The Devil's Interval (10 page)

‘Bugger. I’d better get round the local scrappies then. Will you let Pepper know, if you see her?’

‘She’s in with the Super and that DI from HQ. The Roberts killing again, I expect.’

‘I thought we were supposed to keep our nebs right out of that?’

‘That’s Cumbrian for nose, right? If so, yeah, we were. But maybe they’ve decided that a proper street copper like Pepper might actually know something that they don’t.’ Copeland paused for effect for a moment, then added, ‘like’.

Armstrong smiled. ‘Very good. We’ll make a local out of you yet, Rex.’

‘That’s what I’m bloody afraid of.’

Superintendent Clark poured the tea herself. DI Francis had a young DS called Iredale with her this time, along with a laptop and several large paper files. She was doing almost all of the talking and, to Clark’s relief, Pepper Wilson had mostly been nodding along.

‘So that’s about the size of it’, said Jane Francis, accepting her cup with a smile to the Superintendent. ‘Roberts left home at about eight pm on the evening of his death, on foot, and wasn’t seen alive again. As I said earlier, as of now we have two prime suspects for the killing, Phillip Massie and Alan Farmer, but nothing of real evidential significance to implicate either one of them. Certainly not enough to even consider charging one, or both. They’re both associates of Roberts’ of course, and both also work for John Porter. I must admit I fancied Farmer for this one initially, but since he’s turned up again now and has a reasonably solid alibi we’re only looking for Massive now. So I suppose I’m asking what’s your reaction to that idea, DS Wilson? You know Massie, don’t you?’

‘Oh, aye, I know Phillip, all right. A decent little con, in his day. Can I just ask you something first, though?’

‘Of course.’

‘You say that Farmer just turned up. Where had he been, and how do we know that he didn’t kill Roberts?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, when you were talking earlier, about Farmer and Massie being your prime suspects, I had no doubt which one was the most likely. It would have to be Farmer, every time. I’d be surprised that he could actually kill, to tell the truth, but Massie, no, never. He’d fold, every time.’

‘So why have he and his family vanished? All four of them, gone. Passports not used, phone, bank cards, email, nothing.’

‘Maybe they’re all dead.’

DI Francis shook her head immediately. ‘No, that’s not likely. Whoever did this wanted everyone to know that Roberts was dead, so why not do the same with Massie? And why wipe out his family? That’s a bit strong for Cumbria, isn’t it?’

‘All right, but how about Farmer suddenly turning up again? He’s been talking to us this whole time, you already know that. So what’s his story?’

‘Like I told you earlier, he says he was lifted by people he didn’t know, and kept in some kind of farm building for over twelve hours. We’ve recovered the clothing he says he was wearing, and forensic analysis does seem to confirm his story.’

‘And he volunteered this clothing, did he?’

‘No, it was recovered from his bin when we brought him in. He never even referred to it when he was interviewed, actually.’

‘Why not? Wouldn’t that be the natural thing to do if he wanted to stand up his abduction story? And why seek to dispose of the clothing, but not actually manage it? Can’t you see, Jane? You’re being played here. I reckon he’s being subtle about it, that’s all. Letting you find the clothing was a clever idea. And, take it from me, Alan Farmer is not a subtle or a clever man.’

DI Francis glanced across at Superintendent Clark, who looked back calmly. She’d said, at the start of the meeting, that she had been recruited to run the division like a business, and not to offer opinions on investigative matters. And she fully intended to stick to that position.

‘I see where this is going’ said Jane Francis, heavily. ‘Dai Young is the bogeyman here, I’ll bet, the
deus ex machina
in this whole thing. He’s the one pulling the strings, isn’t he? Well we’ve spoken to him, and every other low-life in the town, and there’s not even a whisper to connect him to this. So either he’s very, very frightening indeed, or he’s got sod all to do with this.’

‘You’re wrong. He’s got everything to do with this.’

‘Look, Pepper, I know that you and Young go back, and that you’ve had your problems with him in the past. But as far as we can tell he’s a legitimate small businessman. Intelligence has nothing on him…’

‘No bloody surprises there then.’

