Текст книги "The Bug House"

Автор книги: Jim Ford

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‘I was about twenty feet away at the door to the stairs.’

‘Was anything said between the two of you?’

‘I advised him to give himself up,’ Vos says. ‘In fact, I believe I told him not to be such a fucking idiot.’

‘Did he respond?’

‘No. He jumped.’

‘The family claim you pushed him off.’

‘How could they possibly know that?’

‘There are no other witnesses to corroborate your story?’

‘No. DS Entwistle, my undercover officer and one of the uniforms were otherwise engaged with Peel’s associates in the casino.’

‘And it was during this engagement that DS Entwistle was shot?’

‘That’s right. Have you been to see him?’

Gilcrux does not rise to the provocation. ‘And the other uniformed officer?’

‘WPC Lake was covering the perimeter of the building to block any escape from that side.’

‘You saw DS Entwistle get shot?’

‘The reason Vic got shot was because he was doing his job.’

‘But you saw it?’

‘I didn’t see it, no.’

‘You didn’t hear it? I find that hard to believe.’

‘The gun went off in the struggle. Maybe Vic’s body muffled the sound.’

‘You were aware of what had happened, though.’

‘Only afterwards.’

‘You were already in pursuit of Jack Peel.’

‘Yes.’

Gilcrux stares at him inscrutably. ‘How long have you known DS Entwistle?’

‘Twenty years. We came up through uniform together, joined CID at the same time.’

‘So you’d say you were good friends.’

‘Extremely good friends. I was his best man and I’m his daughter’s godfather.’

‘It must be very upsetting for you – the fact he’s in hospital.’

‘Yes,’ Vos says. ‘It is.’

‘I’m going to ask you again, Detective Chief Inspector Vos,’ Gilcrux says. ‘Were you aware that DS Entwistle had been shot before you set off in pursuit of Jack Peel?’

Vos stares at him. They have been in this room for over two hours now.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I was not.’

SEVEN

Two photographs of Ahmed Doe – one of his face, one of his testicles – have been distributed via Interpol to every national police force in Europe. Vos is in his office when the call comes through from the Korps Landelijk Politiediensten, the Dutch national police force known as the KLPD. A polite operator with impeccable English asks him to hold for a short time while she connects him to Chief Inspector Krelis Remmelink of the Amsterdam bureau of IPOL, the police intelligence service.

‘Vos,’ Remmelink says. ‘Is that a Dutch name?’

‘My great-grandfather was from Utrecht, apparently.’

‘Really? You still have family there?’

‘From what I understand, sir, they didn’t have a good war,’ Vos says.

‘Shit. I’m sorry. But I am calling about your mystery dead man. The photographs were passed across my desk thirty minutes ago. I’m looking at them now. Not a pretty sight, eh?’

‘Not at all. Do you know him?’

‘I know him,’ Remmelink says. ‘His name was Okan Gul. And you are correct: he was a member of the Kaplan Kirmizi here in Amsterdam.’

‘That’s a long way from Turkey.’

‘They’ve spread across Europe like a bad case of crabs, Inspector. Here in Amsterdam we’d never heard of them until five, six years ago. Now they pretty much run the port and the red-light district. A shining example of pan-European integration, eh?’

‘And Okan Gul?’

‘He’s pretty high-ranking in the organization. His role is what I would describe as a middleman. You want to do business with the Kaplan Kirmizi, you deal with Okan Gul first. If he is satisfied, he will take your suggestion to the high command. The bosses never get their hands dirty with their own filth. It is the same with all successful criminal enterprises.’

‘What sort of business are they in?’

‘Narcotics, alcohol, cigarettes. Anything you like as long as it is lucrative.’

‘Are you aware of them doing any business in Newcastle?’

‘It comes as news to me, but then again I don’t see why not. Maybe they’ve opened up a new channel. In these tough economic times you have to get business where you can, I suppose.’

‘It would be very handy for our investigation if this could be confirmed, sir,’ Vos says.

‘Of course. I’ll find out what I can, although the Kaplan Kirmizi are not known for being talkative.’

‘I would appreciate it. But as far as Mr Gul is concerned, do you have any idea why someone in Newcastle might have wanted to hang him in front of a high-speed train on Sunday night?’

‘I can think of many reasons why someone would want to kill him, Inspector Vos. The KK have few friends. But the method sounds a little theatrical.’

‘It’s been suggested that it might have been a message.’

There’s a pause while Remmelink considers this. ‘Then it’s one hell of a message,’ he says. ‘More like a declaration of war if you ask me. And if that’s the case . . .’

