Текст книги "The Bug House"
Автор книги: Jim Ford
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 10 страниц)
TEN
Father Meagher’s route from the pub to the community centre leads him through the heart of the Benwell council estate. The estate has been his ministry for more than twenty years now, yet still he cannot fathom any logic to its layout. Once, on a visit to the council offices, he saw an aerial photograph and it reminded him of a thumbprint: vaguely concentric but with random whorls, pointless diversions and inexplicable cul-de-sacs. The only constant is the uniformity of the houses, block after block of semi-detached brick squares, each with its postage-stamp garden at the front, each front door with its own concrete porch supported by twin metal uprights. His own house, on the other side of the estate, is exactly the same. He could walk blindfold into any of them and know precisely how many footsteps before the stairs (one), through the front room to the kitchen (another eight), and how many to the back door (three more).
He crosses the street and cuts the corner through a narrow tarmac playing area consisting of a swing-less iron frame and a defaced sign which once read STRICTLY NO BALL GAMES. Now he can see the church a hundred yards ahead: St Joseph’s, squat and modern with long rectangular windows of frosted glass and a truncated steeple made of asphalt panels. Beside it, across a short expanse of wasteland, is the flat-roofed community centre.
Pausing in the foyer to check that no one is looking, he unwraps a half Corona from his breast pocket and puts it to his lips. He hastily removes it as a young woman emerges from one of the internal rooms carrying a toddler. An older boy, maybe eight or nine years old, walks beside her, pushing a baby in a buggy.
‘Linda Gourlay!’ he exclaims. ‘And how are you?’
‘Fine, thanks, Father.’ She is painfully thin and white. The child in her arms has recently been crying and there is a patina of pale green snot between its nostrils and its top lip. Father Meagher pulls a tissue from his trouser pocket and swabs its face.
‘And how’s young Kaden?’ he asks, ruffling the older boy’s head. The youngster regards him dumbly. Father Meagher stoops to the other child in the pushchair. ‘And little . . . ?’
‘Shannon,’ says Linda.
‘Shannon. Yes, of course. How lovely.’ He stands, feeling a twinge in his back. ‘Anyway, nice to see you, Linda. God bless.’
Hurrying away, Father Meagher sighs with relief as he enters his cubbyhole office at the rear of the community centre. It is a haven from the world, a place he feels increasingly loath to leave these days. He slips the cigar into his mouth and fumbles in his jacket pocket for his lighter.
‘Afternoon, Father.’
Vos is sitting in a canvas-backed chair by the door, flicking through an old edition of Auto Trader.
‘Jesus, Mr Vos, you scared me,’ the priest says.
‘You forgot about our appointment?’
‘Not at all. But to be honest I’ve spent all morning avoiding parishioners who might take exception to a man of the cloth enjoying a good Cuban cigar. I feel like a fugitive.’
‘Well you’re among friends now,’ Vos says.
‘God be praised.’ Meagher goes across to his small, cheap desk and collapses in a chair to light his cigar.
‘You said you might have some information for me,’ Vos says.
‘Maybe I do. Or maybe it’s nothing. I’ll let you be the judge of that. This fellow you were asking about the other day.’
‘Okan Gul.’
‘That’s the one. Only I heard a whisper that somebody might have been entertaining friends from across the water, if you see what I mean.’
‘Anyone I know?’
The priest expels a perfectly circular smoke ring. ‘Oh, you know him all right,’ he says. ‘In fact there are some people who say you killed him, Inspector Vos.’
Mayson Calvert has spent a very agreeable morning at the forensic laboratory discussing the relative strength of aramid fibre compared to other man-made fibres, such as those made from polyethylene terephthalate and polypropylene, and in particular compared to human ligaments and cartilage. The conclusion he has reached with George Watson, not surprisingly, is that there is no contest – but it has been fun anyway.
On the screen in front of them is an electron-microscope image of the fibres, which are commonly used to make Kevlar vests, flame-resistant clothing, sailcloth, high-performance bicycle tyres and, in this case, the rope that was used to secure Okan Gul to the struts of the railway bridge by his left ankle. When the train hit, the impact immediately destroyed the weakest link in the chain, which was Okan Gul’s joints.
‘I suppose the good news,’ Watson says, ‘is that the rope is so unusual. Find out where it came from and you’re well on your way to finding your killer.’
