Unlawfully At Large, page 27
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
Jenna stared at her for a long moment, wondering if she could wheedle any more information out of Mrs Dawlish. Probably not, she decided. With a sigh, she gently placed her hands upon Mrs Dawlish’s shoulders and steered her back into her flat.
“You should try and get some rest,” she told the woman. “And it might be an idea not to drink any more of that tonight,” she added, nodding at the vodka.
It might also be a good idea to have a shower and clean what’s left of your teeth, she thought as Mrs Dawlish closed the door behind her and went back to watching EastEnders.
Jenna had nothing to lose, so she decided to make a little detour along Star Lane on her way back home. As poor old Mrs Dawlish had said, it wasn’t far away, and while she had no idea what number Rodney lived at, there was always a possibility of bumping into him in the street.
Jenna passed beneath the A13 flyover and waited for the traffic lights to go red before crossing the busy Barking Road. She made her way into Manor Road, following it around past the perimeter of Malmesbury Road Park.
Turning into Star Lane, with the park on her right, she walked slowly, staring into each of the properties she passed like a burglar canvassing the area, only instead of being on the look-out for valuables she was searching for Rodney Dawlish.
Why am I even bothering to do this? she asked herself. I haven’t seen him for years and it’s not as though he means anything to me. Why don’t I just go home, phone the police and tell them what I know? If Rodney’s not involved, he won’t have anything to worry about.
But instead of returning home, as common sense dictated, she plodded on with her breath forming little clouds of condensation around her head as she walked.
She was surprised at how many people left their curtains wide open at night, allowing anyone passing by to see inside their homes, and she felt like a bit of a pervert for spying on them while they unknowingly went about their business.
There was something pitiful about Rodney that made her feel strangely protective towards him, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was a bit simple. Clearly, he wasn’t a saint, far from it, but she suspected that he was basically a good person at heart. The trouble was, he had no one to look out for him and he appeared to be easily led.
She didn’t want to see his naivety getting him into trouble, but beyond confronting him about her suspicions, Jenna had absolutely no idea what she was going to do if and when she found him. Hopefully, he would simply laugh at her and tell her that she’d got the wrong end of the stick.
That would be a huge and very welcome relief.
But what if Rodney really was helping this horrible Winston character, and he wasn’t the sweet and innocent person that she thought he was? If that turned out to be the case, what she was doing could have dangerous repercussions for both her and her family, and that was a sobering thought.
Feeling a little out of her league, Jenna decided to return home and call the police. As much as she wanted to help Rodney, she realised that she had acted without thinking things through.
Jenna was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she stepped into the road without looking properly, failing to spot the car that had just pulled away from the kerb until it screeched to a stop with its front bumper inches away from her legs. The driver, a slim black man in his late twenties, wound down his window and shouted at her angrily.
Jenna was too stunned to say anything, but she was really surprised by the man’s outburst. She appreciated that he was probably in shock, having nearly run her over, and she accepted that it would have been totally her fault, but he had been wearing the surgical greens of a doctor. Surely someone like that should have responded with a little more decorum?
Maybe he’d reacted like that because he spent his working life trying to repair the broken bodies of mindless idiots like her who stepped in front of moving cars without looking?
Feeling lucky to be alive, Jenna cut through the park to Avondale Road and then into Percy Road and home.
Standing in the hallway, she hovered by the telephone, dithering over whether to call the police now or wait until the morning.
“That you, Jen?” her mother called from the kitchen.
That clinched it; Jenna would wait until the morning when no one else was around. Otherwise, her parents would overhear her making the call, and then they would want to know why she was phoning the police. She couldn’t face an interrogation like that - not tonight. And besides, if she told them, she would only have to put up with her another bout of her mum droning on about what a terrible lot the Dawlish family were and how Rodney’s elder brother had led her poor Kevin astray.
◆◆◆
Deontay Garston placed both hands on the peeling green paintwork of the pub’s main doors and pushed them open. The creaking hinges were badly in need of a little oil, but the racket coming from inside easily overpowered their feeble protest.
The pub’s interior was dim and it took Garston a few moments for his eyes to acclimatise.
The bar was busy, with a three-deep line of customers spanning its circumference. Everyone seemed to be talking as loudly as they could, not only competing with each other but also going up against the music blaring out of the jukebox. The two harried-looking bartenders were buzzing from one side of the bar to the other, struggling to keep up with demand.
His eyes sought out Flogger and, after a few seconds, he spotted his distinctive form hunched in a corner booth at the far end of the building. He’d chosen a spot right beside the entrance to the men’s toilets; it was the ideal location for a piece of shit like him.
In Garston’s youth, this had been a classic East End pub with great character, a handful of loyal regulars and very little passing trade. Unfortunately, after struggling to make ends meet for several years, the traditionalist landlord had finally been forced to sell out to one of the big breweries who had immediately refurbished and rebranded the old boozer to make it more appealing to the masses.
Although it had retained the original’s name, the new Rose and Crown had none of its predecessor’s charm; the traditional East End accoutrement had been replaced by tacky – some would say kitsch – décor, and the overpriced beer the brewery insisted on serving was mediocre at best. Furthermore, there were no locals anymore, just a bunch of yuppies and Hooray Henrys.
