Dark Side Page 4

  Sounding very surprised, Joanna said, ‘No. Isn’t he at work?’

  ‘I expect he’d just popped out for something,’ I answered lightly. ‘It was only a friendly call.’

  ‘Patrick’s in London, I take it.’

  ‘Chained to a desk.’

  ‘James hasn’t yet resigned himself to the fact that that’ll be his fate now Campbell’s on the job.’

  We rang off. No first names there either, then.

  I am an impatient and stubborn sort of person and hate to be left in a state of limbo when I have decided to do something and am forestalled. It was obvious that Carrick had not merely gone along to Boots to buy some aftershave or had an appointment to discuss financial affairs at his bank or there would not be such an information blackout. To try to find him, though, seemed impertinent at best.

  I rang Patrick and explained the situation, wondering if he had any ideas. He did not, and suggested that I leave it for twenty-four hours. So here I was, all fired up to talk about Benny Cooper and my day now had a very large hole in it. Fine, I would brace myself and seek out Mr Sort-of-Smarmy-with-Shades and see what he had to say for himself.

  Sergeant Derek Woods has been stationed in Bath for a long time, having arrived before James Carrick, and what he doesn’t know about the running of the place, the more important past cases from his colleagues in CID, and local villains must be infinitesimal. At one time a bastion on the desk in the public lobby, this now an enlarged and refurbished reception area, these days he is in charge of the custody suite. For the second time that morning I entered my security code on the number pad by the door that opens into the main part of the building, enquired after him and was told that he was in the canteen having his morning break.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Woods offered in his soft West Country burr when I asked to join him.

  I smiled my thanks. ‘Lovely, thank you.’ The stuff wasn’t but I really needed to talk to him.

  ‘The governor’s in London?’ Woods enquired on returning. He had somehow persuaded the canteen staff to use a china cup and saucer instead of the usual polystyrene thing. He has always liked Patrick.

  I nodded. ‘In the office.’

  Woods drew in breath through his teeth. ‘Not happy, then.’

  ‘No.’ I stirred the sludgy-looking brew. ‘Derek, I was wondering if you knew anything about Benny Cooper and Paul Mallory.’

  The lines on Woods’ craggy face deepened as he ransacked his memory. After several long moments had elapsed, he said, ‘They were involved when a Mrs Pryce was killed at around the same time the Chantbury Pyx was stolen from a display case at the art gallery. The old lady was a real nasty, complaining kind of biddy and had crossed the square to have a go at Mallory, who played very loud music in his flat with his windows open. Terrible modern orchestral stuff, apparently – someone said it was like a plane crashing on a concert hall. It was the last straw, I guess, and she was beside herself with rage. She met the bloke who had stolen the Pyx just inside the entrance – Mallory lived on the first floor – grabbed the hammer that he’d used to attack the security guards and break into the glass cabinet while he was apparently wrapping it up more securely, and dashed off upstairs, presumably to batter on Mallory’s door with it. She met another old lady on the way and must have thought she was going to try and stop her. The second lady, Miss Braithewaite, I seem to remember her name was, thought she was going to be killed and tried to get the hammer away from the woman. She got hold of it, there was a tussle, Mrs Pryce slipped and the hammer hit her on the head. Her skull was paper-thin and that was the end of her.’

  ‘I hope Miss Braithewaite didn’t end up in prison.’

  ‘No, it was a complete accident, although apparently the Pryce woman had looked mad enough to have attacked anyone.’ Woods grinned. ‘Especially as Miss Braithewaite was the DI’s old English teacher – Carrick hadn’t been promoted then.’

  ‘I was told it happened around the time the girl with red hair was murdered.’

  ‘That’s right. The bloke who had nicked the Pyx, who had form and was dressed as a woman, had thought he had been seen by a girl with red hair as he came back with his loot. He had: Joanna Mackenzie, now Mrs Carrick, was working as a private detective and engaged by Mrs Pryce to find out who was nicking some of the plants in pots from the front of her house. But there was another girl with red hair working over at the nursing home in the same square – can’t remember her name. The bastard – if you’ll excuse my language – killed her shortly afterwards. Mistaken identity.’

