Deep Cover

FOUR

DS Victor Swannell eased his bulk gently into Harry Vicary’s office and sat with controlled ease in the vacant chair between Ainsclough and Yewdall, and, looking to his left and right, said, ‘Hello, nice to be back.’

Vicary smiled. ‘Nice to have you back, and how you are needed. Things have been developing whilst you’ve been away.’

‘I’m all ears, sir.’ Swannell sipped his tea.

Vicary briefed him on the case so far and then moved on to more recent developments.

‘Now, Frank came to see me this morning and there is an issue which may come to something: we have ascertained Pilcher is aka Curtis Yates.’

Vicary held eye contact with Swannell.

‘Not the Curtis Yates,’ Swannell gasped.

‘Yes, the very same.’

‘The Metropolitan Police have been after him for years. . murder. . money laundering. . drug smuggling. He’s been quiet for a long time. Didn’t he go down? He collected a ten stretch for manslaughter.’

‘Yes.’ Vicary raised his mug of tea to his lips. ‘Came out in five and seemed to have dropped off the radar.’

‘Well, if I know Curtis Yates, that just means he has been getting someone else to do his dirty for him. He has his enforcers.’

‘Seems so, because the employee of WLM Rents who permitted an item to be removed from the premises of the offices of WLM Rents was rolled the other night. . fatally so. Not just a random attack, because we apparently have a witness who claims she heard one of the attackers address the other as “Rusher”, and who also heard Rusher say “the boss wants him dead”.’

‘Rusher,’ Swannell repeated the name, ‘that handle rings bells.’

‘You know Curtis Yates?’

‘Yes, I investigated the death of a woman called Charlotte Varney. . I was on that team, anyway.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes, murdered. . some connection with Yates. We came up against a wall of silence and the case went cold. I would like to think it is going to be warmed up again. We’ll have to dig the file out, but if Yates is involved, he’ll be getting his crew to do his dirty, like I said, and they’ll all be too frightened to grass him up.’

‘Always the same,’ Ainsclough groaned. ‘The big fish make themselves untouchable unless they slip in some way.’

‘Yes. .’ Vicary took up his ballpoint pen and held it poised over his notebook. ‘We have three murders now, possibly a fourth if we include Charlotte Varney. We have the murder of Rosemary Halkier, Gaynor Davies, J.J. Dunwoodie. . and Charlotte Varney. We’ll call it four, and Curtis Yates is in the background of all but Rosemary Halkier’s, and he may be there yet. Michael Dalkeith was known to be frightened at the time he died — of what or of whom we don’t know — but was his death suicide? Did he take us to the grave of Rosemary Halkier, then lie down on top of it waiting for death to take him? But whatever happened, Curtis Yates is in the background there also — he was Dalkeith’s landlord and used him for a gofer. . so we believe.’

‘So, job sheet time.’ Yewdall smiled. ‘I sense a job sheet time coming on.’

‘It isn’t coming on — it’s already arrived. So, who’s for some action?’

‘I’d like a crack at the Dunwoodie murder.’ Brunnie sat forwards in his chair.

‘I bet you would,’ Vicary replied coldly, ‘but the answer is no. We don’t know what the repercussions of your trick with the watering can will be. If A-Ten take the hardest line possible you could be suspended pending disciplinary action.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘But apart from that, I want professional detachment, no personal agendas. . allowing that always muddies the water and turns cops into zealots.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So I want you to team up with DC Yewdall — pick up the Rosemary Halkier case from where I left it yesterday afternoon.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘The next step there is to interview her best mate who now lives in Mill Hill. She contacted me this morning following my visiting her mother yesterday. She’s very happy to talk to us about Rosemary. We need to know what was happening in her life when she disappeared, and especially who the man she was seeing was.’

‘So, Swannell and Ainsclough, I want you on J.J. Dunwoodie’s murder. That is recent. Very recent. Give it priority, but also dig the case about Charlotte Varney’s murder out of the void, press some buttons on that one when you can.’

‘Got it, sir.’ Ainsclough glanced at Swannell.

‘Yewdall.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m also putting your name alongside the murder of Gaynor Davies.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We need to know about her, and you’ll have to represent the police when her parents view her body. That’s a single-hander. But don’t go near the address in Kilburn.’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘Right.’ The phone on Vicary’s desk rang and he picked it up. ‘DI Vicary.’ He paused and listened, and then said, ‘Alright, thank you,’ and replaced the phone. ‘That’s A-Ten to see you, Frankie.’

Brunnie nodded.

‘They’ll just take a statement in the first instance.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘After that, pick up the Rosemary Halkier enquiry.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘For myself, I am going to read files and pick brains. I want to know all I can about Mr Curtis Yates. Right. . meeting closed.’

Detective Sergeants Swannell and Ainsclough sat in DC Meadows’ unmarked car that was parked at the kerb in Kilburn High Road, close to the junction with Messina Avenue, and close to the alley in which J.J. Dunwoodie was beaten to death. It was a cold day with intermittent showers that fell from the low grey cloud which hung over all London. The pedestrians on the greasy pavements huddled in overcoats, and many women had plastic covers over their heads. Occasionally an aircraft was heard, but not seen, flying overhead on its final approach to Heathrow airport.

The police officers sat in a calm, relaxed silence with Meadows in the driving seat, Swannell beside him and Ainsclough in the offside rear seat. A traffic warden approached and tapped on the front nearside window. Swannell wound down the window and, without speaking, showed the traffic warden his ID. The traffic warden nodded and walked on.

‘That sort of thing could blow a surveillance operation,’ Meadows commented.