Garston didn’t like it at all.
Slipping through a wall of punters, Garston crossed the well-trodden, sticky floorboards and slid into a seat opposite Flogger.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
After he’d nearly mown down the four-eyed bitch who’d stepped off the pavement right into his path, he’d driven home, changed his clothing and showered. He had collected some money and a few other things before setting off to meet Flogger.
Flogger shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said magnanimously, which took Garston by surprise. As far as Flogger was concerned, time was money, and delays of any kind bit into his profits.
“I’d offer to buy you a beer,” Garston said with a wan smile, “but I’m not queuing for half an hour to get to the bar.”
“Already taken care of,” Flogger said, and he nodded to a young man with a quiff of oily black hair, greasy skin, and a beaked nose who was leaning against a door marked ‘Staff Only’. Dressed in the corporate uniform of a bartender, the man acknowledged him and disappeared inside.
“Me nephew,” Flogger explained proudly. “Better than waiting in line with all the plebs.”
Garston studied the man who sat opposite him.
Flogger – no one seemed to know his real name – was freakish to look at. He had a lumpy bald head that resembled a Maris Piper potato, gigantic ears stuck out at right angles, saggy jowls, and a triple chin, and the lenses of his black-framed glasses were so thick that they made his rheumy eyes look about five times larger than they actually were.
Garston detected a faint accent, possibly Jewish but definitely Middle Eastern. The supplier wore a long winter coat over a thick, round neck jumper – at least Garston thought that it had a round neck; buried under so many chins it was rather hard to tell. Flogger had the calloused hands of a manual worker, but his liver-spotted fingers were adorned with expensive rings, suggesting he wasn’t short of a bob or two. Studying the well lived-in face, Garston decided that if Flogger was a day under sixty, he must have had a very hard paper round.
Flogger looked at him and smiled serenely, revealing two rows of tombstone-like yellow teeth. He leaned forward, beckoning Garston to do likewise. “Let me tell you a joke,” he said amiably. “A gorilla walks into a bar and asks for a scotch on the rocks. He hands over a brand new ten pound note to pay for it. ‘Well,’ the savvy bartender finks to himself, ‘surely, this gorilla won’t have a clue how much a shot of whiskey actually costs,’ so he pours out the spirit and pushes it across the bar along with fifteen pence in change. Making conversation a little while later, the bartender says, ‘You know, we don’t get a lot of gorillas in here.’ The gorilla looks at him and replies, ‘I’m not surprised. At nine pounds and eighty five pence a shot, I certainly won’t be coming back.’” Flogger burst into laughter, exposing a mouth full of dull fillings.
He seemed disproportionately amused by the story, Garston reflected, not even bothering to smile.
“You know why I like that joke?” Flogger asked, still chortling away. “The bartender reminds me of me, that’s why.”
“A slippery fucker with no morals?”
“No, an entrepreneur with an eye for making money.”
Before Garston could respond, the young man that Flogger had signalled to earlier reappeared and he came over carrying a serving tray that contained two pint glasses and a shot of JD.
“Your drinks, uncle,” he said, carefully placing a pint glass before each guest. The whiskey chaser was also for Flogger, Garston saw.
“Thank you, Joseph,” Flogger said, reaching for the beer. “Me friend ‘ere is paying for ‘em.”
Garston rolled his eyes but dutifully reached for his wallet. Should have seen that coming, he told himself.
“L’Chaim,” Flogger said, gulping down a mouthful of beer and sighing appreciatively.
“Cheers ears,” Garston said, following suit. As soon as he’d said it, he realised he had made a faux pas. Probably not the best choice of expressions to use when you’re sitting opposite a man whose lugholes could rival Dumbo’s, he thought, smothering a smile in his beer glass.
Thankfully, Flogger didn’t seem to notice.
“Did you get the stuff I asked for?” he enquired the moment the bartender was out of earshot.
Flogger paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Course I did,” he said indignantly. “Gave you me word, didn’t I?”
Garston held out an impatient hand. “Forgive my rudeness but I’m in a rush.”
Flogger drained the remainder of the glass in a single gulp, made an elaborate show of wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then casually reached under his seat. After fumbling around for a moment, the hand reappeared carrying a paper dispensing bag. From inside this, he removed two small white boxes with printed labels on them.
“There you go, two weeks’ worth of antibiotics as promised,” he said, sliding them across the table for Garston to inspect.
Garston picked up one of the boxes and weighed it in his hand before reading the label. Almost immediately, his brow furrowed and he looked up at Flogger in disbelief. “Are you having a bloody laugh?” he demanded.
Flogger’s face was the picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you mean,” he insisted, scooping up the whiskey chaser and eyeing it with anticipation as he swirled the amber liquid around in the glass.
“These are fucking horse pills!” Garston raged. He read from the packet. “It says here, ‘Take as directed by the vet!’”
“You told me you didn’t care what I got you as long as they did the job,” Flogger pointed out defensively.
“Yeah, I know, but I was expecting human medication,” Garston said, shaking the box incredulously. “I can’t give him pills that are intended for animals.”
