The Vengeance Man (41 page)

And for that the customer has to co-operate, or
be tricked into giving himself
away. He has to do more than just  make noises because he wants you to stop whatever you're doing. He has to want to tell the truth, for whatever reason: fear; because he's been caught out; even a chance to buy off a worse fate. But he has to
want
to talk; that's why the best interrogations always end up as debriefs, friendly chats between old acquaintances, or broken, weepy confessions to a ‘sympathetic listener’. The customer has to be co-operating at some point, and I wasn't co-operating. Whatever their plan when they came in, I'd fielded all their questions and looked like being a very tough target. I knew what was going through their minds all right. After all, Paddy and I had done the same course, all those years ago.

They looked at each other as if wondering what to do next. I solved their problem by attacking, to divert them as much as anything. "What serious crimes are we talking about, Harry?   Besides the Varley thing?"

Harry didn't like that. You could almost see him thinking,
'Ve ask ze qvestions
here.' But he couldn't say anything; after all, it was a legitimate question. He looked back to Paddy for guidance.

"Hang on," began Paddy, "Let's just stay with the list, shall we...?"

"I won't 'hang on', Paddy; it's a reasonable question. Why? Don't I have a right to know?" That hurt. "After all, how do you expect me to help if you don't tell me what these crimes are, or the dates? Eh?"

They glanced doubtfully at each other.

Suddenly from their reluctance, I saw their scheme. It was obvious. They had planned to use their lists of  ex-servicemen as a ploy to have a go at me. They were obviously suspicious as hell
;
but all they could come up with was a fishing expedition to see if I would drop myself in it. They wanted me to put myself in the frame, then they'd turn it into a grilling - where I'd been, on what dates?  But by questioning them, I'd seized the initiative and until they openly admitted that it was me they were after, they couldn't refuse to answer my 'honest helper' questions. I had to keep my pressure up on them, play the innocent, knock them off their game plan. Buy time and force them to reveal what they knew, show their hand.

"Well, what are the crimes we’re looking out for?" I made a big production out of pulling a bit of paper towards me and making ready to write things down. "There's Varley," I scribbled, "What was the date of that?   Now, what else, Harry?" He hesitated. "Oh, come on. It's hardly a secret, is it? It’s been all over the papers this Vengeance Gang  stuff. What other crimes? What dates? What locations?"

"Now, steady on. We haven't come here so that you can interrogate Harry."

"Bullshit, Paddy."

"What?"

"You heard. Now, shut up Paddy, and let Harry do his job.” They both looked stunned.. “You said yourself this is a
police
matter, so stop butting in and wasting Harry's time. And mine," I added.  "Harry's the copper. So, let the police answer. Now what are the crimes we're supposed to be helping you with, Harry?"

"Well, there's..."

"Come  on. "

"Well ... Varley."

"I've got that.  What's the date ?"

Harry looked desperately at Paddy, pink-cheeked with irritation. I'd turned the tables completely, more by luck than judgement. I was asking them questions which they couldn't refuse to answer, sidelined Paddy, the interrogation  king, and made them commit the worst crime in the book - they'd lost control of the interview.

On the course on an exercise, they'd be laughing in the control room, and the Watch Com
mander would be about to ring the phone in the cell and haul the questioners out. But this wasn't a bloody
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course: this was real.  I went for the knockout and poured on the aggression. "For Christ's sake, how the bloody hell can I help you if yo
u won't tell me  the dates or the crimes that one of my people is supposed to have committed?  Well? What’s going on?   Stop playing games!"

I'd half-risen from my chair, clenched fist pounding the desk. A strange look came over Harry Plummer's face.  For a split second he looked scared. Then a glint of realisation, of awareness, almost of satisfaction, followed. I wondered if I'd gone over the top, but the moment had passed. "Well?"

In a choked voice, Harry said, "We're looking at two – or three. Three crimes. There's the shooting of the Brixton muggers last summer, the Varley thing, of course, which you’ve mentioned  and...” he looked across at Paddy again, "And there's possibly one other."

"What's that?"

Paddy intervened. "To be honest, there's a bit of an argument over the third job. Harry here thinks that it's all linked with an attack on some nutty paedophile who got his balls sliced off two years ago. He reckons it’s all this ‘Vengeance Man’ stuff. Me,  I think that it's not the same guy..."   His face as open and candid. He was showing me his hand. If there's ever a time to suspect an interrogator, particularly a full-time expert like Paddy Croft, it's when he's making with the 'open and candid' stuff. What the hell was he up to now?

"Oh yes," I muttered. "I remember. It was some Scots gang or other, wasn't it? I remember reading that when I came back from leave."

"That's the one," said Paddy, approvingly. "Some bloke called Spicer. Very slick, professional bit of work; snip,  snip, fifteen stitches, and Bob's your Auntie now..."

Fifteen?  Hardly, I thought.

"And you really think one of
our
people might have done  that, Paddy? Cut some paedo’s balls off?" I demanded incredulously.

"No, I don't. But Harry here thinks it’s a possibil
i
ty. Got a bit of a bee in his bonnet about it. Worked on the case on and off ever since, haven't you, Harry?" Harry nodded, wordlessly, staring at me.

Sweat gathered in my armpits. The idea of Harry Plummer stolidly plodding in my footsteps, pursuing me doggedly across the years didn't appeal. "I wouldn't have thought that sort of thing was SB's work, Harry? That’s a criminal investigation, surely"

"It isn't; but CID have done a lot for me. And I reckon that it's one of my blokes that did it, so I owe it to CID.
  I'll 
get him."

"One of
your
blokes?"

"Yes; I'm the Branch LO to all the List X companies and the funnies, and I've always reckoned it was someone in the funnies that did it. Some professional psycho working for one of them. I even spoke to you about it, remember?  I told you I'd get him."

