Breaking Point (37 page)

‘Oh, I know you're right,' he conceded. ‘In fact that's exactly what Alcott said, but it still rankles. Once you start making deals with the likes of Bardici, where does it stop?' He sighed heavily as he turned out the light and slid down in bed.

‘I know how frustrated you must be, Neil,' Grace said softly, ‘but you can't expect to win every time.'

‘Not with people like Trowbridge and Bell about,' he muttered as he turned to face her. ‘And I'd still like to?'

‘Enough!' Grace snaked an arm around him and pulled him to her. ‘It's over, so let it go and get some sleep! Don't forget you said you wanted to be in court for the case against Bernie Green first thing tomorrow morning.'

‘Oh, God! I'd forgotten about that,' he said. He was about to roll over, but the pressure of her body against his own stopped him. ‘But if you think I can go off to sleep while you are doing things like that to me,' he said, ‘you've got another think coming, Grace Lovett.'

‘Thank God for that,' Grace murmured softly, nestling her head against his chest. ‘Took you so long to get around to it, I was beginning to think you'd gone off me.'

There were very few people in court. Bernie's hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed in his best suit, white shirt and tie – not that it would have any influence on the outcome, but there was always the faint hope that it might. Paget looked around for Bernie's wife, and almost failed to recognize the smartly dressed woman sitting by herself until she turned her head his way.

‘Not a bad looking bird when she's all dressed up, is she?' Tregalles murmured. ‘Last time I saw Shirley Green, she had curlers in her hair and she looked a good ten years older than she does now. Amazing what a bit of paint, some high heels and a good bra will do for a woman.'

There were no surprises. Guilty as charged. Six months, which meant he'd be out in four. Bernie and his wife were allowed to have a few brief words before he was led away, but as Shirley turned to leave, she caught sight of Paget, and a slow smile crossed her face as she changed course and came toward him.

She probably wanted to have a go at him for putting her husband away, thought Paget. It had happened to him a number of times during his career, and yet there was something decidedly odd about the way the woman was looking at him. One eyebrow was slightly raised as if she were trying to convey some sort of message to him as she approached.

‘I reckon she fancies you,' Tregalles said under his breath, but loud enough for Paget to hear. ‘Either that or she's got herself a toy boy while her old man's away, and she's feeling grateful. I'd watch myself if I were you, boss.'

The two men started to move toward the door, but Shirley Green moved swiftly to intercept them before they reached it. Both men watched her closely as she approached. Relatives and even friends had been known to throw acid in the faces of the police when a verdict went against someone close to them, but Shirley's hands were empty.

She moved closer, glancing around as if to make absolutely sure that no one else was within earshot before she spoke, and when she did it was to Tregalles.

‘I hope you don't mind, Sergeant,' she said apologetically, ‘but I'd like a word with Mr Paget. It's nothing personal against you,' she added hastily, ‘it's just . . . it's just a bit private, if you don't mind?'

Tregalles remained where he was until Paget nodded and said, ‘It's all right, Sergeant. I don't think Mrs Green intends to harm me.'

Tregalles gave a grudging nod and moved away.

The woman watched him go, but remained silent until she was satisfied that Tregalles was out of earshot. And when she did speak, it was in a voice so low that Paget had to lean closer to hear what she was saying.

‘I know we've had our differences in the past,' she said, ‘but fair's fair, and I promised myself I'd thank you for what you did if I ever got the chance. And believe me, Mr Paget, you can trust me to keep a secret. I'll never breathe a word to anyone else, and I'll swear to that. You'll never know how happy it made me when I heard. I can still hardly believe it.'

‘You're
happy
that Bernie's been convicted?'

The woman stared at him blankly for a second, then grinned in a conspiratorial way as she leaned closer. ‘For a minute there I thought you were serious,' she said with a chuckle, ‘but you're having me on, aren't you? No, of course I didn't mean Bernie. I meant about Gerry. That's why I got the inspector to go away, because Gerry said it was only the top ones who knew. I know Gerry said I wasn't to say anything, but it's not as if you don't know, is it? And Gerry says he's doing all right where he is, fixed up with a job and all. I'm sure he's learned his lesson this time, so you won't be having any more trouble with him. Bernie doesn't know, and I shan't tell him, and I wouldn't want him to know I'd talked to you. But like I said, I thought it was only fair to say thanks and tell you what a relief it was to find out that my brother is alive and well.'

