Black Daffodil (Trevor Joseph Detective series) (4 page)

‘The senior officer sits in the back so he can be chauffeur-driven by his sergeant,’ Peter contradicted him.

‘You’ll sit side by side. You two are partners in every sense of the word, except one,’ Bill took a deep breath. ‘I shouldn’t have to warn you …’

‘You don’t,’ Trevor broke in. Now the preliminaries were over, he wanted to be on his way, so he could wrap up the case and get back to Lyn.

Peter responded to Bill’s withering look. ‘No more jokes.’

‘It’s bad enough you wind me up,
Ashton
,’ Bill emphasised, ‘without making the Inspector’s life hell. Remember not only does he have a cooler head, he outranks you. You can get “into character” on the drive to the station. Good luck.’

Dan watched them pick up the laptop cases. ‘I don’t have to remind you …’

‘About hackers, bugs, listening devices? No, you don’t,’ Trevor broke in.

‘Scramblers in your bag for the telephones. We don’t know what we’re up against or what resources they have, so only use them in an emergency when you can’t access your mobiles. We’ve packed them together with the usual torches, CS gas canisters, cable ties and burglars’ tool kits in the carry-ons. Sweeper.’ Dan held one up. ‘It picks up all the listening devices we know about but they get more sophisticated every day. These,’ Dan handed each of them a mobile phone with built-in camera, ‘are clean. Use the Sim cards in them for calls you don’t mind the other side knowing about. Taxis, take-aways, dry-cleaners …’

‘We know the drill, Dan.’ Trevor slung the laptop case over his shoulder and picked up his suitcase and carry-on. He went to the door. ‘If Lyn phones …’

‘We’ll put her through on that mobile and doctor the number to make it look as though she’s calling from Spain. We’ll also warn her people could be eavesdropping.’ Dan glanced at Bill and stepped out into the corridor before lowering his voice. ‘I slipped four dozen extra Sim cards in your case. Destroy each one after you’ve talked to her.’

‘What about me and my lady love?’ Peter asked.

‘Talk nicely to Trevor and he might give you a few extra Sim cards.’

Bill joined them in the doorway. ‘If you have the slightest suspicion your cover has blown, contact Andrew. We’ll pull you out immediately. Day or night. The last thing this station and your wife needs is a dead hero.’ Bill held out his hand. Trevor shook it.

‘I’m expendable?’ Peter mocked.

‘Bolshie sergeants are two a penny.’ A grim smile hovered at the corner of Bill’s mouth. ‘Let’s hope you close down this supply chain before any other poor sod is killed or has his brain turned to soup.’

‘As requested, interconnecting suites on the top floor, with balconies and sea views, Mr Brown, Mr Ashton.’

Peter gave the receptionist, a blonde with blue eyes and model figure, the benefit of his most practised smile along with a credit card. She swiped it, packaged a set of card keys in an envelope and handed it to Peter along with his card. ‘The brown card key is for the room, the blue for the safe. You will need to programme your own code. The safe will only lock after the code has been entered.’

‘Thank you.’ Peter winked at her.

Trevor handed her his American Express card and she repeated the registration procedure.

‘If we can do anything to make your stay with us more pleasant, Mr Brown, Mr Ashton, please ring down. The suites have twenty-four-hour room service.’

‘That’s good to know.’ Peter followed Trevor and the bell boy into the lift. The bell-boy pressed the buttons and they rode in silence to the top floor.

The boy opened the adjoining doors to their suites, unlocked the communicating door and proceeded to give them the full conducted tour, walking ahead of them and opening doors as he went.

‘Mini-bars in the bedrooms, full-sized bars in the lounges. En suite marble bathrooms with separate shower units. If you need more of our exclusive Italian toiletries, sirs, ring housekeeping.’ He went to the control panel on the wall. ‘Air-conditioning, interactive satellite television, your safe is hidden here and in the same place in the other bedroom. The telephones in the bedrooms have different numbers to the ones in your lounges. You will find them on your check-in cards. They all have voice mail facilities. Easy connect high-speed Internet in the lounge and both bedrooms. Hairdryer, trouser press …’

Bored, Peter walked out onto one of the balconies that opened from every room. Trevor cut the boy short, gave him a ten pound tip and saw him out. He went to the bar in one of the lounges, took two cold beers from the fridge, opened them and joined Peter.

