Deep Cover (10 page)

‘I see.'

‘So they'll want to know what effort I have been making to find a job.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘Well, find me a job and I'll do it, I say, but since I have never worked at all . . . not one single job since I left local authority school with no qualifications . . . I am not a good employment prospect.'

‘Never?'

‘Nope . . . not ever.' She drew heavily on the cigarette and exhaled the smoke through her nostrils. She was small, with short yellow hair. Brunnie thought she was barely over five feet tall and her pale complexion spoke of a poor diet. ‘Sonya's the same, she's never worked either, but we get by.'

‘Like the way Billy Kemp does? Cash in hand job at the Chinese eatery?'

‘Yeah . . . but not proper work, we're not paying National Insurance stamps and all that malarkey.'

‘So tell us about the girl.'

‘Not much to tell.'

‘Well that's a damn sight more than we know right now. So tell.'

‘She moved in a few weeks ago. Irish Mickey brought her home and she lived in his room while he was at home in north London, Palmers Green, I think, with his family. Then he moved back here and shared the room with her. She was Welsh.'

‘Welsh,' Brunnie repeated.

‘That's a start.' DC Ainsclough scribbled ‘Welsh' on his notepad.

‘I had a little chat with her once. She was from the Cardiff area, she said. She had a Welsh accent. Very musical the old Welsh accent, and she used Welsh terms like “tidy” for “nice” or “good”. Once Billy came home and said he'd got extra hours at the Chinese restaurant and he'd be lifting more money that week, and she said, “Oh, there's tidy for you”, and she also said “by here” instead of “just here” or “in there”, like “Is this your food cupboard by here?”'

‘OK . . . Welsh.'

‘She was a runaway.'

‘From home?'

‘From a children's home. Irish Mickey found her in King's Cross; she was trying to sell herself on the street. He recognized what she was and he wanted to stop her becoming a brass, so he brought her back here.'

‘You mean he rescued her?' Ainsclough could not help a note of surprise enter his voice.

‘Yeah, reckon you could say that. That was like Irish Mickey, he had a good old heart; not like him to get caught up with Pilcher.'

‘Did you see or hear anything the night she was murdered?'

Josie Pinder tapped the side of her nose. ‘I don't mind telling you about her but I don't want to end up like her.'

‘If you're withholding information . . .'

‘Hey, I'd rather withhold information and live, rather than give information and not live. This isn't much. I am not much, but it's better than being inside a block of concrete.'

‘Pilcher puts people inside concrete?'

‘So they say, and he was round here yesterday evening after we got back from the police station. We all got well warned not to go talking to the Old Bill or we'd be on the street . . . or worse. He had a couple of soldiers with him.'

‘Soldiers?'

‘Heavies, ex-soldiers, fit and good at taking orders, all part of his firm. I'm listening to him, so's Sonya and Billy Kemp. He's off like a rabbit out of the old trap.'

‘Left?' Brunnie reported.

‘Gone,' Ainsclough added, ‘left his tenancy?'

‘Naw . . . he left early to avoid talking to the Old Bill in case they came – and look who it ain't. We should have gone with him I reckon, but try getting Sonya out of her pit. Billy will be sitting all day in the public library, just to keep warm . . . sensible boy.'

‘You're frightened of Pilcher?' Brunnie remarked.

‘Oh, it shows does it?' She flicked ash into the ashtray. ‘You hear things. He's a nasty piece of work and you don't mess with him, even if half of what is said is true. I mean, he owns property, buys up houses and does them up but . . .' she worked the cigarette butt into the ashtray. ‘Well, rumours is rumours, and all that concrete that goes into foundations can hide a chopped-up body easy-peasy, or a whole one. All those professional tenants in those done-up houses with their cellars – there's lumps of concrete you don't want to take an old pneumatic drill to . . . so they say. I usually deal with J.J.'

‘J.J.?'

‘J.J. Dunwoodie, he looks after the office round the corner.'

‘Ah, yes, I've met J.J.'

