Dark Side (25 page)

‘How did you know about Hopkins?' I asked the commander as I gave him a lift back to the station.

‘From your husband. Before he went undercover he called me and said the same kind of thing that you did – that I ought to get my head out of the sand and take more responsibility over this.'

‘I didn't put it quite so rudely as that,' I demurred.

‘No, but you two have a way of speaking politely that's actually like a kick in the pants.'

I had thought long and hard about what I was about to say next. ‘There's something I think you ought to know.'

‘That he's going to get Hamsworth, whatever it takes?'

‘Yes.'

‘Even though Carrick's off the hook?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘I'm learning, aren't I? He's hard-wired like that. It was one of the reasons Richard Daws hired him.'

As we parted, the commander said, ‘Don't worry – even if he brings me the man's head par-boiled on a silver platter I'll think of something.'

Not for the first time, I found myself admiring him enormously.

I wanted to contact Patrick for several reasons, not least because of the strong likelihood now that Mallory had murdered Cooper and Patrick no longer had his promise to James as one of his priorities. But none of my reasons could be regarded as emergencies, unless my going off the rails with worry counted for anything. So, as usual, and again unable to concentrate on writing, I plunged myself into domesticity and motherhood, taking down and sending to the cleaners the living-room curtains that we had ‘inherited' from Elspeth when we bought the rectory, unpacking the last of the boxes of our move and lugging most of the contents off to charity shops, and taking the two eldest children riding, the last, of course, a joy.

‘You don't think Mark might be gay?' Carrie said out of the blue the morning after yet another day engaged in a housework maelstrom not included in the cleaner's brief when I was hunting around for something else to do. ‘I mean, he's so downright
sweet.
'

I was actually glad of any interruption. ‘He's always been a bit sort of girlie, hasn't he?' I replied thoughtfully.

‘Vicky's given him one of her dolls as he likes it so much. Don't worry, it's a soft toy and I've checked, he can't swallow any of it.'

‘Better not mention it to Patrick. We won't really know for sure for ages and if it's true it'll take a while for him to get used to the idea.'

‘Military men are often like that though, aren't they?' she observed thoughtfully and went away again.

It was just after midnight when my mobile phone rang, jerking me from sleep.

‘Hi,' said a familiar voice. ‘Everything all right?'

I told him what Kev had said. There was no need to point out the implications.

Patrick is not a man to go in for cowboy whoops of joy but after saying he was really pleased for James's sake he went on, ‘Word has it that Hamsworth has a small chain of clubs, mostly in the east of the city and a high-end hush-hush one in a big private house on the edge of South Woodford. There's a chance that it's his actual home so my next job is to pin-point the place.'

‘And then arrange a raid?'

‘Only if he's guaranteed to be there. Otherwise he'd disappear to somewhere like Equador for ever. Did Greenway mention the shooting?'

‘No.'

‘Nothing at all? Nothing about now having armed protection?'

‘Not a word, and I didn't quite like to ask.'

‘Perhaps I should have winged him.'

‘Who helped you?'

‘Someone in the Diplomatic Protection team. He just removed the plates from his bike, no bother.'

‘Where are you now?'

‘Sitting under a bridge on the towpath of a disused canal. The rats are as big as ponies.'

‘Do you want me to do anything?'

‘Yes, stay right where you are. I can't talk any more now. I love ya, kid.'

And he had gone.

I could not sleep for the rest of that night.

At ten-thirty the next morning I had a call from the person at SOCA HQ to whom Patrick had given Jonno's mobile phone for examination. He wanted to know how he could contact Patrick as he did not wish to consign the information to an ordinary email. I had to tell him that he would have to give a message to me, for forwarding if possible, and I would instigate any immediate action necessary. What he told me, deliberately vaguely, ultra cautious over an open line, was absolutely staggering. Finally, he promised to send a full report via Recorded Delivery.

