Dark Side (30 page)

‘Perhaps they've gone to the warehouse,' I suggested.

‘They may well have done.'

‘There's no guarantee that he was with them.'

‘No, it could have been any number of resident hookers going off to the local tanning parlour,' was the response I got for that before he called HQ back. Then he made a further call. My mutiny appeared to have been put on hold.

It was dangerous to make a move towards the house as we had no idea who was there and we definitely needed initial reinforcements. As Patrick put it, looking at his watch for the third time in so many minutes, he had no wish to be shot on sight. As it happened, there was little time to wait and very shortly afterwards the Met arrived,
fortissimo
. We gave it around thirty seconds while there was a lot of shouting in the distance and then everything went quiet. Circumstances now being different, I went with Patrick as he headed for the house.

The proceeds of serious crime had bought an extremely desirable property that must have cost in the region of one and a half million pounds. On two floors and possibly dating from the thirties, it was built of red brick and had a more recent L-shaped extension on the ground floor. This consisted of several garages, the doors painted bright red, as was the front door of the house, a row of large plastic butterflies on a wall and some tubs, also plastic, planted with red geraniums. I have never known a crook who had good taste.

‘Flown,' an individual wearing the obligatory designer mack said disgustedly when he saw us. ‘Just a few staff. But we've arrested them anyway as there's obviously some kind of unlicenced use of this place going on.'

‘No, we aren't part of this criminal set-up,' Patrick told him, always annoyed, yes, with lax security, when not asked for some kind of ID. ‘Although for obvious reasons I'm not carrying my warrant card. My wife is, though.'

‘Relax,' said the man. ‘I was told to keep my eyes open for a scruffy-looking tall bloke possibly accompanied by a good-looking lady as they were SOCA.' He grinned. ‘And you didn't make a run for it, did you?'

Someone really clever wouldn't necessarily have done so under the circumstances, was the thought that immediately crossed my mind.

‘I was warned on the way here that a number of vehicles had left this property,' the man went on. ‘Any idea where they might have gone?'

‘No,' Patrick answered. ‘And we're in a hurry. May we have a look at those you've arrested? We're familiar with these people and may be able to put a name to some of them.'

‘Help yourself, mate.' He wandered off, lighting a cigarette.

‘I thought cops like that were only on the telly,' Patrick muttered as we wended our way between a number of vehicles.

The suspects were in a large entrance hall, red carpet, black walls, and just about to be led out, five men and two women. The latter looked like Philippinos and were wearing blue overalls, almost certainly domestic staff. They were extremely upset, crying. One of the men, who had a strong Scottish accent, was protesting that he was only the gardener.

I showed my ID to a woman who appeared to be in charge of this part of the operation and went up to him. ‘Remember me?'

‘No,' he replied, blank-faced.

‘I think you're Dave MacTavish. You were at Jingles on the night my colleague was seriously beaten up. You were one of those who were going to rape me and before that had given your skene dhu to Paul Mallory, which he then used to cut Benny Cooper's throat. Yes?'

He said nothing.

I moved on to the next one, a vision of bloodshot eyes and bad teeth. ‘Ned Freeman?'

‘No, I ain't.'

‘Yes, you damned-well are!' roared the man to his right. ‘I'm buggered if I'm goin' down without you after all the things wot you've done!'

‘It's good to have chums, isn't it?' Patrick said to me out of the corner of his mouth.

‘You're Squinty Baker,' I said to the man who had shouted.

He opened his mouth to speak, looked at Patrick, who I did not glance at but had an idea was emanating extreme malice aforethought, and shut it again.

‘Where have they gone?' Patrick demanded to know.

‘Dunno,' said Squinty, looking nervous.

‘To commit another bank robbery perhaps, or a jewellery raid? Come on, man! Speak!'

‘No, nuffin like that.'

‘A training session, then. All your jobs have been very well organized. A couple of witnesses said they were carried out with almost military precision.'

‘I don't know nuffin abaht it and wasn't there.'