‘We’d allow for it.’ Swannell replaced his ID. ‘It just wouldn’t happen. We wouldn’t park like this, three geezers in a car on a yellow line. Any boy scout could figure us for the law, let alone the nasties.’

‘Suppose,’ Meadows replied and glanced at his wristwatch, which showed the time to be mid-morning. ‘She’ll be arriving any time now; she’ll be wanting her breakfast. The supermarket took all the sell-by date expired stuff off the shelves last thing before they closed, and they take it to the skip mid-morning. So that’s when they arrive.’

‘They?’

‘The skip-divers. . like these three.’ Meadows indicated three pale, sickly, ill-clad youths weaving through the foot passengers and making their way to the alley. ‘Early birds,’ he explained, ‘out to get the worm. It might help them, it might not.’

‘No?’

‘Well, they don’t look hard enough to fight their corner. . three delicate waifs. . some heavier boys will be able to muscle them aside, especially if they are hungry. But I dare say it’s worth taking the shot. You can live out of skips if you have a mind to do so. You can get some nice bits of meat, and salad, fruit. . all still wrapped in cellophane. . nothing wrong with it at all. Eat out of skips, work for cash in hand at night — it makes the dole money liveable on. In India they talk about the “slum dogs” in cities. You don’t think we have that here? Not to the same extent or same extreme. . but. .’ He paused as a red London Transport double-decker whirred and hissed past them, by which time the three youths were standing against a wall taking what shelter they could.

Minutes passed in silence, broken only when Meadows said, ‘Here we go. .’ and Swannell and Ainsclough saw two young men in supermarket smocks carrying armfuls of food from the supermarket towards the alley in which stood the refuse skips. The supermarket workers then stopped by the youths and, looking round nervously, allowed the youths to help themselves to what food they wanted. The youths took food and then melted into the crowd, and the supermarket workers carried on to the alley, carrying what food they still held, and put it into the skip.

‘Never seen that before,’ Meadows commented, ‘taking pity on feral youth. Good for them in a sense but they’re dropping the supermarket in the soup, legally speaking.’

‘They are?’

‘Yes, my understanding is that the supermarket is legally obliged to ensure that all food past its sell-by date is properly disposed of, and that means putting it in a skip. The supermarket is not then liable in the eyes of the law for any food poisoning that might occur if someone then removed the food from the skip, but giving it to hungry people is not disposing of it — that is a public health issue, no matter how charitable it might be and no matter how safe.’

‘I see,’ Swannell growled.

‘Don’t know what to do.’ Meadows sighed. ‘Part of me likes the supermarket employees for doing that, but it’s the sack for them if they’re seen, and, like I said, there is the public health issue.’

‘Quiet word with the supermarket manager,’ Ainsclough suggested, ‘on the q.t., no names. . possibly just a phone call. Leave it for a day or two so the manager won’t be able to identify the workers concerned.’

‘Yes.’ Meadows half-turned to Ainsclough. ‘Yes, I’ll do that, that will be the best thing to do. The ferals can still get good food from the skip, they’ll just have to scavenge for it and the workers will keep their jobs. Ah. . here she is. See her. . black girl in the green waterproof?’

The officers watched as the girl approached the alley and then, instead of going to the alley and searching the skips as the officers had expected her to do, stood contentedly waiting on the pavement.

‘Strange,’ Meadows whispered.

‘That she isn’t skip-diving, you mean?’ Swannell watched the girl.

‘Yes. . as if. . as if. .’

‘Anyway, let’s pull her, we can’t wait all day.’ Swannell made to open the car door.

‘No!’ Meadows laid a hand on Swannell’s arm. ‘Let’s wait, see what she’s doing. My old copper’s mind is working now. Appreciate you’re investigating a murder but you can afford to wait a minute or two.’

‘A scam?’ Ainsclough commented from the rear seat.

‘Possibly. Those two supermarket workers may not be so charitable after all.’

The three officers continued to sit in the car, and then soon after the black girl had positioned herself at the entrance to the alley the same two supermarket workers appeared — two young men; one with distinct fiery red hair, the other overweight and prematurely balding, but both carrying boxes of food. When the two workers reached the girl, the red-headed one stopped and handed her the food, whilst the other carried on and put the food he was carrying into the skip.

‘Dare say something has to be seen to be thrown away.’ Meadows spoke softly as the girl put the food into a hemp shopping bag and then walked, conveniently, towards the car in which the officers sat. As she approached, Swannell got out of the car, grabbed the girl by the arm and showed her his ID. He opened the rear door of the car and bundled her on to the back seat next to Ainsclough. The girl tried to open the car door but could not do so.

‘Childproof locks,’ Meadows explained as Swannell sat in the front passenger seat. ‘Been shopping, darling?’

The girl glanced at the shopping bag. ‘It’s all out of date. You can check.’

‘We will,’ Meadows replied. ‘Nice bit of meat you have there. . leg of lamb. . very nice.’ He turned and sifted through the contents: steak, bacon, milk, cheese. .

‘It’s all out of date, so why lift me? The boys in the supermarket just help us out, saves us from having to poke around the skip. .’

‘You saw a geezer getting tanked a few nights ago.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, we want to talk to you about that.’

‘Oh.’ The girl relaxed. ‘I already told them everything.’

‘Possibly, we need to go over a few details,’ Swannell explained.

Meadows started the car.

‘Where we going?’

‘Kilburn nick,’ Meadows replied.

‘It’s more comfortable there.’ Ainsclough reached over and picked up an item of food from the shopping bag, and read the sell-by date. ‘Ah. . you have a time machine, I see.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning this packet of lovely Danish bacon, smoked back, won’t reach its sell-by date until the day after tomorrow. Meaning you’re either forty-eight hours ahead of the rest of the world or you have just received a bag load of stolen gear.’

