The Dragon's Tale: A Jack Lauder Thriller (6 page)

CHAPTER 6

     The Russian Embassy involvement meant Peter’s case had been rushed through. It started the next week and the haste meant Jack had to take it on himself. He didn’t normally use his higher audience rights but this time he felt he had no choice.  He was doing all right too, driving wedges into the prosecution case. During the mid-morning break, a worried looking Lowther leaned across. "I want to see you after, young man. Something’s cropped up about the other night." The policeman slanted his head in the briefest of nods as if to emphasise that he wasn‘t just trying to put Jack off his stride, he genuinely meant business.

     Jack turned his attention to the next witness, Mick Harvey, as he shambled towards the witness box, an arrogant grin on his chubby face. A rumour down the quay had it that Harvey’s brother-in-law, Bud Nicholson, was the true culprit and it had gained such credence that the prosecution thought it best to disprove it. Harvey was meant to be the counter-proof. The brute fixed the lawyer with a bloodshot eye and that told Jack he wasn't quite as dead between the ears as he looked, nor was he a stranger to court rooms. He knew where the trouble was coming from all right.

     “No sor
[7]
,” Harvey said to Mickey Duff, prosecuting counsel, “I was not involved in any riot at the Jungle earlier that evening. Would I get involved in something like that? Never in the world! I was at the darts tornament
[8]
at the Low Lights.” This was a pub at the other end of the Fish Quay.

     As if on cue Jack saw his private detective enter the back of the Court. Russell Ronson, former head of the Borders Regional Crime Squad, was the best in the business. Lowther noticed him too and began to bristle with indignation. He leaned over, trying to catch a snatch of Jack’s conversation. "Do you think you can find out," Jack whispered to Russell hoarsely, "if this guy has any previous?"  Russ Ronson winked and moved off.

     During the mid-morning adjournment, in a side room, Jack worked on his cross-examination. The door opened and Lowther's head appeared round it. "Time for a chat?" he asked. He pushed something across the desk. Jack looked at it curiously. It was a photograph of a dead Oriental. Although not dressed like Jack’s antagonist of the previous night, his garb was of the modern Chinese labouring class type, dark blue and smock-like, what might be described in trendier circles as Chairman Mao chic. It was reminiscent of the uniform of the Chinese Red Guards with a number of whom Jack had had run-ins during his time in Hong Kong. "Would you believe he was washed up on the beach at Warkworth in the early hours of this morning?" Lowther added. “Oddly enough the forensic boys think he’s been in the water just about long enough to qualify for some involvement in your night of fun.”

     He was studying Jack intently as the lawyer looked at the photo of the cadaver. "Poor bugger," Jack said. "How did he die? Drowning?"

     "Oh, yes," Lowther replied, "drowning certainly, but you can see from the contusion on his forehead," and he pointed at the photo with his forefinger, "he took quite a blow to the skull before he went under."

      "Well, it doesn't actually solve anything, but I hope it proves to you and that Station Sergeant of yours that I'm not ready for the knacker's yard quite yet."

     "Well, that's debatable," Lowther said with a hint of a smile, "but it only serves to deepen the mystery for me. Who is Gerard Montrose, Jack? Come on, I know you were holding out on me the other night about those two ICAC chaps. Don't compound it now. Why did this bloke have a note in his pocket with that name on it and yours? He had it nicely wrapped away in his credit card holder. That kept it dry.”

     “They have their uses, these things." Jack thought quickly, though, and decided to tell Lowther just about everything then: who Gerry was, the loan, how the ICAC thought Jack might know his whereabouts. "It seems he's disappeared off the face of the earth," he said finally.

     "Taking your money with him?" Why did people, particularly law officers, keep reminding him of that as if the thought were particularly pleasing to them?

     "Perhaps. But there's more to it. It seems he might owe others too because the ICAC said they were looking for him.”

     “Who?”

     “Have you ever heard of Triad red poles?"

     "Red what?” Lowther looked bewildered. “I’ve heard of red guards! What’s a red pole when it’s at home?"

     "Well it’s a senior Triad official. In this case a fighter, an assassin if you like. The red pole is kind of the equivalent of a Mafia hit man. The equivalent of a Mafia consigliere would be a White Paper Fan. The Chinese have this veneer of politeness for everything in their underworld."

     Lowther was listening intently, "So how does this involve you?"

     “They’ve hacked into Gerry’s Bank account and found out about his transactions with me. And if they are looking for him they might figure it’s a good idea to start with an old mate in the west who could be covering for him." He had missed out the bit about them thinking he had something of Gerry’s because he still didn’t get that. Lowther grimaced. He didn't seem happy with the idea of a Chinese hit man on his patch. “Before you ask,” Jack added, “I haven’t a clue where Gerry is.”

     Another knock came on the door. Russ Ronson poked his head round. “Is this a bad moment?” he asked.

     “I was just on my way,” Lowther replied. He and Russ bantered on superficially for a few moments about families and the exploits of mutual acquaintances but it didn’t hide the underlying disapproval of the gamekeeper turned poacher, and then Lowther left.

     “Hit me with it then,” Jack said to his private detective.

