Текст книги "Good Bait"

Автор книги: John Harvey

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

15

Terry Martin walked through from airside with the look of an ex-footballer for whom life on Sky Sports News was always going to be a step too far. Close-cropped hair, stubble, pricey suit that he somehow managed to make look cheap. Carry-on held in one large hand.

Costello had written Martin’s name in marker on a piece of card and stood amongst a gaggle of minicab drivers and other meeters and greeters, holding it high above his head. His little joke.

Humour him, Karen thought. She was interested in seeing for herself how he handled himself in situations like this. ‘You do the talking,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll listen.’

‘What’s this?’ Martin said, his face too close to Costello’s for comfort. ‘Someone looking to do me a favour?’

‘Not exactly.’

The airport had allotted them a small room devoid of decoration save for a CityJet calendar for 2009, open at October, a picture of the Dundee Botanical Gardens in autumn. There was an air vent, a small window that didn’t seem to open out on to anything, several stacking chairs and a square metal table.

‘Whatever this is about,’ Martin said, sitting heavily, ‘make it snappy, okay? I ain’t got all day.’

‘How was Tallinn?’ Costello asked chirpily, sounding as if he really cared. ‘Successful trip? Business, was it? A little R amp; R? Bit of both? Sex tourism’s the big thing, apparently. Several hundred per cent rise in prostitution. AIDS too, of course. Hand in hand these days, unfortunately.’

‘What the fuck is this? Some kind of market fucking research?’

Close up, beneath the stubble, Martin’s face was slack and pale. His breath, in Costello’s face, was sour. Not enough sleep. Too much airline booze. Burning Tallinn at both ends.

‘We’ll say business then, shall we?’

‘Say what you fuckin’ like.’

‘What is the nature of your business, Mr Martin?’ Karen asked, stepping in, the voice of reason.

‘My business?’ A burly shrug. ‘Textiles, import and export. Tallinn it’s mainly sportswear, a little Gore-tex, women’s clothing. We bring it in, sell it on.’

‘We?’

‘My partners and me.’

‘Which partners might that be?’ Costello asked.

‘Never you mind.’

‘Dougie Freeman? Mad Mike Carter? Some of your pals from the BNP?’

‘You little shit!’ Martin slammed a fist down on the table, hard.

Holding his nerve, Costello had scarcely blinked.

‘Instead of losing your temper,’ Karen said firmly, reckoning Martin was disorientated enough, ‘why don’t you tell us where you were on the evening of December 21st last.’

‘What?’

‘December 21st.’

‘How’m I supposed to know that?’

‘21st December,’ Karen said, ‘the night you locked your daughter, Sasha, in her room, and left her there till the early hours of next morning.’

‘Who says?’

‘Sasha. Your wife. They both say.’

‘The fuck they do.’

‘I could show you the transcript,’ Karen offered.

‘I’ll show you a fucking transcript.’ Martin was half out of his chair. ‘I’ll transcript you into the middle of next fucking week.’

‘Sit down,’ Karen said. A voice that broached no argument. ‘Sit down and answer the question now. Either that or I can have you hauled down to the local nick and let you stew for an hour or so before you answer the same questions there.’

Martin tugged at the front of his shirt, hitched up his trousers and sat back down with a shake of the head.

‘Okay, okay. You’re just winding me up, I know. But I tell you, dealing with those people, it gets to you. It really does.’

Lowering his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb, then looked back up.

‘Trying to get some factory owner to realise if he doesn’t up his output without hiking his prices, he’s going to lose every ounce of his work to fucking China before he can turn around. Jesus!’ He shook his head, more vigorously this time. ‘To think we used to have a textile industry in the country served two-thirds of the fucking world. Now look at us. Having to import every pair of bloody women’s knickers from Eastern Europe or the depths of the Third fucking World on account of we can’t make jack shit.’

Costello looked impressed; he hadn’t been expecting a lesson in world economics. Karen gave it five seconds and repeated her question.