‘That’s what I’m worried about, sir,’ Vos says. ‘The last thing I want is a war on my patch. If you do talk to your friends in the KK, I’d also appreciate it if you’d let them know they are not welcome in Newcastle. We’ve got enough problems with the locals on a Saturday night as it is.’

Remmelink laughs. ‘I’ve read about your Bigg Market, Inspector. Is it true the girls go out in miniskirts in the middle of winter?’

‘Trust me, Chief Inspector,’ Vos says, ‘you wouldn’t believe it.’

‘Then maybe I will have to see for myself.’

‘The invitation is always open. Meanwhile I shall see what the great and the good of Newcastle know about the Turkish mob.’

An unmarked car on a busy street in Newcastle’s West End. Huggins and Fallow are watching a thickset Oriental in a shell suit walking purposefully towards a Chinese takeaway called The Mandarin Grill. He is smoking a cigarette, which he flicks into the gutter as he goes into the shop.

‘Let’s go,’ Huggins says.

They get out of the car and cross the street. There are plenty of Chinese in this part of town, and they all know who Huggins and Fallow are. But they also know the wisdom of minding their own business, and they ignore the two detectives as they go into the takeaway.

Behind the high counter there is an old woman with a face that looks like it has been carved out of ancient ivory. She is staring up at a portable TV on the wall, watching a daytime soap.

‘Afternoon, Mrs Kwok,’ Huggins says brightly as the door dings shut behind them and Fallow turns the sign to CLOSED. ‘Your Timmy in?’

She looks at them. Her eyes are barely visible beneath folds of skin. She says nothing as she reaches out a hand and presses a buzzer on the counter, then turns back to the TV programme.

The man in the shell suit pushes through a chain-link partition at the rear of the service area. He is twenty-seven years old, with a thick mane of black hair cropped and shaped into a style they call the Hoxton Fin. It does not suit his square face and stubby features. It was designed for thin, rat-faced white men.

‘Timmy,’ Huggins says genially. ‘Nice to see you again.’

Timmy Kwok is as talkative and expressive as his mother.

‘I thought we had an appointment,’ says Fallow. ‘We waited, but you never showed.’

‘Something came up,’ Timmy says. He has a broad Geordie accent with an east London inflection. ‘I was going to ring you.’

‘Not to worry,’ Huggins says. ‘We’re here now. You got somewhere we can talk?’

Timmy shrugs and lifts the hinged section of counter to allow the two detectives to pass through into the kitchens at the rear of the shop.

‘So this is where it all happens, eh?’ Fallow says, looking around at the small, tiled room with its stainless-steel workbench and grimy range. ‘Very bijou.’

A couple of blackened woks are hanging from the ceiling, and on the floor, next to an open sack of rice, is a twenty-litre plastic vat of vegetable oil. Huggins selects one of the woks and smashes Timmy across the back of the knees with it. The Chinaman pitches forward and crashes against the workbench, sending utensils, metal bowls and Tupperware tubs of ready-mixed batter cascading to the floor.

‘I think you must be mistaking us for people who have nothing better to do than wait around all day for a piece of shit like you, Timmy,’ Huggins says. ‘When we arrange a time and a place for a rendezvous, we expect you to be there.’

Timmy props himself against the range, rubbing the backs of his legs. ‘You fucking bastards,’ he says.

Huggins hunkers down beside him and squeezes Timmy’s plump chin between his fingers. ‘Does your mother know you use language like that, Timmy?’ he says. ‘I bet she brought you up to be a good boy.’

With an abrupt downward movement of his arm, Huggins pushes Timmy Kwok to the floor, pinning his head to the tiles with his hand.

‘Pass me the cleaver, Johnny-boy,’ he says, gesturing to a gleaming metal chopping knife suspended above the range.

‘For Christ’s sake, Phil,’ Fallow says.

‘Pass me the fucking cleaver.’

Fallow does what he is told. Huggins grabs the handle and examines his reflection in the woven stainless steel. ‘Chinese proverb say: “Man who call police fucking bastards make very big mistake,” ’ he says. Then he raises the cleaver.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Fallow says.

But Huggins brings the blade down in a sweeping arc so that it wedges in the plastic vat of cooking oil. When he removes it, the glutinous contents begin to glug out across the floor.

‘Now I’ve got a question for you,’ Huggins says to Timmy Kwok. ‘Have you been doing any of your sordid little drug deals with a Turkish gang from Amsterdam?’

Timmy is looking at the puddle of oil creeping inexorably towards his head.

‘Do I have to ask you again?’ Huggins says.

‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ says Timmy. The oil is now soaking into his carefully sculpted hair and beginning to seep around the circumference of his head towards his face.