Mayson Calvert is not so sure. Perhaps, he thinks, Watson is still under the impression that the only outlet for speciality products like aramid fibre ropes are speciality shops that keep handy receipts and records of purchasers. Perhaps, he thinks, Watson is forgetting that virtually any product is now freely available on the internet, from anywhere in the world, and that tracking down online sales – assuming there are legitimate records – is a process that could take thousands of man-hours to complete, even for a man like Mayson Calvert, who needs only four hours’ sleep a day.
No, Mayson thinks the aramid fibre rope, while certainly unusual, is not the key to identifying the killer of Okan Gul. He is far more interested in the electron-microscope images currently visible on a second screen at the other end of the laboratory bench. These are of particles no bigger than a speck of dust that were discovered on the dead man’s clothing and also on the aramid fibre rope. The particles have been isolated because of their unusual content and structure, which appears to be densely compacted organic material. Identify the particles, Mayson thinks, and you are getting somewhere.
Identify where the particles came from, and you may well catch a killer.
The picture attachment arrived in Vos’s inbox thirty seconds ago. Now his desk phone is ringing.
‘Do you have it, Inspector?’ says Chief Inspector Krelis Remmelink.
‘I have it,’ says Vos. ‘I’ve just opened it.’
‘One of my men said we should be holding this conversation on Skype so we can see each other.’
‘No offence, sir, but I prefer the telephone.’
‘Of course! We are men of the telephone generation! Besides, one must maintain a certain air of mystery. In your mind, perhaps, I am like James Bond, eh? Sitting here in my office in a dinner suit, sipping a martini?’
‘How did you guess?’ Vos says, although his mental image of the chief of the Amsterdam bureau of IPOL is more like some sort of crumpled Columbo figure, complete with grubby mac.
‘You have it now?’ Remmelink says.
‘I’ve got it.’
The picture attachment is a long-range surveillance photograph of three men sitting at a table in the window of a bar.
‘You recognize them?’
‘I recognize two of them,’ Vos says. ‘The man sitting next to Okan Gul is Jack Peel. He’s a local nightclub owner and wannabe gangster.’
‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘Let’s just say it confirms information I have already received from a contact earlier today. Who’s the third guy?’
‘His name is Wayne Heddon. You have heard of him?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘He is from Manchester. I understand the people he represents were previously active in importing heroin from Hamburg, until the authorities there closed down the pipeline. It seems Mr Heddon has been looking for new outlets; the drug squad here in Amsterdam have had him on their radar for several months now.’
Wayne Heddon is a bull of a man with an intricate tapestry of ink down his bare arms.
‘When was this taken, Inspector?’ Vos says. When Remmelink tells him, he nods. ‘I should really print it out and give it to Jack Peel’s widow.’
‘Peel is dead?’
‘Yes. Two days after this picture was taken.’
‘A nice memento,’ Remmelink says. ‘The bar is on Stoofsteeg. This is a well-known thoroughfare in the red-light district.’
‘Do the police in Manchester know of your interest in Wayne Heddon?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Remmelink. ‘In fact our drug squad has been working closely with the CID in Manchester on this matter. You did not know?’
‘No,’ Vos says grimly. ‘I did not.’
The warehouse is situated in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Cramlington, north of Newcastle. It is an unassuming prefabricated building made of concrete and corrugated steel, identical in almost every way to the dozens of other units that surround it in the bleak complex. There is one significant difference, however: inside it is over £3 million worth of luxury cars, all of them stolen to order from locations across Tyneside, Wearside, County Durham and rural Northumberland over the last eighteen months.
‘Of course, nobody noticed all these flash cars going in and out on low-loaders,’ says Sam Severin. ‘Nobody thought it was a bit odd.’
‘They never do,’ Ptolemy says. ‘So how did you get on to the operation in the first place?’
‘One of the gang couldn’t stop his mouth flapping when he’d had a few drinks. An off-duty officer overheard him in some pub in North Shields telling everyone how he’d been driving a Humvee.’
‘He’ll be in trouble when it all comes out in court.’
Severin nods. Right now Delon Wombwell is on police bail in the General Hospital after being cut from the wreckage of the Porsche Cayenne back at Tiernan’s yard. But a broken leg will be the least of his problems once Tiernan and Philliskirk get to hear about the drunken indiscretion that led to Major Crime getting interested in the car-ringing operation. If they don’t get him in prison, they’ll certainly get him when they get out. In terms of time served, a probable three-to-five stretch for conspiracy to steal is nothing when you’ve got something to wait for.
