The Crime Trade (30 page)

'I know,' he said, 'and I answered everything you asked. There's nothing more I can add, and it was a long time ago. I'm also very busy.'
Tina fixed him with a calm but unflinching gaze. 'It's possible, in fact very likely, that the person who stole your credit card has been involved in a double murder.' Not strictly true, of course -it was still a fairly remote possibility - but there was no point letting Stanbury know that.
'Oh God, no . . .' The words came out like a strangled gasp, and he put his head in his hands.
Tina pressed her advantage. 'The card was stolen from your
house while you were away. The thief gained entry through an unlocked window on the first floor. Two hundred pounds in cash was stolen, as well as your credit card. Nothing else. According to the crime scene report, the burglar didn't leave much of a mess. Why didn't you take your card with you when you went away?' .
Stanbury took his head out of his hands. He still looked distraught but was desperately trying to control it. 'I've got another credit card. I took that one instead.'
'Let me level with you, Mr Stanbury. I know that you have money problems. I also know that you owed several thousand pounds on the card you took with you on your trip last August, and that you owed very little on the one that was left behind, the one that was stolen. That's strange in itself. Even more strange is that you leave your card lying around at home with a window unlocked when you're going away for three days. I think what happened is you told someone where your card was and that they stole it and used it with your full knowledge. Presumably they paid you for the privilege. It happens a lot, I'm sad to say.' 'It's not like that, honestly. I didn't--'
'Frankly, I'm not interested in whether you've been involved in anything illegal. And neither will any of my colleagues be. We're far more interested in catching a brutal killer. So, who used your card while you were away?'
'Listen, I had nothing to do with any killings. I swear. I'm not like that. Oh God, why the hell did I ever get involved? This is going to ruin me, you know. What'll my wife say? The kids?'
'It's possible that no-one'll have to know,' Tina lied, knowing that if they were on the right track she'd never be able to keep it quiet. 'Now, who was it?'
Stanbury removed his glasses and rubbed his hands across his face. 'It's a neighbour of mine. He's a friendly enough chap and I've known him a while, but, to be honest, I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him.'
'If he's done what we think he has, then he won't be a threat to anyone. He'll be behind bars, probably for the next thirty
years.' 'I was broke, you know, really suffering. He paid me three
hundred pounds to let him have the card while I was away. He said it was foolproof. No-one would ever know. He even told me to claim for stolen cash as well on the house insurance. God, why did I get involved? I'm a respectable man, I promise. I've never done anything wrong before.' He gave her a pleading look, desperate for her to believe him.
Tina gave him a reassuring smile. 'This neighbour of yours. What car does he drive?'
'Why do you ask that?'
'Just answer the question, Mr Stanbury.'
'A Megane,' he said. 'A black Renault Megane.'
33
Tino lay on the bed in his holiday apartment for a long time, his face and ego badly bruised. He could still smell Judy Flanagan's perfume on the pillow. It was strange, considering that for most of the time she'd been here she'd been asleep, but he genuinely missed her.
That first evening, when she'd still been conscious, they'd had some fun together. He'd started chatting to her in the cafe where she worked as a waitress, and they'd got on so well that she'd readily agreed to go on a date with him. He'd then taken her to Garfunkel's restaurant in the West End, and a local pub, before heading back to his place for sex. She'd been good, too: enthusiastic, adventurous, admiring of his ample charms. Hygienic and nice-smelling as well, which wasn't always the case with amateurs. In fact, they'd done it for several hours before finally it had been time to do what he'd been ordered, and administer the drugs that bastard police officer Mark had given him.
He'd almost decided not to do it, knowing that he could have been getting himself in a lot more trouble than he was in already (this was, after all, a kidnap), but fear, and the desire to avoid complete humiliation, had driven him on. Perhaps, he'd reasoned, if he did what Mark told him then that would be the end of it, and he could return to Holland and start again, putting the events of the past few days down to experience. But as the hours had turned into days, and he'd given Judy more and more of the drugs, so the realization had dawned on him that, rather than saving him from prison, Mark was making his situation ever
more dangerous.
