The Informant (14 page)

Under his guidance, the firm had changed tack, become more of a liberal campaigning outfit, taking on cases that gave them a media profile, doing pro bono work for worthy causes. Gradually the
reputation of villains’ brief was being superseded by a more palatable image. They’d become the scourge of the establishment, champion of the little guy. He’d even written the
occasional op-ed piece for the
Guardian
.

However Neville Moore was also a pragmatist. Replacing the firm’s seedy East End shopfront with a plush city address had increased his overheads tenfold. Retaining the services of a sharp
go-getting team meant paying top whack. None of them wanted a drone’s life in a massive corporate law firm. But still they had school fees, as did he, plus a hefty mortgage on a detached
Edwardian villa outside Godalming, which all added up to a need for a healthy balance sheet and for clients like Joey Phelps.

Neville had ruthlessly pruned some of the more unpleasant gangsters from the client list. Still, being a criminal firm meant representing criminals, making sure they got a fair trial. There was
no shame in that. Neville had known Joey since he was sixteen. Terry Phelps he’d never liked, the man was a boorish thug with a very short fuse. But Neville had taken immediately to Joey.
Watching the lad grow up, Neville had tried to persuade him that he had the brains to take a different path in life to his old man. And Neville’s argument had to some extent succeeded, but
not in the way he intended. Joey needed instant gratification, he had huge energy and enthusiasm, but the villain’s life really did suit him better than anything else. He simply learnt to be
much better at it than his father. And he paid Neville a hefty retainer to be on call and keep him out of jail.

Neville’s reflections were interrupted by Helen Warner appearing in his open doorway. He smiled and beckoned. ‘Helen, come in.’

Her face was troubled, she perched on the end of his white leather sofa. ‘Your email said there’s a problem with Karen Phelps.’

Neville tapped his fingertips together and scanned her face. Helen’s level of involvement with this particular client was starting to cause him a little concern.

‘Joey Phelps phoned me. The story is they went to visit the sister Natalie in Southend. Natalie has a drug problem and was somehow persuaded to leave with them to enter a rehab programme.
Unfortunately her boyfriend was upset about this and took a suicidal leap to his death from the thirteenth floor. Anyway, that’s the version of events Joey’s peddling.’ Neville
added a sceptical shrug.

Helen nodded slowly and sighed. ‘And Karen was there? Oh dear.’

What she was thinking was oh shit. Neville was still scanning her. She was aware of the tense knot in her stomach. This was all getting out of hand. She was a lawyer, clients messed up all the
time, that was normal. What was abnormal was her feeling like this.

Neville got up from his desk and strolled round it, hands in trouser pockets. ‘My feeling is we take the bull by the horns. Go to the police before they come to us. They’ve probably
got the evidence to place our clients at the scene, but without witnesses the suicide story will play as well as any other.’

Helen pushed back her hair in annoyance. It helped to channel her feelings into something for public consumption. ‘I told her to stay away from the family. I’d better speak to her
probation officer, don’t want them to get shirty.’

Neville gave her a penetrating look. ‘I hope you’re not getting too wound up with this girl, Helen. She’s simply another client. You can only give her your best advice. End of
the day she makes her own choices. If she goes back to jail, it’s not your fault.’

Helen met his eye with a steady gaze. The last thing she needed was for him to twig the real state of her emotions. She’d been struggling with them ever since Karen got out, she was
involved, she was far too involved. It was already causing problems in her private life. She’d just about got to the point where she could admit that to herself. But Neville must never know.
No one must know.

Helen turned her palms outwards and shrugged. ‘It’s annoying, that’s all. Karen’s supposed to be going to art college. She’s reasonably talented. I had some plans
to use her for a bit of PR. She makes a career of it, it’s a great story for the Sunday supplements, a good way to enhance the firm’s profile, I thought.’

Neville nodded. ‘We can always do with a bit of that. Anyway, I’m going to set up an interview with Essex Police, take Joey in myself.’

‘You want me to do the same with Karen?’

‘Yep, I think so. They may be thinking, given Joey’s reputation, that they’re on to something here. But it’ll all be circumstantial. With a bit of luck we’ll kick
it into the long grass.’

She got up, gave him her best smile. ‘Right, well I’ll get on with it.’