But that’s Delon’s problem. Not Severin’s.
The stolen vehicles are parked up in neat rows that virtually fill the warehouse. The scene reminds Ptolemy of the inevitable news footage taken in some corrupt dictator’s lair after he’s been deposed; the gold Rollers, the Jags, the Porsches and the Aston Martins the tangible evidence of his vanity and acquisitiveness. Yet this is not Baghdad or Tripoli or some godforsaken African city; this is Newcastle.
‘Recession? What recession?’ says Severin, reading her thoughts. ‘It’s hard to have sympathy for the victims of crime on this occasion, isn’t it?’
‘How many are there?’ she says, running her finger along the glossy flank of a £130,000 Bentley Continental with personalized plates.
‘In here? Thirty-six. But we reckon Tiernan’s processed over two hundred since he got started.’
They climb a flight of metal stairs that in turn lead to an office overlooking the warehouse floor.
‘Welcome to Lost Property Central,’ Severin says. ‘This is WPC Millican. She’ll be helping you.’
Millican, who looks barely old enough to be out of school uniform, let alone wearing one that is police issue, smiles across the room.
‘Looks like we’re going to be busy, WPC Millican,’ Ptolemy says.
The floor of the office is covered with cardboard boxes, each containing bagged belongings salvaged from the stolen cars. It will be the job of Ptolemy and Millican to catalogue the contents of each one.
‘I suppose this is where you just disappear on another undercover job,’ she says to Severin.
Severin gives her a raffish grin through a face full of stubble. ‘The greatest trick I ever pulled was convincing the world that I exist,’ he says. ‘Have fun, Ptolemy – and if you find anything interesting, let me know.’
They meet on the Quayside near to the Swing Bridge. Vos gets there early and drinks coffee from a polystyrene cup as he stares out at the fast-moving river and waits for her to arrive. At 7 p.m. precisely she materializes beside him, her overcoat buttoned to her chin against the cold westerly wind howling down the Tyne.
‘I bought you one,’ he says, handing her a coffee. ‘From the van over the road.’ Anderson nods gratefully and clasps the cup in her hands for warmth. ‘I would have got you a kebab—’
‘I’m on my way out to dinner,’ she says.
‘That’s nice,’ Vos says. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘No,’ she says, ending that particular line of conversation. She brings the cup to her lips and blows steam from the surface of the scalding liquid. ‘OK. What have you got?’
‘Okan Gul’s contact in Newcastle was Jack Peel.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘It gets better. Peel was just the middleman. The KK were really looking to do a heroin deal with the Manchester mob using Newcastle as the entry point for their shipments.’
‘Nice to know we’ve got our uses,’ Anderson says sniffily.
‘So what happened? Why did Gul end up dead in Stannington?’
‘Well, Jack Peel died for a start.’
‘But that was two weeks earlier.’
‘So we have to assume that his death didn’t affect the deal,’ Vos says. ‘At least at first.’
‘They found another middleman?’
‘I’m guessing. I’m also guessing whoever it was wasn’t as good at international diplomacy as Jack Peel.’
Anderson nods. ‘Things went wrong and the Manchester mob killed Gul?’
‘Making sure to do it on our patch and with the minimum of discretion. Thereby sending a message to Amsterdam and Newcastle that you don’t fuck with the Mancs.’
A dredger passes serenely on its way downriver, and they watch its grimy wake splash against the stonework below them.
‘I never did like the Mancs,’ Anderson says. ‘Not since the ’99 Cup Final.’
‘Me neither,’ says Vos. ‘That second goal was a mile offside. And you’re not going to like this either: Greater Manchester CID knew all about the deal. They’d been following the operation for months, tailing a negotiator called Wayne Heddon.’
She looks at him in astonishment. ‘And they didn’t fucking tell us? Cheeky bastards. Who’s in charge down there these days?’
‘Frank Maguire.’
‘Oh, well. That explains everything. Maguire wouldn’t share the cure for cancer if he thought it would compromise one of his operations.’
‘True,’ Vos says. ‘But if Heddon’s mob killed Okan Gul, then it becomes our operation, too. And we’d need to see Maguire’s files.’
Anderson knows Vos’s tone of old. ‘And you think Detective Superintendent Frank Maguire will be swayed by my womanly charms? Is that it, Theo?’