‘Do you know of anybody who is doing sordid little drug deals with a Turkish gang from Amsterdam?’

The Chinaman is instinctively trying to move his face from the oil as the slick begins to lap against his nostrils, but when he does he feels the pressure of Huggins’s hand on his head.

‘I don’t know any fucking Turkish gang!’

‘Are you absolutely sure of that, Timmy?’

‘Yes!’

‘Because if I find out that you’re lying to me—’

‘I’m not lying! I’m not fucking lying!’

‘Good.’ Huggins lifts his hand and stands up, just as the puddle of oil threatens to reach his own shoes. ‘If you do hear anything, be sure to let us know.’

The owner of AAA Star Taxis is a woman called Jean Breaker, known as Ma Breaker because she has three sons – Craig, Kyle and Ryan – all of whom have done time for various offences, including drug peddling, possession of firearms, assault, burglary and kidnap. Ma Breaker has never done time herself, partly because she has her sons to do her dirty work for her, but mainly because she is far too clever to put herself in potentially compromising situations.

Bernice Seagram has known Ma for many years. Indeed one of her first cases as a detective was an investigation which led to Syd Breaker, Ma’s no-good husband and father of her three sons, being put behind bars for life for stabbing someone to death in an argument over a round of drinks. Of course nobody saw anything and Syd might have got away with it had it not been for Ma, who saw an opportunity to be rid of him for good and willingly testified to his guilt. Seagram could still vividly remember the ghostly smile on her leathered face as Syd, shouting abuse at her across the courtroom, was led down to the cells to begin his sentence.

The taxi office is in a narrow cobbled alley running alongside a railway viaduct near Central Station and is one of a series of drab lockups and workshops built into the sooty Victorian arches. It has a reinforced door and a frosted window with wire mesh over the front, and it faces onto the back of an old bottling plant, and the only clue to its purpose is an intercom on the wall with the words PRESS FOR TAXI printed above it.

‘Where to?’ a woman’s voice says.

‘It’s me, Jean,’ Seagram says.

The door buzzes and Seagram enters an unlit vestibule with a concrete floor and recently plastered partition walls that still feel damp to the touch. To the left is a tiny kitchen and toilet; ahead is a plywood door on swing hinges. She pushes through into a room that smells strongly of cigarette smoke, damp and inexpensive perfume.

Ma is sitting at a desk beneath a large street map of Newcastle. She is a plain woman in her fifties who has never cared much for her own appearance, despite the fortune she is thought to have accrued since taking over Syd’s half-baked crime enterprise and turning it into a slick money-making operation.

‘Hello, Bernice,’ she says. ‘How are you doing, pet?’

‘I’m very well, Jean. How about you?’

‘Can’t complain.’

She picks up a pen and throws it at a man sitting on a battered sofa on the other side of the room. He is in his mid-twenties, thin-faced with receding hair shaved down to a rash of dark stubble. He is wearing jeans and a leather jacket and reading a copy of Viz. This is Ryan Breaker, the youngest and stupidest of Ma’s three boys. He looks up and regards Seagram and his mother through slightly squint eyes.

‘Don’t just sit there,’ Ma snaps. ‘Go and put the kettle on.’

With a loud, petulant tut Ryan throws down his paper and skulks through to the kitchenette that is attached to the office.

Ma watches him with barely concealed contempt, then turns and gives Seagram a snaggle-toothed smile. ‘Sit down, love. What can I do for you?’

‘Do you know this man?’

Ma looks long and hard at the mug shot of Okan Gul. ‘Should I?’ she says.

‘He’s part of a Turkish gang from Amsterdam. Apparently they’ve been doing some business over here.’

‘That’s news to me, darling,’ she says. Then her voice hardens as she hands the photograph back. ‘What sort of business?’

‘We’re not sure. But Mr Gul’s most recent visit was cut short. He’s currently in the morgue at the General Hospital.’

Ma looks interested now. ‘Really? How did it happen?’

‘Let’s just say our investigations are ongoing.’

Seagram knows full well that criminals are worse than fish-wives when it comes to gossip, and she doesn’t want the gory details of Gul’s demise to become the topic of conversation in every lowlife pub and club in Newcastle.

Even so, Ma looks genuinely surprised. Tyneside has as lively a gangland scene as any other provincial city, yet murder remains the exception rather than the rule. Round here they still talk in hushed tones about the killing on a Wallsend street of Viv Graham, a local hard man renowned for extortion and racketeering – and he was gunned down twenty years ago.

‘I wondered if you’d heard anything,’ Bernice says.

‘No, pet,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t.’

‘What about your boys?’

