Dark Side Page 14

  ‘You realize the half-wit’s about to charge me with murder!’ Carrick went on heatedly, hardly noticing the gift.

  We seated ourselves on a couple of chairs, Patrick exuding the slightly lofty and patient sympathy of a commanding officer visiting a wounded sapper. This had the opposite effect of what I feared: that the DCI would re-detonate, and he slumped back on his pillows and chuckled tiredly.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m right over the top.’

  ‘Because you’re on heaven knows what drugs,’ Patrick pointed out. ‘Did you give any kind of account of what happened to Campbell?’

  ‘No, because he got my back up straight away by giving every impression that he thought I’d killed Cooper because I was found at the crime scene, my car was in a side road near his house and the murder weapon was a skene dhu with my fingerprints on it.’

  ‘I’ve seen it and told him that it’s not yours.’

  ‘Anyone can have a spare in a drawer.’

  ‘James, that knife is so naff you wouldn’t even give it house room.’

  ‘But I’m a clever cop, aren’t I? I would have thought of that,’ Carrick said bitterly.

  ‘Suppose you tell us what happened,’ I said bluntly, although his words uncannily echoed Campbell’s thoughts.

  ‘I can’t remember much, but I know I left my car in the station car park,’ Carrick began.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Patrick enquired.

  ‘Of course. God, you don’t imagine I drove all the way to Scotland, do you?’

  ‘Campbell had it taken away for forensic testing.’

  ‘He’d have to, I’ll give him that,’ Carrick conceded. ‘Where were we? Oh, yes, what happened. I went to see Neil Macpherson. You’ve met him, Patrick.’

  ‘Yes, I rang him,’ Patrick said. ‘This was about the “The Pits” MacDonald murder case.’

  ‘Partly.’ A sigh. ‘I chickened out really. Had to get away from everything. I felt if I could go home, back to Scotland, for a bit …’ He broke off.

  ‘Lack of sleep’s a real killer,’ Patrick murmured. ‘Not to mention the kicking you received.’

  ‘But it didn’t work,’ Carrick continued. ‘Glasgow wasn’t home anyway and I knew I was running a temperature, but I travelled a little farther and went to see a few friends in Helensburgh. That was good but I was feeling pretty dreadful and knew I was a real bastard for abandoning Joanna like that. So I stayed the night with a couple I know and came back last Thursday. I can’t actually remember the journey.’

  ‘You should have gone to A and E there,’ I scolded.

  ‘I know that now. But at least I achieved something.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Neil had a fairly recent photo of Hamsworth, or a man who closely resembles much earlier mugshots of him, taken, believe it or not, by an off-duty cop at a football match as everyone was leaving, using his phone. This character was surrounded by heavies so trying to arrest him single-handed was out of the question. He called base but by the time help arrived the mobsters were lost in the crowd.’

  ‘I take it you asked him to email it to the nick here,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Neil’s more than a bit behind the times and gave me a print. I put it in my wallet – which appears to have been sent for forensic examination together with all my other stuff.’

  ‘So this photo must have been taken just before or just after MacDonald was murdered.’

  Carrick was getting tired. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘What did you do when you got off the train at Bath?’

  ‘I went round to the rear of the station where I’d left the car. Or at least, started to. I don’t know what happened after that.’

  ‘So it is conceivable that you drove your car to Cooper’s.’

  ‘I suppose so, but what the hell for?’

  I recollected that in order to reach the car park one has to go through a tunnel under the railway. This is around fifty yards in length, never very well illuminated and can be the haunt of drifters and drop-outs.

  ‘What time was this?’ Patrick wanted to know.

  ‘God knows – but it must have been late.’

  Cooper had been killed early on the Friday morning.

  ‘So everything until you woke up here, or in the ambulance, is a complete blank?’

  ‘No, not quite. I had … sort of dreams.’

  ‘Lynn did say that you were delirious,’ I told him.

  ‘Nightmares,’ Carrick continued, closing his eyes. ‘In them I killed Cooper – several times.’