‘…and we’ve got nothing to connect him to any of this, either. Maybe you just want him to be connected, that’s all.’

‘What the hell do you mean?’

‘Well, your dad says…’

‘You’ve spoken to my old man about this? Christ, he’s just a drunk. He knows nowt about nowt, everyone knows that. Jesus Christ.’ Pepper was almost shouting now, and she started to stand up. Jane Francis motioned, palms down, that Pepper should sit down.

‘Your dad was interviewed, yes. He’s just on the list, that’s all.’

‘What did he say, then? What did he bloody say?’

‘I’m paraphrasing, but that you’ve got an obsession with Young. He says that he thinks you had a relationship with Young, years ago, and that it ended badly. He says that’s why you’ve got it in for the bloke now.’

‘And you actually believed that shit?’

‘Which part?’

‘Any of it.’

‘So it’s not true?’

‘My dad is an alcoholic, scumbag con, and I haven’t believed a word he’s said since I was five years old. And you actually believed him? You actually took him seriously?’

‘I’m sorry, Pepper, I didn’t want to give any offence. So let me be absolutely clear. There’s no evidence that Dai Young has played any part in this murder, absolutely none. And, to be frank, even if he were a working criminal this would be miles above his pay-grade, Pepper. We’re talking about some very serious organised criminals here. And if we’re right they’re moving in on this area now, and Phillip Massie is their local man. It’s that simple.’

This time Pepper did get up, and she laughed. It sounded a bit strange, even to her. Like it was being strangled in her throat.

‘Massie? A gang leader? Not a fucking chance. He’s too weak to lead the fucking woodland pixies liberation front, that should be obvious to anyone, even the Super here. No offence, ma’am. But you classroom coppers, you bloody amaze me. If most cons weren’t so unbelievably fucking stupid we’d never catch any of them, with you lot on the case. Phillip Massie, a gang boss? Christ, what a joke.’

‘More tea?’, Superintendent Clark asked Jane Francis, when Pepper had gone.

‘No, thanks, we’d better be better getting back. That was no help at all, I’m afraid, ma’am. Pepper wasn’t listening to a word we told her, and nothing she said made any sense at all.’

‘Really? I am surprised. As I said before I can’t offer any insights into operational affairs, and I do know the jokes they make about me, but I did take something from what Pepper said. She told you, in no uncertain terms, that in her view Massie isn’t a murderer. Or did I pick that up wrong?’

‘No, but like I said…’

‘And Pepper knows Massie, correct? I believe that she’s interviewed him on numerous occasions.’

‘Well, yes…’

‘So I’d be inclined to give weight to what she says. Pepper is an outstanding officer, with an excellent arrest record.’

‘Understood, ma’am.’

‘Good. And one other thing, before you go, DI Francis. I’m not sure whether you mentioned Pepper’s father knowing what sensitive territory that is for her personally, but let me make one thing clear. If I had the slightest evidence that you’d deliberately encouraged that outburst, engineered it almost, then I’d be straight on the phone to your supervisor. Understood?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll note DS Wilson’s comments, and send you a copy of the minutes for your approval.’

‘Good. And all the best with your investigation.’

Jane got up, and DS Iredale followed suit.

‘I hesitate to mention this,’ said Mary Clark, as Iredale was stuffing the files into his bag as fast as he could, ‘but I suppose you’ve considered the possibility that you’re both right?’

‘In what way, ma’am?’ asked Jane Francis. She seemed vaguely amused by something but unwilling to show it.

‘Well, you believe that a major criminal gang, possibly led by the Ferris brothers, is connected to this offence?’

‘That’s right, we do. They’re one of two or three possible candidate criminal organisations, anyway.’

‘So could it be that Dai Young works for them? That way you’d both be right.’

Jane shook her head. ‘It’s a nice idea. But as I said, ma’am, Young’s just not a player.’

‘All right. Just a thought. But you will remember to minute that suggestion too, won’t you?’