‘So, my old copper’s mind was right.’ Meadows pulled into the traffic lane. ‘Neat, this will help my conviction rate; it’s been a bit low of late.’

‘Quite a nice little earner you have here.’ Ainsclough continued to examine the contents of the bag.

‘I don’t get to keep it all.’ The girl sighed. ‘I just have to keep it for the evening. I’ll likely get to keep the bacon, the milk and the bread but that’s all. Just to keep me going. Most times I dip and dive the skips.’

‘Who takes the rest?’

‘Not saying.’

‘It’s the old song that’s playing. You know, that music echoing in your ears; the tune that you’ve heard somewhere before.’

‘I don’t hear no music.’ She glanced angrily out of the window.

‘Course you do, darling,’ Meadows replied. ‘It’s that old singalong favourite, “You can work for yourself or you can work against yourself” — that song. Have you got anything hanging over you?’

‘Three months suspended for two years — got that about six months ago. . shoplifting. I’ve been inside. I don’t like it.’

‘Well, you’re going back for another three months, as well as anything you get for receiving stolen goods.’

The girl leant forwards, covering her face with her hands.

‘That’s if we charge you,’ Swannell said. ‘We have the discretion to charge you or not.’

‘Really!’ The girl looked up. She was frail and finely made.

‘Yes, really; it all depends on how much you help us,’ Meadows replied. ‘There’s two investigations now. I’m a local copper, Kilburn is my manor. I want information from you about the scam going down at the supermarket. I don’t need to give your name, you just give me the names of the geezers involved and let me know when the supermarket staff are going to be walking down the street with valid. . food that isn’t past its sell-by date. Get to feel their collars when they’re off the premises and they’re in the bucket.’

‘Yeah?’ The girl became excited.

‘Yeah,’ Meadows replied, ‘and these gentlemen are from New Scotland Yard. They want to know about the assault you witnessed the other night.’

‘We want details,’ Swannell growled. ‘Hold anything back about either investigation and you’re going inside.’

‘So do some thinking between now and Kilburn nick,’ Ainsclough added. ‘You know, nice crystal-clear thinking.’

Harry Vicary stood and smiled as Garrick Forbes entered his office. The two men shook hands warmly.

‘A-Ten never gets this kind of greeting.’ Forbes returned the smile. ‘So refreshing.’

‘Yes, but you and I go back. I did wonder if it might be you when they told me that A-Ten was here. Do take a pew. Coffee? Tea?’

‘Tea for me, please.’ Garrick Forbes, large and occasionally jovial, but always serious-minded when he needed to be, sat in one of the vacant chairs in front of Vicary’s desk. ‘Never was much of a coffee wallah. . and speaking of liquid refreshment, we never did have that beer we promised ourselves. It’s not often you look down the barrel of a gun, even as a copper.’

‘It isn’t, is it?’ Vicary turned to the table in the corner of his office, on which stood a kettle and a bag of tea bags, powdered milk and an assortment of half-pint mugs. He checked that the kettle had sufficient water and then switched it on. ‘Have you been back there?’

‘Twice. . last autumn.’

‘Me too, also twice. I’ll go again, not now though — ’ he pointed to the window — ‘hardly the weather for it, but I understand that what we are doing is called “trauma bonding”.’

‘Really?’

‘If you have been traumatized at a specific location you are bonded to that location, and by visiting it, you begin to aid the process of adjustment. So, the people who escaped the King’s Cross fire all those years ago still visit the underground railway station. . they are drawn to it, but with decreasing frequency as the adjustment progresses, and in the States, folk who escaped the Twin Towers in 2001 visit Ground Zero, but similarly with decreasing frequency as the years pass.’

‘Trauma bonding.’ Forbes pursed his lips. ‘I’ll remember that.’

‘We should visit together, then have that beer — there’s a couple of good interesting pubs in and around Northaw village.’

‘Yes, we’ll do that, it would be cathartic.’ He took the mug from Vicary’s hand and mumbled his thanks. ‘Doing some heavy reading, I see.’ He indicated the files on Vicary’s desk.

‘Yes. . yes. . and in more ways than one.’ Vicary slid behind his desk and resumed his seat. ‘Heavy in the sense that it is a thick file — a lot to get through — but also heavy in the sense of its content. It’s the file on a felon called Curtis Yates. . apparently he kept a tiger.’

‘A tiger!’

‘So it is alleged, but they are not easy to acquire, so I don’t know how much credence to give to that story. . allegedly used the beast as an “enforcer”.’

‘Oh. . but you say allegedly.’

‘Yes, I don’t know what to believe — some of the things in here are quite extreme but are only allegations.’ He tapped the file with his palm. ‘But the accumulation of unsupported reports does begin to sway one after a while.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean; it’s like that in A-Ten, building a case against corrupt coppers is like walking in thick smoke looking for flames.’

‘I can imagine, but this geezer is one slippery customer. We are interested in the murder of three people known to have some association with him, and he might have driven another to take his own life, and, reading his file, two previous lovers and his wife disappeared. The geezer just does not keep his friends for very long.’

‘Blimey, I see the reason for your suspicions. See them clearly. Has he done time?’

‘Yes, he pleaded not guilty to murder but guilty of manslaughter, and the CPS accepted the plea. He was out in five years, so we have his dabs and DNA on file, and sufficient evidence for him to do his rite of passage number to gain the street cred he needed. . but nailing him will be a struggle — he uses gofers for all his dirty work and he holds a terror for some people.’

