Torment (36 page)

“Get a fuckin’ move on, Conner. I ain’t got all day for you ya little sod.” It was only after she spoke again that he realised she was also holding a mobile phone to her right ear conducting a conversation at the same time. “Yeah, we’re on our way back now, Mum.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A voicemail. He dialled and listened to the message Strong had left him. A tinge of conscience pricked that he hadn’t told him what he was up to exactly. He’d try and put that right, if he got the chance.

As he got out of the car and locked up, he could feel numerous pairs of eyes on him. Dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, he hoped he didn’t stand out. But a stranger still elicits interest in a place like this. He opened the gate and climbed up the five steps onto the timber deck.

As he knocked on the door, a woman in her seventies called to him from the veranda of the adjacent property. “I doubt you’ll find them in, darlin’,” she said in a cockney accent. “Not at this time of the day.”

Souter turned, walked across towards her and leaned on the balustrading. She was sitting at a table with a man he took to be her husband. They had mugs of tea in front of them and both were smoking. “Do you know who lives here?” he asked.

“Young Barry,” the man replied. “Well I say young, they’re all young to me.” He broke off into a chuckle which developed into a hacking cough.

“That was until about a week ago when two other lads appeared,” his wife added.

“Two of them?”

“Yeah that’s right. Northerners like you. That’s their van there.” She nodded towards the Escort van parked in the street.

Souter looked round and froze. He hadn’t paid any attention to the vehicle before, his focus was on finding Gary Baker. But there on the bottom of the passenger door was that distinctive outbreak of rust. It can’t be, he thought.

“Fancy a cup of tea, son?” the man asked, “You look like you need one.”

“Er, yes. That’s very kind of you, thanks.”

When he’d made his way round to the couple’s table, the woman added, “We’re not all rough as arseholes round here, you know. Would you like some cake?”

He struggled to keep a straight face. “No thanks, I had something in Clacton not long ago.”

The woman introduced herself as Beryl and her husband as Tom.

“How long have you two lived here?” Souter asked.

“Used to come down here before the war with our parents. Lots of us did then. Have you seen the beach? It’s as good as you’ll get anywhere in this country, bloody sight better than Southend. That’s just a mud flat,” Beryl said.

“So, have you found the right place?” Tom asked. Souter was puzzled for a second. “Next door?”

“Oh, sorry,” he hesitated, “I’m not sure yet. I’m looking for friends of mine, Gary Baker and his mate Steve Chapman. I’d heard they were staying with their cousin, Barry.”

“You might have found them,” Tom said. “I’ve heard Barry call the taller of them Steve and the lad with the shaved head Gaz.”

“Yeah, Gaz, that’s right. That’s what we call him.” Souter finished his tea. “I don’t suppose you know where they might be now?”

“At this time,” Beryl checked her watch, “they’ll be down the boozer. You must have seen it on the way in.”

“I know where you mean.”  He stood up. “Listen, Beryl, Tom, good to meet you and thanks for the hospitality.”

“You’re welcome, son,” Beryl said.

“If you miss them, who should I say was looking for them?” Tom asked.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything for now, I want to surprise them, they don’t know I’m down south,” Souter smiled.

He walked slowly past the white van on the way back to his car, taking in as much of the detail as possible. Before setting off, he took the CCTV stills from the glovebox and studied them carefully. He was in no doubt that this was the van that Maria got into that Saturday night, but whose van is it?

He drove back up towards the pub and parked a little way beyond on the opposite side. He crossed over and decided to have a quick look at the beach. The sun was still warm and he wondered if Beryl had been exaggerating. A small unmade road ran between two houses where steps led up to a wide footpath. The concrete sea wall separated the pathway from the beach. When he could finally see over the wall, he realised the old girl was right. You could go a long way to see a better beach in Britain. The contrast between where he’d just enjoyed some pleasant hospitality and the glorious sandy beach could not be more marked. What an incongruous place this is, he thought. Carol was right, this is unique.

