Ashes to Ashes Page 5

  ‘No, bugger this!’ Will’s bin suddenly roared and he jumped up with every appearance of intending to try to escape.

  My first shot whanged off the metal near where one of his hands was gripping the rim; the second went so close to his back-to-front baseball cap that he must have felt the draught as it went by. I went cold when I realized that had he moved … However, I knew that the man was still alive, he having disappeared from sight extremely rapidly, for the good reason that he was now hurling mind-blowingly obscene abuse at me, with Dougie joining in. Taking a deep breath, I thanked everything holy for the training earlier.

  Shortly afterwards, another half-chapter perhaps, I heard hurrying footsteps and Patrick calling, ‘It’s us, Ingrid,’ before they came into view. ‘Do we need to book a hearse?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I replied.

  He and Joanna, who looked as though she might have shed a tear or two, were without their guide, and I didn’t bother to ask what Patrick had done with him because I knew – he had been locked up in Joanna’s prison. We escorted the other two to the same destination, which was quite a walk, all went in and Patrick pulled down the up-and-over door, almost closing it but leaving enough of a gap so we could see.

  There was a lot of junk piled within the gloomy interior: an untidy stack of cardboard boxes, some of which appeared to hold clothing, plus several old bikes and a row of rolls of carpet and other floor coverings standing on end, all soiled as though having been salvaged from fire or flood, that leaned, Pisa-style, as though they might topple over at any moment.

  ‘Now then,’ Patrick said. ‘You with the illegally held handgun – what’s your name?’

  ‘Joe,’ the man muttered.

  ‘Joe what?’

  ‘Hurley.’

  He then asked for, and got, the surnames of Dougie and Will, Baker and Gibbs respectively, and I wrote them down. They refused to give their addresses and were not pushed on that – there were more important things we needed to know and they might be of no fixed address anyway. There was also the possibility that some, if not all, lived on the housing estate to which Joanna had originally gone. But obviously, we did not want to discuss her reasons for doing so in front of them.

  ‘So is this some kind of rat hole for unemployables?’ Patrick went on to ask.

  Joe swore at him.

  ‘Drugs for sale, heavies for hire, or are you ripping off illegal immigrants by renting them cupboards to sleep in? Talk!’

  The man just shook his head.

  Patrick took his knife from his pocket and flicked out the blade, observing as he did so, ‘This is quieter. It’s a throwing knife too, so if I got you from here it would probably go right through.’

  Dougie burst out with, ‘Nah, nuffin’ like that, Guv. We just saw this bird and thought we’d have a bit of fun with ’er tonight. After a few beers, like.’

  ‘A few more beers, you mean,’ Joanna said heavily.

  ‘Well, you gave us a load of lip!’ shouted Joe. ‘And we’d only asked you, nicely like, if you’d like to go to the pub with us.’

  ‘Did they?’ Patrick asked her.

  She nodded. ‘To begin with.’

  ‘And you have a gun, and a car,’ Patrick said to the men. ‘Why?’

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘You work for a mobster, or even several,’ Patrick suggested, ‘and were kicking your heels, nothing to do, on a street corner. Does that tally with what happened?’ he asked Joanna. ‘Or were they actually at an address you were visiting?’

  ‘It just about tallies,’ she replied.

  ‘OK, I want the names of the people you work for,’ Patrick said.

  ‘We never get to know their names,’ Joe said, horrified. ‘Just a geezer, a backup bod’ll come and tell us what’s up.’

  ‘There’s more than one mobster hiring then?’

  ‘Only sometimes.’

  ‘Why take a shot at anyone coming here?’

  ‘We sort of keep an eye on the place and thought you was from a gang we don’t want here,’ said Joe.

  ‘You’re a liar!’ Dougie bawled. ‘You was drunk and wavin’ the gun around, braggin’ what a good shot you was and sayin’ that no one was goin’ to get the girl away from us.’

