Rego was awake early, his mind churning. Instead of heading straight to the station, he’d gone for a run along the promenade, the dawn light turning it pink and grey, then wheezed his way back through the subtropical Morrab Gardens promising himself that he was going to give up smoking, and still managed to be at his desk shortly after 7am.
With his halo shining, he promised to treat himself to a fish supper tonight – Tom Stevens had recommended Frasers in Wherrytown.
But when he opened his emails, all thoughts of what he’d be eating 12 hours from now disappeared. The National Ballistics Intelligence Service firearms lab had sent in their report – the gun found at the church had been used at two gang-related shootings in east London, one of which had been fatal. Forensics also confirmed that Ruçi’s fingerprints were on the weapon. It didn’t mean that she’d been the shooter. Rego was well aware that guns were handed around and often shared within a gang. Apart from anything else, with multiple sets of fingerprints on a weapon, it made it almost impossible to be certain who had fired the gun and when. Yes, you could swab a suspect for gunshot residue, but with something that was the consistency of flour, it typically only stayed on hands for a few hours. And even then, if someone had washed their hands or had even just been putting them in and out of their pockets, these actions could render a negative test result. And sometimes third parties were persuaded or coerced to hide a weapon for safe keeping.
He read through the NABIS report of where the handgun had been used before, found out the names of the MIT officers in charge then emailed them saying that the weapon had been recovered and the circumstances pertaining to it.
NABIS coordinated all firearms criminality in the UK. They would get intelligence from firearms, shell cases or bullets recovered and manage the database of forensic examinations. Cartridge cases could be matched by looking at firing pin strikes on the primer or indentations made by the ejector. There were tens of thousands of entries on the NABIS database, which grew exponentially every year.
The call data records still hadn’t come through for the burner phone, Ruçi’s personal phone, or any of the other numbers that they wanted to trace. Frustratingly, Ollie Garrett’s number hadn’t been listed on the victim’s burner. Spider Moyle, on the other hand, he hadn’t been so lucky. When uniform had searched his house, they’d found his mobile wrapped in the sort of waterproof pouch that surfers used, and hidden in the toilet’s cistern; the CDR call detail record was also being sought. It helped hugely to have a handset as there was so much more data to analyse including texts and WhatsApp messages – as well as fingerprints to prove that he’d used it. Even so, he was still answering ‘no comment’ to every question.
Tom Stevens had done a preliminary dive through Moyle’s handset and had printed off various conversations between Moyle and Ruçi. Now IT were going through it to try and retrieve what had been deleted.
It had become apparent that Spider was a major distributor for Ruçi but Rego thought that there were probably others. After all, the Hellbanianz were savvy businessmen, so it seemed unlikely that they’d put all their eggs in the basket of a junkie like Moyle.
Interestingly, several conversations between Ruçi and Moyle mentioned delays and the ‘product’ being unavailable; Tom Stevens had been trying to match that intel with the movements of Domi’s impounded artic from ferry records, but so far, the data wasn’t matching up.
Next, Rego read Jack Forshaw’s interview with Tamsyn’s grandfather. It had thrown up two additional sightings of Ruçi outside the Mackerel Inn going back to before Christmas, but the old man had been vague on dates. He had, however, identified Spider Moyle as having been there at the same time as Ruçi on at least one occasion, which was good news for the CID team. But it also meant that there was a lot of extra CCTV footage for DC Forshaw to wade through – hours and hours of it. Mimi Eagling was helping, but with the analytics and exhibits included in her workload, most of it fell to Jack. It was the kind of work that sent you cross-eyed after a few hours. But it was important: Rego wanted to know who else the woman had been talking to, who she’d been dealing with.
So far, they hadn’t found any footage at all of Ruçi near any of the pubs in St Ives: nothing at the Lifeboat or Sloop Inn, nothing at the Balcony Bar. Rego had also pulled in help from officers in Camborne, but there was no trace of Ruçi anywhere other than Newlyn and the Mackerel Inn. Either she’d avoided being caught on CCTV and hadn’t known there was any outside that pub, or they simply hadn’t been lucky enough to find the footage yet. Another possible reason occurred to Rego – perhaps she only ever dealt from Newlyn. Odd, but not impossible.
Vikram had emailed additional intel on Besnik Domi, confirming that the mobster rarely left Albania, and with the exception of this trip, Vikram hadn’t found any information that he’d left the country at all since before lockdown. Of course, it was possible that he’d travelled under an assumed name, but NCA and Interpol had been keeping a pretty close eye on him since his brother’s arrest, and there hadn’t been any long gaps of time when they’d lost track of him or didn’t know his whereabouts.
So why had he broken his routine with this trip to Cornwall? It was possible that he’d been scouting new routes, but given that Besnik’s elder brother had been in a relationship with Ruçi’s cousin, Rego still favoured the idea that this was personal. Unfortunately, gut instinct wasn’t admissible as evidence.
If the timing had been different and Domi had arrived a couple of days after Ruçi’s death, Rego would have thought that Domi junior had come to avenge the woman, but that wasn’t the case. Which made him question whether Domi killed her? And if so, why?
Damn, he needed those phone records – he felt sure that they held the key.