‘I was thinking more about your shared heritage, guv’nor.’
Anderson gives him a hard stare. ‘Maguire’s from Antrim. My people were from Fermanagh. There’s a big difference.’
‘I’m sure you can bury the hatchet. Especially as he’s been investigating one of our own without telling us.’
‘Jack Peel’s one of our own now, is he?’
Vos shrugs. ‘He is now.’
Anderson leans over the rail and pours the dregs of her coffee into the river. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she says. ‘Meanwhile I want you to find out who Peel’s replacement was as middleman in this deal. If some other small-time Charlie is looking to make a name for himself now Peel’s gone, I want them hammered down.’
‘I can certainly make inquiries,’ Vos says. ‘But there is a quicker way.’
‘I know. Al Blaylock.’
‘Lawyer to the stars.’
‘Go and lean on him.’
‘I thought I was under investigation by the IPCC? I imagine Gilcrux would take a very dim view of me approaching Al Blaylock.’
Anderson reaches into her bag. Produces a manila envelope. ‘Gilcrux’s interim report and recommendations,’ she says.
Vos stares at the envelope. ‘And?’
‘Don’t you want to read it?’
‘Not really.’
‘It’s quite clear he doesn’t trust you as far as he can throw you.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘But he can find no grounds for an investigation.’
‘So that’s it?’
‘That’s it, Theo. You’re in the clear.’
‘Good,’ Vos says.
‘So go and lean on Blaylock,’ Anderson says.
ELEVEN
The cloud hangs so low over Newcastle that it is almost raked by the barbed spires jutting up from the fourteenth-century tower of St Nicholas’s Cathedral.
From across the street Vos peers through the spitting rain as the congregation begins to file in through the great wooden door. He has been standing here for thirty minutes, watching the great and the good of the Tyneside underworld arriving with their tarty wives and bullet-headed minders. How they’ve loved every minute of the exposure, these two-bit villains, pretending it’s the mid-sixties all over again, or what they’ve been led to believe the mid-sixties were like. The solemn handshakes on the steps. The fraternal embraces. The bullshit platitudes about what a great guy the dead man was. All that is missing is the glass-sided hearse, drawn by a couple of plumed horses, containing the pearlescent casket, and Jack Peel’s name spelled out in flowers.
But then this is the memorial service, not the funeral. They have come to celebrate Peel’s life, but the man himself has been dead for nearly a month.
Presently a dark saloon pulls up and the driver gets out. Dark suit, close-cropped blond hair. Jack’s driver-cum-bodyguard for fifteen years. He opens the rear door and Melody Peel exits, pushing a pair of oversized sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. In her knee-length fur coat and designer fascinator she looks every inch the gangster’s daughter. She takes a moment to sweep a disdainful glare at the crowd of onlookers who have filled the corner of St Nicholas’s Street and Mosley Street, bringing the rush-hour traffic to a standstill on two of the city’s busiest thoroughfares. Then the driver offers his arm and walks her to the door of the cathedral, where Al Blaylock, the lawyer, is waiting with a solemn expression.
Meanwhile a second car has arrived. This one contains Kimnai Su, Peel’s Thai bride, in a black dress and wide-brimmed hat. This time Blaylock comes forward, taking the tiny woman by the elbow and leading her inside.
Now Vos crosses the street. He is wearing a dark overcoat with the collar turned up and a sober scarf.
‘Friend of the family.’
The heavies at the door have no reason to doubt him and let him past. Vos enters the church and takes a seat on the back row of pews, next to a white-haired man in an expensive camel-hair coat, who explains he has come all the way from northern Cyprus for the occasion.
‘Bloody good turnout,’ he says. And he’s right. There must be two hundred people crammed into the cathedral.
‘It’s what he would have wanted,’ Vos says.
The service lasts forty minutes. There are speeches and eulogies and then ‘Wonderful World’ comes on the speakers as the congregation files back out into the drizzle. If Vos had a pound for every villain who chose Louis Armstrong’s life-affirming ballad to send them off into the next world, he would already be a rich man.
Kimnai Su and Melody are standing at the door accepting the platitudes, the fat lawyer at their side like an obedient pot-bellied pig. Vos keeps at the back of the queue, his head down, until he feels the draught on his face. Then he looks up and his eyes meet theirs the first time since that hot day by the swimming pool.
