The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) (23 page)

‘Central Switchboard?’ a voice says with monotonous urgency.

‘Jeremiah Salix, please,’ I reply.

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Royal Mail.’

‘One moment,’ comes the response. If in doubt, pretend you know what you are doing. It only takes a second for Salix to pick up.

‘OK, you have my attention,’ he says.

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘You just gave me more evidence than the police has managed to collect in over 40 years of trying to take these people down.’

‘I’m happy to help.’

‘Our voice recognition guys are working on a copy of the recording now, but I know they have already confirmed Leonard and Michael.’

‘The others will all check out too. They were all there.’

‘Would you testify? We can grant you anonymity and I can look into immediate witness protection?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t accept that.’

Jeremiah seems surprised.

‘These men are as dangerous as dangerous gets,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how far back your dealings go with them but it seems from the recording that it isn’t that far. But regardless of what you have done, in exchange for a testimony that will put these career criminals away for good, any past misdemeanors will be erased, within reason, or at least looked extremely favorably on.’

If only he knew the extent of my past misdemeanors, he might feel a little different about such a generous offer.

‘I’m afraid that won’t work. I will give you them on a plate, but I need to be left out of it. I’m afraid if there is to be a cohesion between us, Jeremiah, those are my terms.’

‘Considering the value of the information you have just given us, I will accept that. You mentioned that this situation is to be mutually beneficial. What is it you are after from me?’

‘I want to ask you some questions, and I’d like you to tell me what the NCA knows. I’ll answer honestly any questions that you may have also. I have an objective in mind that I want to fulfill.’

‘Is it criminal?’

‘It is in no way dangerous to the public.’

Jeremiah quietens again, and I can here him exhale reluctantly. ‘OK, fire away,’ he says.

‘The fire at the Floating Far East, two nights ago. That was my doing.’

‘Jesus,’ whispers Jeremiah.

‘I was trying to establish who killed Royston Brooker, and I was led to believe it was Sparkles Chu. I challenged him on this, and he denied it. The situation got out of hand. I don’t know whether he survived it.’

‘He did.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely. As a person of extreme interest we monitor his movements as best we can. Facial recognition picked him up at Gatwick Airport, taking a flight to Manila. He lived, but he is not in Great Britain. Our contacts are trying to find out what his final destination is.’

Hmm. If he is guilty, then I don’t want my ridiculous, overblown sense of duty dragging me across the globe in pursuit. But if he’s not, then I’m cool with this. Very cool. One criminal gang disbanded and sent packing. Our shores are slightly cleaner already.

‘Do you think he did it? Killed Royston I mean?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. He’s a candidate for sure, but I’m not convinced.’

‘What can you tell me about Royston’s death?’

‘Alerted to the crime scene by a security guard at Manchester Airport, found him while he was doing the rounds. Tied to a chair, single bullet wound to the chest. He was still in his pajamas, looked like he had just got out of bed. It was a strange one, but a lot of hallmarks of a mob killing. The tied to a chair part, suggested an interrogation, but there were no visible signs of struggle at all. The interrogation was verbal and nothing else. He didn’t resist. Either he’s a serious pacifist, or he knew his attacker, and didn’t see it coming. I would say, knowing the type of people he did business with, that we are talking about the latter.’

‘Was he tied up after the shooting, to throw an investigation off the scent?’

‘It’s a possibility, but the coroner was unable to confirm.’

‘I have a contact I’m on my way to see. He spoke with Royston Brooker the night he died. They were friends it seems, and I’d say, given what you have just told me, his relevance is spiking. I’ll let you know the result of my conversation with him.’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

‘In terms of the Berg, I’ve got the wheels in motion towards getting you a boatload of evidence. There’s another avenue of enquiry that looks to reap dividends. I need a mode of contact with you. One that will both protect my position, and make you more accessible to me. I can’t keep pulling over to hit pay phones - they are a dying breed.’