He'd felt guilty, too, awful that he'd got a pretty young girl to trust him and then betrayed her so cruelly, drugging her when she was defenceless. He'd tried to make up for it, talking to her in her sleep, telling her how sorry he was, trying as hard as he could to make her stay with him as comfortable as possible by washing her twice daily, and always making sure she had plenty of water. And now he'd betrayed her again when he'd had the chance to protect her. Who knew where Mark was going to take her now. To her death? It was possible. Why not? He'd lied about everything else. She'd called for him to help her, and when he'd finally tried he'd been beaten like a dog for his troubles. Humiliated, like he'd been back in Holland. Life had once seemed so good. Now it was dealing him a cruel
hand.
He continued to lie there, cursing the world. Occasionally weeping, which angered him still more. And with Judy Flanagan never far from his thoughts. Judy, who might be on her way to her death. He couldn't let it happen. For once, it was time to do
something good.
He had to find Mark, to stop him. But how could he do that? He was all alone in a city of strangers, all of whom seemed treacherous and keen to do him harm.
One man might know. One man might be able to help him find Mark.
It might save a life. He thought of Judy being choked to death by that vicious little policeman and the thought brought on an angry flush. But still he didn't move. Instead, he debated what to do in his mind, then debated it again. And again.
Finally, when he could stand the guilt and torture no more, he swallowed his principles, rose from the bed and went to phone Trevor Murk.
Stegs drove the Toyota back out on to the Marylebone Road, and turned west, driving through the still thin early-morning traffic on to the Westway and in the direction of the A40. The A40 became the M40, and from there he turned south at junction 1A on to the M25, officially the busiest stretch of road in Britain. It was quarter to seven, and the commuters of south-east England were waking up and heading out on to the roads like less-than-mobile wildebeeste in their daily ritual of slow torture. Occasionally, he picked up banging coming from the boot, but he knew Judy'd be all right in there. Pissed off, perhaps, possibly very frightened, but all right nevertheless. Such was the dilapidated state of Stegs's vehicle that it had a large hole on the underside beneath where the spare wheel was kept which would provide adequate ventilation for Miss Flanagan. So there was no chance of opening up the boot and discovering a corpse in there, which would have been a little unfortunate.
The traffic on the M25 grew heavier as Stegs approached
Heathrow, and for a while he was slowed down to less than twenty miles per hour, but things picked up again after junction 13, the Staines turnoff.
Stegs was heading away from the crowded, clogged-up roads of Greater London, making his way to quieter, more isolated pastures, where he could release Judy without her being immediately discovered and the alarm being raised. Timing was all-important at this juncture. If her old man was alerted to her freedom too early, then it would fuck up everything.
The M3 takes traffic to Southampton and the towns of the south coast of England, and gives the driver glimpses of the countryside that used to cover that part of the world before it was completely overrun with people and business parks. Stegs had come this way on holiday as a kid. While other kids had headed to France, Spain, the Greek islands and beyond, his family had always favoured the New Forest as a holiday destination. A sizeable national park containing hundreds of acres of unspoilt ancient woodland between Southampton and Bournemouth, it was definitely a nice place, but probably not the best of laughs for a ten-year-old boy. After all, there wasn't exactly a lot to do, other than stroll through trees, and what self-respecting kid wants to do that? Stegs had been an only child, his mum having miscarried twice after him before giving up the idea of a second one as a pointless exercise, and his happy childhood memories were limited where holidays were concerned. If they weren't in the New Forest, they'd be visiting affordable Second World War sites of interest in honour of his old man's obsessions, which basically meant Normandy, and once, for a special treat, Dresden.
It was nine o'clock on a beautiful sunny morning, the sort that makes you feel glad to be alive, when Stegs pulled off the M27 at the turning to Bolderwood, in the heart of the New Forest.
Driving through the thick walls of pine, he had to admit that the place did have a certain serenity about it; he even found himself contemplating bringing the missus and baby Luke down here for a long weekend at some point. He hadn't treated the missus well of late, and it was about time to make a concerted effort to get into her good books. She'd be happy enough soon, when he let her know that they could afford that holiday in France. He might have to be a bit careful about telling her how he'd got hold of the money, but the point was that from now on they were at least not going to have to worry about the Jenner finances quite so much.