In short, the information gleaned, several voice messages that for some reason had not been deleted, gave every indication that Jonno had been begging for help from a person calling himself Nick who had told him – my caller saying he had censored the language – to stop wingeing, grow up and never to contact him again. Jonno, it would appear, had been responsible in some way for the death of someone referred to as ‘your old man'.

That would be his father, Paul Smithson, the police officer.

I was in a real quandary now as I would have to contact the Met immediately about this but had no idea who was handling the case, if indeed there was one, the man in question being deemed to have committed suicide. And in view of the illicit manner in which the evidence had been obtained …

‘With regard to our previous conversation,' I began when Greenway answered his phone.

‘Anything fairly concrete about anything right now would make my day,' he admitted briskly.

I gave him the story.

‘That's great news and sounds very much like our friend Hamsworth. I shall arrange to listen to the recordings, get them copied and pass them on. We have a way round this even though the evidence might not be presented in court. The line to Jonno will be that a mugging suspect was stopped, searched, and stolen items were found in his possession. Jonno
was
mugged, end of story.'

‘Do you know if there have been any test results on that ten-pound note Mrs Smithson gave Patrick?'

‘No, that hasn't come my way yet.'

‘Is Patrick keeping in touch with you?'

‘Not really because, as you know, it's too dangerous. The only information I have is that he's helping out in exchange for dossing down in a Salvation Army hostel somewhere in the East End.' Obviously in a hurry Greenway ended the call with, ‘Thanks for the info. Good work.'

Not really?
What the hell did that mean?

Quite oblivious until Elspeth told me that she too had done exactly the same when upset and angry, I went into the garden and, with vicious stabs, dug all the dandelions out of the lawn using an old chisel.

‘You're sitting there as though you want me to do something,' James Carrick said.

‘Are you back at work yet?' I enquired from the comfort of a brand-new leather sofa and really feeling the effects of lack of sleep, not just the previous night either.

‘I went in for a couple of hours this morning with a view to catching up and mending a few fences with David Campbell. But to answer the question, I'm officially back next week, providing the doc says it's OK.'

‘And the fences?'

He pulled a face. ‘It'll take a while but we'll have to cobble something together. If only Lynn was promoted …' He waved his hands around orchestra conductor-style. ‘And?'

‘Has Mallory been found yet?'

‘He hasn't even been sighted. A watch on railway stations and airports and all that kind of thing's in place but, unfortunately, no sign of him.'

‘Will you help me find him?'

He gazed into space thoughtfully for a few moments and then said, ‘Personally, I think that because of the state that he must have been in after he killed Cooper – assuming of course that the story we've been given is the correct one – it's very likely his body will be found jammed against a weir somewhere on the River Avon.'

‘He wouldn't necessarily need a car to do that – and it's not at his place.'

‘But if he hasn't killed himself?'

‘We could play detectives,' I suggested jokingly.

‘I suppose I'd be easing myself back into the job.'

‘You would.'

‘Is this official SOCA-wise?'

I shook my head. ‘He's regarded as being Avon and Somerset's business.'

‘I'd go along with that. But I can understand your wanting to do something to take your mind off worrying about Patrick.'

‘I'll admit that but Mallory is, or was, indirectly part of Hamsworth's empire and if we find him …' I shrugged and left the rest unsaid.

‘His flat's been thoroughly searched,' James went on to say. ‘He doesn't have a computer and nothing in the way of paperwork, mostly unpaid bills, gave any clue as to where he might go if he needed to make a fast exit. No pictures of family or friends, no letters, nothing. Obviously, there are people working on it.'

‘We should still have a look around,' I told him. ‘I'm very good at finding things that the police have missed.'

‘Are you now?'

‘You might have to swallow your professional pride a bit,' I pointed out.

‘We've worked together before,' he recollected. ‘D'you still wave guns around?'

I gave him the wrong kind of victory sign.

Aware that Patrick had also searched Paul Mallory's flat and despite what I had said, I was not optimistic that we would find anything useful. Carrick told me that the police had had to break in to conduct their search and the front door was now secured with a makeshift padlocked contrivance. Not being in possession of Patrick's ‘burglar's' keys, I asked Lynn Outhwaite for the key, promising to return it shortly. I left James's name unmentioned as understandably, he did not want Campbell to think him interfering. She said she was glad of any additions to the team – but that was not quite what I had in mind.