‘Hello, Mrs Peel,’ he says to Kimnai Su. ‘Lovely service.’
Al Blaylock’s eyes are out on stalks, but Kimnai Su does not flinch. Beside her, Melody regards him quizzically.
‘What’s he doing here, Al?’ she says. ‘What’s the murderer doing here?’
‘I’ll sort it, dear,’ Blaylock says hurriedly. ‘You get yourself back to the car.’ He calls for the driver, who hurries across from the top of the church steps. ‘Take Miss Peel back to the car, will you?’
‘Everything all right, Mr Blaylock?’ the driver says, glaring at Vos.
‘Everything’s just fine. Just take her back to the car.’
At first Melody shakes off the driver’s outstretched arm, then allows herself to be led out of the church.
Throughout the exchange, Kimnai Su has remained her usual impassive self.
‘Thank you for coming, Mr Vos,’ she says deliberately, careful to get her mouth around the unfamiliar English words. ‘We having a reception now. You most welcome attend.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Vos says, somewhat taken aback by the invitation. ‘But actually it was Mr Blaylock I came to see.’
‘I’ll see you at the hotel, my dear,’ Blaylock says.
Kimnai Su nods and turns away, leaving Vos and Blaylock alone under the cathedral portico with Satchmo’s rubbly voice echoing on the ancient stone.
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve showing up here,’ Blaylock growls.
‘Believe me, Al, if I had something better to do I’d be doing it.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be under investigation?’ Blaylock says, moving towards the door. ‘Don’t you think this is a very bad idea?’
‘If I was still under investigation I would agree,’ Vos says. ‘You obviously haven’t had your letter from the IPCC yet.’
Blaylock pauses and flashes Vos a look of pure venom. ‘So what do you want?’
‘I want you to look at this picture, Al.’
From his overcoat he produces a print of the picture attachment emailed by Remmelink. Blaylock makes a show of putting his spectacles on before peering at the grainy photograph.
‘What am I looking at?’ he says.
‘You’re looking at Jack Peel, Okan Gul and a very unpleasant man from Manchester called Wayne Heddon. The picture was taken in a bar in the red-light district of Amsterdam a week before Jack died.’
Blaylock shrugs. ‘I’m none the wiser.’
‘Do I really have to spell it out, Al?’
‘As far as I can see, this is a photograph of three men having a drink in a bar. One of them is Jack Peel. I have no idea who the other two are. Now if you’ll excuse me—’
He makes a move to leave the cathedral portico, but Vos steps in front of him.
‘Let’s talk about the Kaplan Kirmizi from Amsterdam. And the Manchester mob.’
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do. You see I think Jack was in the middle of setting up a nice little import business with them when he met his unfortunate demise. Okan Gul was a regular at Jack’s club, Al. They were seen together on more than one occasion.’
‘Says who?’
‘Lots of people use the casino,’ Vos says. ‘People see things. Thing is, I can’t imagine Jack would do any sort of business without his lawyer to hold his hand.’
‘You can go to hell.’
They are on the street now. The traffic is moving. The people are going about their business. Blaylock speeds up as he heads to the kerb, his hand extending for a nonexistent taxi.
‘Okan Gul is dead, Al.’
The lawyer stops. His arm lowers fractionally.
‘Somebody tied him to a railway bridge over the East Coast Main Line. The Edinburgh express did the rest.’
A minicab has turned the corner of Mosley Street and is making its way towards the cathedral.
‘Maybe you read about it in the papers,’ Vos says. ‘We just didn’t release the name.’
Blaylock seems visibly shaken. But is that because he didn’t know Okan Gul was dead, or because he didn’t know how he’d died?
‘Who took over as middleman when Jack died, Al? Was it you? Or did they ask you to find another one? After all, most of the villains in this city are clients of yours.’
‘Like I said, you can go to hell.’ Blaylock is trying to look insouciant, but there is fear behind his eyes.
‘Right now I don’t give a shit what dirty little deals Jack was involved in,’ Vos says. ‘What concerns me is when dead Turkish gangsters end up in footballers’ gardens – because I don’t ever think it’s going to end there. So if you know something, I’d really like you to tell me.’
The minicab is approaching. Blaylock sticks out his hand and flags it down.
‘I thought you were walking to the hotel, Al,’ Vos says.
Blaylock gets into the taxi and slams the door behind him. The cab pulls away, and Blaylock stares straight ahead.