‘That evening?’ Martin said, Mr Reasonable, ‘I went down the pub, didn’t I? What else? Wife’d thrown a wobbly over nothin’ and gone stalking off, God knows where. Me daughter’s been lying to her back teeth, giving her arse away to some drug-dealing little shite from just about the poorest country on the globe outside fucking Africa. Went down the Four Hands and got stinking. Christmas piss-up on so it weren’t a problem. Someone must’ve poured me into a minicab in the small hours, ’cause I can’t remember getting home at all.’

‘And you were there all evening?’

‘When I arrived to when I left.’

‘So there’ll be witnesses to that?’

‘I suppose so. It was busy, rammed, I don’t know.’

‘That’s not very helpful.’

‘The bloke whose shoes I threw up on in the khazi, you could ask him for starters.’

‘He have a name?’

‘Jimmy. Jimmy something-or-other.’

‘I thought it was your local. Regular, anyway.’

‘So ask the landlord, why don’t you?’

‘We already did. Said he remembers you coming in, not leaving.’

‘Makes the two of us, then.’

‘No memory of seeing you after ‘round eleven, eleven thirty.’

‘Like I said, it was busy. Wall to wall.’

‘Leave there the right side of midnight, cab across London, Hampstead in forty minutes, tops. Half an hour.’

‘And why’d I want to do that?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I don’t know, do I?’

‘Keep the appointment your daughter had made with Petru Andronic.’

‘You’re joking. You are joking.’

‘Teach him a lesson.’

‘No way.’

‘You’d already warned him what would happen if he tried to see Sasha again. And there he was, going behind your back. Getting his hands on your daughter. This – what did you call him? – drug-dealing little shite. And by the way, why drug-dealing?’

‘Why? Cause it’s what they do, isn’t it? Not the Poles, the Poles are okay, they know how to do a day’s work. Not now, mind you, they’ve clocked the writing on the wall an’ buggered off back to Warsaw an’ wherever else it is they come from. No, it’s the rest of them. Your Bosnians and Albanians, Moldovans and fucking Romanians. Breed like fucking rats, those Romanian bloody gyppos worst of all, just so’s they can send the kids out on the streets, begging. Soon as they’re old enough the girls are out whoring and kids like that Andronic are peddling drugs on street corners. All that on top of milking Social fucking Security.’

‘The world,’ Costello said, ‘according to the British National Party.’

‘Laugh, you smug bastard,’ Martin said. ‘Go ahead. One day you’ll be laughing on the other side of your cocky little face.’

‘Maybe that’s what it was,’ Karen said, reclaiming the conversation. ‘With Andronic. The chance to teach him his place, teach him a lesson. Only it went too far – you’d been drinking after all – got out of hand. Next thing you know …’

Martin rocked his chair back then forward. ‘No, you had the least bit of evidence put me near where it happened, you’d have had me in cuffs the minute I stepped off that plane. But you’ve got sod all and you’re fishing. That’s what this is. Only the line’s broke, and, any case, you wanna hook me you best get yourself some better fuckin’ bait – so I’m leaving. You want to stop me, arrest me. If not, I’m gone.’

And with neither Karen nor Costello making any attempt to stop him, he walked out the door.

16

‘What d’you reckon then?’ Ramsden said. ‘Martin?’

‘Do I fancy him for it?’ Karen said.

‘Yeah.’

‘I’d like to. Like to, but I don’t know.’

They were standing at the side door of a pub Ramsden favoured in the bowels of Camden. A fine view of the waste bins and a few parked cars. Ramsden, as he sometimes did, smoking one of his small tightly rolled cigars. Their breath visible on the night air.

It had been an Irish pub when Irish was more in vogue, plastic shamrocks in the window, a greenwood bodhran hanging down above the bar; this last year or so, evenings and weekends, it had been taken over by Goths and heavy metallers; Black Sabbath and Metallica on the jukebox and whip-thin girls with faces powdered white and lipstick the colour of dried blood. Other coppers never set foot there, unless it was a raid. The bitter wasn’t bad, either.