He emailed Tom Stevens about chasing up Vodafone asap – that was now urgent. And he wanted another crack at Spider Moyle. Perhaps a night in the cells would have made him more cooperative.
Rego knew that he had to get better at delegating, at being the boss, the one who managed the workload.
Gritting his teeth, he worked his way through the hundreds of emails that had dropped into his work account. Just because this case was kicking their arses, it didn’t mean he could take his eye off what else was going on across his new patch. So he sat and read through all the reports that uniform had sent in over the last few days, as well as skim reading through the other cases that CID were working on, not just at the Penzance station, but for the whole of Devon & Cornwall Police. There had been two fatal RTCs – a motorcyclist on the A30 and a student on the Penryn bypass; a case of arson on a housing estate in St Austell; and a brawl involving squaddies and bootnecks in Plymouth.
Next, he scanned a memo on an important Exeter Chiefs rugby match that would require extra policing later on in the month. He made a note to read up on how D&C had policed the G7 Summit a couple of years back. He remembered that Manchester had sent extra officers: in fact half of the UK’s police seemed to have been drafted in to keep all those expensive Heads of State with their heads attached.
God, so many emails! But he persevered. He needed to understand the area and where the crime hotspots were.
One report caught his eye: CID up in north Cornwall were dealing with a celebrity stalking case in a small village between Polzeath and Rock. Rego’s eyebrows shot up when he read the name.
Tom Stevens came in while he was still reading, glancing over Rego’s shoulder at his computer screen.
“Morning, boss. Yeah, we get a lot of that. Lots of second homes down here – all the stars.” His eyes went dreamy and his voice softened. “I met Kylie Minogue once when she was filming a pop video – she was lovely.”
“Got you spinning around, did she, Tom?”
“Nah, the music’s shite, but she’s ‘ansome.”
* * *
Tamsyn woke to the sound of a spade turning over soil in the garden. She yawned and stretched, feeling Mo’s warm weight pinning the duvet to her legs.
The small dog didn’t seem in any hurry to get up, so Tamsyn enjoyed some early morning snuggles with someone who wasn’t going to judge her.
Eventually, she rolled out of bed and trudged down the stairs, finding her grandmother in the vegetable garden.
“Morning, Tammy! Sleep well, angel?”
“Pretty good, Gran. I didn’t see you yesterday.”
“Only a month till Beltane – I’ve been busy with the girls.”
Tamsyn smiled. She knew that her grandmother’s ‘girlfriends’ were all in their seventies and eighties. They were a funny bunch of old witches.
“The police interviewed Grandad about that poor murdered woman,” she said, straightening her back. “He wasn’t happy about it.”
“Not happy that he was interviewed or not happy that he’d seen her?”
“Both, I reckon. It’s a terrible thing, terrible.” She studied Tamsyn’s face. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine, Gran,” said Tamsyn, pouring a cup of stewed tea from the pot and settling on the back doorstep. “I mean, it’s horrible what’s happened, but I feel like I’m really making a difference, you know? Or at least part of a team that’s making a difference. I know that the police get a bad reputation…”
“I’ve told the neighbours that you’re a civil servant,” said her grandmother. “I was going to say you worked in a bank, but your grandfather thought that was worse.”
“Seriously? Wow, thanks!”
She looked to see if her grandmother was joking – it was hard to tell.
“Anyway, the whole team are working really hard to find out what happened. The DI is putting in 12 and 14 hour days.”
Her grandmother smiled.
“You like him, don’t you? I don’t blame you – he’s a nice-looking young man.”
“Gran! When did you see him?”
“The night he walked you home. I thought then he was a real gentleman. You should invite him for tea.”
“Oh my God, no! He’s my boss! And married and … just no!”
Her grandmother shrugged. “I’m only being neighbourly, him being a foreigner and all.”
“He’s from Manchester,” Tamsyn said, rolling her eyes.
Her gran laughed. “Anywhere north of Truro is foreign to us. Well, maybe north of the Tamar. D’you know, my grandmother was born when Queen Victoria was still on the throne, and she talked about going to England when anyone crossed into Devon. She didn’t leave Cornwall her whole life. Oh, she might have gone to Plymouth once.”
“Really?”
Some of the kids Tamsyn had been at school with couldn’t wait to go and live in Bristol or even London, but Tamsyn was happy here. Who wouldn’t want all these beautiful beaches, the sea and sky and just so much space?
Mo jumped onto Tamsyn’s lap.
“Alright, fur ball. Let’s go and have some breakfast.”
As she shared her toast with Mo, Tamsyn read through the dozens of emails and briefings from the station. She almost missed the reference to times when Ruçi and Spider Moyle had complained about the supply of drugs drying up, but then she read it more thoroughly, something niggling at her.
“I wonder…” she muttered out loud.
Mo cocked an ear but lay back down again after a few seconds.
Tamsyn sent a quick email to Jen Bolitho asking for the exact dates when Spider and Ruçi had been messaging about supply problems.