  I was wondering how the hell Carrick had managed to sort all this out. ‘And Cooper and Mallory?’

  ‘Cooper’s a right little s— so and so. He persuaded Mallory to rough up Miss Mackenzie as he’d been lambasting Carrick and the CID here for failing to catch Mrs Pryce’s killer – it was assumed to be murder at the time – in his newspaper column and thought it would mess up the investigation, thereby giving himself more good copy. But Mallory almost killed the girl. He was lucky not to be charged with attempted murder.’

  ‘I understand Cooper had been watching Carrick, hoping to catch him with a prostitute or drinking heavily.’

  ‘That’s right. Although, you must appreciate we ordinary bods didn’t get the full story on that. You probably know more about it than I do.’

  This had only just occurred to me. ‘I understand that Cooper and Mallory were already in the frame for some kind of pornography business?’

  ‘Child pornography,’ Woods said disgustedly. ‘Personally I’d like to see people like that strung up – but please don’t tell anyone I said so.’

  ‘Where did all this happen? You mentioned a square.’

  ‘Yes, right here in the city. Beckford Square.’

  ‘Have you any idea if Mallory still lives there?’

  ‘No, sorry. Whether he owned the flat or rented it …’ Woods shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t have paid rent while he was inside, though, would he?’

  ‘And Cooper? Where does, or did, he live?’

  ‘No idea. But, I can have a look in records for you.’

  ‘It’s OK, thank you, I can do that myself. Apparently he’s set himself up as some sort of private investigator.’

  ‘I can just see him in a little back room somewhere digging dirt,’ Woods muttered disgustedly.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t know who this mobster is who’s known to the Met that Cooper’s reputed to be knocking around with in Bath?’

  ‘You’d need to ask CID about that.’

  ‘Derek, you’re the eyes and ears of Bath. No wild guesses?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Sorry, no, Miss Langley. This is all pretty recent stuff and as far as I know word hasn’t got to local snouts. And I don’t advise you checking up on Cooper on your own, or on Mallory for that matter – he used to be right under Cooper’s thumb and all the worse for it, never mind attacking Mrs Carrick, as she was to be.’

  I thanked him, finished my coffee and took Woods’ advice by deferring going to the last address listed in police records for Cooper, setting off instead to locate Beckford Square.

  It was situated just north of the Royal Crescent and the Circus, the latter of which consists of three crescents that form a circle. Between one of these is Nash Street leading directly to Beckford Square which, belatedly, around eighteen months previously and after years of neglect, was designated a conservation area and scheduled for massive renovation. This has now largely been achieved and West Terrace, which I knew had been semi-derelict and boarded up for a very long time, was in the final stages of being converted into up-market retirement apartments. In the centre of the square was a little garden surrounded by ornate cast-iron railings with a matching gate. These were newly painted and the worn grass and overgrown dusty-looking evergreen shrubs which I seemed to recollect had been within had been replaced with neatly raked gravel, a new bench and a multi-stemmed birch tree.

  I had consulted Records before I left the nick a
nd looked up the Pryce case. She had lived at number 3, South Terrace, one of a row of much smaller houses that had only two storeys. That side of the square looked as though it had been added as an afterthought, when perhaps the original builders had almost run out of money. Here there were no Ionic columns or friezes, no Palladian ornamentation, just double-fronted houses with, even more oddly in such a setting, small front gardens. These, as one might expect in Bath and from what I could see between the parked tradesmen’s vans, were picture-perfect with tiny lawns and jewel-bright flower beds.

  I had not read all the case details but it was logical that Paul Mallory’s flat had been, or still was, in North Terrace, as Woods had said the woman had crossed the square to complain about the noise of his ‘music’. If there were any intrusive sounds emanating from the terrace now they would be drowned out by the sound of nail guns and power tools on the building site over to my right.

