The Crime Trade (16 page)

'And that's not all.'
Everyone in the room waited expectantly. Flanagan gave another dramatic pause lasting at least five seconds, and I decided that this was how he'd risen as high as he had. The bloke
loved the centre stage, basking in the glow of self-importance. He was an actor, and I bet he could have kissed ass with the best of them when it suited.
However, even I had to admit that what he had to say was dramatic.
'As you know, we recovered a mobile phone from the body of Robbie O'Brien on which a number of calls had been made to Stegs Jenner's police mobile. There were also several other unidentified numbers on there, the most recent of which, according to the phone company, was phoned on Wednesday afternoon at three thirty-five p.m.' His suspicious little eyes scanned the whole room as he paused yet again, before continuing. 'We've just identified that number as the Donmar Hotel. It looks very much like it was Slim Robbie who made the call that got Yokes Vokerman killed.'
Now this was an interesting one, but it was also a revelation that we could all have done without, mainly because it made no sense whatsoever. Why on earth had Robbie made that phone call? Had he had a sudden fit of nerves and made a last-ditch attempt to save himself from the Colombians' wrath by warning them about what was going to happen? It was possible, but highly unlikely, because at that point, with the police next door, the Colombians were doomed anyway and would hardly have turned round and forgiven him.
For the next ten minutes we debated this apparent paradox, not really getting anywhere. The closest we came to a theory was that Robbie O'Brien had somehow managed to find out about the location of the meeting and had set up the robbery with Tyndall, knowing full well that when the robbery went down Tyndall's men would be caught. The theory went that he'd done this because he was setting up Tyndall in order to remove him as a potential rival in the north London coke trade. The phone call, then, was a deliberate attempt by O'Brien to ingratiate himself with the Colombians by warning them about what was going to happen and therefore making things even worse for Tyndall, while at the same time hopefully removing all suspicion that it was in fact he, Robbie, who'd been the source of the set-up in the first place.
If so, it was a clever plot. Unfortunately, as a theory, it was also one with a hell of a lot of holes in it. First and foremost, why would Tyndall have got involved in the robbery in the first place? As I've said before, he was no fool or short-timer, and would have known that he'd become number one on the Cali cartel's hitlist as a result of his actions. Why too did Slim Robbie end up dead if he'd masterminded the whole thing, and who'd killed him? And, of course, how had he been so sure of the location of the meeting that he'd made that phone call?
Tina asked this last question, adding in the same breath that Stegs hadn't been a hundred per cent convincing in explaining away the calls made to his mobile by O'Brien in the days leading up to Operation Surgical Strike a
none-too-subtle hint of the possible involvement of the SO10 man. Thankfully, she didn't mention Joey Cloud and his disappearing fingers. I think that, on that day at least, it would have been a complication too far. It was hard enough as it was getting our heads round the possibilities on offer for O'Brien's death and the car park robbery without putting in yet another angle.
Flanagan nodded sombrely to show he was taking WDS Boyd's comments on board. 'How did you think Jenner came across last night?' he asked her, studiously avoiding my gaze.
'He seemed uptight.'
'Did you go through all his movements on Wednesday?'
She nodded, opening up her notebook and reeling out what
Stegs had told us the previous night. When she'd finished, the room was silent for a few moments.
'Is Stegs a suspect, sir?' I asked Flanagan, deciding to get it out into the open. 'Because I can't see what he'd be gaining from it.'
'No, I don't believe he's involved,' he answered, choosing his words carefully, 'but it is important that he's fully eliminated from the inquiry. We wouldn't want doubts to remain.' He let the last words hang in the air for a couple of seconds, and it made me think that he was more than happy for any doubts to stay put. Poor old Stegs. He really did have enemies.
Finally, Flanagan continued. 'I am, however, getting the feeling that the solution to this crime is not going to stand up and smack us right in the face. It's going to take a lot of legwork. What we've got to do is keep digging. Keep asking around. See what clues, what physical evidence, we can turn up. If we can get O'Brien's shooter, then we're going to be able to crack the whole thing. At the same time, Tina, you have raised an important point, so I want you and John to look into the backgrounds of Stegs and Vokerman and see what, if anything, crops up. As I've said, it's important that everyone involved in Wednesday's operation is eliminated from the inquiry.' I noticed he didn't include himself in this. 'And the pressure for a result is going to be massive. More intense than any case I can remember for a long, long time.'