‘Any visible means of support?’

‘A property company in Kilburn renovating run down properties and renting them to high-end tenants.’

‘Very useful if you want someone to disappear. . all those cellars. . all that concrete.’

‘Yes, that observation has been made. He also has an import/export business in the East End. Those are two that we know of, and go to provide him with a house in Virginia Water.’

‘Not bad.’

‘Indeed. I do wonder what naughties the import/export business conceals.’

‘Drugs. . illegal immigrants?’

‘Yes, my thinking also — not expressed yet — but those are the lines I am thinking along. So, you have had a chat with Frankie Brunnie?’

‘Yes, and the upshot is that we won’t be instigating disciplinary action against him.’

‘Good. I am relieved.’

‘He is consumed with guilt over the death of the office manager.’

‘J.J. Dunwoodie?’

‘Yes, that’s the man, but that is not the reason we are not proceeding against him. What clears him is that the office manager permitted him to remove the watering can, even though Brunnie might well have coerced him into doing so without the ability to foresee the consequences. The fact remains that the watering can was nevertheless removed with the consent of the office manager. We have taken a statement from him but we still have to take a corroborative statement from a. . DC Yewdall.’

‘Penny Yewdall, yes.’

‘The practice of obtaining fingerprints like that is widespread anyway — did it myself once or twice. Can’t use prints obtained like that to prosecute, but it’s very useful to know who you’re dealing with.’

‘Yes. . yes. . and Brunnie has helped this case enormously, and I understand the guilt you mention. Frankie Brunnie is a very ethical, steadfast human being. I have always found him to be a gentleman.’

‘Good. Well, just the interview with DC Yewdall and we’ll wrap it up.’ Garrick Forbes stood.

‘Oh. . I visited Archie Dew’s widow.’ Vicary also stood.

‘How is she?’

‘Bearing up but feeling the loss, and her daughter is still in residential psychiatric care.’

‘Wretched woman, must be difficult for her. . He was so near retirement and that little toerag who shot him will be on the outside soon.’

The two men shook hands. ‘I’ll phone you in the spring; we’ll take that trip out to Northaw Great Wood, then have that beer.’

‘Yes, please do,’ Forbes turned to go. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

‘Mr Vicary?’ The woman opened the door of her house on Oakhampton Road, Mill Hill. She had short hair and a ready smile, and had worn well with age; even though she was in her early middle years, Frankie Brunnie thought she still looked fetching in tee shirt, jeans and sports shoes.

‘No.’ Brunnie held up his ID. ‘I am DC Brunnie, this lady is my colleague, DC Yewdall, we are calling on behalf of Mr Vicary. He is our senior officer.’

‘Ah, I see. Pleased to meet you anyway. Do please come in.’

The two officers stepped over the threshold into a warm house — too warm, Penny Yewdall thought, and she did not envy Mrs South her quarterly heating bills — but the warmth within explained why she wore a tee shirt. The house was a neatly kept, 1930s semi-detached property, which smelled strongly of furniture polish. Mrs South invited the officers into the rear room of the house, which looked out on to a long, narrow garden and to a cemetery beyond that.

‘We are very lucky to be here,’ Mrs South announced, ‘privileged. . the cemetery beyond the garden and the golf club at the end of the road; lots of open space; fairly clean air considering that this is the middle of north London. Do sit down.’ Mrs South indicated the vacant chairs and settee with a very, Brunnie thought, French-style flourish of her hand. ‘My mother phoned me,’ she said as she and the officers sat in the armchairs. ‘It is about Rosemary Halkier. .’

‘Yes. You are Mrs South. . once Miss North?’

‘Yes.’ The woman grinned sheepishly. ‘It always causes comments to be made. I was Pauline North from Leyton, I am now Pauline South from Mill Hill. . gone northwards to become South. The jokes are endless. I went to Sussex University and married one of my tutors; he was a junior lecturer then. He’s now a professor at Royal Holloway. I teach children now my own are up and away. . no regular post, I am a supply teacher — explains why I am home today. . no phone call from the agency.’

‘It seems you have done very well.’ Penny Yewdall smiled.

‘Yes.’ Pauline South nodded briefly. ‘I am very fortunate. . successful husband, two lovely boys. . good marriage. I am fulfilled but Rosemary should have had the same. Was it really her on Hampstead Heath?’

‘Yes,’ Brunnie replied, ‘I am afraid it was.’

‘Oh. . and I have all this — still alive and all this — but I appreciate it. I appreciate each day because I know that tragedy can strike at any time; you just have to open the newspaper and read about a tragedy striking some poor family.’

‘That’s a good attitude to have.’

‘It’s the only attitude. So, how can I help you? I knew that something had happened to her.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, I mean, no details, just that some ill must have befallen her. . some misadventure. Like the fell walker who vanished up in the Lake District and three or four years later his body was found in a mountain stream. The search party swept the wrong area for some reason, and then years later another walker attempted to cross the stream at the same location and so found the body — just ten feet either side and he would have missed the corpse. But that wasn’t Rose, she wasn’t adventurous like that. . but she wouldn’t walk out on her life and reinvent herself. That’s something that people could do up until the end of the Second World War, but now our National Insurance number and health records follow us everywhere. . all on computer. So really that just left foul play to explain what happened to her. . but she was bright at school, she could have, should have, gone on to university, but she married a fairground worker. Can you believe that? And her life never recovered. Some mistake.’

‘So, tell us about Rosemary, if you can,’ Brunnie said, ‘we are trying to piece together her life at about the time she disappeared.’