  ELEVEN

  The photograph was not in Carrick’s wallet. This did not mean that it had never been there, having merely being a figment of one of the DCI’s ‘dreams’. But Inspector Macpherson had said nothing to Patrick about giving him any photographs. Perhaps he had forgotten to mention it when they spoke or had not bothered to, thinking he would find out soon enough. On receipt of the news of the missing photo Patrick immediately phoned Macpherson again, or tried to, the DI being out of the office. The constable Patrick spoke to said he would endeavour to contact him but could promise nothing, as although Macpherson had a mobile phone he hated using it and kept ‘forgetting’ to recharge the batteries.

  ‘James did say he was behind the times,’ Patrick remarked dismally.

  ‘We’re getting absolutely nowhere!’ I raged. ‘Hamsworth’s getting away with everything, even murder! I wish you could take charge of this whole ghastly case.’

  This seemed to bypass Patrick like the proverbial water off a duck’s back and he murmured, ‘If a mobster finds a photo of himself in a wallet he’s idly looking through that belongs to a cop he’s going to remove it, instinctively, not thinking too clearly. Will he keep it as a kind of memento or tear it up, pronto?’

  ‘If he has a really big head he’ll keep it,’ I offered. ‘As a sort of trophy. We’ve come across that with criminals before. Souvenirs of crime, to celebrate and gloat over.’

  ‘Cooper was hit over the head with something,’ Patrick continued, seemingly thinking aloud. ‘But Lynn didn’t say anything about any guesses as to what it might have been.’

  He had another telephone conversation with DS Outhwaite and afterwards said, ‘It was probably something like a hammer.’

  It jangled in my memory. ‘Sergeant Woods said something about a hammer being used as a weapon. Yes, I know. It was when a Mrs Pryce was killed in Beckworth Square some years ago. She lived in the terrace opposite. That was the case that James sorted out, the one that Cooper and Mallory were involved with when Joanna was hurt. A man – can’t remember if Derek told me exactly who – had used the hammer to break the glass case at an art gallery in order to steal a valuable antiquity. Mrs Pryce grabbed it off him somehow – the hammer, that is – as they entered the terrace where he and Mallory lives. Perhaps she was going to bang on his door with it because of his loud music. Miss Braithewaite met her, thought she was being attacked, the women had a tussle and Mrs Pryce accidentally received a blow on the head. She had a very thin skull and died instantly.’

  ‘The common denominators being Mallory and, unfortunately, still Carrick.’

  Intensive forensic work was still being carried out at the murder scene and on Carrick’s car. The tentative fish-and-chip or takeaway-eating theory was soon thrown out as the grease on the steering wheel had been found to be actually new motor oil, the exact type to be verified by yet another, specialist, lab. A search was then made of the area adjacent to the recycling facility. As this was used for the council’s garden waste collection as a general dump and dustcart parking zone, it entailed sorting through tons of waste in case the gloves, or cloth, the lab wasn’t sure exactly what, had been thrown away after being worn to drive the car or used to wipe the wheel afterwards. This was still ongoing.

  James Carrick was discharged from hospital as planned and went home. I told Joanna that we would look after Iona Flora for a few more days if she wanted us to but she said she had already benef
itted from the advice that Carrie had given her and could manage. Not only that, the baby would help take James’s mind off everything else.

  OK, the domestic side was hunky-dory, I told myself, taking my turn at inwardly ranting and raving, but the murder investigation was drifting along like a ship with a broken rudder, the man in charge having seemingly settled on his main suspect, Carrick.

  ‘You don’t think those two could have any history?’ I wildly burst out with that evening. ‘Literally, I mean. Clans and so forth.’

  Patrick started, deep in thought and in the process of taking a mouthful of beer. We seemed to be spending an awful lot of time in the village pub.

  ‘You trying to drown me or something?’ he asked when it was safe to speak.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘In answer to your question: no, I don’t. Campbell’s merely right out of his depth.’ Then, no doubt in response to my continuing to glare balefully at him across the table, ‘Patience. I know it feels as though we’re doing nothing but it’s sometimes a good idea to allow mobsters a little breathing space so they get cocky and start making mistakes. It’s time someone went to find Kev. I shall. Later tonight.’ With a big smile, he added, ‘You’re welcome to come if you’re feeling particularly strong.’