‘Nice view.’ He handed Peter one of the bottles, then looked up at the ceiling and checked the walls for signs of cameras and bugging devices. He noticed Peter doing the same. It had been a while since either of them had worked undercover, but they knew the drill.

‘Where do you want to go tonight?’ Peter wiped the top of his bottle before drinking.

‘Casino.’

‘Time to unpack and make ourselves at home. Bags I the blue and cream suite, you can have the brown and beige.’

‘They’re identical.’

‘To your eyes.’

They went inside. Trevor opened his laptop, shook out a few sample packs of cocaine and marijuana and stowed them in the inside pocket of his suit.

‘Fill mine up too.’ Peter handed him his jacket. ‘In case we get separated.’

Trevor looked at him quizzically.

‘You know me, always on the look-out for local talent.’

‘What kind of talent?’ Trevor asked suspiciously.

‘The usual and unusual.’ Peter glanced at his watch. ‘Time for another beer and a couple of hours shut eye.’

‘Shut-eye before or after a steak?’ Trevor closed the laptop case.

‘Before. Clubbing and gambling is best done on a full stomach. Wake me in two hours if I’m still asleep.’ Peter kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the Emperor-sized bed in his chosen room.

Sarah stared out of the window as Chris drove them down the motorway and over the SevernBridge. They sped past wooded hills, valleys and alongside the plush, new suburbs of Newport before heading south towards the sea.

Chris and Sarah had worked out of the same station for three years but he was used to seeing her in uniform or one of the sober trouser suits she wore in the office. Not figure-hugging jeans and a thin strapped top that left nothing to his imagination. Even her hair was different. She usually wore it in a neat French pleat, not hanging loose over her shoulders. The undercover boys had taken care of every detail: her make-up was thicker and brighter and her garish jewellery suited her cover. The large gold hooped earrings, bangles, chains and gem-studded watch were very different from her own discreet silver studs and watch.

His torn jeans and T-shirt sporting the logo of a whisky company wasn’t the casual wear he would have chosen for himself, either. He wondered about the sports bags they’d been given. He’d stowed them into the back of the van along with the German shepherd dog they’d been given – after a crash course in dog handling. Neither of them had bothered to check what undercover had packed for their use. Possibly Sarah, like him, preferred not to think about her clothes until she had to.

‘You ever live on a council estate?’ he asked.

‘No. You?’

‘I policed one after I left college. I was warned that this one is rougher than most when I was given the Tasers and hand guns.’

‘Let’s hope we won’t have to use them.’

‘Worried?’

‘Slightly.’ She hoped he wouldn’t realise she was lying. ‘You?’

‘Slightly,’ he flicked the indicator on the five-year-old anonymous white van he was driving and pulled into the inside lane. ‘Our new city.’

They drove past a neat development of red-brick homes after they turned off the motorway. ‘It doesn’t look too bad. How far out is the estate?’

‘Two miles from the city centre.’ Chris followed a slow-moving stream of traffic into a commercial street that had more charity shops and boarded premises than retail stores.

They entered a close-built network of Victorian terraces. After a mile, the terraces ended and an estate of 1960s pebble dashed houses began. A few sported curtains at the windows and neat gardens but, the deeper into the estate Chris drove, the more rubbish-strewn the streets and unkempt the houses became.

At the end of a wide thoroughfare, half a dozen tower blocks loomed out of a sea of burned out cars, broken prams, bicycles, rotting carpets and smashed furniture. Grimy toddlers and babies, most naked from the waist down, stared at them from doorsteps and pavements.

‘What floor we on?’ Chris asked Sarah as he looked for, and found, the name of their ‘home’ block.