‘Well, I was at university, but at home. . must have been between terms, and I well remember her dad coming to our door asking if we knew where she was. Poor soul, he was in a terrible state.’

‘What do you know about her social life at the time?’

‘Not much. We went out for a drink occasionally, just two Leyton girls together. . up the boozer, like good local girls. The landlord of the Coach and Horses knew us, as did the locals, and he and the locals would not let anyone bother us. We just had a couple of glasses of wine and a right good chitchat. . but we were drifting apart by then, and we never went up town together.’

‘Understood.’

‘Any man friend? Rosemary’s man friend, I mean.’

‘Just one. . and not a good one.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Strange name. .’ she took a deep breath. ‘How embarrassing, so strange that I have forgotten it.’ She forced a smile. ‘It’ll come. . it’ll come, the name is that of the American film star, except his surname is that of the first name of her boyfriend at the time. What was it? What was it? Oh. . Curtis, that’s it. Tony Curtis was the actor and Curtis something was Rosemary’s boyfriend.’

‘That’s very interesting.’ Brunnie turned to Yewdall, who raised an eyebrow.

‘Is it?’ Pauline South asked.

‘Yes, it dovetails neatly, very neatly into other information we have.’

‘I see.’

‘So what did she tell you about Curtis X?’

‘Curtis X, I like that. Curtis X. . well, she was not comfortable with him; he seemed to have betrayed her and she seemed frightened of him.’

‘Betrayed her?’

‘Perhaps that is the wrong word. Not so much betrayed as deceived her. It was a case of the old, old story of the man who could charm the birds down from the trees and then once ensnared, turns out to be a monster of a person who destroys all and everything he comes into contact with. And she fell for his charms, possibly as a reaction to the fairground worker she had married and who she was escaping from — that made her even more vulnerable to Curtis X’s charms.’

‘Oh. .’ Penny Yewdall groaned.

‘You’ve met the type?’ Pauline South asked.

‘Oh yes. . often, all too often — not personally but in police work. We have met the victims. . either dead or alive, the victims of the easy charms of the predatory psychopaths who can smile as they kill.’

‘I don’t know exactly how they met but I think it was in some dimly lit pickup parlour in the West End, or maybe it was the East End — an East End nightclub. She did say he was an East Ender, like she was, so they had that in common, and he was good looking, and also charming, as you have said. I think they became an item quite quickly. She was easy pickings for him. It got sour though, got sour very rapidly.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, she came home with a bruised face, and after a stupidly short period she went back to him, though she never actually moved in as such. She wouldn’t leave her children but was with him every weekend. I do remember her telling me that he had some strange hold over her. She said she knew that she shouldn’t go back to him, that he was bad news, but she still felt the tug to return to him in his huge house in Surrey.’

‘Surrey?’ Brunnie repeated. ‘Large county. .’

‘Virginia Water, she mentioned Virginia Water. The houses down there, like palaces she said, but she felt this magnetic draw to Curtis, which she said she knew she had to resist but she couldn’t resist at all.’ Pauline South paused. ‘It was as though he had some form of control over her.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. It’s not untypical with that sort of personality. If the victim is weak enough or needy enough that manner of control can be exercised.’

‘Interesting, frightening also, but she was a lovely girl, very attractive. We made an odd couple in the Coach and Horses: me short and plain and she the glamorous, raven-haired, Rubenesque beauty, but inside she was so full of unmet need. She felt really guilty.’

‘Guilty?’

‘About letting her parents down in respect of her choice of husband. . cheap rented flat in Clacton. . and so the wealth offered by Curtis what’s his name was, in her mind, like a compensation, but in fact it was all part of the lure to lead her into the minefield, so it seems now.’

‘You said she seemed frightened?’

‘Yes, she had heard that previous girlfriends, or possibly just one girlfriend, had disappeared.’

‘How?’ Brunnie asked.

‘The staff told her.’

‘Staff?’ Yewdall sought clarification. ‘What staff?’

‘Domestics. . cleaners. . they clocked her for being an East End girl — their class, not posh; saw her as one of them. She said her name was Tessie. . the cook. . just breakfasts and lunch six days a week. Rosemary told me that Tessie had told her to “get out”. Tessie said, “Get out while you’re still alive”. She returned to her parent’s home later that day, and me and her went up to the boozer. That’s when she told me what Tessie had said. Then, the next time we met up she told me Tessie had gone. Apparently, she had turned in her notice and walked out.’

‘Do you know Tessie’s surname?’

‘O’Shea.’

‘And she lived in Virginia Water?’

‘Yes, in some council house development in amongst the mansions, just to balance the social mix and provide cooks and cleaners and gardeners for the hoi polloi.’

‘What did she tell you about Curtis X’s source of income?’

‘A string of businesses, she said, but she also discovered that she had hooked up with a blagger, a serious one, and she suspected that the businesses were there to hide some other activities. She was beginning to wonder what she had gotten herself into — it was about then she vanished.’

Merry Flint scowled at Meadows, Ainsclough and Swannell. ‘You can make this go away?’

‘We can,’ Swannell replied softly, ‘if Mr Meadows agrees.’

‘I agree. I really want the two supermarket workers who are taking the stuff out. I am not really bothered about the out of work doleys who are taking a meagre slice. It’s always better to collar the thieves rather than the receivers. So, yes, I agree.’

‘But whether we do make it go away or not is another matter.’ Ainsclough also spoke softly. He enjoyed working with Swannell; he had found that both men had a tacit understanding that the whisper is louder than the shout. ‘As you told us, Merry, you’re under a suspended sentence, so if we charge you then inside you go, you do bird. Again.’