  One might have imagined that the little garden in the centre would be accessible to residents only with keys to the gate issued. But this appeared not to be the case as a man whose appearance – tattered jeans, filthy sweatshirt, matted hair full of twigs and leaves – gave every indication that he was living rough, was seated on the bench, a bottle to hand from which he now took a mouthful. His gaze came to rest on me as I drew level and he gave me a revolting leer, followed by an obscene gesture.

  OK, point taken, I thought, and abandoned my mission.

  Patrick came home for the weekend that evening, hurrying upstairs for a shower and change of attire with the manner of a man hurling his working clothes aside and sluicing off all boredom together with city grime. He reappeared remarkably quickly, having said hello to everyone else at home, poured himself a tot of whisky and dropped with a sigh of contentment into an armchair. Vicky, who had followed him in, climbed into his lap to show him her new teddy bear, a present from Elspeth. The previous one had come to a bad end after being offered to a village fox terrier to admire only for it to be snatched, triumphantly carried away and shredded. This had had the effect of poor little Vicky now being terrified of dogs.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Patrick asked her.

  ‘Eeyore.’

  ‘I thought Eeyore was a donkey.’

  She shook her head, giggling, and I said, ‘I think she prefers it to Pooh.’

  ‘Pooh’s rude!’ shouted our daughter.

  Carrie came into the room. ‘Oh, that’s where little madam is. Sorry, I just wondered where she’d disappeared off to.’

  It was past the child’s bedtime so Patrick carried her upstairs. Justin was staying overnight with a school friend, having been threatened with complete and for ever stoppage of pocket money if he misbehaved – his past record is not good – and the two older children were in the annexe with their grandparents to share their evening meal. It is the Friday routine and I understood that chicken pie, homemade, of course, was on the menu.

  ‘Anything interesting in your few days at home?’ Patrick asked when he returned to the room.

  ‘Well, as you know I went to talk to James this morning but he wasn’t there and David Campbell didn’t know where he was. So after I rang you I found out where Beckford Square is – a flat in North Terrace there was the last known address of Paul Mallory – and went round for a snoop. There was a down-and-out sitting on a bench in the square. James, obviously doing the same thing.’

  ‘You didn’t approach him.’

  ‘Of course not. I came away. I didn’t go to have a look at Benny Cooper’s last known address either as I didn’t want to interfere with anything James might be doing. But he did see me.’

  ‘Have you contacted him since?’

  ‘No. I thought you’d like to be in on that.’

  ‘Too right.’ Patrick took an appreciative sip of his single malt. ‘Is it just the kids having dinner or are we invited as well?’

  ‘I thought you might prefer fillet steak and all the trimmings for two with a bottle of claret here tonight. All the family’s here tomorrow evening.’

  After we had eaten, Patrick rang the DCI suggesting a meeting, whereupon Carrick said he could be at the pub in fifteen minutes’ time. This made me wonder if his darling daughter still wouldn’t ‘settle’.

  ‘I really want to apologize to you, Ingrid,’ was his opening remark when we saw him on the village green and were still yards apart, he obviously having had to park somewhere else. The building was packed to the doors, people spilling out into the road and across on to the green. I suddenly remembered that a skittles match against Wellow was scheduled for tonight.

  ‘No need,’ I hastened to assure him. His face had lack of sleep written all over it.

  ‘Mow you down with his car, did he?’ Patrick queried.

  I made light of the leer and gesture and then said to James, ‘Patrick’s done far worse things than that to preserve his cover. Is Paul Mallory still living there, then?’

  ‘If being dead drunk or out of it on drugs for most of the time can be described as living, yes.’

  Both men then eyed the Ring o’ Bells with practical gaze.

  ‘We’ll never get a pint in a thousand years,’ Carrick lamented.

  Patrick frowned. ‘If we go round the back and ambush someone …’

  They went off, leaving me standing. It was a lovely evening so I found an empty bench a bit farther away and wondered, not for the first time, why Carrick had not told his new DI what he was doing that day. Surely their working relationship hadn’t actually crashed already.

  Not long afterwards, in a staggeringly short space of time in the circumstances, the two came back into view, Patrick carrying what appeared to be a heavy cardboard box that clinked. I had a quick guess from the apparent weight and came up with a bottle of wine, four to six bottles of bitter plus the relevant glasses.