‘Trouble is,’ Karen said, ‘there’s not a scrap of forensics puts him even close. No murder weapon, no prints, no CCTV. Nothing.’

‘Gut feeling?’

‘My gut feeling, he could have. He’s capable of it, I’m sure. Reason enough in his mind, too, tanked up especially.’

‘So what you gonna do? You and sonny boy?’

‘Sonny boy’s all right. Just needs a little perspective, that’s all. Realise he doesn’t have to be grandstanding all the time.’

‘I’m sure in your guiding hands …’ A lascivious grin on his face, Ramsden was cheerfully miming masturbation when the door opened sharply and a sandy-haired man took half a step out on to the low porch, stopped, looked from Ramsden to Karen and back again, then winked merrily at Ramsden and withdrew.

‘Thinks there’s something going on,’ Ramsden said. ‘You and me. Didn’t want to spoil my chances.’

‘Yes?’ Karen laughed. ‘What chance is that?’

Ramsden took a healthy sip from his glass.

‘So, Martin, what’s your plan?’

‘Sonny boy, as you call him, is going back to the landlord at the Four Hands, dredge up some more names, try to get a sharper line on how long that night Martin was in the pub. Then we’re checking taxi firms, minicab drivers, anyone who might have had Martin as a fare. And that includes the driver he alleges took him home in the early hours.’

‘Could have been a mate, a friend.’

‘I know. I can get some of the team talking to his known associates, see if there’s anything there.’

Ramsden’s look was dubious. ‘Lot of manpower, lot of hours.’

‘Better suggestion?’

‘Bring him in. Make him sweat. Then see what he’s got to say. Let me have a word with him.’

Karen smiled. ‘Is that the bit where you swipe him round the back of the head with a good old-fashioned telephone directory?’

‘Does the trick. Used to.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

Ramsden swallowed down the last of his beer. ‘Want another?’

‘Maybe. Just the one. But now you’ve finished that vile little cigar, can we at least go back inside?’

They found a table far enough from the jukebox to make conversation possible. Hector Prince, Ramsden said, was still lording it over the fact that he’d walked away from police custody scot-free, bragging about it, apparently, how there was nothing they could do to touch him.

‘Riding for a fall?’ Karen wondered.

‘Could be.’

‘How about that accusation of Martin’s?’ Ramsden asked. ‘The Andronic youth might have been dealing?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Gives you another possible motivation. If he’d been siphoning some off, short changing, someone might have been out to teach him a lesson.’

‘Some lesson.’

‘Sets an example.’

‘There’s nothing else linking Andronic to drugs. I think that was just Martin blowing off hot air.’

‘Even so,’ Ramsden winced as a particularly loud riff from Iron Maiden made the room shake and rattled the glasses on the table. ‘Could do worse than taking a look at that pal of his again, the one he called that evening. Milescu? Check him out on Facebook, sites like that. Build up a bit more background, can’t do any harm.’ He winked. ‘Wouldn’t like to see you cutting off your options too soon, getting tunnel vision.’

‘What are you? My manager, all of a sudden?’

Ramsden leaned back, smiling with his eyes. ‘Feels that way sometimes.’

Karen smiled back. ‘You know what?’

‘What?’

‘Bollocks!’

Karen was still wearing the vestiges of a smile when she exited the Tube. Whereas working with Tim Costello was interesting, almost fun, watching him showing off a little, seeing how far he could go, with Ramsden everything was easy, like slipping into a familiar pattern, easing on an old pair of worn gloves. What was that song? ‘An Old Raincoat Won’t Ever Let You Down’. Ramsden was like that. Old and dependable. If distinctly ragged round the edges.

Taking the turning off St Paul’s Road into Highbury Grove, wind pulling at her coat and hair, the first inklings of rain, she noticed the car idling ahead of her, ignorant of the traffic. A Volvo, dark blue, shading into black. As she drew close, it pulled away, then slowed. She logged the number in her head, prepared to cross the street, take defensive action, if necessary run.

