It seemed pointless for Patrick to interview Marlene Judd again, especially as she was, in Janice North’s words, ‘talking practically non-stop now, raking through her memory for every last detail with which she can incriminate O’Connor’. The DI promised to forward any potentially useful information to us.
Late on Tuesday morning – I had abandoned returning to Hinton Littlemore for the time being – after we had been informed of all this and Patrick had dealt with a few other matters, we had a brainstorming session in his office.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ he began by saying, ‘I’m not going to throw the rule book out of the window and go after this man on my own, armed to the hilt with a knife between my teeth.’
‘I’m extremely relieved to hear that,’ I told him, the possibility of this having been a real fear.
‘Coffee,’ he decided, and got up to drive his new toy.
A few minutes later, Michael Greenway put his head around the door. ‘That smells good.’
Patrick made him one.
‘Well, you’re nibbling away at this mobster,’ Greenway observed, seating himself.
I called that damning with faint praise.
‘It’s been in my mind to ask you this, but have you thought about going undercover on your own, that kind of thing, to find him?’ the commander went on in casual fashion.
‘We were just discussing that,’ Patrick answered. ‘So, yes, I have thought about and no, I’m not.’
Greenway merely smiled.
‘For one thing, if I do I shall probably end up by killing him and I’ve been expressly forbidden to do that.’
‘Locate is the name of the game, surely.’
‘And then call up support? Please get real. The time between locating and the opposition starting shooting can be seconds. Sorry, but you’ve had no experience of that kind of thing.’
‘Daws wanted you hired because of your experience.’
‘It’s Daws who’s forbidden me to kill him,’ Patrick retorted.
‘Only for publicity reasons, surely – an arrest is good copy for the newly formed NCA.’
I said, ‘And if O’Connor dies in a hail of bullets that’s not quite so nice because the great British public are so squeamish and spineless these days?’
The commander nodded sagely. ‘Obviously, I can’t speak for Daws but it might be something like that.’
‘I’m not going to handle it like that,’ Patrick said. ‘Although I can’t pretend that if, in the course of this investigation, I come face-to-face with O’Connor I won’t defend myself, but I have no intention of deliberately setting up any kind of one-to-one confrontation.’
There was a little general conversation and then Greenway finished his coffee. ‘OK, I’ll leave you to get on with it then.’
When he had gone, Patrick looked at his watch. ‘I’m too hungry to think. Lunch?’
We went to an Italian restaurant that we have used before where the menu includes ‘light bites’ which suits me fine. My husband nevertheless chose a pasta dish that came in a very large bowl and proceeded to demolish it.
‘No questions?’ he asked between mouthfuls.
‘You said not all that long ago that you owed O’Connor a bullet.’
‘I do.’
‘So what was that bit of theatre about just now?’
‘I found a bug in my office.’
For a moment I forgot to eat. ‘What?’
‘I always check – it’s a habit. He must think I’ve forgotten everything I know.’
‘Who, Greenway?’
‘No, think. Daws.’
‘He’s still checking up on you?’
‘I can’t even begin to guess his reasons.’
‘Greenway trying to get you to go in undercover was a sting operation then.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Nothing, and say nothing. I’ll get rid of the bug, though – he’ll expect me to find it.’
‘I don’t like it that Daws doesn’t appear to trust you.’
‘Have I ever given him grounds to trust me to follow orders to the letter?’
I shrugged and carried on with my lunch. Perhaps not. But there was another reason Daws had wanted him: because he’s different.
‘O’Connor,’ I prompted when we were having coffee. I was relieved that Patrick appeared to be more measured in his approach to this mobster, for at one time …
Patrick drained his cup. ‘Although Marlene described them as mates, I don’t reckon Ray Collins is part of O’Connor’s outfit. He’s ex-army, has a list of previous convictions as long as your arm and reckoned to be dangerous. But he’s always been a loner, just for hire to do one-offs. This means O’Connor could be left with a load of thickoes now his brother’s dead. He might have to put on hold the big job Marlene Judd mentioned while—’ He stopped speaking as his mobile rang. ‘Result!’ he said succinctly after the call. ‘That was Carrick. Remember the man you shot in the shoulder? Someone’s turned up in A&E at the Royal United Hospital in Bath with a seriously infected bullet wound. No details yet as to exactly where but it has to be him.’
