Abattoir Blues (34 page)

Annie felt her stomach churn. It was becoming difficult to hold down the bile. She noticed Doug looking into the grey distance out of the window, over Dalby’s shoulder. Maybe he was reconsidering tonight’s steak dinner. ‘And it took eighteen months to find this out? You weren’t aware of it before?’

‘I’m not here to answer to your censure. You can save your righteous indignation for your tree-hugging sisters in the pub. They do it when you’re not looking, and you can’t be looking every minute of every shift. But word gets around. Once somebody saw him. We found it hard to believe – Welles was a big lad, but he had a sort of farm-boy innocence about him – but we kept a closer eye on him, and that was that. He got warnings, but they didn’t do any good.’

‘Was he intelligent?’

‘He wasn’t stupid.’

‘And do you know where Mr Welles is today?’

‘I neither know nor care,’ said Dalby, ‘just so long as he never shows his face back here again.’

‘Have you never considered the effect that doing this sort of work can have on people? Alcoholism, cruelty. You’re creating these monsters yourself. Don’t you think it desensitises people, creates the kind of person you say you had to fire?’

‘I’m not a psychologist, miss. I’m a simple abattoir worker. Maybe you’re right. Maybe that does happen in some cases. As I said, this kind of work isn’t for everyone. If they’re not damaged to start with, maybe it damages them. All I can say, though, is that most of my workers are decent human beings doing an honest day’s work, and the bad apples are few and far between. In that, it’s no different than any other line of work.’

‘But why do people it?’

‘Somebody has to. You have to eat. It’s a job, a decent wage.’

‘Is there no other way?’

‘If there were,’ said Dalby, ‘believe me, we’d be using it. But as long as people want to buy their nice cuts of meat all nicely wrapped in cling film at the supermarkets, or laid out in neat juicy rows in the butcher’s window, this’ll go on.’ He pointed his finger at her as he talked. ‘You can think what you like about us, but we do try to be humane, and we don’t countenance behaviour like Welles’. The other guy, the Swede, maybe you can feel sorry for him. He couldn’t cope, and it messed him up. I suppose it’s our version of shell shock or battle fatigue, whatever the shrinks call it now.’

‘PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder.’

‘Whatever. Like I said, it’s not for everyone.’ Dalby stood up slowly. ‘Now, I’ve got work to do. Have you got what you came for?’

Annie swallowed and looked at Doug, who put away his notebook. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘There may be a few more questions later, if any of this leads anywhere.’

‘I’ll be here. Just ask for me.’

As they walked down the stairs, Annie knew that she should go and examine the metal cabinet the guns were kept in, but she couldn’t face it. She didn’t think it would be fair to send Doug, either. If it came to it, she realised, they could send someone over to examine it, but it was two years since the gun had been stolen, and they weren’t likely to find anything of interest there now. She felt guilty for shirking her duty, even though she could easily rationalise her actions, but she held her breath, and her tears, all the way to the car, and only when she was inside with the engine running, reversing out of the abattoir yard, did she let out the stale air and breathe in again. But she kept the tears to herself.

It was a pleasant winter afternoon in London, with tem-peratures just into double figures, so Banks decided to walk from King’s Cross to Havers’ office. It was a long time since he had visited the area behind and to the west of King’s Cross–St Pancras, and he knew little about it. It was hard to categorise, he thought as he walked and looked around him, but as Joanna had pointed out, it was a bit dodgy. There were offices, houses, flats, garages and so on, but it lacked any coherent identity, at least any that was obvious to the casual visitor.

At one point he passed what was clearly a drug house. A tall, burly man with a shaved head blocked the reinforced metal door, hands clasped firmly over his bollocks, and beside him a hunched weaselly young fellow had his mobile glued to his ear. Banks was certain the Met must know about them, and they were probably under surveillance at that very moment. There seemed to be so much watching and so little catching and convicting these days. Montague Havers was obviously another case in point. Whatever it was he did, nobody stopped him; the police just watched. There was always the chance of a bigger Mr Big round the next corner. And so it went on. What did you have to do these days to convince the CPS you had enough evidence for an arrest?