‘Third. Inspector Evans …’

‘Dan,’ Chris said sharply. ‘We might be alone in a clean van but, from this moment on, we have to remain in character at all times.’

‘… Dan said the lift often doesn’t work. There are empty ground-floor flats, but they’ve all been vandalised.’

‘There’s plenty of parking space.’ Chris slowed the van at the entrance to a low-walled area marked with faded numbered parking bays. ‘All carpeted with broken glass.’

‘So we park on the street?’ Sarah suggested.

‘Little option.’ He stopped the van, walked around to the back and let out the dog.

‘Good boy, Tiger. We’ll get you some water in a minute.’ Sarah clipped on the lead. The dog sat patiently at her feet while Chris lifted out the sports bags.

‘Let’s see what the housing association has given us. It’s supposed to be clean and furnished. And from now on …’

‘We talk for the audience.’ Sarah led the way into the block. The hall and stairwell reeked of faeces and urine; the walls were smeared with graffiti – and worse. She hit the lift button. Nothing happened.

‘I’d feel safer on the stairs than in a metal box,’ Chris said. ‘You have the keys?’

She took a key-ring from her denim bag.

‘Three floors isn’t so bad,’ Chris commented unconvincingly as he trailed behind her with the bags. The dog bounded up but both of them were breathless when they reached the third floor. Sarah opened the door to the flat and they walked into a large, light living room.

There was a strong chemical smell, and Sarah rushed to open the windows, but she was prevented from opening them more than a couple of inches by safety locks. The dining table and chairs were cheap veneer, still wrapped in plastic sheeting, as was the beige vinyl three-piece suite. There was a television and a DVD player.

Chris dropped the cases onto the nylon carpet and they walked through to a tiny inner hall that had four doors. Two led to double bedrooms, identically furnished with new double beds, like the furniture in the living room, swathed in plastic. There were chests of drawers and built-in wardrobes. The bathroom walls were covered with six-inch white tiles. The basic three-piece suite still bore the brown paper strip that had been glued around the edges to protect it in transit. The tiny kitchen had two cupboards, a fridge, with small freezer compartment, bottom of the range cooker and microwave, all new. Sarah opened a cupboard that held three saucepans, a frying pan, and four-piece crockery and cutlery sets.

Chris opened the fridge. It yawned back at him, empty. ‘I’m starving. Let’s find a shop. The dog could do with a walk anyway.’

‘We can introduce ourselves to our neighbours,’ Sarah returned to the living room.

Chris took a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with water. He put it on the floor. ‘Here, Tiger, this will do until we can get the dog bowls out of the car.’ The dog dived on the bowl and lapped up the water. Chris buried his fingers in his fur. Shouts and screams echoed down from the floors above them.

Sarah picked up the dog lead. ‘I have a feeling we are going to be grateful for the presence of our four-legged friend while we’re here.’

Chapter Four

Peter opened his eyes to see the sun sinking slowly into the sea and the bay bathed in a soft golden light. He left the bed and stood in front of the balcony doors for a moment admiring the view. After showering and making liberal use of the complimentary toiletries in his bathroom, he slung a towel around his waist and joined Trevor in his lounge.

Trevor hung up the telephone. ‘I heard you moving. I’ve ordered steak, salad and potato salad twice.’

‘I would have preferred chips.’ Peter helped himself to a beer.

‘Your waistline wouldn’t. Salad is better for you.’

‘So is porridge. We’re not with our women now.’

Trevor allowed the complaint to pass.

‘You’re wearing a suit,’ Peter commented after his third swig of beer.

‘I even have a tie in my pocket.’

Peter finished his beer and tossed the can into the waste bin. He returned to his own quarters, dressed, slapped on a layer of cologne and returned to the lounge where Trevor was watching the news.

‘When do you want to visit Chris and Sarah?’ Peter asked.

‘Tomorrow. We’ll telephone to give them advance warning.’

