Written in Blood (19 page)

‘Regardless of the methods?’

‘Hollis was from a different era. The way he did things may not always have been universally popular but he had his following.’

Mariner could imagine that following; there were always a few young guys who came into the job planning on being vigilantes and George Hollis sounded just the kind of role model they loved. Jack Coleman was from a different era, too, Mariner thought. It hadn’t made him corrupt.

‘So now we’ve gone from government scheming to bent coppers,’ Flynn observed. ‘You are covering all the bases. Which is it to be?’

‘I’m just saying that your colleagues seem to have been quick to jump to conclusions without necessarily considering all the possibilities.’

‘You don’t know that.
I
don’t know that. Who knows what they’re considering? Where did you dig Hollis up?’ Flynn asked.

‘I’ve spoken to people at the JRC—’

‘Yes, let’s come back to that. What the fuck were you even doing there?’

‘I just stopped by. I was interested to know where my old man used to work. They invited me in.’

‘Just like that.’

‘And I got talking to people.’

Flynn held his gaze. They both knew what he was saying was nonsense but Flynn wasn’t interested in the technicalities right now. ‘Who did you “get talking to”?’ he asked sceptically.

‘A couple of staffers,’ Mariner brushed him off. ‘It doesn’t really matter. I’m just saying that Hollis had a good reason for wanting both Ryland and O’Connor to back off. Is anyone looking into his whereabouts on the night Ryland was killed?’

Flynn sighed. ‘I really have no idea.’

‘Because it wouldn’t be in the interests of the Home Office to have them dragged into this either, would it? Whatever is at the root of this, it looks to me as if it’ll all be neatly swept under the carpet.’

Flynn was beginning to get annoyed. ‘You should hear yourself. If it’s a legitimate line of enquiry someone will be following it up. As I’ve told you before, it’s just not within my remit.’

‘But you said it. Right from the start the focus of this investigation is O’Connor, not Ryland.’

‘Because that’s where the evidence is!’ Flynn raised his voice and a couple of people turned their way.

‘What evidence?’ Mariner countered. ‘There’s hardly any and what exists is purely circumstantial.’

‘Just because we don’t have access, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. My colleagues on the squad are professional coppers like you and me. They’ll have good reasons for reaching the conclusions they have.’

‘Yes, mainly that it’s too uncomfortable to consider anything else. Either that or they’re being directed from above.’

This time Flynn was laughing. ‘For Christ’s sake, get a grip, friend. There is no conspiracy. Isn’t that what you told special branch about the St Martin’s explosion?’

‘How the hell do you know that?’

But Flynn wasn’t going to tell him. ‘This is not your case, Tom. You’re on a hiding to nothing. Leave it and go back to Birmingham.’

‘Maybe I will.’

But as they parted company both men knew that the chances of that happening were minimal.

 

Mariner considered what Flynn had said. He couldn’t really deny that he’d been edgy since the explosion, and it was possible that he had over-reacted to the incident in the tube station. But the phone call had been a clear-cut ploy. There was no doubt in his mind that somebody was out to warn him off at the very least. He was certain of it. Had Flynn known Hollis better than he was prepared to admit?

On the way back to the hotel Mariner called in at an all-night pharmacy that stocked basic first aid kits. Back in his hotel room he squirted a liquid plaster over the wound. It hurt like fuck but at least the bleeding had stopped and, when the pain eased off, he bound the hand with gauze and tied it as best he could with his left hand and teeth. Then, downing a couple of paracetomol, he went to bed.

 

Mariner slept badly, the pain in his hand waking him every time he turned over and making it impossible to lie comfortably. A couple of times he rolled all his weight onto it and yelped out loud. In the morning his whole hand looked swollen and the area around the dressing was an angry red. He took a couple more paracetomol.

After breakfast, Mariner successfully obtained the phone number for JMB Investigation Services from directory enquiries. But, an answering-machine message informed him that the office wouldn’t reopen until ten thirty am. On the positive side, it allowed plenty of time to get there, calling in at Euston Station. Back to his unofficial look today, he retrieved the left luggage key from the pocket of his suit jacket.

