Dead or Alive (12 page)

‘To the extent that he started bad-mouthing you to the other cops?'

‘Yeah, and me being suspicious of him would really worry Formosa. He needed Cope to be squeaky-clean in the eyes of the police force. A senior police officer in his pay would be a massive asset, and Cope turning Formosa in would kill any suspicion that Cope was anything other than a straight cop doing his best to fight crime. Certainly not a cop in Formosa's pocket.'

‘That's all very devious.'

‘Well, deviants tend to be devious. It also made Cope the blue-eyed boy with the police,' Sep said, ‘even though they had to drop the charge against Formosa, with Dench being dead.'

‘Still, it was a risky thing for Formosa to do.'

‘It was, but it was a risk worth taking to Formosa. Dench was a dead man the minute he opened his mouth to Cope. Formosa will have been laughing his socks off at getting one over on the cops. He's got too much clout has that bloke. He really needs bringing down. No sooner had I opened my big mouth with my suspicions about him and Cope and my whole world collapsed around me. I lost my job and my family. This Formosa guy's a dangerous man to cross.'

‘Tell me about it,' said Winnie. ‘The only people who can connect all the dots on this were Lee and Christine who are both dead.'

‘Yeah, well, that just about sums it all up,' agreed Sep. He's not a man who leaves loose ends isn't Formosa, and his pet copper's living with my wife – and my daughter. I'm not happy about that, Winnie, not happy at all.'

‘Blimey, Sep. You can't tell your wife this.'

‘I know that. It seems to me that the only way to get him out of my house is for the police to have good reason to arrest one of their own.'

‘Which they don't like doing.'

‘They didn't mind stuffing me for something I didn't do.'

Winnie got to her feet and took out her purse to pay for more drinks. Sep looked at her, curiously. ‘Tell me to mind my own business if you like, but now you're going straight, where do you get your, er … your wherewithal?'

‘I, er, I do some bar work plus a bit of buying and selling. You know, sell cheap, buy cheaper. I could get you a classy Tommy Hilfiger top for a tenner. That's cost price, that is.'

‘Genuine or counterfeit?'

‘Would you know the difference?'

‘I would if all the stitching came out in two days.'

‘Not in these it wouldn't. I get my supplies from Naples, or at least my supplier gets them from there and brings them into this country using means that don't concern me. Over there he's in a position to pick and choose which batch he buys – and he knows what to look for.'

‘Naples, eh? That's where the Camorra hang out. Is your man connected?'

‘No, he's a bloke whose clothing business went down the drain because of dirt-cheap Asian imports made by women and children earning two pence an hour. Pretty much like all the garment industries around here. I've got regular customers who have market stalls and they're more than happy to pay cash for the good stuff.'

‘So this stuff's all fake and probably smuggled into Naples from India and China and made by fakers.'

‘Bangladesh actually. There are good fakers and bad fakers and my man knows all the good ones who pay much better money to their workers for a much better product – I mean as good as the real thing – the only thing that's fake is the label. He even goes over to Bangladesh now and again to give them the benefit of his expertise.'

‘I don't suppose he gives the Customs and Excise the benefit of his expertise – that could be a problem for you.'

She glared at him. ‘OK, Mr Perfect, so I dabble in the black economy to keep me off the dole. Your problem isn't me, it's Cope, who's as bent as a nine bob note.'

T
he sign above the door said “Peter James Hair Solutions”. Hair Solutions? What the hell was all that about? Did this mean that Peter James wasn't an actual barber? What solution would he come to regarding Sep's hair? Through the window he saw two men sitting in barber's chairs, so maybe he was reading too much into the name. He went in and, before he sat down to read the customary newspaper, he asked, ‘Is this an actual barbers?'

‘Of course it is, sir. What else would we be?'

‘It's that thing about hair solutions. What exactly does that mean?'

‘It means that if your hair's a problem, we solve that problem.'

‘Well my hair's a problem because it's too long and I'd like you to solve that problem by cutting it.'

‘That's what we do, sir.'

‘So you're just a barber, nothing more.'