‘Fair enough. I think that’s a good idea, if it’s applies both ways. I may need to grab you. But, before we go any further, I have a problem. I need to acknowledge your existence in a formal sense, or any of what you bring me is, however explosive, completely inadmissible. Evidence that could bring extensive prison terms doesn’t just drop out of the sky.’

‘What are you thinking? My anonymity is crucial.’

‘I’m thinking that a formal acknowledgement of yourself as an informant is important but I need your consent to that. If I take what you sent to me to my superiors, and have it authenticated by another gesture of faith so that your first delivery wasn’t a fluke, and my department knows about you, then your evidence can be used to take these people down.’

I was always expecting something like this, and have had to reluctantly make my bed with it. I desperately want my evidence to mean something, and for that to happen I know that an acknowledgment of my existence must happen. I want as few people to know as possible. My true identity must not be sacrificed if any of this is to mean anything.

I could just seek to deliver my justice and nothing else, but I know that, in the grand scheme of things, that is not enough by itself. I can’t do everything. I don’t have the manpower to tie up loose ends. I don’t trust the police and the authorities, but I trust Jeremiah, and if I can give them the foolproof evidence to take this villainy down, that will go such a long way to having a real, lasting effect. Criminality will notice.

‘I can agree to this on the provision that my existence is known only in the most private sense. That’s you, and whatever superiors you need to make sure that everything is above board, but no more. If you need to include court injunctions to make that happen, do so. My identity is never to be revealed. If that does not materialize, you will never hear from me again - and all the material I have to offer will go with me.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Get started on it. Tell your superiors that more evidence is coming later today. That can be the leverage you require to prove my veracity.’

‘You got it. Do you have any thoughts how we can keep in touch?’

I smile. I’m a bit of a hypocrite actually.

‘Are you familiar with Twitter?’

21

I can see him. He is sitting on the concrete benches, sunlight glinting off his hairless pate. He isn’t well built, moreover he looks fairly short and squat. His nerves look to be ratcheted up to a lifetime high, given his erratic glancing about himself. Trying to see Royston coming. Whatever I think of him, whatever connection he has to my clandestine investigation, he looks no killer. But I know too well that that is, more often than not, the norm. Indeed, it is always the quiet ones.

I mobilize from my vantage point a hundred yards away. I was simply leaning against a wall - Nigel doesn’t know me, doesn’t know I’m coming. He won’t be expecting me, as I start walking across the frost-brushed, stone square of Piccadilly Gardens - a little flat, concrete pocket which buildings press right up to, but don’t infringe upon. There a few trees, but they are more token gestures than anything. ‘Gardens’ is a very generous title indeed.

I scrutinize as I stroll, the purpose of my gait reined in so as not to give the game away just yet. Nigel takes a bite of a doughy parcel that he holds in his right hand. A pasty to start the day, the breakfast of champions. On closer inspection, he actually has a particularly disgusting ponytail drooping off the back of his head, fashioned from the scruff that hasn’t left him yet. It is uniquely vile, and a playful corner of my mind cranks the possibility of him being the killer up again, since only a psychopath would have hair like that. He brings the savory morsel up to his mouth as I reach him.

‘Nigel,’ I say. The pasty hangs in mid air, as his eyes divert to me. If I had any doubt at all that this was him, they are erased immediately by his reaction. ‘Before you say anything, know this. There is a .338 calibre Barret M98B bolt action sniper rifle aimed at the bridge of your nose, from a rooftop somewhere in front of you. Don’t look for it - you know the type of people Royston was involved with, so you know it’s not that far-fetched. If you answer every question I have, plus honesty minus hesitation, I won’t have to give the kill signal. Are we on the same page?’

Nigel looks like he may have just filled himself, his eyes widening and the pasty jiggling thanks to a soft tremor. He nods slowly. Despite the possibility of him having actually shat himself, I take a seat next to him.

‘As you’ve probably ascertained, I am not Royston. I’m investigating his death. And you are my prime suspect.’

Nigel suddenly explodes into astonishment.

‘What?! But how could -’ he shouts. I interrupt him.

