Rat Poison (26 page)

‘Positive. I recognize the registration.'

He rubbed his hands together. ‘Progress! I'll get someone to go round to where she lives right away.'

‘She won't be there,' Greenway said quietly, as if to himself. ‘Along with quite a few others I'm guessing she was loaded into a car, stoned out of her stupid noddle, and taken off God knows where.'

He was quite correct, as far as the first conjecture went anyway. Not only that, the Ring o' Bells was closed, barred and bolted and had been since lunchtime opening the previous day.

SEVENTEEN

A
gain, I was drawn to that room where Patrick had begun his watch. The two members of the firearms unit had gone, thankfully, so I was on my own and Carrick had given me the key to the padlock on the gateway to secure when I left. Like someone who lingers at a place where someone they love has been killed, I stood there almost trying to communicate with him. Endeavouring to ignore my conviction that he was dead or captured, I tried to think the way he thought. I had known him long enough so I thought it possible.

Events had become personal with his children and now his parents involved. I already knew how dangerous this could become for those who meddled with his family. Just about every man who has laid hands on me during the course of our professional life together has ended up dead. Now, though, his priority would be to arrest Uncle and his gang, not go gunning for them because he was bound by the obvious restrictions of his job and the need to stay out of prison. But he would also seek to sear into their minds for ever that you don't mess with Patrick Gillard.

My gaze lifted to the house over the road. Perhaps my writer's imagination kicked in then as I suddenly saw it in the very early hours of the morning, in darkness, the street lights in the suburbs now switched off between midnight and five a.m. to save money. The door was open, the light streaming out, people staggering about, some laughing and shrieking, others reeling outside to vomit: there had been plenty of evidence of that on the parking area and in the back garden. Others would have collapsed completely, sleeping it off, both inside and out. Those who had drunk less who were still on their feet and behaving comparatively normally would nevertheless have had their thinking processes seriously impaired, never mind being well over the limit as far as driving was concerned. And yet according to Carrick when I had asked him just before I left, four or five cars had been parked there in the days previously, of which Carol Trelonic's was, as might be expected, not one. Last night others had probably been parked in the road.

They had brought their party forward by one day. Why? For the hell of it or did they know the police were on to them? Or had they just been sitting around with nothing to do looking at all that booze stacked up in the house, made the decision and phoned everyone who was nearby? Mick the Kick had missed out for one. I made a mental note to remind James to have a suitable reception waiting for him when he turned up at ten tonight.

When I factored in Patrick's ability to make instant decisions instilled by military training, his impatience to make something
happen
and a burning desire to get Uncle and his cohorts behind bars for a very long time, a picture began to emerge. When he had seen what was taking place and with no time to tell anyone he had gone over there, helped those too drunk to recognize him in the gloom load the others into cars, stoned out of their stupid noddles, and been taken off God knows where. On the journey when there would have been an inevitable stop to allow people to urinate in a lay-by or behind a bush, or vomit, take your pick, I hoped he had reduced the competition a little by shoving a couple of them into a deep ditch, preferably Colin Andrews and Carol Trelonic as they would be the first to recognize him.

Was I fondly creating myths to avoid facing the truth? And more practically, had Carrick arranged for any house-to-house enquiries at the neighbouring properties on both sides of the road in an effort to find out if anyone had seen what had occurred? I thought perhaps not as, for one reason or another, the gang had gone, end of story. If so and he had not there was no reason for my getting angry about it as Patrick has always been a maverick with a reputation for having an almost uncanny knack of being able to look after himself. Greenway and Carrick thought him in no real danger. I myself had said as much, soothing their worries by painting a vivid picture of him emerging triumphant having used subversive methods, flirting with Murphy even. Then I remembered Lynn Outhwaite had said she might be a lesbian.

For several moments I hated myself.

Desperate for clues I minutely searched the room but found nothing.

‘Oh, no, I'm afraid I didn't hear a thing,' said the woman. ‘My bedroom's at the back and my husband's as deaf as a post when he takes his hearing aid out. You say there was some kind of wild party? Well, it wasn't us who complained about it, but you could try Mrs Masters over the road at The Coppice. She snoops on everyone and complains about everything.'

I thanked her. This was my last call at the dozen or so houses nearby and nobody had witnessed anything that had gone on overnight at the house in question. I had already visited The Coppice
and without my being able to get a word in edgeways Mrs-silly-old-bat-Masters had moaned about her neighbours, all of them, low-flying planes, stray dogs and the youths hanging around in the city centre, finishing up by shrieking, ‘What are you police going to do about that, hey? And here you are asking about
parties
!'

Slam.

In a state of complete indecision I went home, needing space to think away from the nick. Taking a slight detour around the village I drove slowly past the Ring o' Bells. There was no sign of life other than a couple of ancient worthies standing, baffled, by the main door, obviously wondering why it was not open.

‘The pub's closed,' was the first thing Elspeth said to me. ‘And yet it seemed to be doing so well.'

This was not just a passing comment as, rare these days, it belongs to the parish and was originally constructed, a much smaller building now incorporated into the present one, as a hostel and meeting place for the masons who built the church.

‘Patrick was asking questions about it recently,' she went on, hopefully.

‘There are  . . . questions,' I said. ‘Have you seen Colin Andrews since it closed?'

‘No. People are worried that he's gone off with the Christmas Club money.'

‘Why should they think that?'

‘People have turned against him since he insisted on Matthew being charged and threw you all out of the pub that night. Ingrid, I have an idea you know quite a lot about all this. Why are these people doing this to us?'

‘In top notch confidence, because they're crooks.'

‘Oh! Thank you, I feel much better now. Is Patrick with you?'

‘No, he's still on the job.'