Outside the pub, a few couples with young children running around were enjoying the evening sun at several picnic tables in the small forecourt. The remnants of pub meals, overflowing ashtrays and half empty glasses covered them. Inside, a hubbub of conversation, jukebox music and cigarette fug enveloped him. As he made his way to the bar and ordered a pint, he casually took in the other customers. He had to identify Baker, Chapman and the cousin as inconspicuously as possible. It was as he took the first sip of his fizzy lager that he realised he didn’t actually know what they looked like. He had some rough idea yes, but he’d never seen photos of any of them. Unless, of course, you counted the grainy image of the driver of the white van he got from Jezza.

A group of four lads in their twenties were engrossed around the pool table, two middle-aged couples were in deep conversation at one table and four men in their forties were at another. There were two possibilities, as far as Souter could ascertain. Three men were standing at the far end of the bar talking to two women and a further three men were sitting silently at a table near the rear door. Both groups featured one who might fit the vague description of Gary Baker. He would have to get close enough to catch the accents. Since coming south, he hadn’t heard another northerner talk. There were two other pairs of men standing around chatting and smoking but none of them appeared to fit Baker’s profile.

Pulling out a packet of cigarettes, Souter patted his pockets and looked round the pub before heading over to the three men by the back door.

“Excuse me lads,” he said, “but could I cadge a light?”

“No, sorry mate, we don’t smoke,” the one with the buzzed head said in a southern accent.

“Thanks anyway.” Souter shrugged and walked over to the group at the far end of the bar.

“Sure,” one said in response to his request before offering his lighter.

“You on holiday here?” the blonde women asked.

“I’m just down for a couple of days, staying with a friend in Clacton,” Souter answered.

“From Yorkshire?” the dark-haired woman joined in.

“Er, yes,” he replied.

“We love it up there, don’t we Jeff?” She looked at the balding man next to her. “North Yorkshire, we’ve had a few holidays in Pickering and Scarborough.”

Definitely southerners, Souter decided. “It is nice,” he agreed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a man in his twenties with very short hair returning from the gents to join two others standing around a column in the middle of the room.

“Thanks,” Souter said to the man who’d lit his cigarette, “I’m just going to get some crisps.”

He took a slow wide berth around two older men, trying to pass close enough to the trio around the column to pick up some of what they were saying.

“Who? Veronica? Naw, last few times I tried to ring, there was no answer. I think she’ll have pissed off. Anyway, cheers Barry,” the young man with dark hair said to the oldest one as Souter drifted by, “you can get us another in.”

No mistaking the Yorkshire accent. In fact, he was sure it belonged to the voice on Susan Brown’s answer service. He’d found them. This was Steve Chapman talking to his cousin Barry Whitefield.

He stood at the bar and observed. Now he was here, he wasn’t sure what his next move should be.

Chapman drained his glass but Baker’s was still half full. Judging by his body language, Baker didn’t seem too comfortable. He’d obviously refused another drink and Whitefield was asking him again. Another refusal and Whitefield picked up Chapman’s glass and his own and strode up to the bar. Souter turned away as Whitefield approached and ordered two more pints. He returned with the drinks and Baker hung around for a further five minutes whilst he finished his lager. He took his leave alone and, hands in his jeans pockets, disappeared outside.

Thirty seconds later, Souter left the pub. Baker was heading down the road in the direction of Jaguar Avenue. Walking, it would take him a good ten minutes to get back to where he was staying. Souter got back to his car, started the engine and turned around to follow him. About three hundred yards from the pub, the road split to form a one-way system, fortunately, the shortest route was the one he had to follow. Souter pulled alongside Baker and dropped the passenger window.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m looking for Jaguar Avenue.”

“It’s down here, mate, about half a mile on t’ right.” He chuckled, “Mindst if you turn t’ left you’d be in t’ sea.”

“You from up north?”

“Aye. Wakefield,” Baker answered.

“Thought I recognised the accent. I’m from Leeds myself,” Souter said. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Aw thanks, I’m actually stopping on Jaguar Avenue.”

Baker opened the passenger door and got in. As Souter pulled away, he coughed loudly to disguise the clunk as he switched the central locking on.

“Been down here long?” Souter asked.

“Not really. We’re just stayin’ with my mate’s cousin for a bit. What about you?”