Sunday, 7th December

The shores of Derwentwater, 3pm

Henry Armstrong didn’t need to be a detective to know where his father would be at this time on a Sunday afternoon. Because, for as long as he could remember, Dr. Armstrong had taken a stroll along the shore of Derwentwater every Sunday, come rain or shine, and he always timed it so that his walk finished precisely at sunset. It was, Armstrong thought as he drove from Carlisle to Keswick, his dad’s equivalent of a religious observance. A lifetime passing, week by week, and measured out in the transit of the seasons and the stiffening of the joints. Henry had checked when sunset would be that day, and calculated exactly where his father would be at 3.05pm. When he reached his destination he sat on a bench, the welcome winter sun barely warming his cheeks, and rehearsed, once again, what he intended to say.

‘Hi, dad’, he said, when his father came round a corner, walking at his usual brisk pace. Henry rose, fell into step alongside him and was immediately reminded of how fast his father walked, as if he was trying to escape from something, but without ever actually running. His dad didn’t look especially pleased to see him, but that was no surprise. His Sunday walk had always been a solitary ritual.

‘Hello, Henry. What’s the problem?’

‘Why should there be a problem?’

‘Come on, what’s happened? Something wrong at work?’ His father seemed to brighten slightly at the prospect.

‘In a way, aye. It’s about your car.’

‘The MG? What about it?’

‘We’ve lost it. Well, I suppose that I’ve lost it, really.’

‘I see.’

Dr. Armstrong didn’t so much as break his stride, and they walked on in silence for a minute or two, the damp, dead leaves scattered by their rapid footsteps.

‘Good,’ said Dr. Armstrong eventually. ‘I’m glad it’s gone.’

‘What? You love that car.’

‘I don’t. I’ve half wanted to get rid of it for years, to tell the truth.’

‘But why?’

‘You work it out for yourself, Henry. Look, it was good of you to come out and tell me, but there’s no need for you to walk with me. I like to have this time alone, I know you understand that. But one thing, before you go. How come it got lost? I thought you fitted a tracker?’

‘I did. But it fell off. I’m really sorry, dad. It was magnetic, so it should never have dropped off. I don’t know what can have happened. I tried it on my car first, and it was absolutely fine, honestly.’

His father laughed. ‘You didn’t put in in the nearside wheel arch by any chance, did you?’

Henry thought about it for a moment.

‘I did, aye. How did you know?’

‘Because it was nearly all filler. I did it myself, years ago. It was all a terrible bodge, really. Like I said, that car was no loss. Not really.’

They walked in silence for another minute, Henry not taking the hint from his father’s silence, and he was surprised to find that he didn’t feel at all relieved. He actually felt rather irritated. ‘I’ve been working fourteen hour days trying to find that bloody car, dad. I’ve been to every scrapper from here to Preston, and I’ve called very MG restorer I could find, countrywide. And I’ve never been off the bloody internet, looking for bits of your car for sale.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Henry, but you should have told me sooner. I don’t mind, honestly. Just forget about it, son. People matter more than things, infinitely more. And living in the past never did anyone any good, did it?’

‘I suppose it all depends on what happened there, dad.’

His father stopped, mid-stride, and faced his son.

‘That’s true, Henry. But absolutely nothing lasts forever, good or bad, that’s one thing my job reminds me of everyday. So it’s best to look forward, isn’t it? So tell me, do you still enjoy being a policeman?’

‘I do, dad. Except when I’m chasing round the bloody spot looking for missing old bangers, like.’

‘And are you on duty in the morning?’

‘I am, aye.’

‘Are you looking forward to it?’

‘Honestly? I can’t wait.’

DC Armstrong turned, and started walking back the way he’d come, raising his arm in silent salute. His father stopped and stood watching him go, just for a moment, and then set off again, his stride long, and his pace undiminished.

Monday, 8th December

10.07am, Dr. Collier’s office, Portland Square, Carlisle.