‘Answers only please. Wait for my questions.’ This stills him, and I see him glance to the rooftops warily. ‘You spoke to Royston the night of his death. Correct?’

Nigel’s gaze drifts from the distant heights to me, and I nod.

‘Yes. But -’

‘The kill signal is a very simple one. Such is the accuracy of my partner that you’ll be dead before you even know I ordered it. Answer the questions only. That’s your last warning.’

Nigel nods and looks at the floor, taking a series of long, forced breaths.

‘It was I who text you from Royston’s phone, but you didn’t seem pleased to know he was alive. Why is that?’

‘He left me high and dry on a business deal. It fucked everything up,’ he says, still facing the floor.

‘What business deal?’

‘I’d found us a good business to go into. A legitimate business. A pub, in Exeter. We had one shot to go through with it, and he was to transfer the funds. I was to be his partner. I put everything on the line. I mean everything. Every scrap of savings I had, I fronted. And he quit on me. I have lost everything. All the money I put in has gone, turns out I can’t get it back at all, and my family is now broke. He pulled out at the last minute.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not happy he got shot, for Christ’s sake no, but it doesn’t change the fact that he screwed me over royally.’

‘Are you fully aware of what doing business with Royston meant?’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t the case here. This was his escape route. He had been looking at getting out of the game for some time, maybe for the last year or so. I’ve never met the people he worked with, but I do know he spoke about it with them. They weren’t too keen, but would respect his decision. He wanted to go legit.’

This is an amazing revelation, one that no other party has spoken of. The Berg certainly never mentioned this, which has me concerned. Nigel continues, forcing the words out in heavy, breathy chunks.

‘It was all about his son. He felt the weight of what he was into every time he looked at his kid. Wanted to get out, and start a new honest life, with his son. I wanted a new start myself, and his money was crucial for me to get that opportunity. That’s why we were going to be partners.’

Amazing. Everything is changing. What I thought I knew about this situation is fading and transforming under the harsh spotlight of deep, attentive examination.

‘His kid was saving him, even if he didn’t know it. His kid was making him go straight,’ he says.

I am convinced Jack doesn’t know this. In fact I am certain of it. Is this why the Berg approached Jack? Because they knew Royston wanted out and they needed a replacement?

‘Who knew of your exact plans?’ I ask.

‘Nobody. Just me and him.’

‘Where do you fit in?’

‘Apart from being jilted at the altar and losing everything? I’m an ex-landlord, I had a couple of pubs in Oldham. I met Royston there when I was behind the bar pulling pints and he was in there trying to get those first sneaky tastes in at seventeen or so. He still sneaks back to those old boozers when the occasion takes his fancy. Keeps him rooted I guess.’

‘So you didn’t kill him?’

‘No.’

‘You were jilted by him. You have an excellent motive. I ask you again, did you kill him?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Did you instigate his death in any way?’

‘We had a fiery phone conversation that, for all the world, I wish I could take back. Like those texts yesterday. But I had nothing, at all, to do with his death.’

I survey him with searching depth, and reach out to him subconsciously, imploring him for the truth.

‘I’m a pub man,’ he says, ‘that’s it. I’m not one of those people who he ran with and that’s one of the very reasons we got along. He made his choices and lived with them, but by the end, even he was tired of the life he had built for himself.’

I need to know, once and for all, whether it was him. I need that finality, before I take my investigation elsewhere. I don’t think he did it. He looked innocent from the minute I laid eyes on him. This conversation has been very useful, so all is not lost at all by being here.

‘Last time, and with feeling,’ I say, and raise my right hand out in front of me. I bunch my knuckles into a sideways fist, and stick my thumb out to the side, like Caesar making a life or death decision at the colosseum. ‘The simple signal is a thumbs up. My thumb points skyward,your brains exit your head.’

‘I told you everything! I didn’t do it!’ Nigel starts shaking, his breath shredded and rapid.

‘Keep still or my partner might miss, and hit something that will really fucking hurt as opposed to something you won’t even know about. It’s the difference between an instant death, or a very slow, very bloody, very conscious grisly one.’