     "Good news and bad, I'm afraid." Wasn't that always the case? "The good news is," Russ paused while he produced a sheaf of filmy papers, which Jack could see were hot off the fax machine, "voila!" he continued theatrically. "What it says is," and he pointed to the correct lines, "Mick Harvey's got a London conviction, Old Bailey no less, for offences arising out of a riot."

     Jack didn’t see quite where that got the defence. It was a juicy bit of cross-examination but it wasn't going to spring Peter. “That's the good news?" he asked, dreading what was to follow.

     "No, not quite," Russ grinned at Jack and clapped his back. "I checked with one of my mates in NCIS. The riot in question was a National Front March. He's still a fully paid up member. He's on a blacklist for travelling abroad to football matches.”

     “Really!”

     “Yeah, and what’s more, it’s for violent conduct in numerous countries. The word is, the bloke apparently has a pathological hatred of foreigners."

     "You little beauty!" 

     Half an hour later the court resumed and the judge said: “Yes, Mr. Lauder?”

     “Thank you, Your Honour.  Well, Mr. Harvey,” he said, “I see you’re no stranger to the courts?”

     “What?” Harvey replied cockily.

     The judge chipped in, "Mr. Lauder is speaking in his own inimitable way about your criminal record."

     "Oh aye," Harvey said, "that's all done and dusted like."

     "Ah but is it?" Jack resumed.

     "Aye, it is like.”

     “I’ll be the judge of that,” his lordship chipped in.

     Harvey regarded Jack thunderously. “What’re yous gannin
[9]
' on aboot
[10]
? Ah‘m
[11]
not on trial ‘ere!"

     "Well, I wondered, Mr. Harvey, what is your attitude to foreigners?"

     "Wey…" He shifted uncomfortably in the stand. "They're a’reet
[12]
like. Some canny
[13]
wee gadgies
[14]
."

       "Oh, have you always been that generous to those from overseas or is this a change of heart, a road to Damascus type of experience?”

       “Wha’?” The big man looked puzzled, as did the Judge who interrupted, “where are you going with this?”

     “I am sure it will become clear, my lord.”

      The judicial eyebrow was raised. “Get to the point Mr. Lauder!”

       Jack nodded to the bench. “Would I be mistaken for instance in thinking that you are on a police blacklist?”

     “Wha’? Blacklist?”

     “Banned from travelling to foreign countries?”

      The witness squirmed in the box, “Wha’ I divn‘t kna
[15]
what yous mean, like.”

     “Answer the question!” the judge ordered.

      “Aye, a’reet. So what if I hev been like?”

     “You admit that you have been prevented by the Immigration authorities from travelling to a number of European countries?"

     Harvey went puce. "Aye, yous’ve got me bang to rights, marra
[16]
, so wha’s that got t’ dee wi’
[17]
the price of fish?"

     "And the reason you’re banned from travelling is because of your involvement in riots?”

     “Well, I was wunce
[18]
like.”

     “Once? Are you sure?”

     “Sure ah’m sure!”

     “Or is it just that you're a fully paid up member of the National Front?"

      "Wha’s thet
[19]
come from? Who the fucks telling’ ye crap like that?" Harvey shouted.

     "Watch your language, Mr. Harvey," the judge warned.

      "Yous can piss off and arl, like! Carl yersel
[20]
a judge!" the big man told his lordship.

“Yous couldn’t judge Miss Worrld yous!”

     The judge intervened then and said, “Mr. Harvey, I think you need to cool your temper. I am committing you for contempt. In fact I am going to adjourn this case until this afternoon. You will spend the rest of the time in the cells downstairs and, if your manners have changed after lunch and you apologise to the court, you will be allowed to continue with your evidence. If not, you will say in custody indefinitely and this court will continue without your evidence.”

      Jack was champing at the bit to intervene here because he knew he had Harvey on the ropes but he decided to keep his own counsel because he could see an opportunity to strike Mick Harvey’s testimony from the record altogether and then what would the prosecution have left? It was a hard one to judge: press home the advantage from which he might or might not get a killer answer; or hope for the judge to halt the proceedings on the basis that the principal prosecution witness had discredited himself. All the same he was surprised when he went down to the cell block to visit his client only to find Lowther there. “Come to shore up your crumbling walls, Chief?” he asked cheerfully. Lowther grunted in response but there was no doubt he was here to persuade Harvey to continue.

     Jack sighed and was shown into an interview room to see his client. Peter sat there with the chess set which Jack had given him. A game was in progress. The Russian stood up and shook his hand, “I think you did very good,” he said.

      “Hmm, well I see the police are in there trying to rehabilitate Harvey right now.”

     “Why do they do this, Jack? They can see the man is a liar. What do they have against me?”

     “Well, they would say it’s not personal, although I am never sure what that means because, whenever it is said, it always looks personal to the victim. I think the problem is that the game takes over.”

     “The game?”

     “Yeah. Life is all a game in a sense. People are competing with each other for the same resources and instead of cooperating and sharing them out equitably they grab as much as they can for themselves. It is the same with the psyche. These officers gain energy from winning a case; conversely their energy is depleted if they lose. In a way it is the same for me but I recognise it and can control it to some degree. With them the game takes over; the personalities become irrelevant; they have to win. Hence. Then it’s not personal.”