I
t had been a long day, and an even longer week, and Paget was looking forward to a weekend away with Grace. So he was less than pleased when he left the building to see the silver Jag sitting next to his own car in the car park.

Trowbridge was behind the wheel. ‘I was beginning to think you slept here,' he said laconically through the open window. ‘Get in. We need to talk.'

‘Really?' said Paget coldly. ‘Perhaps no one in your office thought to tell you I've been trying to do that for the past month. What's so important now?'

‘I've been away,' Trowbridge said. ‘In Europe. But that's beside the point, so stop being so bloody prickly and get in. This is something you need to hear.'

Paget moved around to the passenger's side of the car and got in. Trowbridge pressed a button and his window closed. ‘Bardici is dead,' he said tersely. ‘Killed last night in prison where he and the others were awaiting trial on charges of trafficking. Stabbed eleven times, yet no one saw a thing.'

Paget eyed Trowbridge suspiciously. The superintendent sighed as he pulled an envelope from his pocket and slid out half a dozen pictures. ‘You saw the man when he was taken into custody,' he said. ‘What does that look like to you?'

Paget looked at the pictures. The first three pictures, taken from different angles, showed Bardici sprawled on the floor, head thrown back, arms flung wide, and there was blood all over his clothing. It could have been faked, but the slash across the throat and the expression on Bardici's face had to be real. The next two pictures showed him naked on a slab. The wounds were clearly visible. Paget looked closer. ‘
Two
weapons?' he hazarded.

Trowbridge nodded. ‘One thin, almost a stiletto-type knife, and one with a wider blade. Two people, according to the pathologist, yet a search failed to turn up either weapon.'

Paget handed the pictures back. ‘And no one saw a thing? What about the guards?'

Trowbridge shrugged. ‘It seems a fight broke out at the other end of the block, and they were all down there when it happened. At least that's their story.'

‘So Bardici is dead,' said Paget. ‘Fine, I accept that. Now tell me about Fletcher.'

‘What about Fletcher? He was killed when—'

‘He wasn't killed and you know it!' Paget broke in. ‘Gerry Fletcher is alive – or he was when he contacted his sister – which means that his “death” was orchestrated by someone on the inside; someone who was working for you. My guess is the Australian, Slater, because that's who was watching Bernie Green's house, according to Fletcher's sister.'

Trowbridge's grimace was as close to an acknowledgement of guilt as Paget was ever likely to see. ‘Stupid of Fletcher to get in touch with his sister,' he said.

He leaned his head back against the leather with a sigh of resignation. ‘Fletcher botched the job of getting rid of Newman's van, and when it became known that the police – you – were looking for him, they wanted him dead. Slater was trying to keep him from getting killed, so he staked out his sister's place, because he knew Fletcher had nowhere else to run. He caught Fletcher trying to sneak out that night, but naturally Fletcher thought Slater meant to kill him, so Slater had to put him out of commission. But he needed to leave some of Fletcher's blood at the scene to convince your lot and everybody else that he was dead, so he tore Fletcher's earring out and took half the lobe off with it. Poor sod had to have it sewn up later, but it still looks as if someone chewed it off. Bled like a stuck pig – you know how ears bleed – so there was plenty of blood left at the scene for you to find. He bundled Fletcher into the boot of his car and brought him back to a safe house, then took the earring to show Bardici that he'd done the job.'

Paget eyed Trowbridge thoughtfully. ‘Funny,' he said, ‘but I don't get any sense of loss in what you're telling me. In fact I might go so far as to suggest that Slater didn't die that night at the farm.'

