The Informant (21 page)

‘Okay. You need to get real Sean. You been inside a long time and the world has changed . . .’

Sean raised his hand. ‘Hold up here, hold up. Three years ago your dad had his stroke. You come to me and you was practically wetting yourself. You needed my advice. And my
contacts.’

‘Wetting myself? Do me a favour.’

Sean raised his index finger and jabbed it at Joey. ‘I put you in touch with people – the right people. You think any of those players’d take a kid like you seriously if I
hadn’t vouched for you?’

Kaz watched Joey, the more Sean needled him, the more cool and contained he became. She realized he was enjoying himself.

He removed his hands from his pockets, lounged against the countertop. ‘Stuff we’re doing now you wouldn’t even understand. The Net’s changing everything.’

‘Bollocks!’ Sean seized the whisky bottle, took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s still about product – and that’s what I gave you
boy, access to top-quality gear. Even a fucking chimp could make money if he got his hands on the product.’

Joey cracked his knuckles, weighing his options. ‘I’m not trying to deny you your due Sean . . .’

‘Bloody right you’re not!’

‘I think a hundred K should cover it. Little retirement nest-egg. I’ll get the cash for you tomorrow. Then we’re square.’

Sean stared at him gone out, then he burst out laughing.

‘You think you can buy me out of my own fucking firm for a lousy hundred K?’

Joey considered this. ‘I think I’m being very fair.’

‘You are joking.’

Joey continued to smile. ‘You’re an old lag Sean, time to retire. Put your feet up, play golf. Kaz and me have got our own plans.’

Sean spluttered. ‘Kaz? What the fuck’s she got to do with any of this? I mean – pardon me love – she’s a fucking
woman
!’

Joey turned to Kaz, shot her a cheeky grin. ‘He’s an observant old fucker, you have to give him that.’

Kaz smiled at her brother’s sarcasm, but Sean wasn’t amused. He launched himself at Joey, seizing him by the throat. ‘Think you can take the piss out of me you little
prick—’

The booze had robbed him of his edge. Joey twisted himself deftly out of Sean’s grasp and threw a choke-hold round his neck. He dragged him several paces across the kitchen, squeezing the
breath out of him. Sean gasped, lashed out wildly but to no avail, his face turning puce as Joey tightened his iron grip.

Kaz watched, mesmerized. She had to admit that watching Sean suffer was enjoyable. But was she really going to stand there and let Joey choke him to death? That would hardly be sensible. She was
about to step in when her mother appeared in the doorway. Ellie was three sheets to the wind, she swayed slightly, but still rapidly absorbed the scene before her and immediately took charge.

‘Fucking hell! Joey, put your cousin down! Now! Why is it every sodding party we have in this house ends in a sodding fight? I’m sick of it!’

Joey released Sean, who collapsed in a gasping heap on the floor.

He looked up, pointed an accusing finger at Joey. ‘You little wanker!’ His voice was hoarse, but the rage was unmistakable. ‘I’m gonna teach you a lesson you won’t
forget.’ His bleary gaze travelled to Kaz. ‘You and her – miserable little slut! I’ll take you both down. I fucking swear!’

Turnbull took his place at the head of the conference table. He removed his jacket, slotted it neatly on the back of his chair and started to roll up his sleeves. It was a
politician’s trick, often performed for the news media, a symbolic act, a way of saying to the assembled company, ‘I’m a grafter, I mean business.’ But since the only other
person present was Bill Mayhew the gesture was somewhat redundant.

He sat down and picked up the file in front of him. ‘Presumably you’ve read this?’

Mayhew looked up, blinked several times, an owl suddenly caught in the headlights.

Turnbull gave him a critical glance. ‘The parole board’s report on Sean Phelps? I’ll take that as a no, shall I?’

Shifting his bulk awkwardly in his chair, Mayhew sighed. He didn’t need to read it, he’d got the gist. ‘Can’t imagine how they ever came to the conclusion it was safe to
let him out.’

‘Well let’s see if we can gain some insight into their thinking, since they’ve chucked him back in our lap.’ Turnbull flicked briskly through the pages until he found the
passage he was searching for. ‘Ah, here we go. Listen to this. ‘“And we feel that the general attitude demonstrated by Phelps, particularly in the mentoring of younger offenders,
provides ample demonstration of his determination to relinquish the criminal lifestyle.”’ He slapped the document down and sighed. ‘Where the hell do they get these people and
what planet are they living on?’