When she came alongside the vehicle, it slid forward in tandem, the rear window slipping soundlessly down.

‘Karen.’

It was Burcher. Detective Chief Superintendent Anthony Burcher. She hadn’t known they were on first-name terms.

The rear nearside door opened.

‘Get in.’

The car slid off into traffic, commuters on their way back through Seven Sisters, Stroud Green, Stamford Hill, Edmonton. Farther out there were real fields, paddocks, small orchards, golf courses where you could play a full eighteen holes without having to cross a motorway.

It was close in the back of the car, the heater notched up a few degrees too high; the sweetness of peppermints on Burcher’s breath.

‘Just passing, sir?’

‘Something of the kind.’

In front, the driver swallowed a chuckle, remembering he wasn’t there. See no evil, speak no evil.

‘The Hampstead business, Andronic, something of a breakthrough?’

She told him about the Martins, Terry and Sasha, father and daughter. Her suspicions, unproven.

‘And this Milescu boy, he involved? Seriously, I mean?’

No real reason to think so, sir. No more than peripherally. But I suppose it’s possible.’

‘His father, he was expressing some concern.’

‘To you, sir?’

‘Friends, shall we say, one or two, high places.’

‘I doubt he has reasons to worry.’

‘Good to know. Though of course, if there were anything, anything serious, you might just run it by me.’

‘Of course.’

Burcher nodded, found something interesting through the opposite window. At the crossroads, without being asked, the driver took a left, then left again.

‘Cooperation, resources, you’re getting what you need?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Splendid.’

The car came to a halt some sixty metres from her door.

‘Walk from here?’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The rain was starting to fall more heavily, bouncing off the roof of the Volvo as it moved away. It was beginning to look as if Mike Ramsden was right, a little more digging in Ion Milescu’s direction might not go amiss after all.

17

The London College of Communication was a little way south of the river, too close to the monstrous traffic island that is the Elephant and Castle for comfort. For reasons best known to its custodians, much of the frontage was given over to large panels bearing stylishly lit close-ups of a couple passionately kissing. It pays, Karen guessed, to advertise. Amongst a bustle of activity, legions of students were foregathered on the street outside, garbed for the most part like students the world over. She was glad she’d dressed down herself, cotton jacket, sweater, worn jeans, her second-best pair of black Converse. Scuffed leather satchel.

Winter sunshine reflected back off the glass.

Voices raised in greeting. Arms round shoulders. Laughter.

A bus pulling by on its way towards New Cross Gate.

She spotted Ion Milescu walking briskly, winding between small knots of people, rucksack slung over one shoulder.

Karen moved to intercept him and as she did so he stopped to talk to two fellow students, the man seemingly African, the girl Chinese.

‘Ion …’

At first he didn’t recognise her, a face seen out of context.

‘I just need a word.’

‘I’ve got a class.’

‘A quick coffee, that’s all.’

‘I don’t know.’ He seemed flustered, uneasy.

‘Look,’ the African said, ‘if he doesn’t want to speak with you …’

‘No,’ Milescu said, ‘it’s all right.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure.’

The African shrugged – ‘Catch you later’ – tapped the Chinese girl on the shoulder and they walked away.

‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Karen asked.

What she was hoping for was a little pop-up espresso bar run by a couple of Kiwis working their way round the world; what she got was a tired cafe between a launderette and a newsagent’s, on a small row of premises laid back from the main road; a greasy spoon that had moved some way to catering for its increasing student population, then stalled. Paninis alongside fry-ups; soya milk cappuccinos and mugs of tea you could stand a spoon in.

Karen played safe with an Americano; Ion Milescu a Pepsi.

‘A few things,’ Karen said, ‘have come to light since we talked last. I just wanted to make sure I’ve got the right end of the stick.’

‘What kind of things?’ He was looking off in the direction of the counter, the far wall, anywhere but at her.

‘You and Petru, for instance, from what you said before, you didn’t know him very well at all.’

‘That’s right.’