‘He seems to like working for Pilcher for some reason, but Billy Kemp might know something that I don't. He was frightened this morning, said J.J. had shot his mouth off about something and we'd better not do the same.'

Ainsclough and Brunnie glanced at each other, and Brunnie asked, ‘When did he say that?'

‘This morning, dark and early. I needed to get up and he was making himself some tea and was dressed to go out . . . it was like he'd seen an old ghost.'

Ainsclough turned to Brunnie and said, ‘We'd better take a swift hike round there.'

‘Yes. We came to find out about the Welsh girl though.' Brunnie turned to Josie Pinder, who was grappling another cigarette from the packet. ‘What was her name?'

‘Gaynor.' Josie Pinder lit the cigarette with a blue disposable lighter.

‘Second name.'

‘Dunno . . . just called herself Gaynor.'

‘Did she tell you her age?'

‘Naw, but she was under sixteen, she wouldn't have been in a care home otherwise, would she? I mean, stands to reason doesn't it?'

‘Fair point,' Brunnie growled. ‘Did she go out?'

‘Hardly . . . Irish Mickey sent her money.'

‘He did?'

‘Brown envelope arrived for her every now and then. I recognized Irish Mickey's handwriting on the front of the envelope.'

‘There was no surname on the envelope?'

‘No . . . just “Gaynor”.'

‘So she did jobs for Pilcher?'

‘Don't think so. Never saw her do no work. Pilcher may not have known she was there.'

‘What do you do for Pilcher?'

‘We keep the squatters out. It wouldn't be difficult for Pilcher to evict squatters but he'd rather not have them in the first place.'

‘Anything else you do for him?'

Again, she tapped the side of her nose. ‘You'd better go now if you want us to be safe; Pilcher will be watching this place.'

‘He will?'

‘Or his goons will. He's frightened of the police.'

‘That's interesting.' Ainsclough stood.

‘Very, very interesting indeed.' Brunnie also stood. ‘We'll be back, but in the interests of your safety, we'll go for now.'

Cold caring. That was the expression. Cold caring. He looked at his wife, so attractive when she cared to be, but now lying on the carpet with her hair matted with her own vomit – she was snoring loudly and so was safe. She would wake soon, feeling frail and cold, and would have such a mess to clean, but all the learned advice said that this was the correct approach. She will not fight the drink unless she wakes up lying in the mess she, and she alone, has created. He walked out of the house, locking the door behind him.

Cold caring. Very cold. Very caring.

Ainsclough and Brunnie walked into the offices of WLM Rents on Fernhead Road, Kilburn. The premises were exactly as Brunnie recalled them from the previous day, but the helpful and, in Brunnie's eyes, slightly sycophantic J.J. Dunwoodie was absent. Instead, a hard-faced blonde of about twenty-five summers sat in the chair he had occupied. She was dressed in black, was very slender, and had eyes of such steel-cold blue that Ainsclough felt a chill run down his spine. Brunnie, alarmed and worried, glanced at the top of the filing cabinets and saw a green, not a red, watering can beside the row of potted plants. He experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

‘Mr Dunwoodie,' Brunnie asked, ‘is he here?'

‘Who wants him?' The woman, immaculately dressed, sat back in her chair, filing her brightly varnished fingernails. Her thin fingers were bedecked with rings; her wrists were encircled by expensive looking bracelets which rattled softly as she worked the file over her nails, occasionally stopping to admire her work. A strong cloud of scent rose from her and reached the officers. She didn't look up as she replied to Brunnie's question.

‘Police.'

‘You have ID?' Again, she didn't take her eyes off her fingernails.

Ainsclough and Brunnie showed their ID cards and, still without looking up, the woman said, ‘OK.' Then she added, ‘Mr Dunwoodie don't work here no more, do he?'

‘We don't know. Doesn't he?' Brunnie snarled.

‘No, he don't. Not since last night he don't. I'm in charge here now . . . well, until Mr Pilcher can get a new office manager. I just answer the phone and take messages and if someone comes in looking for a place to rent. I take their name and contact details, and tell them someone will be in touch, but that's only if they're kosher, like all respectable and that, 'cos if they're not kosher they don't rent, not from here anyway. It's a very responsible job. We don't rent to no toerags, though.'

