Snatched From Home: What Would You Do To Save Your Children? (DI Harry Evans Book 1) (9 page)

Yet Evans loved this building and all that it stood for. Its grandeur gave a sense of stability. Like him, it had seen better days, but it still remained standing, weathering the elements, surviving winter storms and summer heatwaves. A sense of affinity washed over him whenever he walked into Carleton Hall.

A subdued Drewitt returned to his seat. Pulling a comb from his pocket he straightened his already straight comb-over. The action reinforced the truism that only balding men with comb-overs carry a comb.

Evans set to with his questions and had the poor Mr Drewitt sweating in a matter of minutes, as he peppered him with questions about travelling salesmen, draymen and any other Euston Vintners employees such as himself or repairmen who visited the affected premises.

Campbell observed in silence as the questions and answers flew across the Formica-topped table. Drewitt’s comb-over slipped forward every few time his head moved. At one point when he was too flustered to replace it, Evans reached across the table and relocated the errant hairs, forcing spluttered thanks from the now shaking Drewitt.

‘Thank your time, sir. Your answers have been most helpful.’ Evans ended the meeting by rising from his chair and exiting the room without a farewell.

Just as Evans had expected, the interview with Drewitt had produced no solid leads, but it narrowed their options further, as none of the employees from the company had worked with either of the two other suppliers they had already talked to.

When they were back in the M3 and heading towards Kendal, they discussed the interview they’d just done. Both men agreed Euston Vintners employees would top their suspect list. The Vaults got their beer from a different supplier and their draymen had been regulars on the run for years.

Evans turned down the police radio and switched on the CD player. Singing along with more enthusiasm than ability to most of the tracks, he skipped backwards and forwards between his favourites.

Campbell busied himself looking through the CD collection in the tiny glove box. When the track finished he reached over and turned the volume down to a background level.

‘Have you not got any music that was recorded after ’95? Everything in here is ancient. Have you never heard of Snow Patrol, Muse or Biffy Clyro?’

‘You can’t beat hair rock. Every one of those bands lived the full rock and roll dream and they have the sound to prove it. You know when a band has the right rock and roll ethos when one of them dies a proper rock and roll death.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Name any band there.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

‘Sweet then.

‘Brian Connolly, died of liver failure due to drinking himself to death.’

‘INXS?’

‘Michael Hutchence, died of suspected auto-erotic asphyxiation while shagging someone who has never been named. Next.’

‘The Who?’

‘John Entwhistle, a cocaine-induced heart attack on top of a prostitute in Vegas. That must be the ultimate rock and roll death. Keith Moon died after overdosing on pills to combat alcoholism.’

‘Guns N’ Roses.’

‘Slash was unresponsive to paramedic’s efforts to bring him back to life for seven minutes after a heroin overdose. Steven Tyler, the original drummer, was little more than a vegetable for years because all the drugs he took. Next.’

‘The Stones.’

‘Brian Jones, found face down in his swimming pool.’

‘Hang on then, why is there a Beatles CD in here? Are you gonna try and tell me that McCartney realised what was missing and had Lennon shot?’

‘Don’t be an imbecile. McCartney would never have done that. Lennon made him and he knew it. That’s why he kept trying to re-unite the partnership. It was Ringo who paid Mark Chapman. He never forgave Lennon for the drummers comment.’

‘What drummers comment?’

‘Lennon was asked in an interview, if there were better drummers in the world than Ringo. His answer was “There are better drummers in the Beatles”.’

Campbell could not contain his laughter. ‘I bet you believe in Roswell, the sniper on the grassy knoll, the moon landings being a propaganda hoax and Prince Philip being behind the death of Princess Di.’

The rows of numbers had never made less sense to Victoria. Normally they spoke to her, told her of inconsistencies, highlighting errors as they informed her of mistakes, omissions and misdemeanours.

Now all they did was mock her. Rows and columns of figures staring back at her. Mute, yet insistent: ‘How are you going to save them? Do you really believe you’ll get the money in time? If you don’t raise the money, how are you ever going to look Samantha and Kyle in the eye again?’

Tears filled bloodshot eyes without seeking escape. Another night had been spent tossing and turning. Restless, she had wandered between Samantha’s and Kyle’s bedrooms. Held their toys. Deep breaths had drawn their scent from crumpled pillows into eager nostrils.

