The Silent Room (17 page)

Grace had gone quiet.

Newman too.

It was obvious to Ryan that the spook felt their sadness, even though he’d never show it and had never met Jack personally. The two men would’ve got on. Undoubtedly. They had similar personalities. Both played their cards close to their chest, a characteristic Ryan was convinced had contributed to the death of his DI.

‘Ryan?’ Grace’s voice jolted him from his thoughts, prompting him to look at her. ‘I’m unhappy about the Organized Crime Unit creeping around the investigation.’

‘Me too,’ Newman said. ‘Are you certain you weren’t followed?’

‘We’re clean,’ Ryan said.

‘Good.’ It was the first expression of faith from Newman.

Ryan understood his reluctance to confide in others.

In their line of work it was dangerous to share intelligence or shoot your mouth off to the wrong kind. The less said, the better. It was second nature to keep your own counsel. They had both learned to rely on their wits to see them through. As Grace had already pointed out, Newman’s scepticism had probably saved his life more than once. But like all games, when the stakes were high you had to up the ante. In this particular instance, it meant enlisting specialist expertise.

Newman wanted to bring in a trusted wires man. A highly qualified technician who’d worked for a government-led top secret computer project team, an underground unit only high-level officials knew about. No longer employed by the Home Office, he was up for hire, a consultant and private contractor.

‘They come no better,’ he said finally.

‘We’ve decided it’s your call,’ Grace said.

‘Do it!’ Ryan said.

Newman took out his mobile, scrolled through his address book and pressed the call button. While the number rang out, he put the phone on speaker. A woman came on the line, answering with the number.

‘Suzy, it’s me. Is Garry in?’ Newman asked.

‘For you? Always. You want him to call you?’

‘Sure . . . the usual number, ASAP. Cheers, hon.’

Newman hung up. Taking another mobile from his pocket, he held it up like a US marshal holds up a badge. He smiled as it rang in his hand. ‘Now that’s what I call service,’ he said, answering.

This time he kept the call private.

‘I need a favour.’ The smile was gone. ‘The way I roll, mate, you know that. Usual place . . .’ He didn’t specify where, just glanced at his watch. ‘An hour,’ he said and pocketed the phone.

33

O’Neil burst through the door of the Regional Organized Crime Unit looking for a fight and found one. DC David King stopped chewing, swept the rest of his mid-morning snack into a wastepaper bin and stood up as she entered, introducing herself with an ID card and a look that could kill from a mile away. Her intent was clear. This was no social visit.

‘I want all you’ve got on Jack Fenwick,’ she said.

King met her gaze. ‘We haven’t got much—’

‘You obviously knew he was under investigation, correct?’ She took in a weak nod. ‘Did it not occur to you to contact me or one of my officers?’

The DC blushed. ‘We didn’t know who he was initially.’

‘That I can accept. But subsequently?’

‘We knew . . .’ King paused, playing for time. ‘We’d been following a target for weeks, guv. One day this guy walks in and we didn’t know who the hell he was. Only when he was arrested did we realize—’

‘Then I’ll ask again. Why wasn’t I told?’

‘It was thought to be inappropriate at the time. We didn’t know for sure why Fenwick was there or how involved he was with the people we had under observation. Our guv’nor took the view that you had him sewn up and that we should keep quiet in case it jeopardized our operation.’

‘Well, you can tell your guv’nor I don’t “sew up” fellow officers.’

‘Sorry,’ King said. ‘Bad choice of words.’

‘No shit! Surveillance not your thing, Detective?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Who sanctioned the tail on DS Ryan?’

O’Neil felt sorry for Ryan. He was devastated by the death of his colleague. Maguire was out to shaft them both. She’d had to rein her number two in, tell him to lay off, at least curb his enthusiasm. She was beginning to think that it had been wrong to suspend the Special Branch officer. If the same was true of Jack Fenwick, she couldn’t live with that.

‘DC King? I asked you a question.’

‘My DCI.’

‘Why?’

‘For the same reasons you suspended him. We suspected he might be involved with Fenwick somewhere along the line. It seemed worth pursuing. Fenwick and Ryan were close and we were scratching for information. It seemed like the logical thing to do.’

‘Involved in what?’

King didn’t answer. He was cornered and knew it.

