Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (19 page)

‘He was probably the market leader. Why?’

‘Looking at what he left behind, Eddie Barham seems to have developed a recent interest in that area, too.’

‘Really?’ Mariner waited patiently while cogs turned in Lowry’s head. ‘You think he was planning to have another pop at Crosby?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think Eddie Barham wasn’t the sort of bloke to let someone like Frank Crosby get away with it.’

Precisely what Mariner was thinking. ‘And if Frank Crosby got wind of it, he’s unlikely to sit back and wait for Eddie Barham to come to him,’ he completed the equation for both of them. ‘One more thing,’ he took out the photo of ‘Kay’. ‘Do you know this girl?’ Lowry didn’t.

‘Could she have been Eddie Barham’s source?’

‘I don’t know. I never met her. Like I said, Eddie was protective.’

‘Do you remember her name? Could it have been Kay?’

Lowry shook his head. ‘Eddie gave the girl an assumed name, but I don’t think that was it.’

‘Have you ever heard of a Sally-Ann something, possibly Sally Dean?’

Lowry hadn’t. But then, who had?

‘There’s something else,’ said Mariner. ‘Eddie Barham came into some money a couple of months before he died,’ Mariner said. ‘It was paid in from some obscure offshore account which we’ve yet to trace. Does Frank Crosby have any connection with organised crime?’

Lowry was doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Frankie moved in such sophisticated circles, but on the other hand…’

‘Yes?’

‘I wouldn’t rule it out either.’

It was what he’d wanted to hear, and Mariner emerged from Lloyd House into blissfully cool, fresh air and an unexpected burst of spring sunshine with adrenaline pumping through his veins again. It was beginning to fit.

Back at Granville Lane, Tony Knox was less optimistic.

Before Mariner had even had the chance to take off his coat, he appeared in the doorway.

‘I must have phoned every bloody massage parlour in the city,’ he complained. ‘It’s a wild fucking goose chase.

Nobody’s heard of Sally-Ann anyone.’

‘That’s because we might be looking for Kay instead.’

‘What?’

Mariner showed him the photograph and told him about Jamie’s reaction. ‘You may need to start again.’

‘Oh thanks, boss, I had nothing else planned for the next three years.’

‘What about those bank accounts?’ Mariner asked.

‘We’ve identified the bank: Charlemagne Investment Trust.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Could be because it’s based in Belize. I’ve faxed through the access warrant and they’re “following their security procedures”. They’re going to get back to us with the account holder.’

‘When?’

‘I’m not holding my breath,’ said Knox. ‘Any chance of letting me in on where all this is going, boss?’

‘In the right direction,’ said Mariner.

‘What are we trying to find?’

‘The same two things that Eddie Barham was in pursuit of before he died.’

‘Money,’ said Knox.

‘What else?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘Frank Crosby.’ Knox was as blank as a new cheque.

Mariner persevered. ‘A little while back, Eddie went to his boss with a new proposal that would happily combine both of those interests; a follow-up to the expose he’d written in 1995. You remember I told you about the original case?

Well, our Eddie wasn’t happy with the way that it ended, and I think he wanted to have another go at Crosby. He knew, probably through his earlier research, that amongst other things, Frank Crosby deals in high-class call girls who also illegally supply drugs.’

‘So?’

‘How about: Eddie decides to find one that he likes; a brunette say, Sally-Ann maybe, or Kay, who’s also run by Crosby. He cultivates a relationship, invites her to his place, then asks the girl to supply the additional extra, too.

He captures it all on film. He gets a great story and also the potential to get Crosby put away for running a highly illegal operation.’

‘So why didn’t it happen?’

‘Eddie’s boss wouldn’t buy it. According to him, Frank Crosby is old news. And why would Echo readers be interested in the sordid lives of hookers. It lacks the sympathetic “this could be your daughter” element of the earlier piece.

But Eddie could have decided to go ahead with it anyway.

The only thing he wouldn’t get out of it would be the money, unless…’

‘He got it by extortion,’ said Knox.

‘Right.’ Mariner felt a surge of elation. If Knox could so easily reach the same conclusion he had, then it must be beginning to make sense.

‘Christ. He really did have a death wish if he was trying to blackmail Frank Crosby.’

‘Eddie was desperate for the money. Without it he couldn’t afford respite for Jamie. This way he could kill two birds with one stone.’