Trowbridge looked off into the distance. ‘You saw for yourself four body bags taken out of the barn, and the official record shows that a man by the name of Slater, who presumably worked for Kellerman, was trampled to death when the people they'd smuggled into the country panicked and stampeded during an attempt by police to free them.'

‘Which means that it would be more than a little embarrassing if he is seen alive,' Paget observed. ‘So tell me, Ben. What happened to him? Indulge me.'

Trowbridge pursed his lips and thought about it. Paget had no right to the information, and he had no right to give it, but on the other hand, what harm could it do? Especially considering the fact that he might be needing the chief inspector's cooperation in the not too distant future.

He turned to face Paget. ‘
Off
the record,' he said.

‘Of course.'

Trowbridge, nodded. ‘The real Slater is dead,' he said. ‘He died in Australia three years ago. The man who worked his way into Kellerman's organization under that name is in fact a member of the Queensland Police. We use some of theirs; they use some of ours. Not just Australia, of course; we have reciprocal arrangements with a number of countries. Beyond that, all I can tell you is that he is no longer in this country.'

‘Thank you, Ben,' said Paget, and meant it. ‘But since we're talking off the record, there are a couple of things puzzling me. First, why weren't you warned by your man that the auction had been brought forward twenty-four hours? And secondly, how did he manage to get out of that room alive?'

‘You might well ask,' Trowbridge said. ‘But when Kellerman arrived that afternoon, it was a surprise to everyone, and one of the first things he did was take everyone's phone away from them to make sure that no one could communicate with anyone outside. Kellerman didn't trust anyone, no matter how long they'd worked for him.

‘On the second point, our man had the good sense to go down fast and play dead as soon as he saw Bell come in. He took a beating, but he survived. Bell was careful to keep the rest of the crew away while he and one of his men put Slater into the body bag and made sure he didn't suffocate.'

Paget nodded. ‘So tell me about Bardici,' he said. ‘He must have made a hell of a deal with you if all he was going to be charged with was trafficking. The way the courts are these days, he'd have been out on the street in no time. Was he really worth that much to you?'

Trowbridge shook his head. ‘We got nothing from Bardici,' he said flatly. ‘He stared us down. He knew we couldn't prove that he killed Newman and the others, and we couldn't bring Fletcher or Slater out in the open to testify against him. Not that Fletcher would have testified against Bardici anyway; he was just as scared of the man as the rest of them were.

‘But as it turned out, we didn't need to do that, because we got far more out of Fletcher than we did out of Bardici. I don't know if you were aware of Fletcher's background, but he spent years as a driver bringing in illegals from all over Europe for Kellerman before Customs became suspicious of him. He didn't get caught, but he came close enough to it that Kellerman decided to pull him from the overseas run. Fletcher proved to be a mine of information. He knew the routes, he knew the staging points, he knew which border guards and Custom's officers could be bribed. In fact he knew more about the organization than Bardici did by far, which is why we decided to protect him and let everyone believe he was dead.'

Paget opened the door and prepared to get out of the car, then paused. ‘Odd, then, don't you think?' he said. ‘I mean about the way Bardici was killed, especially as he'd kept his mouth shut. Not,' he added quickly, ‘that I'm sorry he's dead, but still . . .'

‘I blame the tabloids,' Trowbridge said blandly. ‘It seems that someone got the idea that it was Bardici who supplied us with the information that led to so many arrests in this country and in Europe. It wasn't true, of course, but these things have a life of their own, and we weren't in a position to tell them they were wrong without revealing the true source.'

‘I see.' Paget looked off into the distance. ‘Any idea who might have started such a dangerous rumour?'

‘None at all. My guess is that it came from Europe. The French media picked it up very quickly.'

‘And they got it wrong. Fortunate for Fletcher, then, wasn't it?'

Trowbridge made a face. ‘Fletcher's an idiot!' he said. ‘Not only did he contact his sister, but he left the programme when he had everything going for him. He was fully protected: new name, new place, even a decent paying job, but he just walked away, and we have no idea where he is now. God help him if he ever runs into any of his old mates again, because once they realize he's alive, he won't stay that way for long.'