‘What more is there, sir?'

‘I'm sorry, my brain's obviously not behaving itself today – perhaps it's overheated with all the hair around it.'

‘Well, I can certainly remedy that, sir. This chair's free, if I could take your coat?'

Septimus sat in the chair and stared at himself in the mirror and he wasn't impressed by what he saw – a middle-aged man who wasn't growing old gracefully. His hair was greying rapidly. His eyes were tired, his skin pale and his teeth needed whitening. Maybe after this haircut he should go to one of those tanning places, then have his teeth whitened. He'd look more presentable then. This set him wondering. Were there any advantages to not looking presentable?

The barber put a cloth around his neck and tucked it into his collar, talking constantly.

‘Finished work early sir, or are you having the day off?' He had a Scottish accent – an accent that set Sep's brain whirring. An idea was forming.

‘I'm retired.'

‘Ah, early retirement, eh? Must be nice to be able to do that. I've got another twenty years before I can put my feet up. So, what do you have planned for today, sir?'

‘I was thinking of becoming a Trappist monk today.'

‘Really, sir. And what does that involve?'

‘A lot of silence.'

He'd purposely come to a different barber who wouldn't know who he was. In fact, this was the first time he'd been to a barber in several months. His greying hair, which he had usually kept cropped close to his head, was down over his ears. No particular reason, he just hadn't got round to having it cut. He'd been combing it back, in an attempt to keep himself looking reasonably respectable. What he didn't realize was that this uncharacteristically long hair had done him no favours with his subordinates, who had surprised him by turning against him in his hour of need. They regarded it as all part and parcel of his personality change – the change that had had him hitting his wife, and possibly being responsible for the death of Cyril Johnstone. Of course Cope had spotted this and had mentioned it to increase the animosity the troops had for Sep. He was a man trained in such things.

Sep was thinking about what Winnie had told him about Vince Formosa having Lee Dench killed because he'd grassed him up to the police and that she was certain that Dench's contact was DI Cope, the very man who'd taken his wife from him. He and his wife had never really got on, and her telling such a damaging lie about him meant he was well rid of her, except that she would probably keep the house, although he was wondering how she'd keep up with the mortgage because he had no money to give her. He barely had enough money to get by on. He didn't consider the dole to be an option yet. That would be conceding defeat.

His idea was almost fully formed, but it was an idea that required him to keep the tonsorial tangle around which the now silent barber's scissors were hovering. It was an idea that might mark the first step on his
Hard Road
back. It might be a mad idea, but a mad idea is better than no idea at all. The words to the song,
Dead or Alive
weren't far from his thoughts, especially the “hard road” bit.

‘Would it break your vow of silence to tell me how you want it, sir?'

‘One moment please. I'm thinking.'

It was the man's accent which had provided the finishing touch to Sep's idea – an idea which didn't involve him having a haircut. In the past he would have asked for a number three which should have left it three eighths of an inch long all over, but as he stared he saw a much more useful image staring back at him. He saw himself with his beard and his hair much longer and straggly and, in his mind, he heard himself speaking with a certain Glaswegian accent which he'd perfected while working up in Scotland in his early days on the force. Then he thought of a way he could use this masquerade to its greatest effect. The audacity of his plan had him smiling and shaking his head. He removed the cloth from around his neck and stood up.

‘Changed my mind,' he said.

‘About becoming a Trappist monk, sir?'

‘Not quite.'

Sep took a couple of pound coins from his pocket and gave them to the barber. ‘Thank you for your trouble. When I really need my hair cut I'll be sure to come here.'

Back in his flat he examined his image in the mirror above his dressing table, one of the six pieces of furniture in his room. His plan was building up into something significant.

‘See you, Jimmy,' he said to his reflection. ‘See you, Jimmy Lennon.'

As a detective constable he'd known a Scottish villain called Jimmy Lennon, whose voice he could imitate perfectly, or so Sep thought, certainly good enough to pass as a Glaswegian who'd spent many years in England. Jimmy was roughly the same height and age as Sep, although there the resemblance ended. Jimmy was by nature a scruffy individual.