Turnbull got up, scanned the rooftops out of the window as though some clue might be found out there.

Mayhew scratched his head and cleared his throat. ‘Well you know what they say, silver lining and all that.’ He caught his boss’s eye and deduced from his expression that
Turnbull hadn’t tumbled to the obvious benefits that might accrue from the turn of events.

Mayhew allowed himself several seconds of private pleasure; a small smile hovered on his lips. ‘I was just thinking, a power struggle in the Phelps clan can only make them more vulnerable.
Things get heated, risks’ll be taken, mistakes made. With any luck we’ll get Sean back inside and we’ll nab Joey.’

Turnbull appeared to ponder this. What most people didn’t realize about him was that he loved to perform. Fooling people was an art but you didn’t have to be an actor. There was
plenty of scope in other professions and Turnbull had built his early career as a detective on his talent for playacting. Letting suspects, or indeed fellow officers, assume he was an arrogant fool
ensured they would lower their guard and underestimate him. And with his current scheme it was crucial to keep Mayhew off the scent.

Turnbull allowed very little to emerge that revealed the inner man. His great strength had always been that he’d never stopped learning. He watched, he listened, he was always reading
faces, analysing motives. He knew that every man – and it was men that mostly interested him – had his own secret vanity, the private story he told inside his own head to bolster his
ego.

In the case of Bill Mayhew it was the belief that under his bumbling exterior he was the smart one, the real detective. Turnbull knew this about his subordinate and used it to manipulate him.
Playing on his vanity, allowing him to believe he’d thought of something Turnbull hadn’t, was how he squeezed the maximum effort out of Mayhew. It kept him slaving all hours, doing the
donkey work, it also kept him quiescent when Turnbull took the credit.

He put on his sincere, honest face, as if Mayhew’s words had come as a revelation. ‘Good point Bill. Joey’s not about to step aside, is he, just because his cousin’s got
out?’

Mayhew smiled sagely, concluded he might be on to a winner. ‘There’ll be trouble. I’d bet my pension on it. Couple more surveillance teams boss, we could tighten the net on
them – might get a result.’

Turnbull exhaled noisily, started to pace the room. He was warming to the role. ‘Bloody budget cuts! How the hell am I supposed to mount an effective operation on a bloody
shoestring?’

He rubbed his knuckles over his well-shaven chin, glanced at Mayhew. The fat little DCI was sitting there, oblivious as usual to Turnbull’s real agenda. Too easy really. Now it was time to
go fishing.

‘How’s Bradley getting on with Karen Phelps?’

Mayhew shrugged. ‘It’s a game of patience.’

‘What’s Armstrong playing at? Can’t she get things moving?’

‘She’s come up with a promising notion of her own. Thought I’d let her run with it.’

Turnbull frowned. ‘Is that wise?’ He’d suspected something was afoot. ‘She strikes me as a bit too pushy for her own good.’

Mayhew blinked at him a couple of times. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained boss.’

Turnbull fixed him with an appraising stare. Now they’d got to the nub of it. Mayhew was plotting. He was hoping to present Turnbull with some kind of stunning breakthrough, proving to
himself yet again that he was the real detective, forced to work for a stupid, power-hungry boss. When Mayhew was on this tack he occasionally came up with something useful. In a nanosecond
Turnbull had the entire situation sized up. He gave Mayhew a benevolent smile. ‘Just keep me posted Bill.’

The DCI smiled and as he rolled out of the door Turnbull took out his phone. He scrolled through the contacts list and gazed out of the window. The day was fine, blue sky and a few scudding
clouds, which suited his mood. The fact that Bradley appeared to be getting nowhere was entirely predictable. And Armstrong was pursuing her own agenda instead of backing him up. Another useful
piece to the jigsaw. Turnbull smiled to himself, it was all progressing quite well really.

He pressed call and was answered on the third ring.

‘Duncan, it’s Alan Turnbull. I think it’s time we had lunch again. Perhaps invite Marcus Foxley . . . ?’

Nicci Armstrong had been up since six, making Sophie’s packed lunch, putting some washing on. Her ex, Tim, had agreed to come over and take their daughter to school,
although, as usual, he made it clear what a big favour he was doing her. Even so, Nicci still didn’t get away until nearly nine. She picked up Mal Bradley at Finsbury Park tube and they
headed north. Bradley wasn’t much of a travelling companion, dozing off in the passenger seat as soon as they passed Brent Cross. Weary and in need of a coffee, Nicci took the slip road and
pulled off the motorway into Northampton services.