  Patrick turned to Joanna and me. ‘Shall I arrest them or blow their heads off on the grounds that it’s a waste of public money to do anything else?’

  We pretended to mull it over.

  ‘One of them’s sometimes just called JC,’ Dougie then said very, very eagerly. ‘I think he’s—’

  The door was flung up and I had a fleeting glimpse of several people outside before the shooting started. A man screamed hoarsely and, from my prone position on the floor, I saw someone, Joe perhaps, fall. Will and Dougie bolted. Deafened by the din, I rolled over towards the side of the garage too fast, thumping into the wall, found the Smith and Wesson and fired at a man taking aim over to my right, who, as I did so, was knocked aside by another man behind him who had tripped and almost fallen. He too had a handgun. Before I could do anything he fired at me but, still off-balance, missed. He then collided with several rolls of carpet as they keeled over and was felled utterly, pinned down and unable to move.

  This had only taken seconds.

  ‘Anyone else?’ Patrick bellowed.

  All I could hear was my own panting breathing and the footfalls of people pelting away.

  Joanna struggled out from behind the pile of boxes, where, I discovered afterwards, Patrick had shoved her.

  ‘Everyone all right?’ he asked, still shouting, discounting the injured man and the one flattened by the rolls of carpet at his feet. Receiving our assurances that we were fine, he cautiously went over to the doorway and looked out. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered, reaching for his mobile.

  FOUR

  Patrick only slowly came off the boil and I thanked God that he had not gunned down those who had been fleeing – something he would have been perfectly capable of had he really lost his temper. His production of his NCA ID card helped things along somewhat, together with the fact that no one had been injured as a result of our actions. The man pinned down under the carpets, instantly recognized as a local ‘trouble-maker’ by the police personnel who attended, only had a bruised head where he had hit the floor. Patrick had not fired a shot within the garage and mine had gone wide due to the chaos. Joe Hurley – who had been taken to hospital – had been hit by what one must assume was friendly fire, while Will and Dougie had disappeared. As far as what had happened a little earlier was concerned, Patrick reported that he had initially shot a weapon from Joe’s hand, the remains of which he duly handed over, adding that I had fired a couple of warning shots. For some reason we did not hear about those particular incidents again.

  We would have to make statements the following morning about the rest of the affair, though and there would be more questions but now, after the formalities were over, we found a taxi to take the three of us to where we had left our overnight bags at the army training facility, and from there went to our favourite hotel in the West End. Joanna had come to London by train and had been travelling very light, everything she needed in an amazingly capacious handbag – even containing a change of clothing – which by some miracle was still in her possession. The men had stolen all her cash but not her credit cards and, as we already knew, had left her with her mobile phone.

  ‘We must offer thanks to the patron saint of really stupid criminals for abandoning them,’ Patrick commented over breakfast the next morning when we were discussing the previous day’s events.

  ‘Moronicus, wasn’t it?’ Joanna offered.

  ‘That’s the chap.’

  ‘I feel very bad about this, although I don’t think it happened because of anything I’ve been looking into,’ Joanna continued. ‘As I told the cops here, those three just tried to pick me up – they all seemed to be high on whatever – and I bawled them out, used rather awful language actually. It was bad judgement.’

 
She had already apologized for putting us in danger.

  ‘I’m not convinced you haven’t stirred up some criminal cesspit,’ Patrick demurred. ‘Where did you come upon them?’

  ‘They were hanging around outside the other pub near the railway station, the one that’s open, the Ram’s Head.’

  ‘Please tell us what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘I decided to follow on with your enquiries into the crem. You’d hadn’t investigated the manager and his secretary.’

  Whoops, I thought.

