The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One) (10 page)

But
the free life had been a dangerous one. He had had to learn how to survive
here, how to protect himself. He had learnt unarmed combat from an ex-para and
several times it had saved his life. He had made friends here, not the
superficial acquaintances that can be collected and dropped at will but binding
friendships that could be relied on. Friends who would sacrifice for each other,
the vulnerable protecting the vulnerable. He had learnt who he was in their
company. Searched himself and understood who he was. He still felt at home
here.

A
head turned as he approached. A diminutive elderly man stood up to greet Adam,
looking strangely dapper in the circumstances, in a bow tie and ragged dinner
jacket. The shoulder length grey hair and unkempt beard added to the
incongruity.

"Adam me boy, it's been a while. Come on in and warm yourself."

Adam smiled and nodded. "Mick, how are you doing?"

His real name wasn't Mick but no one would have dreamed of calling him anything
else. His reply was lost as Adam shook hands with each in an almost ritualistic
welcome and then accepted a tin mug of hot tea.

He
sat down on an upturned wooden crate next to a tall bearded individual with
shoulder-length dreadlocks. He had a rugby player's physique and something in
the way he held himself gave the distinct impression he was as fit as he had
ever been. His eyes were a piercing grey and had disconcerted any number of
protagonists who had thought him an easy target and then learnt otherwise. His
wife Jan and three teenage daughters in Glasgow doted on him but weren't so keen
on the dreadlocks.

Adam spoke quietly. "Mitch, how are you?"

Mitch showed a grin full of white teeth. "No so bad. No so bad. Keepin' better
then you by the sound o' things."

Adam grimaced. "I'm still not sure what's going on but I'd value your shadow for
me and Bel."

"That's a done deal. Do you want to know what you had for tea tonight?"

Adam's vision of Mitch carrying out covert surveillance in the 'Floating Duck'
brought a wry smile. "No thanks. Is there someone watching the flat now?"

Mitch showed mock indignation. "Gimme a break. What do you take me for, a fair
weather friend or what?" He took a swig of something that Adam presumed was tea
based but he could never be sure. "Freddie's up there now. We'll go off shift
once you're back. Leave you to your own devices as it were," he finished with a
grin.

There was a snigger from a youth with close cropped hair sitting opposite
him.

Adam half-heartedly threw an empty tea cup at him. "Behave yourself Frank." That
got another grin.

Frank spoke up now, proving to be a local lad. "Word on the street is your
name's mud, Adam, know what I mean?"

There
was a silence as Adam looked carefully at Frank. "Oh. What kind of mud? And
who's attaching it to my name?"

"Dunno. Mouths is clamming up all over. Some say there's a hit out for you.
Others say there's a warrant."

Adam looked quickly at Mitch who gave a small nod. "It's true, but it could be
no more than gossip in the bookies, and Chinese whispers. No one's putting any
names to names or any real dirt to detail. All hearsay and no substance."

"What say you Frank?" asked Adam quietly.

"Word is out among the brothers to look after Lennox's interests. Ears to the
ground. If we hear anything you'll know it."

Mitch watched for Adam's reaction but got very little return for his effort.

Conversation ebbed and flowed and at an appropriate moment Adam drew Mitch to
one side and filled him in on the details....

"You think Fran was involved in some way?" asked Mitch.

"I don't know but I won't rest until I find out," replied Adam.

"And Granger Bartlett? You think he's significant?"

"The whole thing seems centred on the Bartletts and if it's history coming back
to haunt them then Granger must have been involved."

"So
what now?" queried Mitch, their voices now almost inaudible.

"I'm going to find out who's behind it and finish it", Adam replied softly.
Mitch just nodded.

Adam spent another half-hour swapping tales and finally after another ritual
handshaking he slipped into the shadows and started off across the wasteland to
the roadway. He was no more than half way when undisguised footsteps behind him
caused him to stop and turn.

The diminutive man in his tattered dinner jacket reached out and caught Adam by
the sleeve of his jacket.

"Mick. What's the matter?" he asked.