Pepper Wilson was glad to be out of the office. She’d been in since before eight, first making sure that she’d done everything that she needed to in advance of the Maxwell operation, and then double-checking every form and email before she sent it. And she was still miles behind with her operational paperwork. What made it all the more galling was that most of the case work that it related to was trivial, and involved people who’d been nicked for much the same offences ten or twenty times before. Another conviction would make no difference to anything, except the clear-up stats. And all the while Dai Young was getting away with bloody murder. But she was making a huge effort not to think about him. So as she sat in that chilly hall, waiting for Collier to call her in, she tried to count her blessings. But maybe that was something that only old people did really well, and she soon gave it up as a bad job.

When she finally got in to the consulting room Collier chatted for a couple of minutes, and she found herself becoming impatient. ‘I’ve been thinking about what makes me angry, doc.’

‘Good. And….’

‘I’ve been wondering whether the drivers are internal, external or a mixture of both. I reckon it’s a mixture.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, I’d like to say it’s everyone else’s fault, because that seems to work bloody well for the cons. They use that line all the time, anyway. You know, I could say that it’s just the job, spending my life dealing with shitty people doing stupid things to victims who are weak and vulnerable. I could say that’s what makes me so angry all the time. But it can’t be just that. So go on, ask me why not.’

‘All right. Why not?’

‘Because I’ve got colleagues, mates, with more years in than me, and they don’t get as wound up as me. Nothing like, in fact. I know a DS, Barry he’s called, and he never gets annoyed with the bastards, no matter what they’ve done. I sat in on an interview with him once, with a bloke who’d molested his nine year-old grand-daughter, and you’d think he’d been done for planting his roses at the wrong time of year, the way Barry talked to him. But I just wanted to throttle the bastard.’

‘Did you ask your colleague how he managed to stay so calm?’

‘I didn’t, no. That’s funny, isn’t it? I spend half my bloody life asking questions, but never think of the important ones.’

‘You’re thinking of them now though, aren’t you? So, if I’m hearing you, you think that the reasons that you find it harder to remain calm have more to do with you, rather than external factors?’

‘Up to a point, aye. I’ve been thinking about it all weekend, trying to remember what I was like before I was a copper. Was I any different, deep down, like?’

‘And were you?’

‘Do you know what, doc? I don’t think I was, not much.’

Collier nodded. ‘Maybe that’s good. Who wants to be defined by their work? But even if you didn’t talk to this Barry about how he stays so calm, you must have thought about how he manages it.’

‘Oh aye, I have. Maybe that’s why I didn’t ask him, because I already knew, like. Old lags like him have skins like rhinos, and when they walk out that door they forget the whole body lot, the sounds, the smell, the pain, the misery, all of it. They just go home and get on with decorating the back bedroom, or whatever it is.’

‘I see. And do you envy him that ability to switch off?’

Then Pepper did something that she rarely felt the need to do, even for effect. She paused before she replied.

‘You know what, doc? I bloody don’t, actually. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not lazy, isn’t Barry, but he’s never going to catch anyone worth nicking. He spends his time scooping up the ones that can’t bloody help themselves, and the ones who pretty much grass on themselves. And then he reckons he’s done a good job. And in some way he has, I suppose.’

‘So you’re ambitious, Pepper?’

‘I was, aye. But now I’m not so sure. I never used to question why I’m doing the job, but now….’

‘You’re having doubts? What about, exactly?’

‘Everything, doc. I’m even starting to doubt my own judgement, to tell you the truth. And that’s never really happened before.’

‘About what?’

‘Lots of things, but here’s one example. You know that villain I told you about? The one who I think is moving in on this area? The one I knew when I was a kid.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Everyone else seems to be convinced that he’s just a wannabe, a nobody, really. That it’s all in my head. I’m building him up in to some sort of evil genius, and he’s nothing but another loser, just like all the rest of them.’

‘And you think they might be right, after all?’

‘I’m starting to, aye. And maybe I’m just as bad as he is. I’m nothing more than a tiny little fish in a tiny little pond, kidding myself on that I’m making a difference. I’m just wasting my time. All I’m good for is nicking nothing cons for nothing offences.’

‘But I thought that low level crime is a major focus for police forces now?’