“Why not?” Flogger asked with a mischievous grin. “From what I ‘ear, Claude Winston’s a proper fucking animal, so I would ‘ave thought these pills were ideal.”
Struggling to contain his anger, Garston leaned across the table. “This is taking the piss, and if I tell Claude what you’ve given him and what you just said about him, he’ll hunt you down and slit your fucking throat, and you know I’m not exaggerating in the slightest.”
Subconsciously raising a hand to his Adam’s apple, Flogger swallowed hard and squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Winston’s reputation for violence was well known.
“Listen, me ol’ mucker,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “I give you me bleedin’ word that these will do the trick. An’ I ain’t lying, I really did ‘ave to call in a big favour to get ‘em for you. I can’t get you anything else until the weekend at the earliest so, I’m afraid, it’s these pills or nothing.” He sat back and shrugged. “Tell you what, I’ll even waive my commission as a sign of good faith.”
Garston shook his head. “You’re putting me on the spot, you know that?”
“Take the pills. I promise they’ll make ‘im better, and that’s all that matters,” Flogger said. “Don’t tell Mr Winston that they’re animal antibiotics. What ‘e don’t know won’t hurt him.”
Garston considered this. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place; it was either these or nothing.
“Did you actually speak to a vet to see if these were safe for human consumption?” Garston asked, starting to come around to the idea.
Flogger shifted uncomfortably. “I asked me contact, who works for a vet, which is virtually the same thing, and ‘e swore they were okay.”
Garston felt like he was losing the will to live. He dug out the money they had agreed on over the phone, deducting Flogger’s standard commission before tossing it onto the table.
After taking a final swig, Garston raised his half-finished pint in a farewell salutation. “If Claude starts to neigh like a fucking horse, I’m coming after you,” he warned.
Chapter 21
Having endured the onslaught of questions that had been fired at him during the press conference, Tyler made a beeline for the door the moment it concluded, deftly swerving an approach from Terri Miller, who was angling for an exclusive interview, in the process. Desperate to return to Arbour Square and crack on, he had dragged Steve Bull away from the canteen and sneaked out of the building before anyone else could waylay him.
Holland had a meeting scheduled at NSY with Kim Daily, the DCI from West who was leading the manhunt for Craig Masters, and he accompanied them into the rear yard.
“Bit late for a strategy meeting isn’t it?” Jack said, wondering why they weren’t leaving it until the morning.
Holland’s laugh was devoid of humour. “I’ve got to brief the Commissioner about it first thing in the morning,” he said, “so I need Kim to bring me up to speed tonight.”
Jack was surprised to hear that. At the end of the day, ignoring the fact that the victim and perpetrator were both famous, this was a simple domestic; one scene, one victim, one suspect and one key witness – the neighbour. They already knew who all the players were, and surely it was only a matter of time until they found Masters?
“Why’s the Commissioner taking an interest?” he asked.
“Because Katie Cunningham’s father is a Viscount, and the family are distant relatives of the Queen, and because her uncle is a Tory MP, that’s why. This one has become political; the Commissioner is getting pestered by influential people, and the grief he gets from them is filtering down to me and Kim.”
“I’m sure Masters will be caught soon enough,” Jack said. “Being that famous will work against him. He won’t be able to go anywhere without being recognised.”
Holland pulled a sour face. “He seems to have managed okay so far,” he pointed out.
◆◆◆
Immediately upon his return to Arbour Square, Jack asked Steve Bull to crack on with the paperwork for the surveillance operation on the squat where Angela Marley resided.
Having pushed the meeting back twice already, he finally sat down with Reg Parker and Tony Dillon to go through the phones. It was eight o’clock by then, and Kelly Flowers had kindly done a pizza run for the team.
“Can’t believe you resorted to poisoning Andy just to get this case,” Dillon said, tucking into his Hawaiian.
The comment appealed to Parker’s macabre sense of humour and he chuckled evilly.
“What makes you think I didn’t sprinkle a little something on your food, too?” Jack asked, his mouth full of Margherita.
“I reckon I’m safe,” Dillon replied with confidence. “You wouldn’t have anyone to nag if you poisoned me.”
“How is Mr Q?” Reg asked, taking a bite from his pepperoni. “Last I heard, he was still kneeling before the porcelain throne and doing the liquid scream.”
Dillon’s face turned pale. “Fuck sake, Reggie, I’m trying to eat!”
“Sorry boss,” Parker said with a wicked grin. Dillon could be such a wimp at times. He’d shrugged off yesterday’s assault with the lead-filled sap as though it was nothing, but talk about a decomposing body or someone being sick and his stomach curdled.
“Alison was taking him home,” Ryder said. “Poor sod looked like a seasick ghost.” Alison was Andy’s wife. He’d declined the offer to have a colleague drive him home, preferring to entrust himself into the care of his wife.
“I reckon he’ll be Être crevé for a few days at least,” Dillon said. “Probably given himself Salmonella or something”
“He’ll be what?” Jack asked.
“Être crevé,” Dillon repeated, pronouncing the words slowly. “It’s French for ‘to be flat, to be dead.’ It’s what they say when they’re bedridden.”