Mick turned to check there was no one within range. "I couldn't help but
overhear you mentioning the name of Granger Bartlett."

Adam felt something crawl up his spine and his wariness alarm went off.

"I might have done. What of it?" he replied.

"Don't get mixed up with the likes of Granger Bartlett. He was a bad man, one of
the worst." He paused and moved closer to Adam so that Adam could smell the
whisky on his breath. "He had some very bad enemies Adam, but his friends, they
were even worse. He killed so many people. He had it coming to him."

"Who
were they Mick? His friends and enemies, who were they?" demanded
Adam.

The old man shook his head and from behind his eyes a fear grew to terror.
"Can't say any more. Forget I said it. They're still around." His eyes flitted
from side to side examining the shadows. "Mind your back, Adam me boy, they make
grown men wish they were dead."

And with that he stumbled away into the shadows. Adam debated whether to follow
but elected not to. Whatever was causing the fear, Mick wasn't going to tell him
any more tonight.

Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.

Chapter 14

DCI Ford was not a morning person. In particular, this morning he was definitely
not a morning person. He ran his fingers through the little hair he had left and
yawned, his moustache tickling his nose. He wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand, long fingers and bitten nails. He smoothed out some creases in the cheap
suit and checked his watch.

His wife (who was more ambitious than he was) had been pestering him to find out
when he was due for promotion. She was ready for a house change, climb another
rung on the ladder, put a bit more distance between her current circumstances
and her modest past. He hadn't realised when he married her that she was quite
so capable of focussing on his success. He hoped that's what was behind her
being so eager to get him out in the morning and not because someone else was
moving in.

He prodded his stomach to try and alleviate the sharp stabbing pain that had
interrupted his thoughts. He was sure he was developing an ulcer. Canteen food,
coffee out of paper cups and greasy food on the run were the structure of his
life and sometimes he felt as if it would tumble down around him like a pack of
cards.

And
now this. A hot potato handed down from Suffolk CID. Normally everyone hung
onto cases like they were gifted children or prize marrows, which meant only the
really nasty political ones were given away. He could smell this one a mile off,
worse than his son's socks after PE.

Rumour had it that there was some very heavy clout about to muscle in on this
one, not that it worried him particularly, but he hated doing everyone else's
dirty work only to have the glory snatched from under him like the table cloth
trick. Almost always left a mess to be cleared up.

He shifted in the car seat to bring back feeling to his backside. Those piles'll
be playing up again soon, you can guarantee that. The pain in his abdomen
convinced him once again that he had an ulcer starting but as usual a good belch
sorted it out. He put down the empty cardboard cup that had held what was
reputedly coffee. He had his doubts personally. The bagel wrapper followed it
onto the floor and he checked his watch. Time to molest the general public.

He poked the Detective Sergeant in the seat next to him.

"Come on. Wake up buggerlugs, time to earn our crust. Let's do it."

He opened the door and got out, shaking the crumbs off a crumpled suit that
looked as if it had been slept in, which indeed it had, and contemplated brain
surgery as an alternative profession.

Adam sat at the round beech breakfast table in his dressing gown with the
morning post in front of him. Adam was not a morning person either. Bleary eyed,
stubble chinned, heavy limbed, with hair doing an impersonation of Ken Dodd, he
was the archetypal pre-cereal advert. He went through his morning routine,
normally carried out in the office, of sorting the mail into dross, circulars
for re-cycling, regulars for attention by Clare, and interesting mail concerning
clients. The last pile was always the smallest but held the greatest value. It
was the only one he paid any attention to.

Somehow doing the habitual things helped the events of the last two days to
recede slightly.

But
only slightly. Why did he get the feeling that he was being drawn into
something that was none of his business? And yet the phone had threatened him,
making it his business. That was bizarre in itself. Why had a visit to John's
office provoked such a violent reaction in someone as to threaten him? He tried
to concentrate on the post but failed. What did this caller think John had told
him that was so dangerous? It presumably had to do with John's trip on the
Hermes, or the death on board. Or both? He scratched the back of his head and
stretched his neck to rid it of the cricks that had accumulated during the
night. His brain ached with the questions unanswered. He hated unfinished
business. His coffee mug, 'Advertisers do it in Public' sat on the table just
out of reach and consequently the coffee was now lukewarm and well on its way to
stone cold.