Peter knew Chris and Sarah had been given supplies of cocaine and marijuana as befitting their covers of “small time” dealers. ‘You think they’ll need more stock?’

‘If Chris is as good as he thinks he is.’ Trevor rose at a knock on the door. He opened the door. The waiter wheeled in a table and set it up in front of the window.

‘We’ll serve ourselves.’ Trevor handed the boy a ten pound note and ushered him out while he was still muttering ‘thanks you’s.

Peter pulled a chair up to the table and cut into his steak. ‘I could get used to this.’

‘I’ll tell your lady love what you said.’

‘If she was along, it would be just about perfect.’

Trevor thought of Lyn and their life together in their own house. ‘For a short break, maybe.’

‘You look like a chick flick ad,’ Peter mocked. ‘Your steak’s getting cold and we have a hard night’s gambling ahead of us.’

Trevor took the hint. But as he cut into his steak he thought of Jake Phillips and hoped it would be only money that he and Peter would be staking.

The shop was a culture shock to Sarah but Chris had seen others like it when he had pounded the beat. The windows were boarded with steel shutters. Only a steel door left slightly ajar, and a Lotto sign fixed high on the wall, outside the reach of all but the most determined vandal, indicated that it was open for business. Next to it was a sign, NO DOGS.

Chris studied the street. Apart from a gang of teenage boys who were kicking a ball around there wasn’t anyone in sight.

‘Stay with Tiger. What do we need?’

‘Everything,’ Sarah said.

Chris walked through the steel door. Fluorescent lights illuminated a central island of shelves loaded with confectionery and tinned and packet goods. The fresh food section behind them held four brown bananas and three wrinkled apples. The glassed-in meat counter held a single tiny lamb chop. There was no salad or vegetables.

Chris picked up a basket and threw in toilet rolls, soap, a box of the least sugary breakfast cereal on offer, two cartons of long life milk, a plastic-wrapped loaf of sliced bread, a jar of instant coffee, because there was no ground, and he couldn’t remember seeing a cafetiere in the kitchen, a bag of sugar and half a dozen eggs. A chill cabinet yielded a slab of pale, plastic-wrapped cheddar, a tub of butter substitute, and a packet of bacon. He opened the freezer cabinet and found beef and chicken burgers and frozen chips. He carried his haul to the counter. Two Asians stood behind it. They eyed him suspiciously. He returned their stare before recalling his shaved head and the coffin-shaped earring and facial studs Ferdi had given him ‘to blend in’.

He lifted the basket on to the high level of the counter and one of the Asians started scanning the contents. Chris glanced around the shop again before asking, ‘Do you have beer?’

‘Cabinet behind me, sir.’

It was only then Chris noticed the shelves protected by a wire grill that sported a large padlock. He recalled seeing Sarah drink vodka and Coke at a retirement celebration. ‘Two six packs of lager and a bottle of vodka.’ He almost added ‘please’ before remembering he was a hardened ex-con. ‘And a large bottle of Diet Coke.’

The man nodded. ‘Sixty-eight pounds and seventy-four pence.’

Chris almost complained before deciding that anyone brave enough to operate a business on the estate was entitled to charge a premium to cover the cost of security, loss through theft and wear and tear on nerves.

He opened his wallet and handed over seventy pounds. The man took it, counted out his change and finally opened the alcohol cabinet. He and his colleague bagged Chris’s purchases, added a large bottle of Coca-Cola and handed them over.

Chris blinked as he walked outside. The sunshine was blinding after the interior of the shop.

Sarah was crouching next to the dog, petting it while she talked to a painfully thin, nervous, pockmarked young man. Chris stepped back but remained within earshot.

The boy held up a spliff. ‘This is my last.’

‘I’m not buying, I’m selling,’ Sarah whispered. ‘Grass and Charlie. Best quality and price for miles.’

‘How much is the grass?’

‘A gram?’

‘An ounce.’ The boy began to shake and Sarah guessed that he either was, or aspired to be, a small time dealer. ‘I got money.’

‘How much?’ Sarah asked.