Final pep talk over, he then brought the meeting to a close, checking with each pair of detectives what their tasks were for the day, and making sure that every angle was covered. When he got round to Tina and me, he gave us both a grim smile. 'Nicholas Tyndall, Strangleman Grant's boss. He operates off your manor, so I want you two to pay him a visit and rattle him a bit, make out that we know a bit more than we do. Get him down here to make a statement and see what you can get out of him.'
'He probably won't talk,' I said. 'We've never got anything out of him before.' Which is the case with a lot of the more serious criminals. They don't build up their little empires and stay out of nick by being co-operative. I guessed that Tyndall would do nothing more than point us at his lawyer.
'Well, see what you can do. This is important.'
He gave me a look that suggested he didn't think my attitude was positive enough, but I looked away, deciding that I didn't like DCS Noel Flanagan. I'd met his sort before. Ones who think they're born to lead and everyone else is born to be led.
The annoying thing is they're often right, but what they tend to forget is that it doesn't actually mean they're going to be any good at it, and Flanagan was a case in point. In Vietnam, he'd have been shot by his own men.
And would probably have deserved it.
14
Trevor Murk was annoyingly good-looking. He had finely chiselled features, unblemished olive skin that hinted at summers spent in warmer climes and ancestors from the mysterious south, naturally tousled jet-black hair and deep-brown eyes that twinkled with mischief and easy charm. He was six feet two and he always dressed in clothes that fitted him perfectly and flattered! him to just the right degree. It was annoying not only because his first name was Trevor rather than Enrique or Antonio and his last name Murk rather than something exotic, but because, for all his physical advantages, coupled with no small measure of intelligence, he would never amount to anything more than a petty criminal and grass. Put bluntly, he was too fucking lazy. Trevor Murk wouldn't get off his arse if it was sat on a nest of fire ants, and it was well known that he'd never completed a morning's work in his life, let alone a full day's, and, moreover, was proud of the fact. He wasn't work-shy, he was work-allergic.
However, it was still difficult not to like him (although Stegs tried hard enough) because in the end he was a good laugh, and his cheerily amoral demeanour was somehow infectious. Spend too long in his company and even a Godsquadder like Brian the vicar or Vokes's missus would have probably ended up mugging old ladies or sacrificing chickens as an offering to the Dark One.
The place where he and Stegs met on those occasions when they had business to discuss was the quaintly named Cherry Tree Inn, a huge, hellish place of fruit machines, loud carpets and all the atmosphere of your local job centre, situated in Enfield, a short drive from Barnet. It suited their purpose because it was big and soulless with plenty of space between the tables, making eavesdropping or even accidentally picking up snippets of conversation a near impossibility. It also had eleven different lagers and a similar number of bitters on tap, and served big chips with the food, so it at least had a few things going for it. Not that Stegs was hungry as he pitched in there at five past one that afternoon, waiting to hear what interesting tip Murk had for him. He'd already had a McDonald's Big Mac happy meal down the road and it had just started to repeat on him. That was the thing he hated about Big Macs: they took about ten seconds to eat and about ten hours to get rid of.
He ordered a pint of Kronenberg in the front bar, then made his way round to the much larger lounge bar and dining room, which was roughly the size of a provincial bingo hall but, today at least, was a lot less crowded, with only about a third of the tables occupied. He was disappointed but not surprised that Murk was nowhere to be seen. He'd once told Stegs that he never rose before eleven and, if entertaining, often didn't make it out before the early afternoon, depending on the lucky lady's looks and stamina.
Stegs found himself a seat in the corner next to a window
overlooking the Cherry Tree's beer garden: a hunched, cobbled backyard containing a handful of forlorn-looking plastic chairs and tables that was surrounded on every side by a high wall and had probably not seen the sun since some time in the nineteenth century. Then he lit a cigarette and waited, trying not to think of what Murk might be up to at this very moment in time because it would only make him jealous.