Sep ruffled his hair into a state of disarray and took another look. ‘See you, when you was up in Barlinnie doin' a two stretch fer knockin' seven shades o' shite out of a guy who was tryin' te do the same te you.'

Jimmy Lennon had indeed done time in Barlinnie prison for such a crime. He had a habit of moving away from any town whose police knew him well enough to arrest him, so he'd moved down to Yorkshire on his release and had come very quickly to Sep's attention. Sep had used Jimmy as an informer but was unable to help him when he was picked up for burglary and banged up in Armley jail for eighteen months.

True to form Jimmy had upped and left Leeds soon after his release. A year later he sent a letter to a friend in Leeds with instructions to show it to Sep. Jimmy was now a bank security guard in a small town in Nebraska, USA. Despite being arrested by him, Jimmy had always considered Sep to be a good guy. He just wanted Sep to know he'd at last turned his life around, as Sep had often tried to persuade him. It was information that Sep had kept to himself at Jimmy's request. How Jimmy, with his criminal record, had got a green card was one of life's mysteries, but the Jimmy Lennons of this world were adept at overcoming such problems.

Sep was planning to borrow Jimmy's identity. He would become a Scottish ne'er-do-well, down on his luck; a hard man who could look after himself; a man who would fit easily into the West Yorkshire underworld as a copper's nark. His plan was to somehow make contact with DI Cope and become his informer, just as the real Jimmy had been his own informer many years ago. This way, he could use his position as Cope's trusted informer to drop the bent cop in shit deep enough to drown him. It would be simply a question of spotting the main chance when it came along – and main chances always come along. As he gazed at the mirror, he could scarcely keep the grin off his face as he imagined the many scenarios that would come his way and send Cope down.

Then he wiped the smile off his face and told his reflection, ‘Don't get ahead of yourself, Septimus.' He was quoting his mother. ‘It's a great plan but it's bloody dangerous. Cope's in Formosa's pocket. Do the job properly, think it all through. Keep on your toes. No slip-ups.'

Then he smiled again and said, respectfully, ‘Yes, mother.'

The first problem would be how to make contact with Cope. To facilitate this, he'd need help in the form of an introduction or someone who moved in Cope's circles, or someone who knew what circles Cope moved in. It would have to be someone he trusted implicitly. Only one name sprang to his mind. Winnie O'Toole.

He and Cope had always worked different shifts and he'd barely said half a dozen words to the man, so he wasn't too worried about being recognized; not with his unkempt beard and hair and his thick Glasgow accent. The most time he'd spent talking to Cope was back in his house when Phoebe was there. His hair had been long then but neatly combed and much more respectable than it looked right now, and his mode of attire had been quite smart. His main disguise would be his beard. He hadn't shaved since the incident in the Sword and Slingshot, which was many weeks ago. Maybe he could dye his hair a few shades greyer. That, plus his accent, plus his general scruffiness, should do the trick. No one in the station would recognize him, never mind Cope.

If Cope checked him out Sep knew enough about Jimmy's past to match himself up with most police checks. The right age, type, accent and build. Perhaps moving digs might be a good idea. Sep moves out of here and disappears; Jimmy Lennon moves in elsewhere. He'd done undercover work before and knew the dangers. UC work they called it. UC work was dangerous because criminals tended to kill undercover cops if they were discovered. Using a different accent was usually a no no – the slightest slip of an accent would arouse suspicion – but he wouldn't be living a full time undercover life in the company of criminals, so he reckoned he could wing the accent bit. Winnie would need to know what he was doing and he knew he could trust her. She could fill him in with enough information to make him plausible and useful as a copper's informer. He allowed himself a smile. He had no idea where this outrageous idea might lead but at least it was leading to somewhere, and somewhere had to be better than nowhere. What he needed now was a plan of action.

What he didn't know was that a strange form of serendipity would present him with an initial plan in the form of a distressed young lady called Gabriela who was, at that very moment, planning to escape from her imprisonment in a Leeds brothel.