As Patrick had said, the whole flat was filthy and I did not have to be told that the homes of drug addicts and those who drink suicidal amounts of alcohol usually are. Bearing in mind Carrick's warning about the possible presence of used needles, I wandered into the very large and lofty living room while he tackled the bedrooms.

At one time the decor must have been at the height of modernist chic, in my view out of place in this setting but nevertheless worth looking at – if you were a man and enjoyed more than slightly pornographic posters of women, that is. Stained from having God knows what thrown at them over the years and with tattered edges they bared just about everything, pouting, from all walls. I could imagine Mallory in here, at night, his ‘music' blaring, on his own private death slide into oblivion.

‘Strobe lights, too,' James said, pointing towards the ceiling, having come in when I had been contemplating all this rather than searching for far longer than I ought to have done. ‘I can remember being here one night as I wanted to talk to Mallory in connection with the Mrs Pryce murder case and Cooper was here as well and tried to get me drinking. It was like that scene in
The Ipcress File
where Harry Palmer's tortured with noise and crazy lights and only holds out by sticking a nail in his palm. As it was I threw up when I managed to get away.' He added, ‘I'd been drinking too much already you see. My life seemed over after Catherine died.'

She had been his first wife and had succumbed to a rare form of bone cancer.

Carefully, we went through the contents of a chest of drawers, some open shelving, a brimming wastepaper basket that contained old newspapers and pornographic magazines, empty drinks bottles and the mouldy remains of convenience meals, including used plastic cutlery. Nothing about the man emerged, nothing but what was in front of our eyes in this room: his drug and drink addiction, his music, his obsession with sex.

‘He's destroyed himself,' I whispered when we had come across absolutely nothing to give us a lead as to his whereabouts and had had a quick look at the kitchen. ‘There's nothing left. It's horrible.'

‘I think you'll find it was Cooper who destroyed him,' James said soberly. ‘Shall we go?'

‘Before we do I'd quite like to talk to Miss Braithewaite who lives in the flat upstairs. Or would that be an unpleasant reminder of her unfortunate connection with Mrs Pryce's death?'

‘We parted the best of friends but I really can't see that it'll be of any use,' Carrick replied. ‘And it's not every copper who's had to arrest his English teacher for murder. Thank God it turned out to have been a complete accident.'

‘The Serious Organised Crime Agency again!' exclaimed the lady in response to my introducing myself, having released any number of bolts and chains on her front door in order to open it. ‘Do come in. D'you know Patrick? He finished cleaning my windows for me.'

It did no harm to tell her that he was my husband.

‘Even better. And James, lovely to see you again. I hope you can both stay for a cup of tea.'

She was immaculately dressed in a lilac linen suit and very sprightly for her years, although obviously getting frail, and the contrast between her home and the one below could not have been more stark. Here were cherished antique furniture, faded Chinese rugs, soft watercolours and embroidered pictures of flowers on the walls, the latter perhaps of her own creation.

‘We're looking for Paul Mallory,' Carrick said when we had been presented with our tea in fine bone china cups and I was busy munching on a biscuit, having forgotten all about lunch. ‘And in case, Miss Braithewaite, you're wondering why I'm not wearing my usual suit and tie it's because I've been off work and am not officially on duty again until next week. Ingrid is a friend and I'm giving her a hand.'

‘I had noticed,' said the lady, who had indeed been eyeing his jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. ‘Well, as you know, I had all the floors soundproofed when he started making that ghastly noise but I
can
just hear it sometimes, especially in the summer if the windows are open. I have to say it was lovely and quiet while he was in prison. But over the past few days it's gone completely silent again, which made me think he wasn't there. The police have been asking about him and someone said his car wasn't parked at the back but I don't know – I wouldn't even know which one is his.'