Of the many aspects of Ryland’s covert gambling, the left luggage locker was the biggest puzzle. For one thing Mariner hadn’t realised that lockers could be rented long-term, or that duplicate keys could be had. The location also seemed strange, and almost arbitrary. Sandie would have had to make a special journey on the tube to make the drop. The obvious explanation was that whoever collected Ryland’s stake, if that’s what it was, worked around this area or travelled in from elsewhere. Mariner wondered if any other lockers were connected. Finding number one-four-three, he opened it. It was, as he had expected, clean and completely empty with not a hint of the contents or those who had used it. In other circumstances he’d have been tempted to get it dusted for fingerprints, but if there was no criminal activity going on where would that get him? Suddenly weary, he leaned his forehead against the top of the locker. What was he doing here and what had he expected to find? Perhaps Flynn was right and he was starting to lose it. He returned the key to the desk.

The journey out to Hammersmith was a short two-leg tube ride that would still get him there way too early for Mike Baxter, and having overindulged on the fried food again, Mariner’s throat was parched and he needed to take more painkillers. The station cafeterias were the kind of fast food operations that he detested, and he wanted a decent cup of tea, so he left the station and gazed along the road in search of somewhere less frenetic. A sign on an opposite street corner caught his eye: Pearl’s Café. Christ, was it the same one?

Walking up to the door Mariner could see that, though modernised, it had remained the kind of retro place that Ryland would have liked: tables with checked table cloths, waitress service and a line of stools for customers who preferred to sit at the counter; its original nineteen fifties style. What a find; a place that both Ryland and his mother had known.

Mariner stepped into a humid warmth with the comforting smell of hot toast and took one of the unoccupied tables.

The laminated menu propped between the salt and pepper pots was simple - none of your cappuccino or latté here, just straight tea or coffee, a mug or a pot with scones, teacakes or toast. The waitress, a substantial black woman, came over almost immediately. ‘What can I get you darlin’?’

Looking up Mariner was transfixed by the embroidered name on her overall. ‘You’re Pearl?’ he said in astonishment. ‘As in; Pearl’s Café?’

‘Yes,’ said Pearl, smiling to expose big white teeth, widely spaced. ‘As in; “why wouldn’t I be?”’

She looked only about thirty, and as she gazed at him Mariner felt suddenly disorientated. ‘This café’s named after you?’ he asked.

‘It’s my place,’ she shrugged. ‘So it seemed like a good name.’

‘How long have you been open?’

‘Three years next March. Did all the renovations myself.’

‘What was it before that?’

Pearl was exercising extraordinary patience. ‘Used to be a tobacconist’s, but it had been closed for years.’

‘I see. I’ll have a mug of tea, thanks.’

Replacing the menu, Mariner spotted another small card tucked into the cruet, and advertising New Year lunchtime specials: purchase one snack and get another free. Except for the season, it was exactly like the card that had he and Flynn had found in that packet of photographs, and now Mariner saw how ridiculous he’d been. They had jumped to completely the wrong conclusion. That postcard didn’t belong with his mother’s letters or the 1958 programme from the Albert Hall. It was a more recent addition. But how and why was it there? It was pretty certainly an indication that Ryland had visited Pearl’s Café but he wouldn’t normally have any reason to come to this part of London. It wasn’t near his house or the JRC. The only thing close by was the left luggage locker, but most of the trips to the locker had been made by Sandie. All except that final one, just before Christmas.

Pearl brought across his tea, a good strong brew in a hefty mug. Mariner showed her the postcard. ‘Did you have a similar offer before Christmas?’

‘Yeah, and it worked so well that I’m doing it again. Next time you should bring a friend.’ She bellowed with laughter. ‘If you’ve got any.’

Sandie had described Ryland’s excitement about placing his last bet and his subsequent dejection. It would confirm his notion that Ryland was meeting with someone, perhaps to end the arrangement, or to pull out. But the meeting had gone badly, badly enough that Ryland needed a ‘celebratory’ drink when he got back to the office. The meeting could have occurred in this very place. A venue close to the left luggage locker would presumably have been convenient to both parties. Ryland loathed fast food joints and this café would be less public than any of those on the station concourse. But how had that postcard got in with the photos? Flynn said that Ryland had accessed his security box in November. It could have been on the same day that he placed his last bet, which begged the next question: were those two events connected?

