Dark Side (28 page)

‘How the hell did he get over the wall carrying a CD player and a crowbar?' Carrick mused.

‘Like a man from a nightmare,' I muttered, picturing a creeping, dark, Gollum-like
something.
Truly,
I needed to get out of here.

James put an arm around my shoulders. ‘I have you to thank for this, Ingrid. I'm enjoying the prospect of no longer being charged with murder.'

‘Honestly though, d'you reckon you would have been capable of killing Cooper in the fevered state you were in?'

‘Oh, aye.'

‘This business of someone in Guildford with information about Hamsworth is odd,' James said, ‘if not downright dodgy.'

A hot meal in an Italian restaurant had done us both a lot of good.

I said, ‘Are there professional informers?'

‘Yes, there are.'

‘Perhaps whoever it is has a network of spies but lives a safe distance away, as Hough said.'

‘That's been known too but it's usually as a sideline to inform on rival mobsters. But according to Hough this character can usually be found in the Blue Boar in the town centre. He's hardly keeping a low profile, is he?'

‘He's made himself untouchable, then.'

Carrick stared at me. ‘How?'

‘I don't know. And even if we find him there's no guarantee he'll give us any more info face-to-face than he did Hough over the phone. He might even have been telling the truth.'

In the end we decided that it was worth a try before we headed home.

As we had some while to wait before the Blue Boar opened for evening trade, we parted company, Carrick saying he would like to search out a computer store, while I headed off intending to browse around the fashion shops, something I very rarely have time to do. He came back with an eye-achingly pink outfit for Iona Flora, and I bought a wildly expensive Swedish log saw for Patrick.

In truth, I would have been quite happy to return to the car park now and go home, but nevertheless we sat ourselves down in a corner of the public bar of the Blue Boar and sipped our orange juice. I had offered to treat James to his favourite tipple to celebrate as I was driving but he declined, saying he regarded himself as being on duty. Not to mention still having to take pills.

DI Hough had told us that we could not miss ‘Jacko' as he was a tall man with short grey hair and a thin moustache. He usually sat on a settle near the fire in the winter and at a small table in the opposite corner at other times, both of which the regulars avoided when he was due to arrive around an hour after opening time. He usually stayed for a couple of hours, yarning, but did not drink heavily.

Someone who was unmistakably Jacko duly arrived, on time, and seated himself, not in his summer position but on the settle near the fireplace as someone else, a visitor perhaps, had got to the other seat first. He did not seem to mind. The picture I had built up in my mind of some kind of saturnine and intimidating man of the criminal night was utterly wrong. This man looked like a retired bank manager.

‘I have seen this man, or a photograph of him, somewhere before,' Carrick murmured and got to his feet. I remained where I was and watched as they exchanged a few words and then James went to the bar and bought him a tot of whisky. He then beckoned me across and I went, taking our drinks. We sat down.

‘This is Jack Masters, one-time Chief Constable of Surrey Police,' James informed me in little more than a whisper.

‘H
ough rang to tell me you'd brow-beaten him into saying where I could be found,' said Masters with a smile. ‘And congratulations. I understand you got your man.'

‘What's left of him,' Carrick replied and then went on to give him a few more details, as he seemed interested.

‘Although it's a while since I retired I still keep my ear to the ground,' Masters continued in jovial fashion. ‘People, those on the job, that is, tell me I ought to forget it and retire completely. But it keeps me out of mischief.'

He was indeed older than first impressions had suggested. And recently bereaved? There was a sadness about him.

I said, ‘There's a titled one-time senior army officer who used to be closely involved with MI5 who ostensibly retired to his castle in Sussex to grow roses. He was brought in as an adviser when SOCA was first set up and now not only has his hands firmly on the reins but is regarded by those in the know as being the tender of all grapevines. I have an idea you're like that, only more modestly.'

‘That would be Richard Daws,' was the immediate response.

‘Touché,' I said.