‘It has to be somewhere where you're not required, no doubt on account of your all being as thick as a brick shithouse!' Patrick yelled in his face.

Squinty took a step backwards. ‘It's nuffin to do wiv being thick. Just … well … er … we … don't do guns, that's all.' He looked around wildly at the others. ‘Do we, lads? So don't try and stick that on us!'

‘By that do you mean they've gone off to use weapons? I seem to remember you carrying them in the club that night. Tell the truth!'

‘Er …'

‘I'll ask you again. Have they gone to some kind of training session?'

‘They … er … might have done. But I don't know where so I can't tell you,' Squinty finished by saying triumphantly.

The arresting officers were writing busily against a background noise of regulation shoes tramping all over the house.

‘So you lot are just the beat-em-up mob,' Patrick said cheerfully.

‘Yus.'

‘You stupid cross-eyed arsehole!' bawled Dave, throwing a punch at Squinty before anyone could stop him, which resulted in a fight starting between the two of them. We stood demurely out of range while the officers of the law sorted it out.

‘No further questions,' Patrick said.

The remaining two men did not say anything, just glowered at us, which suggested that they were unlikely to be innocent bystanders. I did not recognize them and neither did Patrick.

‘Right,' he said, turning to leave. ‘There's nothing else for us here.'

I was wondering why he had not been truthful to the man in overall charge and stood aside when he went up to him on the gravelled drive.

‘Any chance of SOCA borrowing a vehicle for a while?' he enquired. ‘We arrived by taxi and I don't want to have to hang around waiting for someone from our department to pick us up.'

‘I do need you both to make a report as to the circumstances of your being here.'

‘Will it be OK if I email you a copy of what I write for Commander Greenway plus adding in all the background info of the case? Only we work directly for him, you see.' This was followed by a smile that would have had Sauron making daisy chains.

‘That would be very useful to me … so perhaps I can accommodate you on that,' the man said slowly and hesitantly. ‘But—'

‘I'll make sure it's returned,' Patrick wheedled.

Amazingly, we were presented with a Land Rover Discovery, perfect for me as I once drove one around half of Wales, mountainous bits and all. Patrick had to have our automatic Range Rover specially adapted with a hand throttle and only drives other cars for short distances if he has to.

Someone's satnav was in the vehicle, just poked into a shelf on the dash. I waved it under Patrick's nose. ‘Do we know where we're going?'

He emerged from strategy wrangling. ‘Oh, sorry, yes. Thameside.'

I had already known that, of course.

‘Ingrid, for the second time in this case we've been incredibly lucky.'

Hadn't I always wanted to drive a police car with sirens wailing and blue lights flashing? Unlike some partners, Patrick made no comment about this. Partly, I think, because I could detect that he now had a sense of real urgency and also the fact that we have both completed several advanced driving courses. However, as we approached Thameside, a large, one-time industrial area by the river that I knew was undergoing complete regeneration, I did not have to be told to slow down and proceed as unobtrusively as it is possible for a police car to be.

‘Thameside East,' Patrick said suddenly, indicating a road sign. ‘The old warehouse is between, but not that close to, a sewage works and the rubbish incinerator you mentioned when you texted me.' He added, ‘I tracked it down yesterday.'

‘There was a notice on it then?' I said. ‘Raptor's training shed?'

‘Bullet holes in the doors.'

‘Oh.'

The housing estates, mostly consisting of high-rise blocks of concrete flats resembling long-departed Clydeside factories, petered out and the traffic thinned. We entered a typical estuary area that at one time must have been a haven for water birds, a place of willows and silence and reed beds. Now, notwithstanding the new roads that appeared to lead nowhere and hopeful and colourful notices proclaiming future plans, it was just a wilderness of demolished buildings and piles of stone and bricks. A few new buildings had been erected and a large area near the river, according to the sign once an old canal basin, had been excavated to make a wild fowl lake and visitor centre, the latter already under construction.