Following a 999 call the man had been found at an address just off the Lower Bristol Road in Bath. He was delirious and when admitted to hospital was found to be suffering from blood poisoning. This was treated with strong antibiotics, the doctors hoping that twenty-four hours later when he was a little stronger he would be able to have an operation to remove the bullet. They dared not wait any longer.
James Carrick asked DI Campbell, with suitable backup, to investigate where the ‘shooting victim’ had been found but when they arrived the house was locked up and seemingly deserted. A neighbour revealed that the young woman who lived there had taken her children and gone, possibly to her mother’s, she had added ‘maliciously’, as Campbell put it. The neighbour even knew where the mother lived, three streets away. Campbell went round there and was met with a pair of shrieking harridans who hurled obscenities at him and tried to scratch his eyes out, and ended up by arresting the pair of them for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty. Shortly afterwards, three filthy and obviously malnourished children at the property were taken into care by Social Services.
While it seemed unlikely that we would be able to interview the wounded man for several days, it was vital that we spoke to him as soon as he was deemed well enough. While we waited Patrick stayed in London to work on other matters and I took the train home. Much police work involves waiting but that did not mean I did nothing in connection with the case in the meantime.
I went to see Sandra Stevens, who was still in hospital although much stronger. I found her in a patients’ lounge, reading, her watchful minder by the door. I had brought with me a photograph, taken at Feltham police station, of Marlene Judd. I also had a photofit of her with the short blonde hair replaced by the nearest I could find on the system to the tatty grey-brown locks we had seen at the rectory and also at her bungalow. After a little conversation I showed them to her, the latter first.
Sandra slowly shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve seen her before.’
I gave her the photograph.
‘Oh. Is this to do with my dream then?’
‘It might be,’ I replied, deliberately vague.
‘It could be the woman who opened the door of the house in the spooky little wood.’
‘The different woman.’
‘Yes. But hang on …’
I waited.
‘It’s the same woman, isn’t it? Only in the photo she’s wearing a blonde wig.’
‘No, that’s her own hair. As she appears in the other picture she’s wearing a wig to make herself look older. She could have removed it by the time Hereward went back for his phone.’
‘Gosh. I see. Is she a criminal?’
‘You could say that. Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.’
‘And Mr Gillard? Is his head better? It would be awful if he was scarred for life.’
‘He heals well,’ I told her. ‘His mother’s worried about that too but he made a joke of it and said he’d grow a fringe.’
‘I had another dream, a silly one like the bit about that black cat, Henry. I dreamed you and he were married and had children.’
‘How many children?’ This was truly fascinating.
‘Five!’ She uttered a little shriek of laughter.
I took one of her hands. ‘I really must tell you something.’
‘What?’ she asked a trifle nervously.
‘That’s not quite right, as although Henry’s a real cat, he doesn’t say a lot. And only three of the children are ours – we adopted the other two.’
After expressing utter amazement she looked quite sad as I wished her a quick recovery, said goodbye and left.
Nobody was underestimating O’Connor, which meant that the man with the gunshot wound, which was indeed in his right shoulder, who was still unidentified as he refused to give his name, was under police guard as well. Someone thought of asking the mother of the young woman, who were both also refusing to give their names, if she knew who he was. Both women had been charged notwithstanding and released on police bail, mainly because Sergeant Derek Woods, in charge of the custody suite, had flatly refused to house them for a moment longer. Nobody argued with Woods; he had been at Manvers Street, as James Carrick had once jokingly remarked, since the last Ice Age.
The elder woman had calmed down on arrival at home and gave whoever the someone was who had subsequently spoken to her – I never found out but guessed it was Lynn Outhwaite – her name and all the information that was needed. She admitted that the state of her grandchildren, whom she had not been permitted to see for quite a while on account of ‘his’ presence in her daughter’s home, had shocked her terribly. The man, one Billy Efford, was not the children’s father; in fact, she had no idea who was – ‘several blokes probably’, she had said on an afterthought. In her opinion, it had been her daughter who had called the ambulance as she herself had no knowledge of Efford having been injured in a shooting. Not that she was surprised, ‘the lout’.