‘What do you think went wrong?’

‘Crosby found out what was going on and saw his own chance to get Eddie Barham off his back once and for all.

He played along with it, let Sally-Ann/Kay go with Barham, but then he sent over a couple of minders. They sorted Eddie Barham for good, got rid of the tape, and rigged it to look like suicide. Sally-Ann disappears. QED.

I just hope to God that we don’t have another body show up. What do you think?’

‘Sounds feasible.’ Though Knox didn’t sound entirely convinced.

‘All we need is some firm evidence.’

Knox shot him a look. ‘Oh, that all?’

‘And first I’d like to find out whether Crosby had an accomplice, someone else with an equally powerful motive.’

‘Like who?’

‘I was wondering what became of Paul Spink.’

It didn’t take long to locate Spink on the computer files.

After an initial stint in Winson Green, his ‘exemplary behaviour’ had earned him a transfer to Hewel Grange category 5 open prison, between Birmingham and Bromsgrove.

Mariner put through a call. ‘Have you still got a Paul Spink in residence?’

The person at the other end went away, returning a few moments later. ‘Not any more.’

This was looking promising. ‘He’s out?’

A pause. ‘In a manner of speaking. Spink hanged himself in his cell last March.’

‘Shit.’ Mariner passed on the good news to Knox.

He was philosophical. ‘Okay, so the joint revenge theory’s down, but that still leaves Crosby trying to guard himself against another onslaught from Eddie Barham. And that must be solid enough.’

Mariner agreed. ‘We need to go back to the small ads.

The brunette holds the key. Let’s concentrate our efforts on her.’ In between uniformed duties Knox had done a sterling job in phoning round the agencies, but so far had achieved nothing. It was time to try a more personal approach.

The house looked like any other large rambling Victorian detached one along Birmingham’s outer circle route. Set into the thick beech hedges that topped the boundary walls was a discreet sign, saying rather unnecessarily, ‘The Beeches’.

Anna pulled on to the small tarmac driveway and sat for a moment, critically inspecting the exterior of what could potentially become Jamie’s new home. From the outside appearance the building could have been anything, from a retirement home to a dentist’s surgery. Everything on the outside looked well cared for, paintwork was in good condition and the hedges were neatly trimmed. A promising start, and Anna approached the main door high on anticipation.

This marked the first step towards reclaiming her life. It was going to be so much better for her and for Jamie.

Going to the main entrance, she pressed the security buzzer next to the door, which crackled into life with a muffled ‘Hello?’

‘Anna Barham,’ Anna spoke enthusiastically into the speaker. ‘I have an appointment to look around.’

‘One moment.’ But it was several moments before the huge panelled door swung open and Anna was greeted face to face by a smiling middle-aged woman in M & S spring range skirt and sweater, who introduced herself as Linda Kerr, the manager of The Beeches. ‘Please do come in.’

Anna stepped into a wide, ornately tiled vestibule and into a very specific atmosphere. The combined smell of ammonia and boiled cabbage was heavily reminiscent of the nursing home in which Anna’s grandmother had spent her final years, and the first impression was everything she’d hoped it wouldn’t be. And when, thirty minutes later, she emerged from the same door, her enthusiasm had been all but extinguished.

The contrast between the homely exterior of the building and the functional, institutional interior was stark. An occasional picture on the wall and a pile of dog-eared magazines on one of the tables in the communal lounge was the extent of the finer touches. Elsewhere, walls were grubby with finger marks, and the carpet stained in places and there were few comforts.

‘As you can see,’ Linda said, encouragingly. ‘There’s a lovely outlook from the back of the house.’ A large lawn surrounded by shrubs and dotted with benches. ‘The residents spend a lot of time out there in the summer months,’ Linda was saying. A sudden graphic image appeared in Anna’s mind’s eye of Jamie, sitting alone on one of the benches gently rocking, as dusk fell around him. She felt a sharp inexplicable pain in her chest.

Upstairs, the small, cubicle bedrooms were simply furnished. A single bed, wardrobe and nightstand in each, some adorned with soft toys and posters of sports or pop stars, while others, by far the majority, were bare and impersonal, like cells. Anna thought of how confining Jamie would find it.

‘Do all the, er, residents have autism?’ Anna asked.

