At Risk (24 page)

“You on your own, love?”

She was about forty, probably. Blonde streaks, glittery top, desperate eyes. You got them in every casino, the women who, having blown whatever they’d managed to scrape together that day, hung around the male punters like pilot fish. For a handful of chips, Mitchell knew, he could have taken her down to the car for ten minutes. Tonight, though, he just wasn’t in the mood.

“I’ve got people coming,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Anyone nice?”

He laughed at that, and didn’t answer, and finally she walked away. From the moment he’d walked into the toilet at the Fairmile and seen Ray Gunter’s body lolling against the tiles, he’d known that the people-smuggling racket had been blown to the four winds. The police wouldn’t have a choice; they’d have to go all the way with this one—follow as far as the trail led. And the short answer, of course, was that it led to him. He’d been seen with Gunter, he was a known confederate of Melvin Eastman . . . He took a deep slug of the Scotch and refilled the engraved tumbler from his private bottle. He was fucked, basically.

What the hell had Eastman been thinking of, getting into bed with those Krauts? Before they’d come calling he’d had a sweet little franchise running, bringing in illegals for the Caravan. Asians, Africans, working girls from Albania and Kosovo, all of them properly cowed and respectful. No trouble, no argument, and everyone going home happy.

The moment he’d clocked that Paki, though, he’d known he was going to be trouble. A rough crossing usually shook them down nicely, but not this one. This one was a psycho—a real hard nut. Mitchell shook his head. He should have drowned him while he had a chance. Nudged him overboard, rucksack and all—he’d heard that most Asians couldn’t swim.

Ray Gunter, of course—idiot that he was—had spotted the rucksack and decided to take it off the Paki. He hadn’t said anything about stealing it, but looking back it was blindingly obvious. And so the Paki—psycho nutcase that
he
was—had taken him out.

All of these events leading him, Kieran Mitchell, in his slate-grey silk suit and his midnight-blue Versace shirt, to this moment. To this glass of Scotch that could be his last for years. Conspiracy, immigration offences, terrorism, even. It didn’t bear thinking about. Not for the first time, he considered cutting and running. But if he ran, and they found him—as they surely would find him—it would go worse for him. It would cancel out the one card that he held. The card that, if he played it properly . . .

In the mirror he saw what he had been expecting for the best part of an hour. Movement near the entrance. Purposeful men in inexpensive suits. The crowd parting. Downing his Scotch in three measured draughts, he felt in his trouser pocket for the coat-check disc. It was cold out, so he’d brought the dark blue cashmere.

L
iz sensed the quiet excitement in the place as soon as she walked into Norwich police station. The Gunter murder investigation had been going nowhere fast and suddenly here was a solid lead in the shape of one of Melvin Eastman’s senior associates. There had been some talk of taking Kieran Mitchell to Chelmsford, where all the Eastman files were held, but Don Whitten had insisted on Norwich. This was his murder hunt, and every aspect of the investigation would be carried out under his jurisdiction.

When Liz and Mackay walked into the station’s operations room, the place was crowded with bullish-looking officers in their shirt sleeves taking it in turns to congratulate an uncomfortable-looking Steve Goss. Amongst them, sent over as an observer by the Essex force, was the Special Branch officer Bob Morrison. Don Whitten, Styrofoam coffee cup in hand, presided over the mêlée.

Seeing Liz, Goss waved and extracted himself. “They think I lined up the arrest,” he murmured, running a hand through his scrubby ginger hair. “I feel a total bloody fraud.”

“Enjoy it,” suggested Mackay.

“And let’s pray it’s not a dead end,” agreed Liz.

She had called Goss with Kieran Mitchell’s details as soon as she and Mackay were clear of Braintree. Then they had driven north to Norwich, stopping on the way to pick up a pizza and a bottle of Italian beer each. For the time being, perhaps as a way of acknowledging Liz’s earlier fury, Mackay had shrugged off his romantic seducer’s skin, and without it he proved a surprisingly entertaining companion. He had a near inexhaustible fund of stories, most of them concerning the extreme behaviour—or misbehaviour—of his service colleagues. At the same time, Liz noticed—and however much she tried to lead him on—he never actually fingered anyone directly. When names were named, they were never those of the actual perpetrators of the cowboy operations that he described. They were those of their friends, colleagues, or superiors. He gave the impression of extreme indiscretion, but actually gave away little that wasn’t already reasonably common currency in the intelligence community.

He’s on to me, thought Liz, enjoying the game. He’s aware that I’m watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake. And he’s playing up to my expectations of him as a reckless freelancer, because if he can convince me that that’s what he is, then I’ll stop taking him seriously. And the moment I stop taking him seriously he’ll find some way of stitching me up. There was even a certain elegance to it all.

She had briefed Goss over the phone about the conversations with Cherisse Hogan and Peregrine Lakeby that had led her to Kieran Mitchell’s name, and suggested that he set up the arrest. Impressed by her investigative work, and understanding her need to keep a low profile in the affair, he had agreed.

Liz had considered sharing her concerns about Bob Morrison with Goss, but had finally decided to let the matter lie. It was only her instinct that suggested that he might be in the pay of Eastman—she had no evidence of any kind beyond his dilatory attitude and a general impression of venality. Besides which, Eastman would know with or without Morrison that Kieran Mitchell had been arrested, and would make his arrangements accordingly. And if Mitchell came up with solid information and was prepared to go the distance in court, then Eastman would be out of the game anyway.