Banks’s mobile rang just after he had passed the drug house. He saw the burly man cast a baleful glance in his direction as he answered. Did he look so obviously like a copper? He had never thought so.

‘Banks here.’

‘Sir, it’s me. DC Masterson.’

‘Ah, Gerry. What can I do for you?’

‘Can you talk, sir? I mean, listen. I think I can do something for you.’

‘I’m on my way to have a chat with Montague Havers.’

‘Then I’m just in time.’

Banks turned a corner and leaned against a brick wall. ‘Go on.’

‘I’ve found out a couple of things that might interest you, sir.’

‘What?’

‘First off, there’s an old murder with a bolt gun, eighteen months ago in East London. A man called Jan Wolitz. Polish. The investigating officers thought he was connected with a people-trafficking outfit and suspected he’d been taking more than his cut from them, not to mention helping himself to some of the girls’ favours. Young girls, mostly. Prostitution. Nobody ever arrested for it and no suspects named, as far as I can gather. The police did, however, find prints at the scene that didn’t belong to the victim. They led nowhere. Not in the system. He wasn’t cut into pieces or anything. Just dead.’

‘Can you get the prints sent up and check them against whatever Vic got from the hangar?’

‘As we speak.’ Banks could hear the smile in Gerry’s voice.

‘You’re too good for this world, Gerry.’

‘So they tell me, sir.’

‘Where was the body found?’

‘Abandoned warehouse on the Thames. I mean, it’s probably pushing it a bit to call it East London. More like West Essex.’

‘Who owned the property?’

‘Don’t know yet, sir, but I can see why it might be useful to know. I’ll get on to that as well.’

‘Any hint of a connection between this Jan Wolitz and anyone we know? Spencer, Montague Havers, Tanner, Lane?’

‘No, sir, but DI Cabbot and Doug are running down a lead on a stolen bolt pistol. It was lifted about two years ago from Stirwall’s Abattoir. But he’s the one I wanted to talk to you about, sir. Montague Havers. Or Malcolm Hackett, as was.’

‘What about him?’

‘He worked for the same stockbrokers as John Beddoes in the mid-eighties. They were City boys together between the Big Bang and Black Monday. Both the same age, in their mid-twenties at the time. There was a cocaine charge against Hackett back then, but it went nowhere. Small amount. Slap on the wrist. The point is, according to what I could find out from someone who also worked there at the time, the two of them were pretty thick. Socialised together and all that. Made oodles of money. When the bubble burst, Hackett went into international investment banking and Beddoes became a merchant banker before he moved to the farm.’

‘Well done. That’s an interesting connection, Gerry,’ said Banks. ‘And your timing’s impeccable. How are things back at the ranch?’

‘Ticking along nicely. DS Jackman’s still chasing down Caleb Ross’s collection route.’

‘All well with Alex and Ian?’

‘Everything’s fine, sir. We’ve got surveillance on them. Nothing to report.’

‘Any news on Tanner?’ They had had to let Ronald Tanner go when his twenty-four hours were up early that morning.

‘He’s still at home. We’re keeping an eye on him. AC Gervaise is with the CPS as I speak working on possible charges. I did a bit of research into his known associates and there’s a bloke called Carl Utley looks good for the driver. Mutton chops, usually wears a flat cap. He used to be a long-distance lorry driver but he got fired when he was suspected of being involved in the disappearance of some expensive loads. Nothing proven, but enough to lose him his job. He drifted into nightclub work and that’s when he met Tanner. They’re good mates.’

‘Excellent. Follow it up. See if you can have this Utley picked up. No further sign of Michael Lane?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Keep at it. And thanks, Gerry. Get back to me as soon as you hear anything from Annie or the CPS.’

Banks ended the call and went on his way, mulling over how he could use what he had just found out against Havers.