Neville watched her stroll a little too casually out of his office. His wife took the view that Helen batted for the other side. Personally he couldn’t see it; she was very good-looking, a
leggy blonde, plenty of blokes would jump at the chance. But he had to admit she was a bit of a cold fish. In his experience, most women he’d ever worked with, however hard-nosed and
professional, would turn on the charm at some point. A hint of flirtatiousness over coffee, a solicitous stroking of the male ego, especially to get what they wanted. Helen never indulged in any
such behaviour, but that didn’t make her gay. Still, he pondered, his wife was a far better reader of people than he could ever hope to be. And if Helen had got herself romantically entangled
with Karen Phelps, that was the kind of PR he could certainly do without.

Nicci Armstrong and Mal Bradley arrived at Southend nick around ten o’clock. They took the train down from London and found it was only a short walk from the station
along Victoria Avenue. They showed their warrant cards at the desk and were taken upstairs to meet the DCI who was conducting the interviews. The Phelpses were due to present themselves, lawyered
up, at eleven.

Cheryl Stoneham was a small, stout woman in her early fifties, an SIO from crime division, usually based in Chelmsford. She was laughing and joking with the District Commander and a couple of
other uniforms and kept them hanging about like spare parts long enough to make it clear they were on her territory. But when she finally came over and held out her hand she was all smiles.

‘Cheryl Stoneham. Sorry, only just got here myself. Traffic was a bugger. I’ve been sorting out an interview room.’

Nicci beamed back, accepting the firm handshake. ‘DS Armstrong. This is DC Bradley.’

‘Well, this is a very interesting situation we find ourselves in. An apparent suicide, but one of Essex’s premier villains is coming in voluntarily to be interviewed.’

Bradley shook hands too. ‘His brief’s probably assuming you’ve got CCTV that can place him at the scene.’

Stoneham sighed. ‘Yeah well no such luck. The council sticks these sodding cameras up all over the shop to deter the hooligans, but most of them don’t work. We’ve got ANPR on
Phelps’s vehicle and bugger all else.’

Nicci smiled. ‘Proves he was in Southend at the relevant time.’

Stoneham gave her an arch look. ‘I gather your lot had him under surveillance.’

Turnbull had instructed Armstrong and Bradley to ‘give these bastards nothing’. He was referring to his esteemed colleagues in the Essex Police. But Nicci didn’t reckon dancing
to Turnbull’s tune was her primary role. She looked Cheryl Stoneham up and down, judged the woman to be a decent and competent officer. ‘Yeah I’m really sorry ma’am. We
should have let you know we were on your turf. But it was a difficult surveillance. Things were moving very fast.’

Stoneham gave her a reproachful look. ‘Too fast for you to keep up, I gather.’

Nicci shrugged. ‘Unfortunately we only had one vehicle. Turns out he had backup and his boys stitched us up like the professionals they are. We lost Phelps before we ever got into
town.’

Stoneham shook her head ruefully. She knew how arrogant the Met could be, but Nicci’s contrite manner placated her. ‘Bloody cuts! How we’re expected to deal with villains like
Phelps with a one-man-and-a-dog operation beats me. It’s no different here. Bosses come up with all these strategy papers – we haven’t got enough boots on the ground to carry them
out.’

The two women shared a cynical laugh. Bradley watched them. He could see that some kind of female bonding was going on here and he was determined not to be cut out of the loop. So he joined in
with the laughter, giving Stoneham his best smile.

‘Our so-called strategy is to get Karen Phelps to inform against her brother.’

Nicci gave him a sidelong glance, wondering how the hell she’d got landed with such a dickhead. She turned to Stoneham. ‘He’s the bait.’

Stoneham gave him a wry look. ‘Let’s hope you’re man enough for the job.’ She checked her watch. ‘Talking of which, I don’t know where my bloody
sergeant’s got to.’ She gave Nicci a speculative glance. ‘Fancy sitting in with me? Then we can both go home and tell our rivalrous bosses that Essex and the Met cooperated
fully.’

Nicci grinned. ‘That’d be great.’

‘Let’s get ourselves a coffee then. Canteen here does jam doughnuts. Fatal for my diet. But I figure if I’m going to take on Joey Phelps and his high-priced brief, a sugar rush
might give me the edge.’

The women grinned at each other in mutual accord. Stoneham led the way, Nicci by her side.