After a mile or so we came to the rubbish incinerator, a massive and hideous building, its chimney belching smoke, admittedly clean-looking. Dustcarts – we had passed several – were constantly going in and out.

‘Drive in,' Patrick said. ‘We can leave the car in that area by the offices reserved for visitors and walk the rest of the way.'

I parked next to a coach that appeared to have brought children on a school trip, then turned to him and said, ‘We seem to be a raiding party of two.'

Patrick shook his head. ‘No.'

I let that go but it still felt all wrong. ‘Your oracle can only utter the usual tedious reservations.'

He leaned over and kissed me. ‘For which I offer grateful thanks plus the promise of a lavish dinner out followed by a night of unremitting passion. Coming?'

A trifle mulishly, I climbed out of the Discovery. I was then required to go into the office, show my warrant card and ask to borrow a couple of hi-viz jackets and hard hats. These were forthcoming after someone went away to raid a cupboard and we put them on. I had already discovered a bar of chocolate that had been with the satnav which we ate there and then. I immediately felt a lot more positive.

Although it had turned into a fine summer's day, the easterly breeze had the chill of the North Sea and brought with it a salty, mudflats smell with a hint of drains, no doubt something to do with the sewage works, which I guessed was the other large building in the distance.

I felt the situation to be utterly surreal, no one's idea of a police operation, nothing of the all-bells-and-whistles-tyres-squealing swoop about it, just a man and a woman walking along a practically deserted road. Patrick had said that in order to deal with this mobster he would have to forget he was a cop. So was it to be him, us, against a warehouse full of armed criminals? I began to feel nervous and for the first time, ever, questioned his judgement.

Our destination was the only standing structure set among several massive heaps of rubble and wood, the result of the demolition of some kind of factory complex. A large rusting water tower lay on its side, the bent and twisted supporting girders of the structure piled on top of it together with other metal components and iron roof beams and pillars. Flocks of pigeons and crows pecked among the wood piles, no doubt finding woodworm and death watch beetle larvae. On seeing us, they flew off.

A short distance away, at the head of the road that led to it, was yet another noticeboard trumpeting the regeneration scheme. Also today there was a suspect Ministry of Defence sign, or one stolen from somewhere, which indicated in large red letters that access was strictly forbidden to the public on account of a military exercise taking place within. The three black vehicles that we had seen were parked close to the warehouse, together with a couple of other cars I did not recognize.

‘The building's windows are blocked up on this side,' Patrick said. ‘But keep your head down and try to walk like a rough sort of bloke in case someone's on watch. We're bods from the demolition company come to eye up the last part of the job, but our truck has broken down along the road.' He chuckled. ‘Demolition. That's the word.'

‘You still taking those antibiotics?' I wondered aloud.

‘When I remember to.'

Perhaps that explained it. But here he was, the boy I had fallen in love with at school and married, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, for the opportunity to take part in a firefight in a derelict warehouse or stay at home and do the ironing. Perhaps I was raving mad.

As we got closer we could hear voices within and what sounded like heavy pieces of furniture or wood being moved around, dragged for short distances and then dropped. There was then a much louder crash followed by angry shouts and an even louder voice telling everyone to shut up. The shifting of wood noises resumed.

Here, the front of the building had several windows high up and, as Patrick had said, they were also boarded up. Below them were two wide arch-shaped entrances with massive wooden double doors, one of which, the farthest from us, had a steel bar across it with industrial standard padlocks at each end. The other, from which we were now about twenty yards, had the remains of the fixings but the bar and padlocks had gone. Both entrances had a single smaller door set into the one on the right-hand side, which now, I thought, surely would be locked from the inside.

Patrick jerked his thumb to the right and, moving as quietly as possible, we made our way around the corner of the warehouse and walked towards the rear. There was not a lot to see when we arrived, more piles of bricks and stone, two of baulks of timber and more birds hunting for food, ripping out pieces of rotten woods. They also flew off. An old van was parked across a rear door, just the one here but identical to those at the front.