‘Oh no. Most of our younger clients have learning difficulties of some kind, but we also have one or two older EMI residents.’

Anna tried vainly to work out what EMI meant, but couldn’t. Later she discovered that it referred to Elderly Mentally Infirm. Hardly Jamie’s peer group.

‘Normally we try to group according to age and ability,’ Linda was saying, ‘but with staff shortages, we sometimes have to be a little more—flexible.’ She was honest at least.

The tour over, Linda took Anna back to the reception area and the office, so that she could ‘take some details’.

This appeared to involve completing a long and detailed questionnaire on every aspect of Jamie’s life so far. And Anna stumbled on the second question, Jamie’s date of birth. She knew it was March, and she knew he was twenty-nine, but the exact date eluded her. Unable to bring herself to admit her ignorance, she took a guess. If it was wrong, she’d have to change it later and tell them she’d made a mistake.

The written application complete, Anna stood to go, but Linda hadn’t finished. There were, she said, some ‘more sensitive’ issues to discuss. ‘Does Jamie have any, er, challenging behaviours?’ she asked, her attempt at sounding casual not quite succeeding.

Now we’re getting to it, Anna thought, not unless you count public masturbation. She played ignorant. ‘Such as?’

‘Violent outbursts?’ Linda suggested. ‘Smearing.’

For a moment Anna really didn’t know what she meant, Jamie wasn’t exactly up to spreading malicious gossip about anyone. ‘Smearing?’ she repeated.

‘Faeces,’ said Linda calmly, but with obvious distaste.

‘No!’ Anna was horrified, Linda clearly relieved.

‘And how is his sleeping?’ she asked, moving quickly on.

‘He doesn’t,’ said Anna, candidly. Even after the climbing Jamie had only lasted four hours the previous night.

‘And does he take any medication for that?’ asked Linda.

‘No.’

‘Have you considered it?’

‘No.’ Was it her imagination or did Linda suddenly appear less welcoming?

‘And where does Jamie live at present?’

‘He’s staying with me, but it’s really not convenient. If he was to come here, how soon could he move in?’

‘Well, as I said on the phone, we do have a waiting list, but clients do “move on”, especially the elderly ones, if you know what I mean. We could probably take your brother in about two months.’ Two months? That was eight weeks.

‘No sooner than that?’ Anna asked, in desperation, seeing her life slipping from her grasp again. ‘I can pay…’

‘I’m afraid we just don’t have the space,’ Linda reiterated.

‘But I can contact you as soon as we do. And we’ll send someone to see Jamie, too. We’d like to meet him first.’ To check on the challenging behaviour, no doubt.

And with a well-manicured handshake, that was that.

Back in her car, Anna sat for a moment and attempted to visualise Jamie living at The Beeches. But however hard she tried, the image wouldn’t present. Instead, unaccountably, her eyes filled up and the pain in her chest returned.

She couldn’t look after Jamie, but nor could she consign him to that kind of place. It had to be somewhere sunny and caring, not a place where there might be staff shortages and imposed ‘flexibility’. If she couldn’t care for him she wanted a place where people would understand Jamie’s needs and take the time to communicate with him, using his photographs if necessary. She felt suddenly angry to have been put in this impossible position, angry with Eddie and the person or people who killed him. She would look back at Dr Payne’s list and the name given her by Mark. There had to be other places that were better, and she’d visit them all if necessary. After all she had at least eight weeks to make up her mind.

There were hundreds of escort agencies and massage parlours in the city and Knox couldn’t be expected to handle them all. Questioning of this kind could potentially take weeks, so division of labour had to be fair, without concession to rank. The plan was to start close to Eddie Barham’s home and work their way out. By the following afternoon, Mariner was on his third house call, this time seeking Heaven’s Gate, although, on the face of it, the main drag through Selly Oak hardly seemed a promising location for the portal to the land of milk and honey.

Once a thriving shopping centre and community strung out along the main arterial road south out of Birmingham towards Bristol, these days the A38 is the route most people take to get to somewhere more interesting.

Boarded-up shop fronts, shaggy with torn and blackened fly-sheets are interspersed with an assortment of functional takeaways and laundromats, economically shored up by the term time influx of university students, like the last decaying teeth in an old man’s mouth. Parking up on a side street, Mariner zigzagged his way through clusters of the nation’s most privileged youth dawdling their way to afternoon lectures.