He held up his glass in silent acknowledgement. ‘I started in the Met and during a long career built up quite a network of people, mostly on the wrong side of the law. It seemed a pity to chuck it all away when I could carry on being useful.'

Carrick would probably not have had the nerve to ask my next question but curiosity has always been a weakness of mine. ‘So what do they get out of it?'

‘The same. Information. I trade in it.'

‘Couldn't that be construed as giving assistance to criminals?'

He did not become angry with me. ‘Oh, I'm careful what I pass on. Sometimes people get a warning that some rival mobster or other's going to move in on them or their family. Things like that. And everything I get to hear is sent to various investigating officers first.' A big smile. ‘I'm a radar set, really.'

‘Hamsworth's on your screen?' Carrick said.

‘I gave Hough the only details I know about him. He said you knew that already.'

‘Only recently. Someone's been asking around,' I said.

‘That someone being one of your operatives.'

‘That's right.' I didn't want to go into any more details, not altogether sure I trusted him. ‘Does Hamsworth live at the club in Woodford?'

‘It's likely, but I can't deny or confirm it,' Masters answered. ‘And I have to tell you that he cultivates an atmosphere of fear around himself. People are terrified of crossing him or breathing a word about his movements. As it is, the man goes everywhere in cars with tinted windows so it's impossible to spot him in the ordinary way of things. He also employs ex-army personnel as bodyguards and hit men, a few of whom are always with him.'

‘We've both had experience, directly and indirectly, of that,' Carrick put in.

‘Well then, folk won't talk because the risks are too great. Your man needs to exercise great care. Has he come face-to-face with him in the past?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘But he's working undercover this time.'

‘I think you should pull him out. That criminal knows things he shouldn't know and hears things he shouldn't hear. But the Met'll arrest him eventually when he gets too clever and makes a mistake. They always do in the end, you know.'

‘I've no authority to give orders,' I told him. ‘But when he makes contact I'll pass on your concerns.'

What use were concerns? Patrick was fully aware of the dangers. I was thinking that we would end up having to change tactics and arrange that all vehicles leaving the club with tinted windows were tailed. I was also made even more aware of our failure in not arresting Hamsworth in Bath. My greatest fear now was that, in desperation, Patrick would do something completely crazy. He had said himself that in order to get results he would have to forget that he was a policeman.

‘Well, thank you for your advice, sir,' Carrick was saying.

‘Your loyalty to the Met is natural and highly commendable,' I said to Masters. ‘But I don't entirely believe you.'

Did I imagine James drawing in his breath through his teeth in horror? Possibly not.

I continued, ‘SOCA, as you must know, is shortly to be absorbed into the new National Crime Agency. We now deal with serious crime of this kind. Commander Greenway is already liaising closely with the Met over this and there's
no
competition, no prizes, no round of drinks to those who arrest Hamsworth first. If you have any information that might lead to this man that so far you've only given to some crony who might not even be in one of the Met teams investigating what I'll call associated crimes then it's your duty to share it with us as well. Time moves on!'

‘You don't mince your words, do you?' was Masters' only reaction for a few moments. Then he said, ‘There's one small detail but it's useless by now as it's already been investigated and nothing was found. It's rumoured that Hamsworth trains his people and takes them to an old warehouse he may or may not own somewhere in Thameside, east London. Word has it that he actually rehearses crimes like bank robberies and occasionally they seem to have what I'll call exercises using live ammunition. You must understand that this might be hearsay – all kinds of crackpot stories swill around the criminal underworld and most of them are just that – stories.'

‘But surely people living nearby would report the sound of gunfire,' Carrick said.

‘This isn't a built-up area,' Masters replied. ‘It was once, now everything's mostly demolished prior to redevelopment – in a word, dereliction. People don't go there as there's no reason to.' And to me, ‘I suppose you could always take a look at the place. But for God's sake, don't go there alone.'

‘Where is it?' I asked.