‘It is, and for once the bosses are right. But it’s not CID work, isn’t that. It’s just crowd control crossed with pest control, if I’m honest. I sort of thought that I could do better than that, that’s all. But maybe I was wrong. It’s all politicians and bloody university types in the job these days. Oh, no offence, doc.’

‘None taken. So long as you weren’t calling me a politician, of course.’

Rex Copeland wasn’t on duty until 2pm, so he strolled into town to do a bit of Christmas shopping. And he was enjoying the fact that the centre of Carlisle was so busy. It felt a bit more like home. He’d stopped noticing how few black faces there were, too.

He’d just had a coffee, ambled past the tall Christmas tree in the square, and was starting to feel a sense of goodwill to at least some men, when something caught his eye. A middle aged man, about twenty feet ahead of him, walking almost alongside a young couple, just a little too close for comfort. There was something familiar about that little vignette, and before he’d even consciously recognised it the older man’s hand darted out empty and returned with a dark brown wallet. He was as quick as a snake. The young couple were blissfully unaware, and as the older man moved away Copeland started to run. He called ‘Police, stop’ and launched himself at the man, who half turned and tried to dodge to one side. But it didn’t work, and Copeland dragged him down, and pushed his arm up behind his back. ‘You, mate, are nicked’ he said, and a fraction of a second later he sensed someone approaching fast from his right. He fell sideways when the impact came. His head hit the cold pavement, and hit it hard.

When he came round there was more of a crowd round him than there was outside Santa’s grotto in the centre, and they seemed to be having more fun too. The uniformed Sergeant talking to him glanced round when she’d checked that he could hear her, and Copeland saw two uniformed PCs trying to interview a couple of people, while onlookers tried to interject.

‘That’s him, the pickpocket,’ Copeland said, pointing at one of them. ‘But who the hell jumped on me?’

‘That was the other bloke, the one who was robbed. A bit of a misunderstanding, apparently.’

‘Jesus,’ said Copeland, ‘why do we bother?’

‘Exactly. Do you want him nicked as well?’

‘No. What would we do him for, Sarge, making racist assumptions during the hours of daylight? It’d be like that old TV sketch about the white copper who keeps arresting the same black bloke.’

‘A mister Winston Kodogo?’

‘That’s the one. My dad said that when he saw it on telly, back in the day, he reckoned it was a documentary.’

The Sergeant laughed. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Fine. If you get my pickpocket booked in I’ll be straight back to the nick to do the necessary.’

‘Not so fast. You know the rules. You’ll be carted away in the ambo, assessed by the Police quack, and if you’re really unlucky you’ll be back on the job in a day or two.’

‘I was only out for a minute. Not even that.’

‘How do you know, lad? All right, I’ll tell you what. Seeing as it’s Christmas and all. If the paramedics say you’re OK then I won’t say you were out cold, all right? Just a bit stunned, like.’

‘Cheers, thanks.’

Copeland got up slowly, and made a conscious effort not to touch the back of his head, or to wince. ‘How come our offender didn’t get away?’

‘He tried, but a few of this lot nabbed him.’

‘Great. At least some of them realised that coppers can also be black.’

‘Aye, that’s possible. As an explanation, like. But it’s more likely that they saw your collar on the telly last week, warning folk about pickpockets at Christmas.’

Copeland laughed, and his head hurt. ‘No way, Sarge. You’re having a laugh.’

‘I’m bloody not. Robert Anderson is your boy’s name. He was on the local news just the other day, honest. His Probation Officer persuaded him to do it, apparently. Anyway, a couple of the locals recognised him, pulled the other bloke off you and nabbed Anderson for us.’

‘You couldn’t make it up, could you? How bloody stupid does he have to be?’

‘He says you ruined it for him, actually. He’d already done five others today, and he hadn’t handed off the wallets and purses to anyone, so we’ve got the lot. Always works alone, does Anderson. We only ever know that he’s out of nick because our undetected street robbery stats go through the roof. We call it the Anderson effect, as a matter of fact.’