  ‘Robin Williams is, as you said, Patrick, an ideal man for the job. I found him cultured, charming and sympathetic, perfect for front of house in an establishment like that. He has degrees in English language and philosophy, and further recent qualifications in connection with organizing conferences and the leisure and holiday industries. I copied what you’ve sometimes done, Ingrid, and told him that I was freelance and writing articles about people with lesser-known jobs. He told me that he’d been born in Woking, Surrey, to middle-class parents, and regarded himself as very fortunate in getting the job when so many of his contemporaries were still out of work. But he didn’t regard his present position as his future. I didn’t have my laptop with me so asked James to do a criminal records check on him and he’s absolutely clean – nothing. Not even traffic offences.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I really liked him.’

  ‘But he is involved with his secretary – all right, they’re having it away – and—’

  ‘Evidence, DS Carrick?’ Patrick interrupted.

  ‘I won’t be able to go back as a DS and you know it. OK, at lunchtime, one till two, when the place closes right down, they both got in his car and drove to somewhere not too far away and, judging by the way the vehicle bounced around, had pretty lively sex.’

  ‘You were hiding up a tree?’ Patrick hazarded.

  ‘Shut up,’ Joanna told him with a big smile. ‘No, I just waited around out of sight as I had an idea that something was going on, followed them for part of the way and then, guessing where they were heading – it’s a well-known screwing spot – parked on a hill opposite with a very good pair of binoculars I happen to keep in my car. Oh, and she’s married.’

  ‘Did you talk to her?’ I asked.

  ‘I did. Her name’s Sarah Dutton and she’s in her thirties. She gave me the hint, not being sufficiently intelligent to know it’s important to conceal things like that, that she found Williams attractive. It was difficult to stop her talking on account of her being so excited about a mention in a magazine article. She told me that she’s always had secretarial and office jobs and this is the best one so far as the pay’s very good. This may be the case as she was wearing some expensive jewellery, more expensive than one might have expected actually. Perhaps her husband’s very generous. Anyway, she’s not a native of the West Country either as she was born not far from here, in South Woodford. Her father was in finance but due to hard times the family moved from there to Leytonstone. I got his name from her by asking if it was a local one – Harold Fletcher, so could be from anywhere – and again, that afternoon, asked James to check up on him. There have been quite a few Harold Fletchers with criminal records over the years but there was one who lived in South Woodford when he was arrested for fraud and embezzlement. He got five years. That must have been the hard times she mentioned and the wife had to sell up and move to somewhere cheaper.’

  ‘And Sarah Dutton?’ I queried. ‘Any form?’

  ‘As a teenager when she was still living at home she was had for shoplifting on a fairly large scale with a gang of other girls and was fined and sentenced to a Youth Rehabilitation Order. There’s a brother too – Guy Fletcher. He’s inside for aggravated burglary – a pensioner whose house he smashed his way into had a heart attack and died – and it’s thought he has gang connections.’

  ‘What about this woman’s husband?’ Patrick wanted to know.

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t got that far yet – I was concentrating on her and her father.’

  ‘So you were endeavouring to track down this family.’

  ‘They’re not living at the address listed in Records. Only one of the neighbours had a vague recollection of them so they must have moved away some time ago.’

  ‘Where does Sarah live now?’

  ‘I didn’t like to ask that.’

  ‘And you were coming away from the Leytonstone housing estate when those three accosted you outside the pub.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘More coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  Patrick poured some for her and gave her the milk jug. ‘What we have to work out is whether there’s any connection between what happened yesterday and the pile of replacement medical bits and bobs back at home. But to be on the safe side, Joanna, I don’t think you ought to investigate anywhere near Leytonstone again on your own.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you. If I was on the job I’d be with at least one other colleague.’

  ‘What about the sprog?’ Patrick murmured.

  ‘I managed to get a nanny at very short notice. She’s a lady of a mature age and was about to retire, has been with a family for years that I’ve got to know locally but they no longer need her services. I told her Iona was no bother at all and she took the job, initially for six months.’

  ‘Did she believe you?’ I asked.

  ‘No. She laughed. I have to say I liked her straight away – and, more importantly, so does Iona, which is lovely as she has no grandmothers.’