‘All I know is that it's supposed to be near a rubbish incinerator. But don't be surprised if you can't find it as the rumour's not a new one and the building's probably been flattened by now. Personally, I think it's an alcohol-fuelled myth.'

We chatted for a little longer, Carrick bought him another drink and then we left. I thanked him sincerely as I was feeling a little guilty about the way I had spoken to him in one of my occasional bloody-minded stand-by-your-man moments. Once in the car I sent Patrick a text, outwardly vague, but using code words that would tell him I had something to say that might be important. Then I had second thoughts and sent him another, giving him the information I had just received.

I drove us back to London – the quickest route for James to get home by train – and then booked into the usual hotel. He had been reluctant to leave me on my own, worried that I might be tempted to head off looking for Patrick, but as I made clear to him, there was little point in my seeking out Salvation Army hostels, defunct canals or disappearing warehouses. Not only that, if I did, we, Patrick and I, would both be hazarding ourselves, breaking our working rule that, once we got split up, one of us should always stay in a reasonably safe place for the children's sake.

It had been a long day.

At eight-thirty the following morning Commander Greenway rang me. ‘I contacted James Carrick to see how things fared with him and was delighted to hear that he's definitely off the hook as you found the murder suspect. Congratulations. Where are you now?'

I told him.

‘Oh, come in to the office. I have some news that'll interest you.'

The grey clouds and rain had been blown away and the sun shone brightly, the pavements steaming in the warmth. I decided to walk to HQ as it would only take around fifteen minutes. There was a spring in my step and the journey seemed to take no time at all. First James, now good news of Patrick?

Greenway was in buoyant mood as well, this explained when he presented me with coffee and a piece of iced fruit cake, saying it was his birthday and he and Erin were going out that night to celebrate. I wondered if things had been patched up between them and that was the real reason for his obvious happiness.

‘The good news is that we've struck lucky with Jonno Smithson,' Greenway began.

When I'm writing I avoid the expression ‘my heart sank' as it's very hackneyed but the sensation is nevertheless real and horrible.

‘He's been interviewed and admitted, when told about the discovery of his mobile phone, that he had done a couple of jobs for a man called Nick who liked to be called Raptor. Initially, he denied that it was anything to do with his father but, under questioning, admitted that he had been put under great pressure to give details of DS Paul Smithson's movements, the registration number of his car and his address as he and his wife had separated. Jonno was quite well paid for even the smallest amount of information, apparently – money that he hid in his bedroom where we knew his mother found it. Don't worry, nobody said that she'd come across it. The ten-pound note she gave Patrick did have traces of an illegal substance on it, by the way, but the email I received didn't say exactly what.'

‘Jonno was very nervous,' I recalled. ‘Was he made to listen to the recorded messages?'

‘He was, and had obviously forgotten about the one that actually referred to “your old man”. First of all, apparently, he shouted and raved that the police were framing him and that the message was a fake. Then he burst into tears and said he'd been told that his mother would have acid thrown over her if he didn't do exactly as he was told. At that point the man became beside himself, incoherent, and they had to stop the interview, but it would appear that his father was rendered unconscious and they – we don't know exactly who “they” were yet – somehow forced whisky and sleeping pills down his throat using a funnel.'

We both fell silent for a few moments at these ghastly revelations.

‘The man was cremated so there's no chance of a second PM to try to spot any damage to the throat that was missed at the first,' Greenway went on. ‘God, I can hardly bear to think about this. But I have to. When Patrick surfaces, with or without the location of that mobster, he can question him.'

‘You want him to question Kev, the doorman at the Bath night club as well if there's no real progress with the case,' I reminded him.

‘Yes, you're right.'

I took a deep breath. ‘I really wish you'd pull Patrick out of this job. I have a very bad feeling about what he's doing.' I then went on to tell him of our conversation with Jack Masters, including the rumours about Hamsworth's occasional use of a warehouse as a training ground.