"Yes
... of course. I'm surprised you take it that seriously. After all, didn't the bloke deserve it? At least, didn’t all  the papers
say
so?"

"Oh, yes, no doubt about it. He deserved it all right. Spicer was a right little toe
rag; couldn't keep his hands off little girls. Or his cock. But he’s a different man now, I grant you, singing in a different key without his goolies. But that still doesn't make it right."

"I'd have thought it was a public service this bloke did, then."

"Sure: a real public service. And was it a public service when the same bloke did Varley? Stuck a poker in his guts and left him screaming? He took eighteen hours to die. Eighteen hours."

The sweat was trickling down my armpits now, the room hot and oppressive. For a second, Varley's hopeless agonised screams rang again in my ears, and I remembered my panic stricken flight through the woods. Paddy Croft sat back, face wreathed in cigarette smoke, his eyes watching me speculatively.

"Maybe;   I don't
know anything about the Varley
thing – apart from what I read in the papers. How do you know it was the same bloke?"

"I don't, but the descriptions match pretty well; voice, same build, same MO. No, my money's on it being the same bloke. This Vengeance Man nutter." Harry was staring at me, I swear.

Nutter? I thought Bloody cheek….  Best say something. “But didn't you say it was a gang?"

"Did I? When?"

Another slip. I recovered quickly. "Er, when you came round here asking about Varley; you know, that nonsense about the SAS bagman and that little pack thing. You said it was a gang, Harry. You did, I’m sure..."

"Did I? Anyway, it wasn't nonsense. Access to that SAS pack is going to be a crucial bit of evidence. One day."

I pulled a face. "Perhaps."

Paddy leaned forward and addressed himself to Harry. "Did you really say it was a  gang, Harry? You know, when you asked around about the Varley thing?"

A look of surprise came over Harry Plummer's face as he absorbed the implications behind Paddy's question. "I don't know." He riffled open a file from his document case. "I'll have to check."

I jumped back in. "I'm sure you did Harry. Maybe I saw it in the papers. Otherwise, how else would I have known?" That was a mistake, too.

"That's a good point," said Paddy, wide eyed with affected naïv
e
ty. "How indeed?"

"Well, I'm sure you did, Harry. Anyway, wasn't it in all the papers? On the news?" I desperately tried to collect my thoughts. "I'm sure I remember it after the Brixton thing."

"What Brixton thing?"

"You know; those three muggers."

"Oh, that. So how's that linked to Varley?"

I was tense with controlled fright and cold with sweat. "Well, I don’t know. You did say it was one of your three cases, didn't you? And the papers linked it with that Scots gang... "

"Yes. Yes, I did." Harry sounded disappointed.

"That's why we think it's a funny." Paddy took up the running .

"What?" I swivelled to face him.

"Because of the Brixton job. It was too good."  He dropped ash. I was conscious of Harry scanning his notes, preparing for his next go. These bastards could tag wrestle it against me as a twosome all day. I had to stay sharp for both. "Too good?"

"Oh, yes." Paddy's tone was dry. "Real professional stuff, that. Whoever pulled that stunt was  a good shot.”

“That lets me out then,” I laughed.

“Why?” They exchanged glances and sat forward together.

“Well. I’m a lousy pistol shot. It’s a well known fact.”

Harry sat back. “Well
, whoever
did the Brixton kids job was good shot. A top grade hit. Running girl, fifteen yards, dead centre lower back. Classy shooting. Don't you think so?    Even by your standards."

"Yes - not bad."
My
standards? What was he getting at?

Paddy snorted. "Not bad? Bloody marvellous!  Particularly with a handgun. Pity about the bullets, though."

"Oh, why's that?"   What about the bullets?  My mind yammered at me.   I'd been careful there, hadn't I?

"They'd been prepared. Very slick, very professional."

"So?"

"He'd dum-dummed them. Probably reversed them, filed a cut. Stuff like that; but unfortunately he made a  mistake. A very silly error."

The blood roared in my ears and I felt very hot, trapped in the stuffy smoke-filled room. I forced myself to stay calm, think calm, sound calm. "Well, you should catch him then, shouldn't you?" I scratched myself and looked pointedly at
my
watch. "What mistake did he make?"

Paddy leaned forward triumphantly. "Fingerprints. All over the bullets."

Bullshit. Utter bloody nonsense.

"What?"

"I didn't say anything. So he left fingerprints on the rounds, this bloke?"

"That's it."

"On bullets?   After they'd been in the body?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well, how else? Were there some ejected cartridges?"   I'd used a revolver: no ejected cases there. That’s why I had
n’t used
the automatic. I'd dropped the empty bullet cases down a drain myself that night. Paddy was bluffing.    There couldn't have been any prints on the bullets after they'd smashed through skin and muscle and bone. They would have burst open like petals on hitting flesh. Lady Red shoes couldn't walk with a smashed spine and as for Ivor's thigh - it had turned to bloody pulp. I tried to shake it off by changing the subject. "Good. Well, that'll make it easy for you, with evidence like that and some accurate times and places, you should catch him easily, whoever he is.  Now, do you want that staff list now? Do you want to finger print everyone?"

If Paddy was bluffing about the bullets - which he was -  then he must suspect me. Otherwise, why bluff? Why lie about those bullets? They were on to me, or on to something, no doubt about it.
This was a pressure interview.

The net was closing.

" ... so then there's that to explain."

"Uh? Sorry, Paddy, I missed that. What did you say?"

"I said, there's that Briggs' nonsense to explain."

"Briggs? What he got to do with it?"

"Well - his accident. It's all a bit convenient, isn't it?"