‘Believe me I know everything they know – and they don’t know anything.’

‘Well, if you do . . .’

‘You’ll be the first to know, Bernice.’

And Seagram knows that she will, because Ma Breaker appreciates that even though they are your sworn enemies, the police can also be your best friends.

Ryan Breaker emerges from the kitchenette carrying two mugs of tea. He’s overfilled them and the contents are slopping over the carpet as he treads cautiously towards Ma’s desk, as if walking a tightrope on a particularly windy day.

‘Just put them there, son,’ Ma says, watching as Ryan painfully lowers the dripping mugs onto the desktop then stands grinning with inane triumph. Ma stands and clubs him across the back of the head with an open hand.

‘Now get a dishcloth and mop up that fucking mess,’ she says.

In the Star & Garter public house in Benwell, pleased to be among sinners at last, Father Lawrence Meagher buys a bottle of Guinness and a cheese sandwich and sits down at his usual seat in the corner of the lounge. It is twenty past midday; the pub is a quarter full of old men in flat caps. A couple of young lads are shooting pool in the far room, and a dishevelled drunk is hunched on a bar-stool cradling what looks like a pint of piss.

It is good to be here, he thinks. All morning he has been trapped in the community centre judging the annual painting competition organized by the toddlers group, which meets there every week. Ever since he read about a three-year-old whose childish watercolour had fooled art experts, Father Meagher has taken a close interest in the competition. How much had that girl’s picture been valued at, he pondered as he made his way round each new exhibit? Fifty grand? Sixty? Sadly, as his brief tour ended, he again had to resign himself to the fact that if he was to make his fortune in the art world, it would not be by exploiting the toddlers of St Joseph’s Community Centre. My House, by Kaden, aged two, bore the same hallmark as Humpty Dumpty, by Rihanna, aged four: a formless splat of powder paint issued from the brush of a talentless child.

‘Morning, Father,’ says one of the flat caps, looking up from the seven dominoes he holds expertly in the swollen knuckles of one hand.

‘Fred.’

‘You in for a game?’

‘Not today, thanks, Fred. How’s Mary?’

‘Not so good, Father. Not so good.’

‘Sorry to hear it. Tell her I’m asking after her, will you?’

‘Will do. Will do.’

Painstakingly, Father Meagher picks at the layers of clingfilm around his sandwich, then scrunches the plastic into a small ball and drops it on the table. He lifts the lid of the soggy white bun. A solitary cross-section of withered tomato lies squashed on the square of processed cheese like something monstrous you would find under a stone. He quickly closes the sandwich and takes a bite. All he can taste is margarine. He chews until it is a bolus of paste in his mouth, then swallows it whole to avoid it making contact with his tastebuds. He pours half of the Guinness into a glass and rinses away the detritus that has clung to his teeth.

A TV at the far end of the bar is showing horse racing from some deserted, fogbound venue. The prices for the twelve thirty scroll across the screen as the camera searches for runners and riders in the gloom.

‘Afternoon, Father.’

Father Meagher groans inwardly as Vos sits down on a stool opposite. But he has had plenty of practice at pretending to smile today.

‘Mr Vos. How are you?’

‘Not so bad.’ Vos jabs a thumb at the TV set. ‘Are you having a flutter?’

‘No,’ says Father Meagher. ‘It’s a mug’s game. I prefer online poker if truth be told. Have you played at all, Mr Vos?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘You should try it. Very exciting. Very addictive, though.’ He takes a sip of his stout. ‘So what can I do for you? One of my flock gone astray again?’

‘As if you’d give a fuck, Father. Have you read the papers recently?’

Father Meagher nods. ‘Ah yes. The fellow in the footballer’s garden. Very mysterious. Do you know who he is yet?’

‘Maybe.’ Vos pulls a photocopied mug shot of the dead man from his coat pocket and passes it over the table. ‘I was wondering if you might have seen him around.’

Father Meagher squints at it, winces, then shrugs. ‘He’s not one of mine. By the look of him I’d suggest you’d be better off asking at the mosque.’

‘His name is Okan Gul. Turkish, out of Amsterdam. Works for one of the local gangs over there. Apparently he’s been doing some business on Tyneside.’

The priest attempts to return the mug shot, but Vos raises his hand. ‘You keep it. Show it to your parishioners, see if they know anything.’

‘I trust you’ll be making a donation to the church roof fund in return?’ Father Meagher says with a glint in his eye.

‘Let’s just say I’ll keep turning a blind eye to your out-of-hours collections.’

The priest laughs and brushes stray crumbs from the bobbles on his jumper. ‘You’re an evil man, Mr Vos.’