‘All we need is a DNA match between Efford and one of the bloodstains on the carpet at Sandra Stevens’s flat,’ Patrick commented on hearing this when he came home for the weekend. ‘I hope Carrick’s asked for a fast-track result. But strangely, he has no previous convictions other than getting involved in fights after football matches.’
‘James also told me Efford’s had the bullet removed and might be fit enough to be interviewed on Monday, but we won’t know until then,’ I finished by saying.
‘Good. I hope the lady who put it there isn’t feeling guilty.’
‘A bit.’
‘He could have killed you in the next second.’
‘I know.’
Patrick was engaged in his usual Friday evening just-come-through-the-door activity of absentmindedly spreading his belongings around the living room as he spoke. Cars keys in a china dish on a side table, briefcase and the one holding his laptop on different armchairs, leather jacket hitched on one corner of the back of the sofa. My suggestions on several occasions along the lines of that was what hallways were for, where there were coat hooks and other useful parking places, had had no effect. When he had a shower, in a couple of minutes’ time, I’d usually relocate everything. He never appeared to notice.
‘I interviewed Will Gibbs again,’ he said as he went out of the door.
‘And?’ I enquired half an hour later when he reappeared and as though there had been no break in the conversation.
‘Glass of wine?’
‘Please.’
‘He’d been brought back from Feltham nick for more questioning – and decided to carry on being helpful.’ Patrick went off in the direction of the kitchen and, coming back with my wine, continued, ‘He’d known for a little while that O’Connor was lying low on account of someone having shot a gun out of his grasp, doing unknown damage to his hand. Was he holding the gun on me with his right hand?’
I nodded.
‘Gibbs doesn’t reckon he has any plans to move his criminal activities down here, which will be a relief to James, but said he’d rented some kind of pad for six months in this area as a bolthole while they waited for poor old Archie to die, so they had a handy and fun way of getting rid of Judd’s body when they killed him. As we now know, they hastened things along a bit. Gibbs reckons he’s obsessed about how he disposes of, or deals with, the bodies of his murder victims. It has to be different every time – it’s entertainment to him.’
I instantly had a vivid mental picture of O’Connor poring over a computer, or even pen and paper, writing ‘scripts’ and then being producer, director and leading actor in the ‘action’. I said, ‘But there were several coffins in that shed.’
Patrick shrugged. ‘Just for storage purposes, perhaps – corpses, I mean.’
‘I take it human remains weren’t found in the ashes there.’
‘No one’s said anything about that, so no.’
He rummaged in the cupboard where we keep drinks – some people have cocktail cabinets, which personally I think really naff – found an opened bottle of single malt and poured himself a tot.
‘Is O’Connor still likely to be in this rented pad?’ I enquired.
‘I asked Gibbs about that but he didn’t know. The rental agreement could have expired by now.’
‘Any hints as to what this big job might be that Marlene Judd mentioned?’
‘He wasn’t sure about that either but had an idea it involved her murder.’
‘With the added bonus of another corpse to play with.’
‘Sick, isn’t it?’
‘There’s one thing I need to get straight in my mind,’ I said on impulse. ‘Although she had the jewellery that her brother had stolen, I think we’ve decided that there’s no connection between Sarah Dutton and Judd’s or O’Connor’s criminal empires. Therefore, why did Will Gibbs and the two others grab Joanna when she was investigating her family in Leytonstone? Do they live there and were just hanging around outside the pub?’
‘Good point.’ Patrick grabbed his laptop, the only thing I had left where it was.
‘Look, please don’t bother to look up all the case notes now,’ I hastened to add. ‘It’s your weekend break.’
‘Yes, but it’s something I’ve overlooked and need to know.’
‘When we turned up at the derelict estate where we found Joanna, they said they didn’t want anyone to interfere with what they regarded as their patch.’
‘They were drunk.’
‘Did the Met actually search that ghastly place?’