Bel came into the kitchen wearing a pair of Adam's cut-offs and one of his
pullovers. Adam looked up in surprise, almost as if he had forgotten that she
was in the flat. Bel didn't give the appearance of someone who had slept well,
and as if feeling the need to underline the fact, gave an enormous yawn. And
then sniffed the air.

"Any coffee Lennox?" she inquired.

"In the pot, not too stewed. Sleep well?" Adam responded, the short almost
monosyllabic conversation continuing unabated.

"No, not really." Bel hesitated, "Did you go out last night?"

"Yes. Just long enough to do some thinking."

"Is that thinking for sharing or thinking for keeping to yourself?"

Adam
didn't reply so she moved across the kitchen and taking two slices of bread
loaded the toaster. A weak sunshine was thinking of filtering through the window
as she poured a mug of coffee. She managed to finish one mugful and pour a
second before the toast declared itself done and erupted onto the work surface.
She carried all across to the breakfast bar, starting to feel considerably more
human. Totally psychological, the coffee was caffeine-free.

They eyed each other across the expanse of breakfast bar.

"So?" she exclaimed. "Are you going to share profundities or let them stew in
that head of yours."

Adam considered for a moment and waved a piece of toast theatrically in the
air.

"Okay, I've been thinking. Consider. Let's assume for a moment John is mixed up
in something nefarious."

Bel interrupted her butter spreading and shook her head. "Sorry Lennox I don't
buy it. I don't think he's capable", coming to her employer's defence, very
loyal, very commendable.

Adam ignored her and continued. "Regardless Trent. Let us assume that John is
mixed up in something nefarious." He looked up, almost daring her to butt in.
She shrugged so he continued. "He takes a trip on the Hermes to take care of
some dodgy business. Someone on board gets wind of it and John or an accomplice
has to bump him off to keep him quiet."

"I still don't buy it," she protested. "It doesn't make sense. Why would he
radio the coastguard if he wanted it kept quiet?"

"Ah. He knew that the death would be found out and that it would look suspicious
if he hadn't alerted the authorities." Adam's tone wasn't convincing but
continued anyway. "Is this the first time that he's used one of the Company
boats?"

"As far as I'm aware." Bel shook her head whilst finishing a mouthful of toast.
"And they're ships, not boats. His actions on the ship were those of an innocent
man."

"So why were the police so interested, and why didn't he give us the full story.
All his actions in his office were those of a guilty man."

Bel shrugged. "Don't know your honour. Can I step down from the witness stand
now?"

"No Miss Trent. There are still too many unanswered questions." Adam picked up
his mug. "Why did John go on the Hermes? Somehow I feel if we knew that then the
rest would follow." He tried his coffee, grimaced in disgust and tossed the rest
down the sink.

Bel raised the unasked question. "Like who is Phone man who wants to warn us
both off anything? And what does John's father have to do with it?"

Or what does Fran's death have to do with it, thought Adam struggling with the
reminder.

As
if on cue, Adam's phone rang in concert with the front doorbell. Adam signalled
Bel to get the door whilst he picked up the phone.

"Adam Lennox."

"Adam. Mitch. Don't talk, just listen. Any minute now the fuzz are going to come
to the door. They've been outside for......."

Adam lost the rest of the words as Bel came into the kitchen with two
rain-coated individuals who looked worse than he did.

The older of the two did the introductions in a nondescript London accent.

"Adam Lennox?" Adam nodded and the scruff continued, pulling a badge out of his
pocket. "DCI Ford, London Metropolitan Police. This is DS Crawley."

DS Crawley appeared more interested in Bel in the cut-off jeans and tousled hair
than the main action. She had that effect on people. Adam was observant, he
noticed these things.