved his foot in the door to keep the publican from slamming it.

"A copper. Pat."

"What's his name?"

"He didn't tell me."

Pearce was surprised.

"Did he show you his warrant card?"

Tim shook his head.

"He didn't have to. I can spot 'em a mile off."

"He didn't show you a cam or tell you his name. Did he actually tell you he was a policeman?"

"No, but I know 'em, I reckon he is, no doubt."

Pearce had doubts. He allowed the publican to close the door, then quickly walked to the corner in time to see the big man getting into a BMW--from the number plates, only two years old. That was no copper's car. He reached his own car at a trot, and pulled out as the BMW turned the corner. He followed at a block's distance as the car drove into central London and parked near South Kensington tube station. The man used a resident's parking sticker, so he lived nearby. Pearce parked and followed the man at a distance until he turned into a doorway next to a wine merchant's.

Pearce could see movement upstairs a moment later. He crossed the street and walked quickly to the doorway, looking for a nameplate on the bell. A business card was stuck into a holder.

"John MacAdam, Confidential Investigations, Scotland Yard experience."

Thrasher had a goon on him.

At noon the following day MacAdam rang the Bramble in Strea tham.

"This is the gentleman you spoke with yesterday," he said to the publican.

"Tell me."

"Oh, hello, sir." The voice was bright and eager to please.

"I

did remember something. The outfit that bought the old lady's house in Islington was TM Properties. Pat mentioned it a couple of times a while back."

"What else?"

"Oh, and I remembered the name of the street in Islington; it was Sebbon Street."

"You've done nicely, lad," MacAdam said. He hung up.

On Monday, an hour with the corporate records at Companies House told him the rest. The T in TM Properties was Derek Thrasher; the M was Muldah. Sounded Arabic, could be the bloke in Paris. MacAdam chuckled to himself. Simple when you knew how. He would blow their tiny minds with all this when they phoned the next day for their report. But he wanted more out of this, and he thought he might know how to get it. From a call box he rang an old mate in Special Branch at the Yard.