  I soon discovered that the strong bit was going to have to be my stomach as the first thing he wanted to do was to break into Jingles to look for anything useful to the case. Patrick had concluded, probably rightly, that Campbell would not give him a search warrant as there was no real evidence to support such a request.

  Lynn Outhwaite had passed on the information that the club only rented the basement and lower cellars and that the owner of the premises, a businessman and property developer, was in the process of restoring the upper floors with a view to renting them out as offices. He was at present in Australia and had been for several months, which had meant that contact with him had to be made by phone. He had confirmed that there was no proper access between the lower and upper floors at present, a woodworm-riddled staircase having had to be removed, just a temporary doorway – the building was rambling and not on ‘conventional’ levels, he had said – that he, the owner, had made, which was double-locked and bolted from his side.

  We gave a miss to the subterranean area where we had exited the previous occasion. While there was every indication from outside that sewage was no longer swilling about – everywhere appeared to have been hosed down – the stench was still enough to floor a horse of delicate constitution. Travelling a little farther along a wide sideway we found ourselves at a rear door that was obviously used for deliveries with the usual lidded plastic rubbish containers crammed up nearby against the outer wall. I did not think this was likely to offer much in the way of a sewage-free environment as, if anything, it was lower than the other level.

  It was a little after one-thirty in the morning and, not for the first time while engaged in night-time surveillance – all right, MI5-style breaking and entering – I felt distinctly nervous. We were clad in our usual ‘invisible’ clothing: dark-blue tracksuits with matching hoods and black trainers. We also possessed balaclavas, which were in our pockets, and we would use them if necessary. The problem with them is that they muffle sound – not useful if there is a possibility of being surprised by unwelcome angry someones.

  The night was muggy with intermittent drizzle and I felt hot and itchy in my winter-weight clothing. I thought there might be every possibility that this door we were standing by would be bolted and barred from the inside so no amount of wrangling with Patrick’s ‘burglar’s’ keys would be of any use. But there was a hefty click – the lock looked old enough to be the original – and the door opened at the first turn of the ornate cast-iron knob.

  I gathered that we would be looking for employees’ records, if such a thing existed, and any other useful information. It seemed logical that the location of such items would be in the office at the top of the stone staircase, if we went in the way I had. Even entering by a different route, the staircase should not be too hard to find.

  ‘What about alarms?’ I whispered in Patrick’s ear.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing on this door,’ was his totally infuriating response.

  I then recollected that he has a ‘gizmo’, a device he calls his sonic screwdriver – a little electronic masterpiece designed to silence and de-activate alarm systems that have comprehensively failed when nothing else will. It also works very satisfactorily on equipment that is functioning perfectly. It was given to him by a man once under his command who now works as a security engineer. He felt that he owed Patrick a favour, on account, I seemed to remember, of his actions in preventing him from getting into serious trouble for some misdemeanour or other. I know there are others with whom Patrick still keeps in contact, mostly those who served with and under him, continuing comradeship.

  Our small torches illuminated a surprisingly cavernous interior and we quickly went inside and closed the door, no key on the inside. The smell caught at my throat and I heard Patrick retch. The whole interior, the walls and floor constructed of stone, was soaking wet but looked fairly clean and had obviously been sluiced out as well, turning what must have been curtains of cobwebs overhead into a revolting black slimy-looking mess. Below, the space was empty but for a set of aluminium step-ladders, logical as anything stored down here would have been ruined. No stairs led off from this room but it had three doors, one in the end wall opposite the entrance and another two, close together, on the left-hand side. The latter proved to be old lavatories, hosed down but still unspeakable, as in full to the brim with brown. There was nothing visible in the way of closed circuit cameras or infra-red movement detectors in the main room.

  ‘This door has to lead somewhere,’ Patrick said under his breath, going over to it. Perceptibly, he shivered. ‘God, it’s cold down here.’