He pulled two crumpled notes from his back pocket and looked at them. ‘£30.’

‘If we let an ounce go for less than £43 our wholesaler will string us up.’

The boy’s face crumpled. ‘That’s all I got until my next giro.’

‘We can do a swap,’ Sarah rose to her feet. ‘Got any black daffodil?’

Trevor and Peter walked into the casino at eleven o’clock. They lingered at the entrance for a moment to gauge the atmosphere.

‘I just
love
neo-Nazi Classicism.’ Peter pitched his voice loud enough to carry to the bouncers.

Over the years Trevor had learned to ignore fifty percent of Peter’s observations. But when it came to the décor, he had to agree. The initial impression was temple created by Las Vegas-based interior designer, with overlays of Hollywood, ancient Rome, Egypt and China. It had certainly been executed with no eye to economy or taste.

Massive gilded figures of naked women held up a vast, domed navy blue ceiling studded with blinking star lights. Ornate gilded pavilions, hung with sheer crimson curtains housed the gaming tables. An indoor ‘terrace’ bordered with silk greenery and ‘sculpted’ resin nymph ornamented water features, was lined with gaming machines. A bar ran the length of the football pitch sized room, opening at each end into triangular stages around which nubile young dancers in G-strings pole danced.

Peter scanned the tables. ‘I’m for Blackjack.’

‘You feeling lucky or fancy your chances with the blonde?’ Trevor had already spotted two potential ‘sleight of hand’ deals going down between bouncers and punters. Ten years ago he’d suspected, but never been able to prove, that Darrow had actively encouraged his employees to ‘make a little on the side’ so when the police moved in, as they frequently did, Darrow could throw up his hands in despair, and say, ‘I had absolutely no idea. It’s so difficult to find honest staff these days.’

It was a plausible way of taking the heat from his own operations, as well as extending his market. He and Peter had also suspected Darrow of supplying his workers through a third party, but the man who’d promised to deliver evidence of Darrow’s involvement, had simply disappeared. As so many of Eric Darrow’s ‘business’ acquaintances had done before – and, according to police reports – since.

‘My hand is itching,’ Peter scratched it. ‘Here’s to my first hundred grand.’

‘I’ll help you make it.’ A dark-haired girl sidled up to Peter.

‘No thanks, love, I’m allergic to girls with moustaches. But, if I win, I’ll give you enough to buy a lady shave.’

The girl brought her hand back and slapped Peter soundly across the face. Bouncers moved in but Peter laughed as the girl sauntered off. ‘You win some, you lose some. She doesn’t like my style of courting.’

Trevor wished that, just for once, Peter had settled for a low profile. But he wasn’t surprised by Peter’s behaviour. Low profile had never been Peter’s style, and big-time drug dealers needed to attract attention from the right – or depending on how you looked at the situation – wrong – kind of people.

Peter walked to a blackjack table. He opted for the game whenever they went undercover in a casino. If the game was straight and the decks weren’t marked, it had the best odds. And Peter was a good player. He didn’t declare his winnings because he played with his own money. He said it was enough of a bonus to get paid while he was at the card table.

Trevor joined the crowd at the roulette table. He recognised a few faces. Alfred … Harding. He forced himself to think of him by his cover; he was stacking half a dozen fifty-pound chips on red. Next to him were two sharply dressed West Indians. Alfred hadn’t lost any time in making contact. But infiltrating the supply chain wasn’t difficult when you could offer cheap merchandise. He didn’t doubt Bill and Dan had supplied all the operatives as liberally as they had him and Peter.

Lee Chan walked through with a group of Chinese who disappeared through a door at the back of the room. Trevor guessed they were on their way to a private poker game. He had never known a race enjoy gambling as much as the Chinese. It wasn’t so much a pastime as a way of life.

