Deep Cover (15 page)

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.'