  I didn’t think it was.

  In the lamplight there was only one shiny narrow strip of metal visible in the space between the door and its frame, suggesting that it was held only by the catch and not locked. Patrick shone his torch right around the door and then wordlessly shook his head: no visible electrical contacts either. He turned the handle and opened the door just an inch or so.

  No alarms shrilled into the silence, just a tiny squeak from the hinges.

  He opened it wider, quickly, and a short wooden staircase rose before us. This too was soaking wet, water trickling in little runnels reflecting the light from our torches as it drained from above. The smell, wafting towards us on a cold, clammy draught, was even worse here. It was not so quiet, though; the persistent drip, drip of liquid travelling downwards. The owner of the place had mentioned that it was on unconventional levels, probably on account of it being on the side of a steep hill.

  ‘Don’t walk too closely behind me,’ Patrick warned and set off up the stairs.

  I never do. For one thing, my reactions are a lot slower than his.

  When he was near the top I started to follow. The stairs did not creak, probably because the wood was saturated and swollen. Would this place ever re-open? was the inconsequential thought that flitted through my mind. Moments later I saw Patrick’s torch beam illuminating a smallish space above me and reckoned that he was in some kind of corridor.

  It was, and wet up here as well with a dirty tidemark about a foot up the walls. I kept right back as I saw two open doorways yawning blackly, one on each side, and through the nearest of which the draught seemed to be emanating. Patrick, who had drawn his Glock, went into each in turn, giving whatever lay within a swift reconnoitre and then emerged with a further shake of his head. Nothing to be found there, perhaps with the exception of an open window. I glanced in as I passed and saw that it was in fact broken.

  ‘Don’t flash the light around,’ Patrick scolded.

  Yet another door, closed, was situated at the end of the passage. We stepped over the heap of filthy, oozing carpet that someone had begun to wrench up and then abandoned an
d made our way towards it. It was modern and well-fitting. Patrick shrugged in fatalistic fashion and tried the handle. It opened.

  I was beginning to worry about all these inner doors being unlocked but then again, who the hell would want to get in here?

  The police, that’s who.

  ‘I do urge extreme caution,’ I said under my breath. ‘You were once almost blown up in a mobster’s flat in London.’

  Patrick, who can be overly gung-ho at times, usually takes these kind of utterances by his oracle seriously. ‘Does he have the expertise?’

  ‘We did hear someone say, in this building, that he employs ex-service people.’

  He nodded in acknowledgement and shone his light through the opened doorway, illuminating a room with an untidy muddle of chairs and a table roughly in the centre loaded with used crockery and drinks glasses. The curtains across the small window were closed. No one had attempted to lift this soaking carpet and our feet squelched on it as we cautiously went forward into what, I was sure, was the room where we had heard the men talking. Next door, then, must be the office.

  Patrick was being extremely careful, shining his torch low in order to see any trip wires. We had both already noted the infra-red motion detectors in two corners of the ceiling but they were not working, which suggested that all power in the building had been turned off or had tripped – I guessed the former. Thinking along the same lines as I was, Patrick flipped down a light switch: nothing.

  The door into the office was ajar and my nerves twitched as my cursed writer’s imagination trotted out all kinds of scenarios of the bloodbath variety. Giving my partner plenty of room I fingered the Smith and Wesson in the pocket of my jacket, finding myself taking a deep breath, not having been aware of holding it. I could taste the stench at the back of my throat.

  The office appeared to be roughly as we had seen it before. It possessed a couple of tall built-in cupboards, a filing cabinet, a few chairs and a desk with a computer on it surrounded by a jumble of dirty polystyrene cups. Discounting another soggy carpet, it looked just like any ordinary office. Patrick went first to look behind the curtain that covered the opening at the top of the stone stairs, wrenching it to one side and shining his light into the dark void beyond. He then went from sight for half a minute or so, checking the area below. Returning, he investigated the cupboards which were wooden and old and may well have been put in when the building was constructed. They appeared to be locked.