As she manoeuvred into a parking slot, Bradley woke up.

‘We there?’

Nicci huffed. ‘I wish.’

They zigzagged through the windswept car park and made for the coffee shop.

While Bradley queued at the counter, Nicci sat down and sent her daughter a text. Sophie was eight; having a mobile on in school was forbidden and it was possibly frying her child’s brain
anyway, but Nicci was a divorced mother trying to hold down a career and remain emotionally connected to her child. Just keeping all the balls in the air was a daily challenge. Tim’s idea of
fatherhood was taking Sophie off on a jolly every other weekend with his new girlfriend. They went to Alton Towers, canoeing at Center Parcs. Sophie was rapidly developing the notion that fathers
were fun, whereas mothers were for everyday and stopped you from watching telly, texting your mates after bedtime and doing the stuff you really liked.

As Bradley approached with the coffees, Nicci pointed her camera phone at him.

‘Make a funny face.’

‘Sorry?’

‘For my daughter. I’m sending her some pictures, telling her what I’m up to.’

Bradley put one of the coffee cups down, took the other and carefully balanced it on his head, pointing to it while wearing a gormless expression, index finger several inches from the cup.

Nicci snapped him. ‘Very good. Thanks.’

‘I do party tricks for my nephews and nieces.’ Bradley rescued the cup from his head, sat down.

Nicci typed under Bradley’s mugshot: ‘My coffee arrives.’ She pressed send and smiled warmly at Bradley.

‘She’ll like that.’

‘Didn’t even know you had a kid.’

He did know. But it seemed too good an opening to pass up, a way to get beyond the professional facade and the fuck-you attitude that Nicci Armstrong cloaked herself in.

She put her phone away. ‘I don’t tend to advertise the fact – bad for one’s promotion prospects.’

Bradley sipped his coffee and frowned. ‘What, nowadays? Strikes me everyone has to fall over backwards to be politically correct.’

Nicci laughed. ‘Oh poor Bradley, how hard it is to be a bloke.’

He grinned back, gave his coffee a stir. ‘I know you think I’m a complete twat Sarge, but my parents love me and maybe a couple of mates.’

She gave him an arch smile. ‘Perhaps I’m a sad old hag who doesn’t respond as she should to your gorgeous looks and your lovable boyish charm.’

Bradley reddened. His face settled into a scowl. ‘If you want to know, I hate all that. Always have.’

‘Oh boo hoo. Get over yourself. So Turnbull’s trying to pimp you out – happens to women officers all the time.’

‘That doesn’t make it right.’

‘No it doesn’t. But I haven’t noticed you striding into Turnbull’s office and telling him to stuff it. ’Cause you think it’s your fastest route up the greasy
pole, don’t you?’

Bradley gave her a sidelong glance. She made him feel adolescent and transparent, whereas in reality there was only six or seven years between them.

Nicci started to laugh. She gave his arm a pat. ‘You’re right. I do think you’re a twat, but . . . I’m getting used to you.’

What she could’ve said was that he was nothing like Alex Marlow. She missed Alex’s acerbic take on the world, the cynical banter they’d shared. Bradley couldn’t begin to
compete. But she’d come to the conclusion that was a good thing.

She pulled a file out of her bag and slapped it on the table.

‘Right, I don’t plan to drive nearly two hundred miles for nothing. So let’s work out how we’re going to put the screws on this fucker.’

The driveway up to Woodcote Hall was long and winding, some of the magnificent horse chestnuts dotted across the park were already showing the first golden tinges of autumn.
Nicci followed signs to the car park, which took them through an arch into an old stable yard at the side of the building.

They were kept waiting about fifteen minutes in an oak-panelled library until a nurse in a pale mauve tunic appeared and ushered them through into Doctor Iqbal’s office. Iqbal was writing,
he capped his Mont Blanc fountain pen, rose from behind his desk and offered his hand. He was a slight figure, the suit was tailor-made, charcoal grey with a discreet stripe. He peered at them from
behind the narrow rectangles of his rimless glasses as he motioned them to the two chairs placed in front of the desk.

‘You’ve had a long drive. Can I offer you coffee?’

Nicci smiled. ‘We’re fine. Thank you for sparing the time to see us Doctor Iqbal.’