“I’ve come down to help you, Gary.” He pulled off to the right and on to some waste ground. “I think you’re in a bit of trouble.”

As the car drew to a halt, Baker grabbed the door handle but it wouldn’t release. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing. Let me out, you crazy bastard.”

“Calm down. I know you’re scared and I know why.” Souter turned to face the young man. “But I’m not out to get you. I want to help.”

“Help? Help? What d’you know?”

“I know your brother was murdered and I think you know who did it and you’re shitting yourself they’re going to find you and Steve.”

“Wha..” Baker stopped mid word, his face a mixture of bewilderment and alarm. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“My name’s Souter. I’m a journalist. But don’t let that put you off,” he added quickly. “I really am here to help you.”

“How? How can you help me? How do you know I need help?”

“Look, I know what Chris was into and that he was involved with some heavy people and I know you were with him the night he died.”

“But… how? I mean, how can you know that?”

“I’ve got some good connections.” Again, Souter saw the expression on Baker’s face. “No, not with the people who’re after you.”

“Oh, no. Not the police?”

“You see, Gary, they’re struggling to pin down those responsible. You do know who was responsible, don’t you?”

Once more the terror returned to Baker’s face. “I can’t. I just can’t. They’ll kill us too.”

“Not if they’re sent down.”

“They’d know it was me.”

“But they’re free to walk about and you’re scared shitless now. How do you know they’ll not find you anyway?”

“But we’ve got a plan. Steve and me, we’re gonna lie low for a bit. We’ll get a job. A proper job. We can do up cars. We’ll get something down here.”

“But I found you. And you’ll always be looking over your shoulders.”

“I’m no grass.”

“That’s a pity, Gary.” Souter pulled out a packet of cigarettes. This was only his second one since leaving Wakefield. He was almost ready to give up completely, but he felt it was a timely distraction. He offered one to Baker who took it, produced a lighter from his shirt pocket and lit up. “You see, they’ve got some evidence, mostly circumstantial, but they need something concrete.”

“I don’t know nothing.”

Souter lit his own cigarette, then dropped his window a touch. “That Saturday night, when you had that Merc sports car up at the farm…”

“How do you know about that?”

“I also know what was found in the boot when they opened it in the container at Felixstowe docks. Now that’s not so very far from here, is it?”

“Me and Steve … and Chris, we’d got nothing to do with that.”

“So you do know what was in the boot?”

Baker went quiet and examined his fingers, then began to nibble his nails. “He’ll kill me,” he said quietly.

“Who will?”

“That big bad bastard. He’s crazy.”

“Who?”

“Some foreign bastard. Mirczack. Even his sidekick, some Polish guy, Szymanski, he’s scared of him.”

“This Mirczack, did he kill Chris?”

“I think so.” Baker nodded, transferring his attention to the other hand.

“Did they put the girl’s body in the boot?”

“Him and Szymanski. We didn’t want anything to do with it.” He looked at Souter, pure terror on his face. “We’re not into violence. He told us we had to get it into the container and it would be shipped out on the Monday. And then Chris called me to say he was getting the last payment – for the cars I mean. That’s why I put my hands up to the police for lifting the cars. I thought they’d been shipped out of the country by then.” Baker was talking quickly, as though a boil had been lanced and he was desperate to squeeze all the poison out. “We got to the meet, in that layby and then I had to go for a piss and … when I got back … he was … I mean … if I hadn’t needed to go…” Baker looked intently at Souter. “It could have been me too.” The tears were flowing down his cheeks.

“Did you see who did it?”

Baker drew long and hard on his cigarette. “No. There was just a car driving away from the layby when I got back over the fence.”

“You see, Gary, that’s why you’ve got to tell the police.”

“No. No, I can’t.”

Souter let the conversation stall for a few seconds. “Is that because of the other thing?”

Baker wiped his face with the back of his hand. “What other thing?”

“What happened to Maria?”

Puzzlement appeared on Baker’s face once more. “Maria? Who the fuck’s Maria?”

“About twenty, five foot six, dark hair, short light coloured skirt and a dark top.”