‘So it’s scratchy backy time?’

‘Dare say that’s one way of putting it — you scratch our back and we will scratch yours. Help us, we help you. You work for yourself or you work against yourself.’

Merry Flint scowled again. She was, observed Ainsclough, a lighter skinned black girl, possibly of mixed race, but by her loud clothing and beads and bangles she had clearly embraced West Indian culture. However, her speech pattern, apart from the very occasional exclamation, was pure London street-speak. ‘So what does the Old Bill need to know?’

‘This Old Bill needs to know about the assault the other night, in the alley.’ Ainsclough indicated himself and Swannell.

‘And this Old Bill wants the S.P. on the supermarket. All of it.’

‘So, this Bill first. .’ Ainsclough leaned forward, ‘the other night. . start singing.’

‘I was Lee Marvin — hadn’t eaten proper for a day or two — so I was skip-divin’ in the evening just after it got dark. These two guys turned into the alley. I sat back between the two skips — I was opposite them but they didn’t see me. . comes in handy being black sometimes. Thought they was the Old Bill at first — looked the part: tall and fit. . Then I saw they had a little geezer with them, and the little guy went on the deck like about ninety miles an hour. He was clucking. . desperate. . he was pleading, man, pleading so bad. I didn’t see no tools, but the two geezers didn’t need them, they just stuck the boot in again and again. One bad old kicking he got. . the little guy.’

‘Would you recognize them again?’ Swannell asked.

‘No. . it was dark.’ Merry Flint shook her head. ‘They were both honkies. . both snowdrops. . tall and fit. . vicious. Don’t know how handy they’d be in a level skirmish, but they don’t show no mercy to the little guy, no, man, no mercy. . no mercy at all. He got a slap alright. . no mercy.’

‘Beards?’

‘No.’

‘So they were both clean-shaven?’

‘Yes, clean-shaved.’

‘Did they say anything?’ Ainsclough asked.

‘Not a lot.’

‘What then? What did you hear?’

‘Not much, but I reckoned they belonged to a firm, it wasn’t personal to them.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, they were kickin’ this little guy and then one said, “That’s enough. . that’ll do”, something like that, and the other geezer, he said, “The boss wants it done proper”.’

‘I see, “the boss”?’

‘Yes, so that’s what got me thinking that they was part of a firm.’

‘Fair enough. . carry on.’

‘So the first geezer says, “It’s done, he’s not getting up”, but the second guy just goes on kicking and kicking and kicking. . bouncing the little guy’s head off the wall like it was a toy ball.’

‘Local accents?’

‘Yeah, it was a London team alright, but not posh London; it was Canning Town not Swiss Cottage.’

‘Understood. What else? Anything else you heard?’

‘Well, the first one, he just stopped. .’

‘Stopped?’

‘Yes, he was not a happy camper. He helped the other guy put the little guy down, and he put the boot in a few times but the other guy he went at it mental, like. . like he was possessed. It was then that the first guy just stood still. All the time folk was walking past the end of the alley and no one noticed what was going down. . dark and raining. Then the first geezer-’

‘The one who was just watching by this time?’

‘Yes. He said to the second geezer, “It’s done, Rusher. That’s it. We need to clear the pitch”.’

‘“Rusher”?’ Swannell repeated. ‘He called the second geezer “Rusher”?’

‘Yes, I heard it bell-like, “Rusher”, that’s what he called him. “Rusher”.’

‘OK, then what?’

‘Well, then I suppose Rusher got the first geezer’s drift and he stopped putting the wellie in. Then the first geezer, he said, “Let’s clear the pitch and get these dugs burned”.’

‘OK.’

‘But you know, I think when he said that he was giving the Rusher character a reason to want to leave, like he had had enough of the aggro and didn’t want no more.’

‘Interesting.’ Swannell tapped his notepad with the tip of his ballpoint.

‘So it was like they watch Crimewatch on telly and know that the little geezer’s blood would be everywhere, so they had to get back to their place, change clothes. . burn the stuff they had been wearing. . burn the old evidence.’

‘So they left it at that?’ Swannell asked.

‘Yeah, they just walked out the alley, calm as you please, like two regular geezers lookin’ for a pub on the way home.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Legged it, darlin’, legged it until I found a phone box, phoned three nines and, like a daft cow, I told ’em my name.’ She glanced at the ceiling. ‘I mean, how many Merry Flints with form what live in North West Six. .? Told ’em what I’d seen and where. . then, like. . soon, like, he was at the door of my flat.’ She pointed to Meadows. ‘If I hadn’t given my name, I wouldn’t have been rumbled and pulled. I’m not a grass. I seen what they do to grasses. You know what it means to “cut the grass”?’

‘I can guess.’

‘I heard about a brass that grassed on her pimp. . carried her into the hospital with half her face hanging off, the other half was left lying in the road. So this will make the receiving go away?’

Swannell and Ainsclough glanced at each other. Swannell said, ‘Yes, so far as these two Bills from New Scotland Yard are concerned. It can be made to go away.’ He and Ainsclough stood.

‘But this Old Bill still wants information,’ Meadows said, ‘so stay put while I escort these two gentlemen out of the nick.’

Merry Flint folded her arms tightly in front of her and stared indignantly at the floor.

Penny Yewdall gently replaced the telephone handset. ‘I just love the Welsh accent, so musical.’ She smiled across the desks at Frankie Brunnie.

‘Isn’t it? I know what you mean. . and the least pleasant accent? Birmingham? Yorkshire?’

‘Depends what you’re at home with, but the Welsh accent. . Anyway, that was the Glamorgan police — Mr and Mrs Davies are travelling to London today to identify their daughter.’