In view of the fact that the weight of at least two police forces and SOCA were involved in hunting down these mobsters I thought it best to stay where I was for the present and poach as much intelligence as I could rather than head off blindly with no real plan. Not only that, our working rule is that should one partner be off the map with no obvious leads as to their whereabouts then the other should sit tight with responsibility for the children in mind. This was horribly difficult and actually weighted against me as Patrick would move hell and Birmingham New Street Station, which amounts to the same thing, to find me should I be the missing one. But as he always infuriatingly says, ‘You're a
mother
.'

Mother then checked over and loaded her Smith and Wesson and generally kept her powder dry, all the while agonizing about what might be happening to him.

Looking for something in my bag I came across the piece of paper with Mick the Kick's email address and phone number on it that I had forgotten to destroy after making a note of it somewhere more secure. I screwed it up and then, slowly, an idea forming, smoothed it out again. It was an outrageous idea and I sat thinking about it for a full ten minutes, torn first one way and then the other. Yes, or no?

I rang the number, not for one moment expecting him to answer. But he did, in an eager fashion that suggested he had been waiting for a call from someone else.

‘It's Ingrid,' I said. ‘You know, we came to see you on the boat in Plymouth.'

‘I know who you are, darlin',' he replied warily. ‘Who gave you this number?'

‘Cookson, he fancies me.'

There was a dirty chuckle.

‘My husband's disappeared and has probably been taken off by Uncle's mob. In exchange for one piece of news that might have saved your life and another that is also to your advantage I want you to tell me all you know about Uncle's, Brad Northwood's, or Warren de la Frey's, as he's calling himself now, hideaways.'

‘Darlin', I don't know anythin' about that bastard's—' he began to protest.

‘You must do. You have to know everything in this game to survive. This man was hoping to take over Bath – Charlie Gill told you that and said the man had bragged to him about how successful he was. What else did he tell you to gain your confidence, to make you believe him so you'd walk into a trap?'

‘What's this piece of news that
might
have
saved my life? Why
might
?'

‘Circumstances have changed. I'll explain if you tell me what I want to know.'

‘I already knew he had a place in Hammersmith before Charlie told me.'

‘Even the police knew about that. He and Murphy have gone.'

‘And before that, when he wasn't in the slammer, he lived somewhere in East Ham. He was Fred Gibbons then – that's his real name.'

‘I know all about that too. Come on, I said hideaways, not houses.'

‘Look, sorry darlin', that's all I know.'

After leaving a long pause I said, ‘OK, have a nice time at the party tonight.'

I instantly got the impression that the person on the other end of the phone had frozen solid.

‘As you've probably realized, Patrick's a maverick cop,' I went on. ‘He hears things from gold-plated, unofficial sources not usually available to the police.' I was almost wishing Matthew could overhear this conversation after the work he had done.

‘It was another trap?' Mick's voice had come out as a sort of squeak.

‘Too right. The invitation came from Uncle, not your one-time partner.'

‘The bugger's still watching me then.'

‘Looks like it.'

There was a long silence and I asked him if he was still there.

‘Yes. God  . . . I'm gutted. That's not good.'

‘Hideaways,' I prompted.

‘And then you'll tell me the other bit?'

‘I will. But if you don't give me all you know I'll make sure Patrick finishes breaking your neck when I do find him.' This was the longest of shots but  . . .

‘No, no, no,' he keened. ‘Uncle'll do it first.'

‘Look, he won't know it was you who told me! Come on!'

‘There's an old farm,' Mick mumbled, after another silence. ‘A big house as well, all a bit ruined and he's got this plan to turn it into a sort of hotel-cum-conference centre and wedding venue, really posh, and attract all kind of punters with masses of loot. You know, footballers and their latest tarts, TV celebs, posers, that kind of bod.'

‘Where is this place?'

‘Charlie just said it was in the countryside.'

‘A farm's bound to be in the countryside!' I raved at him.

‘Near the downs.'

‘North Downs? South Downs?
What
?'

‘Honest—'

‘You don't know what the word
means
!' I bawled at him.

‘You'll really tell me something worthwhile? It's not just a come-on?'

‘I promise.'

‘It's near  . . . Horsham  . . . er, yeah, that's it, Horsham, in Sussex. That's all I know, hon— Really.'

‘OK. For some reason they had the party last night. If you'd gone tonight the police would have been waiting to arrest you.'

After saying, ‘Jeez. Thanks. You're a real star,' he rang off.

I wondered whether I ought to write my resignation letter to SOCA there and then but decided to confess to Michael Greenway personally instead.

I learned from James Carrick that as the commander was not involved with the ongoing search and investigation at the Avonhill house he had returned to his hotel where, a little later, I phoned him from the reception. He said he had been just about to contact me and would be straight down. This did stretch to fifteen minutes but as his hair was still damp when he arrived I could easily excuse a quick shower.

‘I've done the unforgivable,' I said.

He glanced at his watch. ‘The sun's well over the yardarm so a drink is called for.' He then chivvied me into the nearby bar where he bought me a G&T.

‘What?' he asked, having taken a sip from his tot of whisky.

‘Given information to a criminal that will save him from being arrested.'

‘What, that little Bristol shit? But it's only a matter of time before Cookson gets him, isn't it?'

‘I hadn't realized Patrick had told you about him.'

‘Yes, he did. Did he give you anything in exchange?'

‘That Uncle has bought a run-down rural property that he wants to turn into an upmarket country house hotel and conference centre, etc., to relieve the rich of their cash.'

‘Sounds normal. Where is it?'

‘Somewhere in the Sussex Weald near Horsham. He said he didn't know any more.'

‘Did you believe that bit?'

‘No.'

Greenway sat back in his armchair and went off into a world of his own. I knew better than to interrupt. Finally, he said, ‘I don't like it that we haven't heard from Patrick.'