Rat Poison (2 page)

There was a tap at the door and Patrick put his head around it. He was having a few days' leave.

‘Husbands and paramours don't have to knock,' I told him.

He came right in, grinning. ‘Well, it's true that you haven't yet actually thrown anything at me when I interrupt you  . . . Seriously, I came to tell you that I rang Greenway and he doesn't want us to get involved in the turf war. He's got something else he wants me to do next week.'

Commander Michael Greenway, who came to SOCA from the Metropolitan Police, is Patrick's boss.

‘Fair enough. I'm sure James and his team can handle it.'

‘We
are
right on the doorstep,' Patrick said.

‘Yes, but surely SOCA can't just barge in. Oh, by the way, Matthew's going to ask you to teach him some self-defence moves.'

‘It would be better if he went to judo classes.'

‘I think he wants to do that too. But James has let it slip that you're pretty good at defending yourself.'

‘He's not old enough or strong enough for me to teach him the kind of things I know. The first lesson people have to learn is self-control. That takes maturity – when he's at least eighteen. Why, though? Is he being bullied at school?'

‘I asked him that and he said no. It's just that he admires you hugely and yearns to be just a little bit more like you. Surely you could teach him a few basic moves in case someone tries to mug him.'

‘OK, I'll give it some thought.'

He went over to stand by the window for a moment and then turned. There were grass cuttings on his clothes and in his hair which, wavy, black and greying, was, as usual, needing a trim. I never nag about this; I love the way it curls down on to his neck. I love everything about him: his slim grace, the wiriness of his body, the grey mesmeric eyes  . . .

‘You're looking at me in a funny way,' he said, his mouth twitching with amusement.

‘I fancy you, that's all.'

Not being remotely slow in such matters he had, of course, been fully aware of this.

I was just beginning to wonder about the possibilities of locking the door and closing the curtains when my mobile rang.

‘We were talking about you not two minutes ago,' I said on hearing a familiar Scottish voice.

‘There's an interesting development with my latest case that you might be able to help me with,' James Carrick said. ‘I did try to ring Patrick but just got the messaging service.'

‘He's been mowing the lawn so wouldn't have heard it,' I said. ‘D'you want to come over this evening?'

‘Shall I meet you in the Ring o' Bells at eight? I could do with a dram.'

‘One good thing,' Carrick began by saying, ‘is that you get a hell of a lot of resources thrown at crimes like this that up until now you'd been led to believe didn't exist.'

Patrick placed a tot of the DCI's favourite single malt before him. ‘Have you eaten?'

Carrick shook his head. ‘No. Joanna's gone to a show and is staying with a friend tonight. I'll fix myself something when I get home.'

‘Steak and chips?'

‘Look, you mustn't bother to—'

‘Man, you look done in.'

‘OK. Thanks. But I'll pay.'

‘You won't.'

We did not want to badger him with questions until he had refuelled but he told us while he waited for his meal that the identity of one of the dead and presumed innocent pedestrians was proving to be interesting – to the investigating officer, that is.

‘He's got form,' Carrick explained. ‘GBH, handling stolen goods and fraud in connection with claiming unemployment benefit when he had a job with a false identity. He's from round here, Hinton Littlemoor. I was wondering if you or the rector and his wife knew anything about him – although I realize, Patrick, that your father has to be discreet.'

We were seated in a quiet corner of the village pub so there was no risk of being overheard if we kept our voices down.

‘And this man's name?' Patrick asked.

‘Adam Trelonic – although, as I said, he's used another.'

‘He sells, or should I say sold, logs,' I said. ‘Drove a red pick-up. I think we've bought wood from him. I have an idea his wife works as a home help.'

‘She does,' Carrick confirmed. ‘And quite often behind the bar at this pub, especially when the regular staff are off sick or on holiday. They live at a one-time miner's cottage up the hill at the far end of the village. I really need to know whether he was part of one of these criminal set-ups. His wife's very insistent that he wasn't – apparently she flew right off the handle when the subject was broached but doesn't seem too bothered that he's dead – and is saying she hasn't a clue why he was in the city last night. D'you know anything else about these people?'

We did not.

‘Was he armed when found?' Patrick wanted to know.

‘No, but if he had been someone might have taken a weapon off him.'

‘Where was his body discovered?'

‘In the bus station. Which, as you know, is just around the corner from where the final part of the action seems to have taken place.'

‘Perhaps he wasn't involved with the shootings and was heading for the last bus – that's at around eleven thirty – missed it and thus got himself killed.'

‘It's a possibility,' Carrick said. ‘The wounded passer-by, a woman who works in a restaurant and was on her way home, was found near there, in Southgate, and had been going in the direction of the subway under the railway line. She lives in Wells Road and was walking home. She's under guard in hospital and is not seriously hurt so I shall talk to her as soon as the medics say I can. That means we have two potential witnesses when I can find the homeless man who spoke to the crew of the area car who arrived first on the scene.'

‘And the other innocent person killed?' I prompted.

‘A stage hand at the theatre. He lived in a flat over a shop at Bog Island.'

This is a sort of roundabout that used to have a public convenience in the middle of it not far from the Orange Grove.

Carrick added, a hard edge to his voice, ‘His body had been thrown into a skip outside a hotel that's being renovated, again close to the railway station.'

‘So you have three deceased known local-ish hoodlums, plus two missing wounded and two who so far have not been identified,' Patrick said.

‘That's right. And by local, we mean Bristol. Then there's the additional two found in Abbey Churchyard who are unknown to us at present. That might be because they've never been in trouble before.'

‘No means of identification on the bodies?'

‘Not on those two. They were the ones who had been mutilated.'

‘Are you thinking then they were probably members of the gang trying to move into the area?'