‘For heaven’s sake, woman, you’re throwing all this stuff at me …’
‘Sorry.’ I battened down the oracle and subsided into a chair with my wine glass.
A couple of minutes later, Patrick said, ‘Dougie Baker lived in Leytonstone, so they could have just been hanging around outside the pub. Will Gibbs lives on a council estate in West Ham, which is not far away; Joe Hurley, the one who was shot by what we’re calling friendly fire and is still in hospital, is of no fixed address and refuses to answer all questions.’ He looked up. ‘It could have been a complete coincidence.’
‘You’re not supposed to have coincidences in crime stories and I don’t like them in real life.’
He tossed down the remainder of his tot and then said, ‘We must be careful here. Joanna had dressed smartly for a trip to London. She was carrying a designer bag that was big enough to hold documents plus a laptop although, as we know, she hadn’t actually taken things like that with her. She looked like someone who was acting in some kind of official capacity. I really must have a word with her about working undercover as when a woman on her own, a stranger, goes to sink estates it can be dangerous. In this case it was dangerous and men, scum, like those three who apprehended her, would regard her as fair game.’
‘Phone her,’ I urged. ‘Ask her how many houses she called at. Someone might have slipped out and tipped them off. And, don’t forget, Sarah Dutton’s brother’s involved with gangs.’
Just then Justin burst into the room, followed by Vicky and then Katie, who was very carefully carrying Mark, Carrie hovering watchfully nearby. Matthew brought up the rear, brandishing what looked like a homework file, all five children heading in Patrick’s direction. I left him sorting out the inevitable argument over priority for attention and went to phone Joanna and see to the dinner. When I returned, the two eldest children had gone into the annexe to have their evening meal with John and Elspeth, the usual Friday routine. Carrie had taken Mark off to bed and Justin was proclaiming how hungry he was. Vicky, half asleep on Patrick’s lap, had only recently been deemed old enough to stay up a little longer and have her dinner with whoever was at home, but I was having second thoughts as she tended to nod off in her dessert.
Just over an hour and a half later, having cleared away and when both youngsters were in bed – her father’s quick reflexes having prevented Vicky from doing a header into her rice pudding – we both could finally relax in the sitting room. Not for the first time, I asked myself if mine was a bizarre lifestyle: one minute popping cute kids under their quilts – on this occasion Vicky – the next acting like something out of a RoboCop movie.
Patrick had been out in the garden sitting in the last of the evening sun while he smoked one of the small cigars of which he is particularly fond. ‘Did you have time to phone Joanna?’ he asked, flopping into a chair.
‘I did. She went to three addresses, the last known one in records for Sarah Dutton’s father, Harold Fletcher, and the houses on either side. She thought the man in the second house was evasive and suspicious, but because of the nature of the area put that down as normal. There were children in the house who she thought at the time ought to have been at school, but as there were quite a few others running wild on the estate it went through her mind that they were still on their school holidays.’
‘A runner? Send a kid to tell the three invariably hanging around by the pub that a woman was nosing around asking questions?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘You mentioned the brother, Guy Fletcher,’ Patrick reflected. ‘If he ever worked for O’Connor, which I think is unlikely as he appears to be a burglar by trade, what would be the advantage of involving his sister and, possibly, Robin Williams? Blackmail?’
‘It’s not a crime to have an affair with your secretary,’ I pointed out.
‘OK, let’s think of it from another angle. There were several coffins in the shed. Perhaps the idea was to gain some kind of hold over Williams in order to repeat the Archie scenario.’
‘Yet Will Gibbs said O’Connor never repeated a method of disposing of corpses.’
‘But if he’d hit on something really useful …’
‘If Fletcher’s still inside why don’t you talk to him?’
There was a thought-filled silence, then Patrick said, ‘We’re going round in circles, aren’t we? Big, big zeros. I should have been content to stay where I was – on the shop floor.’
‘When have you ever been on the shop floor?’ I countered crossly. ‘O’Connor’s hiding away, on the run. He’s been flushed out from just about everywhere he’s tried to hide since you took the case on.’