With the return from the custody suite of Mitchell’s solicitor, a sense of order and restraint re-established itself. The solicitor, a silkily exquisite figure with an established reputation as a “gangster’s brief,” was named Honan. Thanking the custody officer who had accompanied him to and from the cells, he asked to speak in private to DS Whitten.

As Whitten and Honan took their places in one of the interview rooms, Goss ushered Liz and Mackay into the adjoining observation suite, where half a dozen plastic chairs faced a large rectangular panel of one-way glass. A moment later, with the faintest of nods, Bob Morrison joined them.

In the interview room, on the other side of the one-way glass, the overhead strip light cast a hard, bleaching glare. The off-white laminate surface of the table was pitted with cigarette burns. There were no windows.

“Could you repeat what you’ve just said to me,” Whitten asked Honan. Amplified by the speakers in the observation suite, his voice sounded harsher and clearer than usual.

“Bottom line—and without prejudice—my client doesn’t want to go down,” said Honan. “In return for a guarantee of immunity from prosecution, however, he’s prepared to go into the witness box and produce the wherewithal to put Melvin Eastman away for offences relating to narcotics, immoral earnings, and conspiracy to murder.”

He hesitated in order to let this offer sink in. To her left, Liz was aware of Bob Morrison shaking his head in disbelief.

“My client also has information relating to the killing of Ray Gunter which he is prepared to divulge, in full, to the appropriate parties. Understandably, however, he does not wish to incriminate himself in so doing.”

Whitten nodded, bulky in his crumpled grey suit. A crease appeared in the bristled back of his neck. “May we ask what it is that he fears incriminating himself of, if he divulges the facts relating to the Ray Gunter case?”

Honan looked down at his hands. “As I said, I’m speaking entirely without prejudice here, but I am led to understand that the relevant area of criminal law might be that relating to immigration.”

“People-smuggling, you mean?”

Honan pursed his lips. “As I said, my client doesn’t want to go down. He feels—not unreasonably, in my view—that if he testifies against Melvin Eastman, and then goes to prison, he will be killed. Incarcerated or not, Eastman has a long reach. My client wants immunity from prosecution and a new identity—the full witness protection package. In return he will give you the wherewithal to roll up Melvin Eastman.”

“That’s the trouble with British criminals,” Morrison murmured. “They all think they’re in a Hollywood bloody Mafia movie.”

On the other side of the glass, it was clear that Whitten’s patience with Honan was wearing thin. At the same time, thought Liz, he badly needed any help that Mitchell might be able to give him. According to Goss, Whitten had managed to stall the press for the time being, but he was going to need to be able to report a solid lead in the Gunter case soon, or risk accusations of incompetence.

“Let me make a suggestion,” he said. “That your client immediately and unconditionally tells us everything that he knows relating to the murder of Ray Gunter.
Everything
—as he is required to do by law. And that if we’re completely happy with his level of cooperation, then we can . . .” he shrugged heavily, “we can make the necessary . . . representations.”

“We can’t do any such thing!” hissed Liz, looking from Goss to Mackay for support. “If I have to get on to the DPP and the Home Office about this we’ll be bogged down for days. We’ve got to get Mitchell to talk right now.”

“Can you speak to Whitten?” Mackay asked Goss. “Tell him . . .”

“Don’t worry,” said Goss. “Don Whitten knows what he’s doing. This whole immunity thing’s just about the brief earning his fee. He’s got to be able to go back to his client and say that he tried.”

“Can I take that as a yes?” Honan was demanding. “An undertaking that you’ll . . .”

Whitten leaned forward in his chair. His glance flickered to the interview suite’s tape recorder and CCTV monitor. Both were switched off. When he spoke again it was so quietly that Liz had to crane towards the wall-mounted loudspeaker to hear him.

“Look, Mr. Honan, no one here present is in a position to offer Kieran Mitchell any kind of immunity deal. If he cooperates, I’ll make sure that the relevant people are informed of the fact. If he holds out on us, on the other hand, bearing in mind that this is not only a murder hunt, but a matter affecting national security, I promise you that I’ll do my level best to ensure that he never sees daylight again. And you can tell him that’s my best offer.”

There was a short pause, at the end of which Honan nodded, collected his briefcase, and left the room. Shortly afterwards Whitten appeared in the doorway of the observation suite. He was flushed. Sweat spots studded the pink expanse of his forehead.

“Nice one,” said Bob Morrison.

Whitten shrugged. “They all try it on. They know it’s a loss leader, we know it’s a loss leader . . .”

“Is he right about his life being in danger?” asked Liz.

“Probably,” said Whitten cheerfully. “I’ll tell him that if he goes down we can recommend he’s isolated from the worst of the nasties.”

“In with the nonces?” grinned Morrison.

“Something like that.”

When Honan returned to the interview suite five minutes later, he was accompanied by the duty sergeant and Kieran Mitchell. It was midnight.

O
utside the bungalow, the woman sat in near darkness in the driver’s seat of the Vauxhall Astra. Her head leaned comfortably against the head rest, and her face was faintly underlit by tiny pinpoints of blue and orange light from the car’s hi-fi system. The local radio station’s midnight news had just finished, and the only mention of the Gunter murder had been a recorded comment by one DS Whitten to the effect that enquiries were ongoing and that the police hoped to bring the person or persons responsible to justice as soon as possible. The on-the-hour news had segued into a medley of easy listening and cocktail tunes.