‘She has been identified, surely?’

‘Yes. . I mean, to view the body. That’s what I meant. Help with closure, and they might be able to tell us something — shed a little light — though I hold out little hope.’

‘Yes.’ Brunnie paused and sat back in his chair, taking his hands slowly from the keyboard, staring with open eyes and mouth at the computer screen. ‘Oh my. .’

‘What!’ Penny Yewdall exclaimed. ‘What have you found?’

‘I’ll give you three guesses as to who disappeared at about the same time that Rosemary Halkier disappeared.’

‘Not Tessie O’Shea?’

‘Yes. . got it in one. . the one and the same. We’re getting thin on the ground. We’ll have to follow this up, as well as Mrs Pontefract.’

‘Well, Mrs Pontefract isn’t a suspect, and I can visit her alone.’

‘If you could — I can drive to Virginia Water, also alone.’

‘I’ll let Harry know what we are doing.’

Ainsclough took off his overcoat and hung it on the coat rack, and sat at his desk. He glanced sideways at Penny Yewdall. ‘Is Frankie out?’

‘Yes.’ Yewdall glanced out of the window and smiled as she saw a sliver of blue sky appearing amid the grey cloud. ‘Yes, he’s just gone to Virginia Water. Well, that is to say he’s gone to Sunninghill police station, being the local nick down that neck of the woods, chasing up an old case that might have some bearing on Rosemary Halkier’s murder. I am about to go and visit her old workmate, one Miss Pontefract. Hoping I can do that before Mr and Mrs Davies from Pontypool arrive at the London Hospital. . time. . day. . not. . enough.’

‘I see.’ Ainsclough sat at his desk and logged on at his computer. He tapped the keyboard. ‘Rusher’, he said absent-mindedly.

‘Sorry? As in the Soviet Union, as was?’

‘No; mind you, it could be spelled that way. I am assuming it’s spelled as in one who dashes about as if in a rush, as in “rush hour”. It’s a nickname but it’s at least a name, and as a nickname it’s a damn sight more useful than a “Nobby” or a “Charlie”.’

‘Yes. . I once ran a felon to ground by chasing his street name of “Dogheaver”, not many “Dogheavers” in London. Well none now, he collected life and is in Durham E Wing.’

‘A hit. . a hit. . a palpable hit. .’ Ainsclough clenched his fists at shoulder height. ‘I think there is no need to check the spelling, R-u-s-h-e-r seems correct. One “Rusher” aka Oliver Boyd, thirty-one years. . form for GBH, assault with a deadly weapon. . dishonourable discharge from the army for organizing a post office robbery. We need this man in the quiz room. . need his mate also.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, Oliver “Rusher” Boyd sounded to be the real hard case, he did most of the work in J.J. Dunwoodie’s murder. His oppo seemed to want him to ease up.’

‘Try known associates,’ Yewdall suggested.

Ainsclough tapped the keyboard. ‘Just one,’ he announced, ‘a geezer called Clive Sherwin, aka “The Pox”.’

‘“The Pox”?’ Yewdall smiled.

‘Yes, doubt you’d call him “The Pox” to his face, but yes. Let’s look at him.’ He continued to tap the keyboard, ‘Yes, he’s well known: GBH, handling stolen goods, driving offences. . one short stretch in the slammer. You know it’s really only the Grievous Bodily Harm that puts him in the same league as Rusher — seems a much gentler guy really, all in all. You know if it was Sherwin in the alley with Rusher that night, he’s the one to lean on, not Rusher, that will be a two-hander.’ He paused. ‘Me and Swannell it seems. .’

‘Seems. . unless you hang fire.’ Yewdall stood. ‘I have to go out.’

Penny Yewdall signed out and drove out to Barking, and then to Bower House, off Whiting Road. The address revealed itself to be a complex of medium-rise inter-war council developments; clearly part of the ‘Homes fit for Heroes’ movement after the war to end all wars. Rachel Pontefract lived on the third floor of the furthest block of the Bower House Estate. She was short, had a round face, steely eyes, and was not keen to have Penny Yewdall in her home. The interview was thusly conducted with Rachel Pontefract standing on the threshold of her flat and Penny Yewdall standing on the windswept outer landing.

‘Can’t really tell you much. Yeah, me and Rose did have a few nights out together but I didn’t know her well at all.’

‘What did she say about her boyfriend at the time she disappeared?’

‘Just she wanted away from him but couldn’t find the old door marked “exit”.’

‘I see.’

‘She was a good girl and she’d found that her man was a blagger, that he’d done time, and folk who got in his way tended to perform the old vanishing act.’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘Not using those words darlin’ but you know, the gist is still the same. She was a good girl who had just found out her man was well out of order and known to the Old Bill. In the early days she thought he was as sweet as a nut; by a few weeks in she was not well impressed no more. She said she must have been a right pillock to have got so far in. She said she had to get out or she was certain to get bumped. . take the short cut out the door through a high window. . or maybe just vanish. . but she couldn’t see no old door with “exit” in big red letters on it — no, she couldn’t — and it all started because he had a fancy jam jar. . Rolls Royce, Bentley, Merc. . it meant something to her that did after she walked out on her last old man who could provide nothing but a damp little place in Clacton. Swapping dodgems for a Roller, well, that was climbing the right way.’

‘Did she mention his name?’

‘Curtis. No last name. Just Curtis, me old china, just Curtis.’