Still unhappy, Patrick got to his feet. ‘I quite fancy a pint. Coming?’
‘No, you go.’
‘I’ll see if anyone in the pub wants their grass cut.’
He went out, leaving me wondering if he had been serious.
I switched on my computer to access the NCA websites that are restricted to personnel only. I discovered, ironically, that Guy Fletcher, another who was listed as of no fixed address, had been released from prison the previous week. Surely by now he would have disappeared into the labyrinth that is London.
Unless he was staying with his sister and her husband in Larkhall, that is.
The following morning, as on the first occasion, Paul Dutton answered the door. Again, he looked peevish when he saw us and snapped, ‘It’s the weekend and not remotely convenient.’
‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions,’ Patrick said urbanely.
I wondered if he had been sorely tempted to express surprise that the man was still living here.
Dutton had opened his mouth to answer when a woman’s voice called, ‘Who is it, Paul?’
‘The police – again.’
Sarah Dutton came into view. ‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’
‘Have you heard from your brother?’ Patrick enquired.
‘Guy? No. He’s in prison – as you well know.’
‘He was released last week.’
‘Was he?’ she said stonily.
‘Mrs Dutton, I’ll ask you again. Have you seen or heard from your brother?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘He’s listed as being of no fixed address. Can you update me on that?’
‘No, I’ve absolutely no idea where he might be. We’ve never been close.’
‘OK, sorry to have bothered you.’
The front door slammed shut almost on our heels. But I remained where I was as Patrick had grabbed my elbow. Then he ducked beneath the adjacent window and went around the corner of the house, where there was a sideway. Feeling extremely conspicuous – there were people walking by, one of whom stared at me – I followed, having to brake hard as I almost ran into my partner, who was standing motionless. Like an animal, he was sniffing the air and then moved extremely quickly, going from my sight. Then I smelled it too.
Cigarette smoke.
‘Police!’ I heard Patrick shout. ‘Stand still!’
I arrived just as a man bolted towards me, and he would probably have knocked me down if he hadn’t been checked by a stranglehold on the collar of his sweatshirt. As it was, I sidestepped smartly as the pair’s momentum meant they carried on for a short distance, the would-be fugitive ending up slammed face first against the house wall.
Holding him by the shoulders, Patrick turned him around so that he faced us and said, ‘When a cop asks you to stand still he means what he says, and if you even think of trying to get the better of me I shall, first, be forced to act in self-defence, which you won’t like at all, and, second, arrest you. Is that understood?’
The man, medium height, sallow complexion, pale bue eyes, thin, sandy-coloured hair, nodded sullenly and Patrick released his grip.
‘You’re Guy Fletcher?’
Another nod.
‘We can talk here or down at the nick.’
‘I’ve done my time,’ Fletcher muttered. ‘I don’t want to go to no more nicks.’
‘OK, but this isn’t about you. I want to talk to you about Fred Judd and Jinty O’Conner.’
‘Judd’s dead!’
‘So he is. Were you around when that took place?’
‘No! I didn’t work for him! He was raving mad! And the word was he never paid no one.’
‘Or around, on the side of those killing him?’
‘No!’
‘You worked for O’Connor?’
‘No! Never!’
‘Freelance burglar then?’
‘Most of the time.’
‘And the rest?’
Fletcher merely shook his head. Then, having been on the receiving end of one of Patrick’s stares, he stammered. ‘Well, I – I was inside quite a lot of the time, wasn’t I?’
‘D’you know where O’Connor is now?’
‘No, how could I?’
‘Because you’ve been inside.’
‘I don’t know where he is. I don’t get involved with people like that. I didn’t do time with people like that.’ It seemed as though he might burst into tears. ‘Look, this time I’ve been trying to turn myself around, right? Been learning to decorate people’s houses, wallpapering, painting, that kind of stuff. I – I’m actually quite good at it … going to get a job.’
The outer door of a small conservatory to one side of where we were standing opened and Fletcher’s sister emerged. ‘Why don’t you go and bully someone your own size?’ she yelled at Patrick.
There was no constructive answer to that and we left. Patrick does not have to justify his actions to common criminals.
We were no further.