It was a dilapidated sixties office building with about as much charm and character as the shoebox it resembled. However well Havers was doing, he hadn’t moved his business into better digs, somewhere nice and trendy down in Docklands, for example. But maybe this was his cover, and maybe it didn’t matter to him. Banks had learned over the years that criminals had some very odd ideas about what was the best thing to do with their ill-gotten gains. Take Ronald Tanner, for example. He probably didn’t make a fortune, but he could have afforded a larger house and a decent car. Instead he seemed to be broke and on benefits all the time. What did he spend his money on? Banks knew one safecracker who spent most of what he earned on expensive women’s clothes, and they weren’t gifts for a girlfriend, either. A cat burglar he had once arrested collected rare vinyl and lived in a small flat in Gipton on a diet of baked beans and toast. He didn’t even own a record player. Maybe with Havers it was still coke, which could be an expensive habit, or the dogs? Or maybe he had a nice little nest egg hidden away offshore, and when the right moment came, he’d vanish to the Caymans for good. Anything was possible.

Banks took the rickety lift to the fifth floor and found the door marked Havers International Investment Solutions Ltd. He’d heard that it was very much a one-man operation, so he wasn’t expecting the receptionist who greeted him when he knocked and entered.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I’d like to see Mr Havers.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

Banks showed her his warrant card.

She picked up the telephone. ‘If you’d care to—’

But Banks walked straight past her and through the next door, where he found Montague Havers sitting behind a flat-box Staples desk tapping away at a laptop computer. As soon as Havers saw Banks, he closed the lid on the computer and got to his feet. ‘What is this? You can’t just come barging in like that.’

Banks showed his warrant card again. Havers sat down and smoothed his hair. A funny smile crossed his features. ‘Well, why didn’t you say? Sit down, sit down. Always happy to help the police in any way I can.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Banks, sitting down on a very uncomfortable hard-backed chair. ‘It makes my job a lot easier.’ The view, he noticed, was of the railway lines at the back of the main line stations. A trainspotter’s wet dream.

Havers wore his wavy brown hair just a trifle too long for a man of his age, Banks thought. Along with the white shirt and garish bow tie he was wearing, it gave him the air of someone who was desperately trying to look young. Banks wondered, as he peered more closely, if his hair was dyed. Or a rug, even. It looked somehow fake. Maybe that was what he spent his money on: expensive rugs. The rusty moustache on his lip didn’t do much for the youthful effect.

‘So what exactly can I do for you, D— is it DI Banks?’

‘DCI, actually. Am I to call you Malcolm Hackett or Montague Havers?’

‘I changed my name legally six years ago to Montague Havers.’

Banks tilted his head. ‘May I ask why?’

‘Let’s just say that in the business I’m in, it helps if you have an educated-sounding name. Malcolm Hackett was just too . . . too comprehensive school.’

‘And Montague Havers is more Eton?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but that’s the general idea. Yes.’

Banks looked around the small office, at the crooked blinds, the stained, plasterboard walls, the scratched filing cabinets. ‘And the office?’

‘This? Nobody comes here. You’re lucky to find me in. This is just a place to keep records and make phone calls. All my business appointments take place in fine restaurants around Fitzrovia or Marylebone High Street, or at my club. The Athenaeum. Perhaps you know it?’

Banks shook his head. ‘I never was very clubbable. What exactly is your business?’

‘What it says on the door.’

‘That sounds like some sort of dodgy tax avoidance scheme to me. Offshore banking. International Investment Solutions.’

‘It’s a complicated world out there, and taxation is only a part of it.’

‘What other services do you offer?’

Havers glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but are you interested in becoming a client or are you just making polite small talk?’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘Very well. I’m part of a larger network of companies, and we offer just about any financial service – legal financial service, mostly investment opportunities – you can imagine.’

‘All international?’

‘Not all.’

‘Is property development investment one of your specialities?’

‘We don’t mind investing in property development occasionally, as long as it seems sound. But you have to remember that I’m in the business of investing British money abroad, not in domestic markets, and it’s often difficult to get a clear perspective on overseas properties. The laws can be so complicated. That doesn’t apply to my personal investments, of course.’

‘The Drewick airfield shopping centre? Does that ring a bell?’

‘Yes. I have a middling amount of my own money invested in the project, through a subsidiary.’

‘Retail Perfection?’

‘That’s the one. You have done your research. Anyway, I have a number of small investments in shopping centres. Can’t go wrong with them in a consumer society like this one.’

‘As long as people have the money to spend.’