The two Americans, Maria and Michael, were playing the slots and exchanging banter with a group of swarthy, well-dressed men and women. Trevor walked past them on his way to the bar and picked up their transatlantic accents. The only other operatives he saw were the Albanian, Justin Lebov and the Russian, Alexander Markov, who were rolling dice.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ A girl who looked as though she’d raided her big sister’s wardrobe and make-up box accosted him. The voice was deep, the accent Eastern European.

‘Isn’t that the other way around? You want a drink?’

‘I thought I’d die of thirst before you asked,’ she answered shamelessly. She turned to the barman. ‘Champagne cocktail, large, please.’

‘And for you, sir?’ the Polish barman smiled at Trevor.

‘Vodka, straight on the rocks.’ Trevor wondered if every restaurant, bar and casino in Britain would close if the Eastern Europeans left the country overnight. He took his credit card from his wallet and handed it to the barman. ‘Start a tab and have a drink yourself and make it a double.’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

Trevor wasn’t being altruistic. He had picked up more useful information from waiters, barman and bouncers over the years than from police narks. He perched on a stool next to the girl.

She touched her glass to his. ‘I toast your winning streak.’

‘Thank you … ?’

‘Masha.’

‘A real live Russian?’

‘A real live Bulgarian.’

‘How long have you been working here?’

‘In this casino, six weeks. In the UK a year.’

‘You like it here?’

‘I love it,’ she gushed. ‘After a month I was able to send enough money home to my mother to buy a washing machine and a television. Another two years and I’ll have enough to buy a dress shop.’

‘Which game do you recommend?’

‘Roulette.’

Trevor knew she’d been primed by management. Roulette had the worst odds in favour of the gambler and the best for the house. ‘Try again.’

‘Dice. I always bring people luck at dice when I stand beside them.’

Trevor noticed an enormous bouncer cross the room. He looked him in the eye when he approached. ‘Evening.’

‘Evening, sir.’ The bouncer shouted to gain the barman’s attention. He took the bottle of mineral water the boy handed him.

‘Not allowed to drink on duty?’ Trevor knew no bouncer was allowed to consume alcohol on the job, but it was as good an opening gambit as any.

‘Only the hostesses are, sir.’ The man winked at Masha. ‘So, how do you like our little Bulgarian, sir?’

Trevor glanced across the room. He couldn’t see any sign of Eric Darrow but what he could see were CCTV cameras covering every inch of the room. Had he and Peter been rumbled? Or was Darrow cautious with all newcomers?

Trevor decided to play friendly. If the bouncer was looking for information he should be satisfied with their cover story. If he was looking for something more, he and Peter had strapped the Glocks to their shins.

‘Your Masha is pretty and obliging,’ Trevor complimented. Masha beamed.

The man leaned with his back against the counter so he could continue watching the room. ‘New in town?’

‘Why you asking?’ Trevor hardened his voice.

‘Your mate has won two and a half grand in the last twenty minutes.’

‘Lucky streak,’ Trevor said. ‘He’ll lose it again before the night is out. He always does. He never knows when to call it a day.’

As if to confirm his words, a collective sigh rippled through the crowd of onlookers gathered around Peter’s table.

‘Told you,’ Trevor sipped his drink.

‘Boss warned us to be on the lookout for scammers.’

‘Sorry, we can’t oblige. Your boss will be richer when we leave. Your job is safe.’

‘And there’s me thinking your mate had a sure-fire system.’ The bouncer shifted his bulk on to a stool but his attention remained riveted on the room.

‘If he had, we could give up work for play.’

‘What line you in?’

‘I need another cocktail.’ Jealous of the attention Trevor was showing the bouncer, Masha wrapped her hands around Trevor’s arm.

‘I’ll buy you one later. Where are the toilets?’ Trevor asked the bouncer.

‘I need a slash myself, I’ll show you.’

It was only when the bouncer moved that Trevor realised just how large he was. Shaved head, thick neck, he could even see his oversized muscles banding his arms and thighs through his evening suit.

Trevor didn’t answer the bouncer’s question until they were washing their hands in the deserted toilets, which, from the utilitarian décor, Trevor guessed were staff. ‘I buy and sell merchandise.’