Only when she held her children in her arms unharmed would Victoria be able to relax enough to rest properly.

A blonde head poked round the scuffed door. ‘D’you want a cuppa?’

Forcing her voice to sound as normal as possible, Victoria asked for a cup of tea. The interruption distracted her from her woes long enough to allow Victoria to pull herself into a vague semblance of her normal businesslike self.

Focusing her eyes back on the columns, she could here tiny murmurs from the numbers. She hadn’t wanted to work today but knew she had to. Every penny mattered and if she didn’t work, she didn’t get paid. There was also the fact she needed information from work. Without it she couldn’t progress her scheme to raise the ransom money to the next level.

‘There you go.’ Sally put the cup down and took a look at Victoria. ‘Are you OK? You look terrible, if you don’t mind me saying.’

A lie fell from Victoria’s lips without her even thinking of it. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night; my tummy was off. I’m feeling better today, though. If I get a good night’s sleep tonight, I’ll be fine tomorrow.’

Victoria turned her back on Sally, trying to drive thoughts of her children from her mind. She needed to rush through the mundane daily tasks so that she could do the more important research later. What she learned today could complete or destroy her plans altogether.

Campbell and Evans reached the offices of Peters, Waugh and Beckett which overlooked the river Kent. As they were twenty minutes early for their appointment, Evans headed for the nearest pub – the Ring O’ Chimes, a dilapidated dive with scratched tables and bench seating that was moulting upholstery – and ordered them each a quick pint and a brandy as it was cold outside. Campbell ignored his comment, as it was another warm spring day. He found them a table which appeared to have last been wiped sometime around the Queen’s coronation.

Campbell sipped at his pint and, when Evans went to the toilet, fed his brandy to a potted plant. The tired plant looked more desperate for a drink than any alcoholic he’d ever met.

Evans returned from the gents and set about persuading the barman to spill the beans on a few of the shady deals which took place in the pub and who was doing them. He ordered another round and dropped a £50 note onto the bar telling the barman to keep the change.

As they walked round the corner to the offices of the accountants, Evans was whistling a tuneless riff.

Ending the tune, he passed Campbell a piece of paper with a name and telephone number on it. ‘That’s another snout on our books. I suggest you become a regular in there. You’ve done undercover work before.’

‘I moved here to get away from that stuff.’ Campbell cursed himself for admitting his undercover past.

‘I’ve read your file. You were undercover for years in Glasgow. All you have to do here is drop in a few times over the next week or two, have a few pints and keep your ear to the ground.’

‘No way. It’s not gonna happen. And how the hell did you read my file? It’s confidential information.’

‘Chisholm got it for me.’ Upon hearing the computer geek’s name, Campbell realised Evans could get whatever he wanted. Processing this information, he acknowledged to himself the team were as cavalier in their attitude to rules as Evans, who conducted their behaviour like an errant ringmaster.

‘With my accent they’ll never take to me. It’s a non-starter.’

‘I’ll get Mikey to introduce you as his wife’s cousin. He’ll be able to get you into the crowd who are pushing most of the drugs in Kendal.’

‘Why’s he doing that? Surely a few quid from the CHIS fund is not gonna make him take the risk of grassing up a drug dealer. You know what happens to grasses; if he introduces me, then he is putting himself right in the firing line.’

‘He’s pissed off at the way he is being treated in there. The main dealer has a share in the pub and treats it like his own fiefdom. All he wants is a few hundred quid so he can piss off back to London. You’re supposed to be the undercover hotshot, so it will be up to you to get the dirt on the dealer so we can nick the bastard.’

‘You are going to set up a whole undercover op based on what a guy has told you in the pub?’

‘No, of course not. Don’t be a dickhead. You are going in for a few beers a coupla times a week and Mikey will tell the dealer you want some charlie. You buy some a couple of times, and then you’ll say that the quality is good and you want to buy bulk so you can sell it on in Glasgow if the price is right. Your main supplier has been taken out by rival firms and this has created a space you can fill. He’ll want the trade and the profit that goes with it. You will seem safe ’cause he thinks he owns the barman.’