‘I see. So, with bugger all evidence you have enough resources to follow policemen around because you think it’s a good idea? What the hell did you think you were doing? If you had nothing on Ryan, you had no business mounting such an operation. And by the way, whoever was on that duty wasn’t very good at it, because he clocked them.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says Ryan. He thought I was following him, so he pulled me about it. I assured him I wasn’t. It seems he lost your Mickey Mouse team and then followed them here. He thinks I knew all about you. But I didn’t, did I? I want answers, Detective. What were you working on?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘You can and you will, or you’ll face a disciplinary.’

‘Sorry, you’re going to have to take it up with my guv’nor.’

The DC was getting more and more nervous as O’Neil persisted. She wanted information and she wasn’t leaving without it. In the end he felt compelled to fill the silence by trotting out the party line: ‘I have nothing for you, guv. You’ll have to go over my head.’

‘That’s bullshit!’ O’Neil glared at him, held her ground. If it wouldn’t land her in it and bring on a visit from her own department, she’d rip his head off. ‘Has it passed you by that your targets might be the same people my team have been looking for? I may be investigating a miscarriage of justice here and I need answers, so you’d better start talking.’

King was sweating. ‘We caught Fenwick bang to rights, associating with guys knee-deep in illegal firearms. So if you think he’s innocent, think again, guv. After you arrested him there was no need to tell you we had him in the frame for our job. That’s all I’m prepared to say.’

His words made O’Neil feel slightly better.

Slightly.

Maybe Ryan was wrong. Maybe he’d allowed a personal relationship with Fenwick to cloud his judgement. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last. For her own sanity O’Neil needed to be sure. She pressed on, telling King that what he’d told her so far wasn’t good enough.

The DC let out a big sigh, his eyes finding the window, an action that angered her.

‘Will you please look at me when I’m talking to you?’ she said. ‘I have already established that the shotguns found in DI Fenwick’s house were recently sawn off, stolen in a series of burglaries on farms in Cumbria. Hardly international arms dealing, is it? It happens almost every week.’

‘He was seen, guv! Our targets were in a boozer in the arse-end of South Shields when your man Fenwick wandered in and shared a pint with them at the bar.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘And nothing.’

‘Guilt by association, eh? How long have you been in this unit?’

‘Six months.’

‘Six months,’ O’Neil said. ‘Impressive. And where were you before that?’

‘Foot patrol in Byker—’

‘Well, get ready to go back there. Let me put you straight on a few things. The very nature of being a detective – particularly in Special Branch – means that you associate with prigs on a daily basis, in pubs, at the match, anywhere you can. Most times it’s a mutual piss-taking exercise. But even so, it’s how you find things out. Is that clear?’

The DC said nothing.

‘If I had a quid for every time I’d spoken to an offender in a bar I’d be minted,’ O’Neil said. ‘It’s called intelligence gathering, you idiot. The fact that Fenwick spoke to your target means nothing. It proves nothing. If you’d bothered to read his record you’d know that he was way too clever to shit in his own nest. Even you must’ve heard of the cliché “keep your friends close”.’ She paused for breath. ‘Where are you in your investigation?’

‘Nowhere. We lost them. We shut it down.’

Her expression held a message:
That’s a downright lie.
‘You were tailing Ryan yesterday.’

‘Maybe you should ask
him
then, guv. Or Fenwick. I heard you picked him up.’

‘He’s dead, you prick!’

O’Neil walked out. Organized Crime hadn’t heard the last of this. Not by a long chalk.

34

The Centurion pub was one of Ryan’s favourite haunts in the city centre. Built as a first-class waiting room for Victorian passengers at Newcastle Central Station, the Grade I property was once used as cells by British Transport Police, much of its interior design covered up by unsympathetic decoration. As someone once said, it was tantamount to slapping a fresh coat of paint over Leonardo da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa.
Fortunately, the building had since been restored to its former glory.

Newman entered first, Ryan close behind.

The idea of bringing someone else into the mix was less palatable now than when first proposed, Ryan thought, as he approached the long bar. But Jack’s death had changed everything. Considering Northumbria’s Murder Investigation Team weren’t yet treating it as homicide, what other choice was there but to work under the radar and resurrect a murder room so he could investigate the matter himself? Still, he felt his nerve going slightly as he scanned the tables, unable to ID anyone who might be waiting for them.