‘A few kickabouts and stuff like that.’

‘Right.’

‘Which sort of leaves out Victoria Park.’

‘What?’

‘Victoria Park. Hot Chip. Lesley Tabor. You remember Lesley?’

He mumbled something that might have been slag. She hoped it wasn’t.

‘You do remember Lesley?’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘I thought you went out with her, for a while at least.’

‘She thought so, you mean.’

‘You and Lesley, Petru and Sasha, quite a foursome.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like?’

‘It wasn’t like anything. I just went with her a few times because …’ Ill at ease, he took a quick breath, dipped his head.

‘Because?’

‘’Cause he asked me to.’

‘He?’

‘Petru. Petru, who else?’

‘This kid you hardly knew.’

‘All right, all right. God!’ His voice loud enough to turn heads, the workman on his right glancing up from the Sun, a couple of students looking across from the plate of beans on toast they appeared to be sharing.

‘All right, we hung out for a while, went to a couple of gigs here and there – he didn’t have many friends, I don’t know why. After we played soccer a few times, went back to the cafe…’

‘The Chiswick cafe?’

‘Yes, after that he sort of latched on to me. For a while anyway. I suppose I felt a bit sorry for him. Living with some uncle over Wood Green somewhere. Least, that’s what he said.’

‘You didn’t believe him?’

‘I don’t know. It was all a bit – you know – vague. We were going to go over there once, I remember, he sort of built it up, then at the last minute he called it off, something about his uncle being busy, not wanting to be disturbed. Way he said it, just seemed a bit strange that’s all.’

‘You carried on seeing him?’

‘Maybe not as much. I had all this work, you know, college. Different assignments. I was busy, and he – most of the time, he didn’t seem to be doing anything. Just hanging out. And then there was all that stuff with Lesley. Her friend, the one Petru was going with, Sasha, every time I’d see her it’d be, oh, why don’t you get in touch with Lesley, send her a text, she’s dying to see you, blah, blah, blah. I got sort of sick of it.’

Karen took a mouthful of coffee. No better nor worse than she’d expected.

‘Petru, you say he spent a lot of time just hanging out?’

‘Yes.’

‘He didn’t have a job, then? Wasn’t studying, anything like that?’

‘He’d applied. Some college, to do I’m not sure what. Computer stuff, maybe. IT. I don’t even know if he got in or not. If he did get a place, he never took it up.’

‘And a job? Presumably if you were going out places, he had cash in his pocket from somewhere?’

‘I don’t know. He helped out his uncle sometimes, that’s all he ever said.’

‘Doing what, d’you know?’

‘No.’ A quick shake of the head.

‘There’s a suggestion that he might have been dealing drugs.’

‘Petru?’

‘Yes.’

‘No way.’

‘You seem pretty positive.’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘He wouldn’t even …’ He hesitated.’ If ever, you know, there was something going round, a smoke, a few pills, he’d always pass. Always.’

‘That doesn’t mean …’

‘I know. But, no, Petru getting mixed up in something like that, I just can’t see it. Really.’

He looked at his watch.

‘I should be going.’

‘Okay. Fine.’ She pushed her half-full cup away. ‘This uncle – Petru didn’t mention a name? An address?’

‘Afraid not. He never said anything much about himself at all. Except something once about missing his family, his mother especially. So I guess he wasn’t living with them at least. I got the impression she was still back in Moldova.’

Karen nodded. So far any attempts to contact Petru Andronic’s next of kin via the Moldovan Embassy in Dolphin Square had foundered amidst red tape and inertia. She would get one of the team to make a fresh attempt, diplomatically kick a few backsides.

Out on the street, Milescu following, she took two paces, then stopped. ‘Apparently your father’s been talking to my boss, my boss’s boss. Whatever you’ve got yourself involved in, he seems a bit concerned about.’

‘You serious?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘He’s crazy. I’m not involved in anything.’

I hope not, Karen thought. She slipped one of her cards into his hand. ‘Anything you want to talk about, any time, just give me a call.’