‘No way. My wife is due to give birth any day now, and I don’t want to be sixty miles away half-cut, doing drug deals.’

‘Don’t give me that shite; you only left the undercover squad ’cause your card was seriously marked. You’re forgetting I’ve read your file and know everything about what happened.’

‘Leave it. It’s a long story and one I’m not proud of, needless to say that what’s in the file is only the tip of the iceberg.’

‘Sounds about right.’

‘Since then I’ve had to work my arse off to get myself back up to DI. Ten years’ worth of promotions were wiped out because of one error of judgement.’

Evans considered what the younger man was saying and worked out that while Campbell had made a mistake, there was probably a senior officer equally culpable who had covered his own misdeeds by blaming Campbell. Shit always rolled downhill in hierarchal organisations.

‘How the hell did you get this gig then?’

‘Hard work and some good results. My HR file says I’ll never rise above DI, but as DI jobs go this is a good one, as you well know.’

‘That it is, lad. That it is.’ Evans drained his glass and met Campbell’s eye. ‘So after all your sanctimonious preaching yesterday, you’re telling me that you’re just as liberal with the rules as I am?’

Campbell shook his head. ‘No way. I don’t treat the law or the public the way you do. I made one mistake and was hung out to dry, while my DCI wriggled off the hook.’

‘Aye, but you’re not lily-white either, so stop preaching to me and let me do things my way until they get rid of me and then you can do whatever the hell you like.’

Before Evans could probe further into his past, Campbell made a suggestion: ‘C’mon, let’s go visit this Peters guy, see what he has to say for himself.’

They walked along Highgate towards the accountant’s offices without speaking. Once again Campbell was amazed at the number of people who greeted Evans, or were on the receiving end of a comment from him about their welfare or that of a family member. What should have been a five-minute walk took closer to twenty due to the number of people he spoke to.

Campbell spent the time waiting for Evans assessing the area. Driving in, he’d seen signs for Kendal College, which accounted for the high number of obvious students walking back and forth from the town centre. The shops lining Highgate were an eclectic mix of local services, tourist traps and student Meccas. A newsagent was wedged between a clairvoyant’s and a trophy shop.

A series of gate-style doors were located at various points along the terrace, one was open giving him a glimpse of an alleyway leading to a row of houses. Judging by the proximity of the doors, these houses would be tiny student dwellings.

Across the street a pub was boarded up, fine steel mesh protecting the windows. Scaffolding adorned a section of pavement where a building was being renovated.

The river Kent flowed past, its banks edged with retaining walls built from blue Lakeland stone.

The office of Peters, Waugh and Beckett was located above an antiques shop overlooking the river Kent. A brass plaque bearing the company name adorned the wall beside an open door leading to a narrow staircase.

Campbell went first and at the top of the stairs was met by a chest-high reception desk on the first floor. While the decor was fresh, the space was without any vestiges of a personal touch. A functional area clean and tidy in appearance, but cold and unwelcoming in atmosphere. A vase of golden daffodils adorned the counter, testimony to someone’s attempt to imbue blandness with a little character.

‘We are here to see Mr Peters.’ Evans leaned over the desk to get a better look at the ample cleavage on display as he flashed his warrant card to the young receptionist.

‘He was expecting you half an hour ago.’ There was no warmth in her voice as she spoke. Campbell wondered if she’d been trained as a doctor’s receptionist.

‘Police business, love. Now give him a bell to tell him we’re here and tell us which room he’s in.’

‘He said to send you straight through when you got here. His room is the one at the bottom of the corridor with Mr Peters on the door.’ She picked a well-thumbed magazine off the desk and used it block Evans’s gaze.

‘Thank you. You have been most kind and may I say that that blouse really suits you.’ Evans’s sudden charm lowered the girl’s defences making his parting shot easier to aim. ‘It draws the eye from the face.’

Campbell only just managed to keep his face straight as the girl looked to him for support, but he looked away, unwilling to challenge Evans in front of her.

Peters’s door was open and he was busy with a large account ledger under a framed picture of Ullswater. Campbell judged the painting to be an original, although the signature in the bottom corner was illegible, he guessed it would belong to a local artist.

‘Good morning, officers, can I get you anything to drink?’ Peters rose from his desk to greet them.