‘Seems so,' Ainsclough replied drily. ‘So who are you?'

‘Felicity Skidmore.'

‘So why don't you tell us your real name?'

The young woman glanced up and glared at Brunnie, though she said nothing.

‘We need to speak to Mr Dunwoodie.'

The woman admired her nails once again. ‘Well, I can't help you, because he's not here, is he?'

‘Home address?'

‘Don't ask me, darling.'

‘You might not know it, but it'll be filed away. Every employer has his workers' home addresses on file.'

‘Maybe, but I wouldn't know where it is . . . have a look.' She inclined her head towards the bank of filing cabinets.

Ainsclough glanced at the cabinets. He knew it would be a waste of time to look through their contents.

Felicity Skidmore, clearly satisfied, placed her nail file in a large black handbag. ‘Look, darling, I just got receptionist skills, nothing more. I got no office skills; don't know nothing about filing or word-processing, nothing. I usually work in another office for Mr Pilcher, don't I, and this morning he hands me the keys and tells me to drive over here and open up for him, and tells me what to do . . . answer the phone, take details of the kosher ones and turn the toerags away – but diplomatic like, he don't want his windows put through at night. Just say to them there ain't nowhere to rent.'

‘A responsible job, as you say.'

Brunnie asked, ‘Where do you normally work?'

‘What's that got to do with you?' Felicity Skidmore flushed with indignation. ‘Bang out of order is that question. Bang out of order.'

Ainsclough smiled to himself. The legendary East End dislike of the police was emerging from Felicity Skidmore. Blagger, he thought. If Felicity Skidmore is not a blagger herself, then she's a blagger's tart or the daughter of a blagger. Definitely on the other side of the fence.

‘It's got a lot to do with us,' Brunnie replied. ‘It's got so much to do with us that you could be looking at porridge for obstruction. This is a murder investigation.' Brunnie paused. ‘And pretty girls like you are very popular in Holloway. You get traded between the butch dykes for an ounce of tobacco, and you don't get any say in the matter.'

‘No say at all,' added Ainsclough. ‘If we run you in, we'll do an automatic check for any outstanding warrants and take your dabs to see if we know you under another name. We have plenty of room in the cells. You can even have one to yourself, but you won't get that luxury in Holloway. Mind you, you probably already know that.'

‘I've never been inside!'

‘Yet,' Brunnie replied calmly, ‘but obstruction in a murder investigation will guarantee the clanging of the door behind little you.'

Felicity Skidmore sighed and folded her arms. ‘Continental Imports and Exports.'

‘Continental Imports and Exports?' Brunnie repeated.

‘That's what I said.'

‘What does that outfit import and export?'

‘Furniture.'

‘Furniture?'

‘Yeah, like beds and wardrobes, and tables and chairs, and chests of drawers and that . . . furniture. What with the European Community, people are buying houses in Frogland and islands in the old Med . . . even in Eastern Europe, and they want their furniture with them . . . And the foreigners, they buy in the UK, and they bring their old furniture with them. So Mr Pilcher, he provides a removal service.'

Brunnie and Ainsclough glanced at each other and smiled. ‘Furniture,' Brunnie said.

‘Furniture,'Ainsclough echoed.

‘Well, I ain't seen nothing but furniture going in and out. It's not my fault I'm a looker. I just answer the old dog and bone and set the place off right. I do that at Continental and Mr Pilcher sent me here today to do the same thing.'

‘And turning the toerags away.'

‘Yeah, that too, but nicely with it. I get that responsibility.'

‘So where is Continental Imports and Exports based?'

‘Down the Mile End Road. Can't miss it. Near the old junction with Cambridge Heath Road. Big sign. Black letters on yellow background.'

‘Did you know Mr Dunwoodie?'

‘Nope. It's just the name of the geezer who sat here until yesterday; I don't know no more than that, so help me. I don't know nothing about him or why he isn't here today, but I get a change of scenery and that's as good as a rest, so they say.'