Five minutes later, just as he was putting out the smoke and thinking about whether or not it was worth lighting up another one, he saw Murk emerge from the front bar, carrying a pint of his own. Stegs acknowledged him with a cursory nod and a tapped finger on his watch, and Murk gave him a rueful grin in return. He looked about as guilty as the Guildford Four. A girl at one of the tables with her boyfriend eyed Murk subtly but admiringly as he passed and he gave her a cheeky little grin in return before sidling over to where Stegs was sitting and clumping himself down in the seat opposite.
'Long time no see, Stegsy,' he said, putting out a hand.
That's right,' said Stegs, taking it reluctantly, 'about fifteen minutes longer than I thought it was going to be.'
'You know me, my man, I don't like to be shackled by the chains of time. You got a spare fag?'
Stegs pulled one out for himself, then slid the pack along the table. Murk teased one out and smoothed it between his lips, accepting a light from Stegs. It was amazing. The bloke didn't hurry anything.
'So, you had something I might be interested in.' Stegs was keen to get down to business.
Murk tried without success to stifle a chuckle. 'That's right, I have.'
'What's so funny, Trevor?'
'All right, all right, cool it a mo, sweetboy. Don't get peeved.
I've got a very tasty morsel for you. It's just that every time I think about it, it makes me laugh.'
Stegs took a drag from his cigarette, and noticed with annoyance that the girl who'd been looking at Murk earlier was watching him again. There was no justice in this world.
'Go on.'
Murk leant forward. 'I've told you before I've been in a few pornos over the years, haven't I? You know, support roles, so to speak?' He was trying hard to look serious but it wasn't working. Stegs didn't bother replying, he simply sat glaring at Murk, wondering what the fuck sort of tip it was that he was offering. 'Well, I did one once called Ass Lovers in London.'
'Am I meant to be impressed?'
'Not particularly, but the point was it was quite a big film by porno standards. You know, a big budget and all that. And the star of it was a bloke called Tino Movali, better known as Tino Ten Inch. You might have heard of him.'
'Why would I have heard of a bloke called Tino Ten Inch?'
'Because he's been in loads of them. As porn stars go, he's like A-list. Anyway, during the making of Ass Lovers we got quite matey.'
'I'm not sure I want to hear about that.'
'No, no, no, no. Not like that.' He shuddered theatrically. 'What I'm saying is, when filming was over, we went and had a few drinks together, got friendly you
know, in a having a grin together sort of way, and all that. He even offered me some work over in Amsterdam. He's Dutch, by the way. I didn't take it because I had something else on at the time, but I sort of kept in touch with him, and when I was in the Dam a few months back spending some taxpayers' on a much-needed weekend R and R, we met up for a few drinks. So we're like mates.' He paused to take a drag from his fag. 'Anyway, we went our
separate ways, and I hadn't heard hide nor hair from him since then, until suddenly out of the blue he gives me a bell the other night, and do you know what he's saying?'
'Go on, surprise me.'
'He's saying,' whispered Murk, leaning forward, 'that he's got gear to sell, and he's looking for a UK buyer, and would I be interested.'
'What sort of gear?'
'Es. He's got five thousand pills he wants to sell, and if the price is right he can get hold of a regular supply. As much as five thousand a week. Apparently, the first batch is already in the country, waiting to be flogged.'
Stegs looked at him sceptically. 'If he's as big a star as you say he is, how come he's getting involved in something this risky?'
'He's a victim of market forces,' answered Murk in a voice that suggested he was imparting some great wisdom. He took another leisurely drag on his Marlboro Light and sat back in his seat, nodding sagely through a cloud of smoke. 'You see, the thing is, these days porn stars ain't meant to look like porn stars. It's all like amateur stuff now; the girls and the boys are meant to look like everyday, normal people, not like beautiful models with plastic tits or giant wangers. Tino's a handsome bloke with ten inches' worth of prime sirloin, an all-over tan and a funny accent, and nowadays that's just no good. You'd have more chance than him at the moment, Stegsy. It's just the way it's going.'
'I'll take that as some sort of back-handed compliment.'
'You might want to think about it, you know. It's an easy way to make a few quid. It's not hard work and you get to fuck some very attractive young fillies. As long as you don't mind being watched and you can get it up on demand, then you're laughing.'
For one terrifying moment, Stegs actually did think that it might be quite a nice little career move. It would certainly solve