Peters had the bookish air of one who spends most of his time indoors poring over documents of one kind or another. His frizzy hair was only evident at the sides of his head and was overdue a trim by at least six months. He wore no jacket and his shirtsleeves were held in place by an expensive pair of cufflinks, his top button behind the red, spotted bow tie was fastened, despite the room’s high temperature.

Lined along the back wall with military precision was a series of certificates. Every other wall space held filing cabinets, bundles of invoices, statements and general office accounts. The aged desk was strewn with paperwork; a laptop was perched on one side, with the ubiquitous family photo balancing precariously on the other.

‘I’ll have a whisky, please, and DI Campbell here will have a coffee, thank you very much.’

Campbell said nothing, as a coffee was exactly what he needed. The two pints he’d laid onto an empty stomach were affecting him rather more than they should. He couldn’t begin to guess as to the effect Evans was feeling as he’d had two brandies as well.

Peters picked up his phone and asked someone called Michelle to fetch some coffee. He rose from his chair and poured a small measure of whisky for Evans and a larger one for himself.

‘What we need to know is whether you or any your staff have visited certain licensed premises over the last three months. In a professional capacity that is.’ Campbell started the interview, hoping the Michelle who was asked to bring coffee wasn’t the receptionist Evans had insulted.

‘That should be easy to find out from our records.’ Peters reached for his computer. ‘Which premises are we talking about?’

After Evans listed the premises, Peters admitted that he took care of the Black Horse and Beenies personally and a colleague did the accounts for Jumpers.

‘What about the Vaults in Carlisle?’ Campbell wanted to know if the firm also represented the latest victim.

‘Not one of ours, I’m afraid.’

‘Do you regularly visit your clients?’

‘It’s preferable when collecting accounts as there’s always something they forget, but I haven’t personally collected accounts since some of your colleagues relieved me of my license a couple of years ago. I prefer customers to come to me anyway.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because most people try and hide things from their accountant, which we inevitably find. This often leads to confrontation and I prefer having the home advantage. Also it means that if a member of staff has been stealing from them, they have a cooling off period before they confront the staff member. This can save unnecessary violence.’

Throwing a look towards Evans that he was ready to go, Campbell stood, thanking Peters for his time and information.

Evans was nursing his whisky with an uncommon slowness, but he got the message, drained his glass and hauled himself out of the chair. When Campbell opened the door, Michelle was walking their way with a tray of coffee and biscuits, wearing a self-satisfied smile on her less-than-pretty face.

‘You’re too late, lass.’ Michelle’s smile dropped when she saw them leaving the office.

Evans didn’t give her a chance to respond. ‘Your skirt helps the blouse, but you need to lose a coupla pounds from those hips or the weight will spread like wildfire to your already rounded backside.’

Fearing the tray was about to be thrown, Campbell held the door open and suggested that she give the coffee to Mr Peters and before she had time to make a choice he shepherded her into the office.

Campbell couldn’t contain his dislike at Evans’s treatment of the girl. ‘Why are you such as bastard to some people?’

‘No silly little girl is gonna tell me I’m late.’

‘We were late.’

‘That’s not the point and you fucking well know it.’

‘Why the hell do you do it, Harry?’ Campbell spun to face Evans as he questioned him. ‘One minute you’re chatting to every Tom, Dick and Harry on the street and the next you’re abusing that receptionist like there’s no tomorrow.’

‘I’ve know them folks for years. Now stop your bleating and come on.’

They climbed back into the car and Evans set off into Kendal’s bewildering one-way system with the assured confidence of a local.

‘Where are we going now?’

‘I want to check in with an old acquaintance in Windermere before we go back to the station. Do us a favour and call Lauren to get us an update.’

Campbell made the call and asked her to fill them in on any developments, taking care to inform her she was on speaker. She reported there had been a breakthrough on the car cons as one of the first cars to be sold had been resold to a man from Preston. ‘He bought it from a garage in Lancaster. The salesman told the buyer the car was part of a trade-in deal he had just done and sold it for fifty-five hundred.’

Evans’s reaction to this news was typically profane. ‘Two and a half grand, made on one second-hand car in less than a week. Well, roger me with a pool cue until my eyes bleed. If the guy wasn’t a car dealer then I could start to like him.’