It would probably take a while for Jen to get back to her, so she finished her breakfast, pulled on shorts and trainers, then took Mo for a run up through the fields, around Kenegie and back past the Carn. Mo wasn’t much of a fan of these long runs, preferring to sniff at her leisure and chase rabbits on occasion, but she kept Tamsyn company, and was happy to flop down in the garden afterwards.
While Tamsyn was in the shower, Jess had messaged.
Tamsyn had to text back that she was working. Hopefully, they’d catch up later on in the week.
By then it was late morning and Tamsyn’s grandfather arrived back from the harbour. She heard his old Rover coughing diesel fumes as he parked outside the cottage. It was a miracle that car was still running but he refused to get rid of it. Tamsyn suspected it was because he could fill it up cheaply with red diesel which was legal for boats but definitely not legal for cars. She definitely didn’t want to know for sure because then she might have to report her own grandfather. She knew that some of the old farmers had been known to run their cars on chip fat to avoid paying duty. You could always smell those ones as they drove past.
He parked on a wedge of scrubby grass next to her tired Fiat Uno.
Her grandfather teased her for having an ‘Eye-talian’ car, and said that FIAT stood for ‘fix it again, Tony’.
By the time she was dressed, he was in his usual seat at the kitchen table. He glanced up at her from The Daily Mail when she came down the stairs.
“This what you’re calling morning now, Tammy?”
“Leave her be, Ozzie,” her grandmother said tolerantly.
“I’ve been out for a run,” she said, bending down and planting a kiss on his white hair.
“Practically lunchtime,” he grumbled.
Tamsyn sat at the table scrolling through her phone, pleased to see that Jen Bolitho had replied. She read the message, sucking her teeth and frowning at the dates.
Then something fell into place. She leaned forward, her mind going a hundred miles an hour. She searched on her phone and started scanning through the last three months of weather reports. It had seemed a long shot but now…
“Grandad, remember all that bad weather we had at the end of January and the beginning of February?”
“I’m not likely to forget,” he scowled. “It were blowing south-easterly for nearly three weeks – couldn’t barely get out the harbour for even longer.”
“That’s right,” she said, almost to herself. “That’s right. And it was bad again at the beginning of this month, wasn’t it?”
He nodded, studying her face. “’Sright. Madder do it?”
“Just an idea…” she said vaguely. Then she glanced at her grandmother. “Don’t bother with lunch for me, Gran, I’m going into work.”
“But you’re not on till three, luv! You’ve got to eat…”
“I need to do a few things first,” she said, grabbing her phone and heading out the door.
Mo slumped sadly, her hazel eyes fixed on the front door as it slammed shut.
“You’ll see her later,” Tamsyn’s grandmother said, scratching Mo behind her ears.
When Tamsyn arrived at the station, only CID seemed to be staffed – everyone else was out on duty.
Nervously, she approached DI Rego’s desk and waited for him to notice her. Finally, he looked up.
“Tamsyn, hello. How are you?”
“Oh fine, thanks, sir. Um…”
“Yes?”
“You know those dates when Saemira Ruçi and Spider couldn’t get any drugs?”
“We’re assuming they were talking about drugs, but yes, what about them?”
“Well, I’ve had this idea. I mean, it might be rubbish but…”
He pointed at the chair opposite him.
“Go on.”
“Okay, so I was wondering why Saemira was meeting Spider at the Mackerel Inn and not in St Ives. At first I thought it might be because people would know her in St Ives because she lived there. But what if it wasn’t that? What if it’s because of the harbour?”
“What do you mean?” Rego asked, his dark eyebrows pulling together.
“Well, St Ives harbour is tidal, right? It’s got a large hand-line fleet and there are about 20 boats, most single-handed, so they catch mackerel in the bay; some hake, turbot, cuttlefish. But you can’t launch at low tide, so you can’t use it 24 hours a day. Newlyn is dredged so it operates around the clock. There’s nearly a hundred fishermen there every day – 600 boats a year, although two- or three-hundred residents’ punts – probably about a hundred working regularly. It’s the biggest fish harbour in the UK.”
Rego listened attentively, intrigued. Her voice had grown stronger and her face was more animated now.
“Newlyn’s harbour protects boats from the prevailing south-westerlies,” she went on, “but when the wind blows from the southeast, it’s really choppy and difficult for small boats to get out. Dangerous for anything under 35 foot. And even with a bigger boat, you’d really have to know what you’re doing.” She looked down at her phone. “So I checked the dates when Saemira and that Spider guy couldn’t get their stuff…” She glanced up at Rego. “And all the dates fit with the bad weather when we had weeks of south-easterlies – Grandad couldn’t get out for three weeks or more at one point – and he’s the best there is. So I just thought that maybe … I thought it might be important.”
Rego sat back in his chair, then pinned his eyes on her. “Are you sure? About the dates?”
“Yes, sir. I asked Grandad and I checked the weather reports twice – I’m sure.”
Rego tapped his fingers on the desk, his mind racing.
“So I wondered,” Tamsyn said, chewing her lip. “Maybe the reason Saemira used the Mack Shack is because the drugs were landed at Newlyn Harbour.”
Rego turned away from her and called out to his CID colleagues. “Briefing room! Now!” Then he spun his chair around and grinned at Tamsyn.
“Well done.”