  ‘A visiting beer from Dartmoor!’ he exclaimed. ‘Jail Ale, no less, and a special offer on a dozen bottles to sons of the soil – some tonight, some tomorrow!’

  ‘How terribly suitable,’ I commented, my own version of this being most tonight, not much tomorrow. ‘But you aren’t sons of any kind of soil. What about me?’

  They stopped in their tracks, clearly having forgotten all about me.

  ‘It’s so warm we were thinking of going home and sitting in the garden.’ Patrick then said, adding with the smile of a man under wifely siege, ‘There’s a good bottle of Chablis in the fridge.’

  Just the smallest bit offended, I replied, ‘It’s for an emergency – like unexpected visitors.’

  They looked at one another and Carrick said, ‘I reckon this is an emergency, don’t you?’

  No point in falling out with both of them.

  ‘I knew you’d want to ask me about it but it’s not official – yet,’ Carrick said. ‘This is just me doing a little homework on a couple of local ex-cons.’ As he spoke his voice had thickened with anger.

  ‘Far be it for me to advise moderation,’ Patrick said softly.

  James gave him a straight look. ‘No.’

  ‘Or urge you to consider that getting emotionally involved can affect judgement.’

  ‘No – again, I reckon you’d think it none of your business,’ the Scot said, taking a fierce swig of his beer.

  ‘It’s not.’

  There was a little silence.

  ‘But?’ Carrick snapped.

  ‘I suggest that your judgement has been affected insofar as it obviously hasn’t occurred to you that it might be, taking into consideration his previous behaviour, exactly what Cooper wants.’

  ‘Wants?’ This incredulously.

  ‘The DCI, still raging over the attack on his one-time girlfriend, now his wife, has admitted under questioning that he targeted those responsible in a private vendetta. One of them, Paul Mallory, now an alcoholic, has recently been found with severe injuries having been savagely beaten.’ Patrick looked at James pointedly.

  ‘Bloody hell! You don’t imagine I’d—’

  Patrick smo
othly interrupted with, ‘That’s the beginning of an article in a gutter national newspaper under the headline “cop gets revenge on yob who injured his wife”.’ And when the other carried on staring at him, appalled, he added, ‘As you’re more than aware he’s done something like it before and all the signs are that Mallory’s right under his control. And now you say Cooper’s big buddies with a serious criminal?’ He shrugged. ‘All it would take is a phone call for Mallory to be seriously done over.’

  There was a much longer silence this time. Eventually Carrick, gazing into space, breathed out hard through his nose and muttered, ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have come out tonight.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t need friends.’

  The DCI turned to face him. ‘Look, Patrick …’ Then he got to his feet and strode away for several yards, his back to us. Patrick merely smiled into his beer tankard, waiting.

  With a gesture of despair Carrick came back and reseated himself. ‘This man’s like a running sore to me,’ he said through his teeth. ‘I’ve seen him twice lately when I’ve gone out at around midday. He doesn’t bother to hide himself, just stands around seeming to know where I’m going to be. And it’s worse than that: Joanna told me the other day that there was a red sports car parked in the lane outside our house with a man sitting in it. She’s never actually come face-to-face with Cooper but from her description it was him all right.’

  Patrick said, ‘I’ve already mentioned to Greenway that Cooper and Mallory are back in circulation as we were discussing the subject of career criminals recruiting dodgy private investigators to get corrupt cops to leak information and delete files. You’ve already had the experience of having Cooper trying to interfere with an investigation and he also took it to a personal level. As you know, Greenway doesn’t think that he could have been the target in that London shooting. He did, however, ask me to put the incident on file, leaving the responsibility of looking into this mobster chum of Cooper’s who’s been involved with interference to evidence elsewhere to your lot. James, you’re on SOCA’s radar with regard to this matter, which means that if you go in alone there’s every chance that things’ll go pear-shaped. If you bide your time and out-think Cooper, everything will be a hell of a sight better.’