‘It takes a man of the cloth to know one, Father,’ Vos says. He makes to leave, but the older man puts a hand on his arm.

‘Why don’t you stay for a while longer,’ he says. ‘You look like you could use a drink. And maybe a listening ear.’

‘Is this your idea of confession?’

‘I’m off the clock,’ Father Meagher says. ‘At least as long as I’m in here.’

Vos sits. The priest calls across to the bar for two whiskies.

‘I haven’t seen you since your sergeant got himself hurt.’

‘He didn’t get himself hurt,’ Vos says. ‘Terry Loomis shot him.’

‘I was sorry to hear that, truly I was.’

The drinks arrive: two fingers each and a small jug of water. Father Meagher dilutes his drink almost imperceptibly.

‘But things didn’t end up too clever for Jack Peel, neither,’ he says.

‘No,’ Vos says. ‘They didn’t.’

‘Hell of a way to go, I imagine. Headfirst onto a hard surface. Just enough time to contemplate your fate.’

‘I guess so.’

The priest takes a sip. ‘Rumour has it you pushed him, Mr Vos,’ he says.

Vos looks at him dispassionately. ‘Well, you know what rumours are like, Father. Funny, though – at the time I recall it was just me and Jack Peel on that fire escape.’

‘Like the ’66 World Cup Final, eh? If everybody who said they were at the match was telling the truth, the attendance would have been fourteen million.’

He picks up his glass again and raises it in a toast.

‘To Geoff Hurst,’ he says.

Vos drains his whisky and stands up. ‘Thanks for the drink, Father,’ he says.

Mayson Calvert has a particularly annoying habit of humming through his nose when he works, but as the new girl in the office, Ptolemy is reluctant to tell him to shut up. She wouldn’t mind if he was humming a tune she knew, but it seems to be emerging fully formed out of Mayson’s head – a complex, multi-tempo, often atonal symphony for the nostrils. And it appears to have no end; for more than two hours now he’s been sitting at his computer, fingers dancing on the keyboard, humming his bloody tune and driving Ptolemy mad.

But perhaps, Ptolemy thinks, it’s only maddening because of her own frustration. While Mayson has been humming, she has been wading through a stack of paperwork, laboriously transcribing digits and notes onto a database and wondering why, if Vos was looking for a number cruncher, he didn’t recruit someone from the Fraud Squad or, better still, some keen school kid with a GCSE in statistics.

‘Mayson.’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the story with Sam Severin?’

Mayson stops typing. He looks at her and blinks, and Ptolemy is sure she can hear a whirring sound as his mind reboots to consider her question.

‘Sam Severin works undercover,’ he says.

‘I know that. But does he ever come into the office?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘But he is part of this team. I mean, he answers to DCI Vos, right?’

‘Yes. At least, I think he does. Why do you want to know?’

‘Because it looks like I’m his new admin assistant.’

Mayson frowns.

‘He’s infiltrated a car-ringing gang,’ Ptolemy explains. ‘I’ve been told to input all the paperwork from the stolen cars onto a computer database.’

‘It’ll be needed if the case ever gets to court.’

‘I know that, but—’

What Ptolemy really wants to say is that she can’t understand why she’s stuck in the office doing Severin’s paperwork while everyone else in the squad is busy trying to solve the murder of Okan Gul. But she can see that Mayson’s cyber-brain has already decided this conversation is not worth continuing. His attention, which was fleetingly concentrated on her, has now wandered back to his computer screen.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

Mayson’s fingers hover above the keyboard. His face twitches with a momentary spasm of irritation. She is like a fly buzzing around his head. Ptolemy knows this, and more to the point she realizes she is enjoying it. It is sweet, childish vengeance for two hours of unbroken humming.

‘I am checking Border Control CCTV footage from Newcastle Airport and North Shields Ferry Terminal, and crosschecking all incoming EU-registered passports with photo IDs,’ he says.

‘I’m impressed. I thought men weren’t supposed to be any good at multitasking.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read,’ Mayson says.

Ptolemy stands and saunters across to his desk. She sees that he appears to have three computer screens working simultaneously, as well as a flimsy laptop balanced on a stack of case files. ‘So what have you got?’

‘Nothing. Yet. But then it’s hardly likely that Mr Gul entered the country using his own passport. And we are only assuming that he flew into Newcastle. Or indeed that he flew in at all.’

A soft ding announces the arrival of an email in Mayson’s inbox, and with that the dialogue is over. Ptolemy returns to her desk, to Severin’s paperwork, a seemingly never-ending series of car registrations and logbooks.

And now Mayson Calvert has started humming again.