  Patrick pensively stirred his coffee. ‘Will you be really mad with me if I suggest you go home?’

  ‘I somehow knew you were going to say that.’ Joanna sighed.

  There was a little silence.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ Joanna then said. ‘I have to do my application to rejoin the police at home as I have all the details there. And I can talk to James about what’s happened here and poke around at that end.’ She smiled. ‘Look for Archie’s body, perhaps.’

  ‘Please take care,’ I said.

  We all made our statements, which took most of the morning. Regular police are never happy with the fact that Patrick is armed, never mind his wife as well, and the relevant authorizations had to be checked. Over breakfast we had agreed that there was absolutely no point in bringing up the subject of possibly dodgy cremations. Joanna had explained her presence in the area by saying that she was trying to trace the whereabouts of someone’s family for a friend, which was hardly a lie.

  ‘You remember what Dougie said?’ Patrick remarked on the way back from seeing Joanna into a taxi on her way to Paddington railway station. ‘“One of them’s sometimes just called JC. I think he’s—” Could he have been about to say Irish? I’m wondering if it’s Jinty O’Connor. The Met never seem to be able to get their hands on that particular mobster.’

  ‘Did you mention that to the good officers of the law?’ I enquired.

  ‘No, it’s just guesswork on my part.’

  ‘Besides which, you want first bite if it is him.’

  ‘Absolutely. Besides which, again …’

  ‘Yes?’ I prompted when he stopped speaking.

  ‘I owe him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bullet.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘He shot and killed a chum of mine when we were both very young cops, probationers. There was a raid on a nightclub where the management was suspected of involvement with drugs and he got him from almost point-blank range. But he escaped, did a runner and spent rather a long time abroad before coming back to this country under a false identity. O’Connor is the name he’s using now but his real name’s Patrick O’Leary. It’s probably arrogance on his part that makes him still prefer to be called by his old nickname of Jinty. He might just be JC to the hired thugs.’

  I knew this would have been when Patrick joined the police virtually from school. He left after his probationary period – it wasn’t exciting enough – to sig
n on with the Devon and Dorset Regiment, now part of The Rifles.

  ‘What was your friend’s name?’ I asked.

  ‘David Bowman.’

  ‘Were you there when he was shot?’

  ‘No, I was on another job.’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned this to me before.’

  ‘You don’t have to bother people with all your sorrows, do you?’

  ‘And O’Connor was a criminal then.’

  ‘He’d probably been a criminal at primary school. What really makes him stand out is the sheer originality of his crimes. He once staple-gunned a bloke, dead, to his own front door. Other mobsters hire him to take care of their rivals in crime. Cremating them, or his own enemies, dead or alive, would be right in his back yard.’

  This time the one with more imagination did not tingle so much as shudder.

  A couple of minutes later Patrick’s mobile rang. It was his boss, Michael Greenway.

  ‘Would we care to pop into the office as we’re not far away?’ Patrick duly reported with a wry smile when the call had ended. ‘No doubt he’s heard about the postscript to our target practice yesterday.’

  Despite all the administrative upheaval of SOCA now being part of the National Crime Agency, Greenway had told Patrick that he was still, very temporarily, using the same office at SOCA’s one-time HQ. He, and we, are now working within the Organized Crime Command sector of the NCA, over which Richard Daws, Patrick’s old boss at MI5, is in overall charge, although I get the distinct impression that his influence is spread widely through the whole set-up.

  When we arrived, Greenway gave every impression of having been pacing around his room restlessly just before we walked in. ‘Having a good break?’ he asked without smiling, seating himself in his leather swivel chair. He’s a big man – tall and broad shouldered, that is – and, as usual, it creaked loudly in protest.

  ‘Perfectly peaceful and rejuvenating until yesterday, thank you,’ Patrick replied disarmingly.

  ‘There’s hot gossip that you rescued DCI Carrick’s wife from a garage where she’d been imprisoned by yobs,’ Greenway went on, but clearly not believing a word of it.