It was another ten minutes before the crowd dispersed, and another five before the paramedic reluctantly agreed to allow Copeland to return to work. When he reached the station he took the jokes that came his way cheerfully enough, despite the fact that he was the one with an egg-sized bump on the back of his head, because it showed that he was starting to be accepted by the other cops. Piss-taking was part of the culture, and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

All the while Robert Anderson was sitting comfortably in the interview room. A slight man of about fifty, he was dressed like a bank clerk on his lunch break. He was chatting to the Duty Solicitor about grandchildren when Copeland came in, and he smiled as Copeland sat down.

‘How’s the head, officer?’ he asked.

‘Fine, thanks. So am I right in saying that you’re not going to bother claiming that you found the wallets you had in your possession when you were arrested, or anything lame like that?’

‘That’s right. I’m a pick-pocket. And I’ll tell you one thing, mate. You’re the first person ever to spot me on the job. All these years, and you’re the first.’

‘Your victim didn’t feel a thing though, did he?’

‘They never do. But I was taught by one of the greatest, like. Old Alfie Walters. You heard of him?’

‘Can’t say I have. But then I’m not local.’

‘Look him up, if you get the chance. These young ones, there’s no craft in the job for them, is there? They just make a grab for a handbag or whatever, and then leg it. It’s turning the thieving job into a running race. That’s all it is now. There’s no artistry left.’

‘I feel for you, mate. But is it also right that you were on the telly the other day?’

The man clapped his hands, as if applauding himself.

‘I was, aye, I was. You see it makes no odds usually, because they never notice you, the punters.’

‘And you work alone, is that right?’

‘Aye, I don’t need a distraction, any of that stuff. I’m a craftsman, not a bloody chancer. If you hadn’t seen me I would have done another ten or twenty today, and then taken the rest of the year off.’

‘Sorry to have ruined your holiday plans. But tell me, what do you do with the credit cards? Flog them?’

‘Aye, but don’t ask me who to, like, because I’m not saying. The bottom’s dropped out of the credit card game anyway, because you can get all the details online so easy these days. And today’s kids haven’t got the bottle to go into a shop with a bent card and have a go, like.’

‘There should be apprenticeships.’

‘Aye, there should. You’re not wrong there, mate. Oh, I see, you’re taking the piss. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. Wouldn’t you rather deal with an honest little thief like me, who’s no bother to anyone, rather than the sort of animals that are out on the street these days?’

‘What sort of animals?’ asked Copeland, a little too quickly.

Anderson was no longer smiling. He looked worried, in fact. ‘No, you forget I said that. Just get me charged and I can get off home. Even with me going guilty my case won’t come up ’til well after Christmas, so I’ll get to enjoy my turkey, like.’

Copeland nodded and smiled, because he just couldn’t help it. Anderson was right. It was nice to meet an honest little working con.

‘Well, you have a good one, Mr. Anderson, because it’ll be porridge for you in the new year. All right, let’s have your statement and get you charged. And you know how this works, Robert. Better than I do, I expect.’

Pepper Wilson was half way through telling Henry Armstrong about what had happened to Rex when his phone rang. He pointed at it and she nodded, and headed off towards her own office. She seemed to be in a decent mood, which made a change. As he answered the phone he noticed her perfume, hanging faintly in the air. Did she usually wear any?

‘DC Armstrong?’ the voice began. ‘Bill McCafferty here. We’ve had an MGB GT in for crushing this morning, along with three other old cars. A Granada, an XJ6 and a Rover P5. They sound like the ones you’re after.’

‘Great, fantastic. Look, hang on to them for me, would you? Don’t let anyone touch them. And remind me, Bill, whereabouts are you again?’

‘Whitehaven. You came in the other day.’

‘Oh, aye, I remember now. Do you know who it was who delivered the cars?’

‘I wasn’t here, and that’s the trouble, see. I only got back to the yard ten minutes ago, and one of the cars had already been crushed.’

‘Shit. The Granada?’

‘No. The MG.’

‘Thank God for that. Listen, don’t worry about it. I happen to know that the owner won’t mind not getting it back. But the Granada is OK, you’re sure?’