Ryland was writing his memoirs. Was he sitting looking at the photographs as a way of passing the time while he waited for his fellow gambler to turn up? Or was there more to it? Did Ryland actually bring all the photographs to that meeting as proof that he had a son who was a police officer? Was he countering a threat that was being made against him? Mariner needed to find out exactly when and why Ryland went to his safety deposit box.

 

 

JMB Services worked out of an office over a dry cleaner’s, the door straight out of fifties noir: discreet, frosted glass with black lettering. Mariner buzzed to gain entry, ascending a narrow staircase that led directly into a cramped two-desk office. Mariner took a guess that the lad behind one of the desks, scruffily dressed in T-shirt and rumpled combats, his hair gelled into a sculptured masterpiece, was too young to be Baxter.

‘Jason,’ he introduced himself. ‘But everyone calls me Jayce. How can I help?’

‘I was hoping to speak to Mr Baxter.’

‘I’m afraid Mr Baxter’s indisposed.’

‘How?’

‘Came off his motorbike a couple of weeks back.’

Mariner’s antennae twitched. ‘How?’

Jayce shrugged. ‘Taking a bend too fast.’

‘Any other vehicles involved?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘What’s the damage?’

‘Broken ribs, bruising. I’m his partner. Can I help?’

There didn’t seem to be much choice. ‘I’m looking into the death of Sir Geoffrey Ryland,’ Mariner said, wondering if Jayce would even know who the man was. Happily he did.

‘Mike was gutted about that,’ he said. ‘They were friends. Mr Ryland often sent a bit of work our way.’

‘Did you know what kind of work?’

‘The kind of work we do; investigations. Sometimes Mr Ryland wanted a bit of background on people.’

‘Like George Hollis and Steve Jaeger.’

Jayce was suddenly guarded. ‘Could be.’

‘Any idea what he found out?’ Judging by the look on Jayce’s face some reassurance was called for. ‘I’m not on their side,’ Mariner said. ‘I’m trying to find out what happened to Sir Geoffrey Ryland.’ Mariner eyed the row of steel filing cabinets over Jayce’s shoulder. ‘You keep files on your—’ Mariner hesitated, searching for the correct word ‘—clients,’ he settled on eventually, though that didn’t sound right.

‘Of course,’ said Jayce, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘We keep meticulous records. We have to keep track—’ Jayce was a bright lad. He saw the next question appear on the horizon. ‘And they’re confidential,’ he said.

‘What’s the matter? Hollis and Jaeger friends of Mr Baxter, is that it?’ Mariner asked. ‘I’ll bet he’s an ex-copper, isn’t he?’ It was more than a random guess. Most PIs were ex-police or military. ‘Were they tight?’

‘You know nothing,’ Jayce blurted out. ‘Mike got out because of the corruption. One thing gets right up Mike’s nose, it’s bent coppers.’

‘Are Hollis and Jaeger bent?’

‘They were on the Special Incident Squad.’ Jayce spoke as if that said it all, and perhaps it did.

Mariner had been a bit slow. He hadn’t made that link with Harlesden, and Flynn hadn’t thought to mention it either. The SIS was the equivalent of the West Midlands Serious Crime squad, but had survived longer, theoretically because it didn’t have the same inherent problems with corruption. But that was the whole point. Squads like that were snug and people took care of each other. Uncovering any wrongdoing was like trying to prise open an old tin of paint. To expose Hollis and Jaeger for corruption would cause massive fallout, and would give them and their followers a nice fat juicy motive for wanting Ryland and O’Connor dealt with.

Not that Mariner thought for a moment that the two officers would have been directly involved. Their prints wouldn’t be on the trigger. According to Flynn, Hollis had a following and it was bound to be the case. Career coppers like Hollis built up contacts, not all of them on the law-abiding side of the fence, and for the right money they were the sort of contacts who could be easily bought. Fitting O’Connor up with the drugs would be simple. Just a question of finding the right person to do it. And
vengeance is mine
? A dramatic, if unnecessary, flourish from the assassin.