He slowed down as he came to a turning off the road he remembered from years back. It was little more than a dirt track which he knew led deeper into the woods. He turned up it and drove for about four hundred yards before parking up and making a cursory check that there was nobody about. Then he opened up the glove compartment and removed a balaclava and a pair of handcuffs he'd bought in a joke shop for a fancy-dress party he and the missus had attended years earlier. The party had had a 'Cowboys and Indians' theme; he'd gone as Sheriff Wyatt Earp, while the missus had dressed up as a Wild West good-time girl, complete with frilly dress, black hold-up stockings and a lady's six-shooter. Them were the days, thought Stegs ruefully. The handcuffs weren't that sturdy, but he was confident they'd hold a girl in Judy's state, and he knew they'd never be traced back to him, even if her old man did decide to risk his career and liberty by making an issue out of it.
He put the balaclava on, then went round to the boot and opened it up. Judy was still in the same position she'd got into when he'd put her in there earlier, and it looked like she'd been asleep. As the wooded half-light seeped into the interior she groaned and turned her face in his direction, Tino's Tweety Pie sock still in place.
'God, where are we?' she said, her voice croaking.
'Your dad'll be coming to collect you soon,' growled Stegs, 'but you're going to have to come with me first.'
'Where's Tino?' she asked.
'He's not here.'
'Did you hurt him?'
'Course I didn't. He's fine.'
'Who are you? And what do you want with me?'
'Enough questions.'
'Tino said he loved me.'
'Eh?'
'He said he loved me. He--'
'All right, all right, that's enough.'
Christ, this was all he needed. She was meant to have been unconscious for the past two days, not conducting some sort of Patti Hearst-style love affair with a small-time porn star. Stegs wondered what on earth else she'd been discussing with Tino. And also, more importantly, how he was going to limit the damage.
He pulled her out of the boot and held her upright, pushing the gun against her chest so she'd know it wasn't worth resisting, then led her slowly into the trees. He could hear her sobbing and he felt duty-bound to tell her it was all going to be OK. Once again, she asked what he wanted with her. He knew he should have just kept quiet, that it wasn't worth getting involved in a dialogue, but he could hear her crying gently against him as they walked and he could tell that she thought this was it, she was going to die, which was too much to expect any person to bear, particularly a young girl whose only crimes were that she liked a shag and had an arsehole for a dad.
'It's not you we want,' Stegs told her, making only a minimal effort at a growl. 'It's some information from your dad. He's
given it to us now, so you can go free. I've got to leave you here for a while, but I'm going to phone your dad and tell him where you are, and then he can come and collect you.'
'Honestly?'
'Yeah, honestly.'
She seemed to believe him, and Stegs felt better as he stopped by an oak tree, sat her down and placed one of the handcuffs round a low branch, the other round her wrist, and locked them both. Her arm was stretched, so he put the gun in his pocket and pushed her back against the tree to make it more comfortable. Then he dropped a small bottle of Evian into her lap, stepped to one side, and removed the sock.
Judy blinked rapidly and tried to focus, but Stegs was already turning away, keen to get out of her field of vision before she remembered too many things about him. After all, one thing her old man was going to be doing was trying to work out who'd done this to his daughter, even if he couldn't do much about it, and Stegs didn't want to provide him with any obvious clues, particularly as he was already under some suspicion.
She called out after him, asking when her dad was going to be there, but he ignored her and kept walking the fifty yards or so back to the car, at the same time punching a number into his mobile phone.
35
As soon as the Fanner interview was wound up, and Fanner himself returned to the cells, I headed back to the incident room with Malik.
'What do you think about his story, John?' he asked as we walked along. 'All this stuff about hiring a gun, firing it, then replacing the bullet. I've heard more likely tales from Jeffrey Archer. I'm actually wondering whether he had anything to do with the whole thing at all.'
I could see his point, but tried not to think that this entire lead might be a waste of time. 'Roy Catherwood said it was a ninety-nine per cent probability that it was one and the same gun. At the moment, that's good enough for me.' 'Well, then Fanner's lying to us.'