His agreement to meet with Newman’s wires man now felt like a bad move. Try as he might to push that worrying thought to the back of his mind, it continued to niggle him, reminding him that such a devious plan might end his career as swiftly as a knife had ended his father’s a quarter of a century ago. Garry Snaith, whoever he was, had asked no questions before agreeing to meet. His keenness to get involved, without due consideration of what Newman was planning, bordered on the suicidal. That, or he had more faith in the spook than Ryan could presently muster.

Ordering a pint for himself and one for Newman, Ryan turned his back to the counter, his eyes once more scanning the busy room, the buzz of conversation drowning out his anxieties.

‘No show, eh?’ He almost relaxed.

‘He’ll be here,’ Newman said.

Ryan didn’t doubt the spook’s ability to assess a tricky situation and pick an associate to sort it out, but he felt compelled to point out the seriousness of what they were about to embark upon. ‘Setting up a satellite station is one thing. Hacking into HOLMES and the PNC is something else.’ On the off chance that he’d forgotten, he reminded Newman that breaching Data Protection and Telecommunications Acts – and that was just for starters – could send them both down for a very long time.

‘Grace, too,’ he added. ‘If your man squeals, we’re done for.’

‘He won’t.’ Newman was the epitome of cool.

‘You trust him with something this big?’ Ryan asked.

‘There’s only one person in the world I trust,’ Newman answered drily. ‘Garry comes a close second.’

‘OK, he’s as good as gold. So where is he? Is Garry even his real name?’

Newman glanced sideways. ‘Drink your beer.’

Ryan took a mouthful. ‘And if he can’t do the job?’

‘It can’t be done.’ Newman just looked at him. ‘Relax. He’s the best in the business. I’ve used him many times. What he doesn’t know about wires and what goes down them isn’t worth knowing. O’Neil left you dead in the water. What alternative do you have but to accept my word for it? You promised Jack’s widow you’d hunt his killers down—’

‘And that’s exactly what I plan to do.’

‘But?’

‘It’s the rules that differentiate us from the shite we’re hunting, Frank.’

‘Ordinarily I’d agree. But without my man you don’t have a hope in hell of finding them.’

Ryan took another long pull on his pint. He was changing, not necessarily for the better. Newman was right, though. This was no time to lose his nerve.

The pub door opened.

A man walked in and made a beeline towards them, extending a hand to Newman, a big smile on his face. Garry Snaith was a friendly fifty-four-year-old with a dry sense of humour and a twinkle in his eye; a quiet, self-effacing man.

Ryan didn’t stand on ceremony. ‘Mind telling me why you’re no longer working for the government?’ he asked.

Snaith grinned. ‘I didn’t run away with the Crown Jewels, if that’s what you mean.’

Ryan’s eyes found Newman’s.

The spook had a smile on his face. ‘My description of Garry as a wires man was accurate but understated. He knows his wires but he’s really a genius.’

‘Get out of here.’ Snaith was almost blushing.

Newman looked at him. ‘Credit where it’s due, mate. Don’t be shy.’ He nodded towards Ryan. ‘You can tell him. He’s Special Branch. An old friend has vouched for him. He’s trustworthy.’

Ryan bristled.
Just who was being assessed here?

‘Then he’ll know all about the Security Service’s need to be able to crack encryption to keep us safe in our beds.’ Snaith lowered his voice a touch. ‘Let’s say that part of my role went up for grabs to a private company who reckoned they could do it a damned sight cheaper than me. They could – only not as well. Contractors have a habit of shaving off corners in order to undercut the competition. How secure do you think that is? I couldn’t live with it and said so.’

‘Loudly,’ Newman added.

‘When I wouldn’t keep my mouth shut, I was fired,’ Snaith explained. ‘These days I’m a free agent. I work for people who rate quality and are prepared to pay the going rate for my expertise.’ He thumbed in Newman’s direction. ‘Except when he calls. Then my services are complimentary.’

Ryan looked at him, his reservations melting away.

There would be a story there somewhere.

Snaith turned to Newman. ‘What’s the deal?’

Newman pulled his chair closer. ‘We have an old police house hardwired to run a major incident. When it was sold, the gubbins were never disconnected. It’s not been used for years. We need you to rig it up again . . . like yesterday.’