‘Yes, I am. And also that the Bristol lot are planning to extend their manor to Bath too. Hence the war. There have been rumours going around for a while along the lines of a London mob joining forces with a Bath outfit to see off a Bristol gang. Nothing concrete, but now it's happened.'

‘Would you like me to run the physical details of these unknown bods through SOCA's database?' Patrick offered.

‘No, it's OK. I'm sure I can get all the info I need.'

When the DCI had eaten we invited him home.

‘Lovely to see you, James,' exclaimed Elspeth, Patrick's mother. I think she is very much taken with his blond hair and blue eyes. ‘Are you staying for coffee or is Patrick planning to cart you off and ply you with whisky?'

He shook his head. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gillard but no, I dare not drink alcohol as I have to keep my head on my shoulders for tomorrow. Coffee would be most welcome, though.'

‘Is it local intelligence you might be after?' John queried when we had all settled in the main living room of the rectory to give everyone more room.

‘You might be able to help me in connection with one of the deaths last night, sir.'

‘Adam Trelonic?'

The DCI's eyebrows rose.

‘The village grapevine's hot with it,' John said. ‘But my assistance has to be limited as I didn't know the man personally – he never came to church.'

‘Does his wife?'

‘Yes, sometimes.'

‘What does the grapevine have to say about him?'

The rector hesitated, then said, ‘I gather that he was a bad sort and tried to make up for his lack of wits by being a foul-mouthed bully. This is information given to me by people I know and respect, not gossip.'

‘The sort of man then who might have been involved in serious organized crime?'

‘Possibly, but I should imagine only as some kind of paid bruiser. But as I said, I hardly knew the man. I have an idea we bought logs off him a few times. He'd do that during the winter months and odd jobs for people during the rest of the year.'

Elspeth said, ‘It's been rumoured that he did work for people, eyed up their houses and sold any interesting information to cronies who were in the burglary business, especially if the householders were old, frail and had some nice antiques.'

‘That
is
gossip,' her husband remonstrated.

‘But a couple of houses where he'd worked
were
broken into,' she insisted.

‘There's no proof he was connected with it though, my dear.'

‘It's nevertheless a good idea for me to keep it in mind,' Carrick observed.

‘His wife's a lot younger than him.' Elspeth went on stubbornly. ‘One of those women who set my teeth on edge.'

‘Why's that?' Carrick asked.

But she shook her head, refusing to be drawn.

I knew that Patrick was desperate to get involved with the case but authority in the shape of Commander Greenway decreed otherwise and the one-time member of MI5 dutifully caught an early train for London on Monday morning. What he might do on his weekends off if Carrick needed help – and that proud Scot would need to be even more desperate before he would ask, a little night-time undercover assistance notwithstanding – was another matter. I decided to concentrate on family matters and finishing the proofreading.

I have often wondered if other writers feel as I do: a kind of loss when they have completed a novel and then drift in a state of limbo even when involved with the editorial aftermath. There is a large full stop at the end of the previous work and any future story merely a few vague ideas floating around in the imagination. What if  . . .
nothing happens
? No ideas. No story. No bloody nothing.

Horrors.

It is hard work with such a large family to keep closely in touch with them all even though I'm only involved part-time with SOCA and usually at home, writing, for weeks on end. Carrie is only directly responsible for the three youngest children so I have to ensure that Matthew and Katie are well looked after and do not feel out of things and here, of course, their grandparents are invaluable.

‘Those two seem to spend a lot of time rummaging around the district and don't seem prepared to tell you what they're up to,' Elspeth said that same Monday morning when they had left to catch the school bus. ‘I get a bit worried when children become secretive.'

‘They have a mystery-solving enterprise,' I told her. ‘Perhaps it's in connection with that.'

A successful one too. Not all that long ago they traced a fly-tipper by carefully going through rubbish dumped in a lane and found the same name and address, someone local, on several old letters and junk mail. This resulted in their uncle taking it all back and leaving it on the culprit's doorstep with a terse note, adding some other stuff, tyres and bits of carpet, he had found in the vicinity for good measure. At around the same time they had taken the registration of a car and noted the description of the driver who had parked at the top of the village on several occasions and appeared to be undertaking covert surveillance. This had had a direct bearing on something we had been working on for SOCA at the time. There were other ‘cases', I gathered, in the pipeline.

‘You might need to have a word with them,' Elspeth persevered. ‘They could be up to something that'll get them into trouble.'

‘You're really concerned then.'

‘Yes, I am.'

I knew Elspeth also disapproved of the time Matthew spent with his beloved computer, thinking he ought to be out in the fresh air more, and was inclined to agree with her. But this time I thought she was worrying about nothing.

TWO

I
f DS Lynn Outhwaite, Carrick's assistant, had not shortly afterwards been taken out to dinner to the most highly regarded restaurant in Bath by her boyfriend as a surprise birthday treat, then SOCA might never have become involved in the investigation, or at least, not until things had become very much worse. As it was she recognized another diner, somehow restrained her burning desire to arrest him on the spot and, when she and her boyfriend were leaving, the other party having already departed, produced her warrant card and demanded to know if there were any contact phone numbers. She was given two.

‘You even carry your warrant card in your evening bag?' asked her boss the next morning, in receipt of the information.

‘Yes, I do,' Lynn, petite, dark-haired and clever, replied.

‘And if I say something like “Attagirl!” right now I suppose I'll be branded non-politically correct and sexist.'

‘No, not at all, sir. As long as it's OK for me to say, “Attabloke!” when you do something that shows initiative.'

‘She's a real star,' Carrick said fervently, relaying this conversation to us a few days later, a Saturday morning, when we met in the street in Bath. ‘And she saw – if she's right, and why shouldn't she be? – one of the most serious organized criminals in Britain, the man the London criminal underworld refers to with the blackest of humour as “Uncle”.'