‘With me it’s the fags.’

‘Aww, tell me about it. I used to smoke forty a day. Then my old man and my kids ganged up on me. Forced me on to the patches. Took me three goes to quit.’

‘Only three? That’s brilliant.’

As the two women sailed out of the open-plan office and down the corridor Bradley was forced to bring up the rear. He felt very much like an afterthought. He’d seen this before, women
talking rubbish yet communicating on another more subtle level. They could’ve discussed Joey Phelps, the questions to ask him – which would’ve been the professional approach in
his view – but none of that seemed necessary. They’d met less than five minutes ago, already they were mates. The analyst in Bradley marvelled at this. It also pissed him off royally.
It was a trick he was desperate to learn.

Kaz sat on a low wall at the edge of the car park. She was pulling on a Silk Cut as if her life depended on it. It was the lowest-tar brand on the market and her pathetic
concession to the fact that after a year off cigarettes she’d cracked. Overnight she’d smoked herself from nausea to a sore throat, but none of it brought her the release from anxiety
she craved.

Joey and Ashley were on the other side of the car park larking around beside the Range Rover. They were playing ‘Call of Duty Black Ops Zombies’ on an iPad and arguing about whose
turn it was. Joey was wearing a three-piece tailored suit; he certainly looked the business, although Kaz thought it unlikely this would cut much ice with the police.

After Doctor Iqbal had left with a quiescent Natalie, she and Joey had sat down at the kitchen table and constructed a plausible story to explain how Jez Harris had come to take his own life.
Joey even seemed to enjoy the process; to him it was another game, a chance to outwit the filth. But Kaz felt sick to her stomach. She refused to eat the plate of lasagne and salad that Ellie
placed in front of her. Finally, at about half nine, she escaped from the house and walked. It was country lanes, a few large houses, but mostly dark fields and brooding woodland. She ended up at a
jovial Tudorbethan pub festooned with fairy lights several miles down the road. Just the sight of it brought on an overwhelming desire for alcohol. She stood outside for about ten minutes wrestling
with a desperate craving to soak herself in booze. In the end she went in, ordered a Coke and bought forty cigarettes from the machine in the corner of the bar. This was the best she could manage
in the circumstances, she told herself. She chain-smoked three fags on the way home and ended up retching into a ditch.

This morning, as they drove down to Southend, she’d sat in the back of the Range Rover and spoken as little as possible. Joey was in a sparky mood, insisted on playing her the latest
tracks he’d downloaded. She let him and Ashley rattle on, they were doing their we’re-a-couple-of-ordinary-lads act. Kaz may have been taken in by this before, but now she knew
better.

It was a quarter to eleven when a dark blue Jaguar XK turned into the car park and drew up a couple of slots away from the Range Rover. Kaz watched as Neville Moore climbed out of the driving
seat and stretched. Joey went over immediately to shake his hand. But Kaz’s attention was on Helen Warner, who emerged from the passenger side. Helen glanced in Kaz’s direction and
caught her eye. She was too far away for Kaz to read her expression. Then Neville opened the boot of the car and she became preoccupied with collecting her jacket and briefcase.

Kaz ground the remains of her cigarette into the tarmac with her heel, then she started to walk slowly towards Helen, who had slipped on her jacket and was still rearranging her shirt cuffs and
collar when they finally came face to face. Helen gave her a tight smile.

‘Morning.’

Kaz returned the greeting with a pleading shrug that she hoped the others wouldn’t notice. ‘I’m sorry.’

Helen raised her eyebrows. Then she glanced at her boss. ‘Neville, we’ll follow you in. I want a word with Karen.’

He nodded. ‘Fine.’

Joey was hovering, he shot a look at Kaz. ‘You all right babes?’

Kaz turned on him. ‘Just fuck off inside Joey and let me talk to my brief, okay?’

Joey threw up his palms defensively. ‘Whoah!’ He gave Neville a puzzled shrug.

Neville shepherded him and Ashley towards the main doors, leaving Kaz and Helen standing beside the Jaguar.

Kaz took a deep breath. ‘Look, I can explain . . .’

Helen held up her hand. She was so annoyed it took her a moment to speak. Why couldn’t the stupid girl have stayed out of trouble? ‘Don’t tell me what I can’t hear. You
know the rules. I’m an officer of the court.’