Frankie Brunnie sat down in the chair opposite DC Gerrard in the interview suite at Sunninghill police station in Surrey. Brunnie found it a light and airy room, decorated in pastel shades, with armless easy chairs in which to sit round a low coffee table. It was a room designed to make victims of crime relax and speak as freely as possible, rather than to interrogate suspects. It also clearly doubled as a room in which visiting officers could be welcomed and accommodated. Brunnie glanced out of the window as a sudden but short rainfall splattered on the pane and saw a small stand of cedars swaying in the zephyr. ‘Winter’s not giving in without a fight,’ he commented.

‘Seems so.’ Gerrard too glanced out of the window. ‘But in fairness, this isn’t bad for January, too early to expect spring yet.’

‘Yes, reckon I’m impatient.’ He turned to Gerrard who seemed to Brunnie to be elderly for a detective constable, a man who most probably had just not made the grade when his grey hair was black. ‘So, Mrs O’Shea?’

‘Yes, I have the file here,’ Gerrard patted a manila folder, ‘foul play.’

‘You think?’

‘Well, just take a squint at the profile. . fifty-five years old, comfortably married. . children off her hands. . six grandchildren to rejoice in — just a gentle soul who lived in a council house on the edge of Virginia Water. The sort of person who would likely describe herself as “just a simple person”. If folk like that are reported missing they very rapidly turn up, or their corpse is very soon found — they do not remain missing for ten years. Not in densely populated north Surrey.’

‘Rather suspect you’re right.’

Gerrard scanned the missing persons report. ‘Went to work as usual, humbly cycling on her old black bike, and just did not return home that afternoon. Her employer said she left at the usual time, about half past midday, having prepared the food for lunch and left it on a hotplate. So why is New Scotland Yard interested in her?’

‘We are. . well. . how to put this. . we are more interested in her employer, Curtis Yates, who is using the name Pilcher.’

Gerrard’s jaw dropped. ‘Pilcher is Curtis Yates!’

‘You know the name?’

‘Do I know the name? Do I know the name? He’s a real villain, the Drug Squad have been interested in him for a long time. My brother is a detective sergeant there. He has mentioned that name a few times. . fly. . and slippery. We never had cause to suspect him.’ Gerrard glanced at the file. ‘You see, he gave his name as Pilcher and it was a mis per enquiry. All we can do is take statements until the person or the body turns up.’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, well. . so now we know where he lives. That’s been a puzzle for a while. He has an accommodation address but he doesn’t live there.’

‘We are interested in talking to him about a number of folk who go missing or are murdered in his orbit of influence.’

‘Including a middle-aged cook?’

‘Including a middle-aged cook.’ Brunnie stood. ‘I’ll go and pay a call on her husband, if he is still with us. He’ll be late-sixties now, possibly older. I’ll also let my governor know of the Drug Squad interest in Yates.’

‘I’ll phone my brother-’

‘No!’ Brunnie said sharply, sensing then why Gerrard had not risen in the police force. ‘We must keep the communication within official lines.’

‘Mrs Davies?’ The woman was much older than Yewdall had anticipated. She was also alone, and not, as Yewdell had expected, accompanied by her husband. She hoped the shock did not show on her face.

The woman stood. ‘No, I am Mrs Owen — Gaynor’s grandmother and her closest relative.’

‘I see, thank you for coming.’

‘Her mother is in Jamaica. She went off with a West Indian seaman she met in the docklands of Cardiff. She left Gaynor with me. . just dumped her on me. I did my best, I wanted to be a tidy parent but she was a difficult girl.’ Mrs Owen was short and frail, with curly silver hair. ‘You know she would sit on the kerb looking lost and forlorn, telling the neighbours I wasn’t feeding her, and I would have my lifelong friends hammering on my door telling me to feed Gaynor. It’s like that in Quakers Yard you see, everyone knows everyone else and their business. Eventually the Social Services took her into care because she was stealing from shops — out of my control. Well, if your mother dumps you on your granny when you are just five years old what can you expect? First they tried to foster her with younger adults but that didn’t work out. Eventually she went to live in a specialist children’s home in Pontypool. Then she ran away to London.’

‘Any contact?’

‘A postcard or two and a letter — she said she was working for the “big man” with a big house in the south of London, but Gaynor, you could never believe anything she told you.’

‘Did she mention a name?’

‘Just the location of the house. It was like an American state. It has slipped my mind. .’

‘Virginia Water?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Owen smiled. ‘Yes, that was it, Virginia Water.’

‘So. . shall we view the body?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Owen took a deep breath. ‘Yes, it is what I came for. I won’t believe it unless I see her for myself.’

‘It won’t be like you might have seen on television. You’ll be separated by a pane of glass, a large pane of glass.’

‘I see.’

‘She’ll be tightly bandaged with just her face visible and it will appear that she is floating in space, floating in blackness.’

‘That sounds very sensitive.’

‘It is — it’s very clever the way it’s done. Shall we go?’

Mr O’Shea was tall but frail, with liver-spotted hands and face. His house smelled musty and was cluttered with inexpensive items collected by him and his wife over the years, so it appeared to Brunnie — mainly souvenirs from southern holiday resorts like Margate, Southend-on-Sea, Brighton and Ramsgate. ‘She was a worried woman.’

‘Worried?’

‘Seemed frightened but she felt she had to go to work to bring in the money. I’d just retired with no pension to speak of. I told her we could manage on the State Benefits but she wanted that extra bit to be able to buy the grandchildren something on their birthdays and at Christmas. So off she’d cycle each weekday morning.’

‘Did she say what she was frightened of?’

‘No, but once she was more edgy than usual and she said, “She’s worse than he is and no mistake”.’

‘She?’

‘Yes. . definitely. “She’s worse than he is.”’