Unti Peter Robinson #22 (32 page)

“I'm sure you would have made a lot more money. But things have changed.”

“Tell me about it. Bunch of wankers we've got in there nowadays couldn't manage a kid's piggy bank, let alone a fucking economy. But that's not our concern. If you want to understand ­people like Monty Havers, you've got to understand ­people like me. The barrow boys made good. We were young, we were quick-­witted and we were cocky. Not a shade of shit different from the criminal classes you might say, and you'd be right. But we had vim and vision and stamina and, by God, that's what the country needed. We got things done. So what happened to them when the dream ended? Well, I imagine some of them were damaged for good by the lifestyles of excess, same way as the hippies who'd taken too much LSD. But the others, like Havers, wormed their way into legitimate businesses, like specialized banking, and learned the ropes and how to get around them. Like I said, we were bright and the rule book was out of the window. Now, if you ask me, there's not a hell of a lot of difference between most of your merchant banks and organized crime, so it shouldn't come as such a big surprise that Havers is bent. Thing is, he's learned his tradecraft. He knows intimately the ins and outs of money laundering, invisible transfers, hidden accounts, offshore shelters, shell companies and so forth. He's always one step ahead of the legislation. That's why we know him only by his contacts, and by what they do. Some of them do very unsavory things, but Havers never puts his name to anything that can get back to him, never gets his hands dirty. He knows the ­people who can ship you anything anywhere anytime, for a price. He knows where you can get your hands on fake passports, phony bills of lading, thirteen-­year-­old virgins, you name it. He knows which palms need to be greased, and he might supply the funds—­from somewhere squeaky clean—­but he doesn't do the greasing. See what I mean? He stays out of the world he helps to run, even socially. You'll find him at the Athenaeum, not some dive in a Soho basement.”

“I suppose he just had to become a Montague, then. But why the rural crime? I mean stolen tractors, for crying out loud, when according to you Havers could make a million just by the blink of an eyelid. Where does that fit in?”

“Because there's a market for them, old son. Multiply one tractor by ten, twenty, whatever. Do you know how much those things are worth? They're not going to peasants in Bolivia, you know, Banksy. They're going to ­people who can afford them. It's not just tractors and combines and pitchforks and what have you, it's forklifts, backhoes, Land Rovers, Range Rovers, along with all the Beemers and Mercs from the chop shops. Seems country ­people are often a lot more sloppy about security than us city dwellers. It's easy pickings, and when you have the know-­how to get it from A to B, you've got it made.”

“There are a lot of ­people to pay off.”

“Peanuts. I know where you can get an arm broken for twenty quid, two for thirty.”

“Twenty quid? Them's London prices, then?”

Burgess laughed. “Yes. I'm sure you can get it done for half in Yorkshire.” He finished his lager and set the glass heavily on the table.

“Another round?” Banks asked.

“Don't mind if I do.”

Banks walked back to the bar. It wasn't too busy. He thought over what Burgess had said as he waited to get served. If Havers were even half as smart as Burgess gave him credit for, he would be very hard to bring down. On the other hand, Banks thought he'd put the wind up him by the end of their meeting. For one thing, he had let him know that the police knew the names of pretty much everyone they thought was involved. That ought to be cause for concern, even if two of them were dead and Havers believed none of the survivors would dare talk. Whether he would be cocky enough to carry on business as usual remained to be seen. In a way, it wasn't so much him as the northern branch of his operation that Banks was interested in, especially the person who had killed and cut up Morgan Spencer. If Beddoes was involved, Banks would also make sure he went down one way or another. Someone would talk, given the option of a softer deal.

When it was his turn, he ordered the same again. The barmaid had an American accent and hennaed hair. She smiled sweetly at Banks as she pulled the pint, but he didn't think she was coming on to him. It was just her style. Besides, she was young enough to be his daughter. Which reminded him, he had to get in touch with Tracy. They'd planned to go and see Brian's band the Blue Lamps at the Sage next week. Banks was excited about that, seeing his daughter and watching his son perform on a prestigious stage. He'd call her tonight when he got back home. If he got back. But he had to, he realized. There was so much to be done up there, he couldn't desert the team and enjoy an overnight in London. There were plenty of trains, and he wasn't far from Kings Cross. This would have to be his last pint.

Burgess was jotting something down in his notebook when Banks got back with the drinks. He put it away. “I knew Havers when I was growing up,” he said. “Not very well—­I'm a bit older than him—­but I knew him. He lived in the next street over. That's why I'm taking more of an interest than usual, I suppose.”

“Ever heard of a John Beddoes?” Banks asked.

“I can't say as I have.”

“It was his tractor got stolen, but now I'm wondering if he isn't in it with Havers. They were close mates back in those good old days you were just talking about.”

“It's entirely possible,” Burgess said. “But he'd hardly steal his own tractor, or get someone to do it, would he?”

“No. I'm working on that. It's just been found outside Dover, so that should make him happy.”

“That's a bit odd, isn't it?”

“I agree. The thieves must have run into some sort of a snag and had to abandon it. I imagine it was due to ship from somewhere near there. But we think the whole operation was a maverick job, or at least it's rated as one. A young lad called Morgan Spencer acting alone. It was probably what got him killed.”

“He's the boy who was killed with the stun gun and cut up, right? I heard about that. No, the name hasn't come up in any of our investigations.”

“Very low level, I should imagine,” said Banks. “You had a murder with a similar MO some time ago, if I'm not mistaken?”

“A bolt gun? Yes. Very nasty. Polish bloke. It wasn't a case I worked on at all closely, but I took an interest. Anything out of the ordinary like that gets my attention. As far as I know, it was never solved. Maybe I'll have another look at the case file. Something might leap out. Didn't they find some prints?”

“They did. I've got someone working on them now, comparing them with partials we found at the hangar. But if anything does jump out at you, let me know.”

“Will do.”

“We've got a ­couple of suspects in the theft of a penetrating bolt gun from a big abattoir up north. We're trying to track them down, of course, but any help you can offer . . .”

Burgess took his notebook out again. “Give me their names.”

“Ulf Bengtsson and Kieran Welles.”

“Scandinavian is he, this Bengtsson?”

“Swedish.”

“Thought so. If my memory serves me well, he's dead. I'll check, but I'm pretty sure his name was Ulf something or other. Everyone knew him as ‘The Swede.' ”

“Oh?”

“Don't get your hopes up, Banksy. It was natural causes. He was sleeping rough, had a serious alcohol problem. One morning some tourists found him under a bridge near the Embankment. Lights out. Liver and heart failure.”

“How do you know this? Surely there wasn't an investigation?”

“I try to keep up. It's my city. As a matter of fact, hypothermia was involved. It had been a very cold night, and questions were asked in Parliament. How could our society . . . blah, blah, blah . . . You ask me, ­people want to sleep out on the streets and beg instead of getting a decent job and somewhere safe and warm to kip down, good luck to them.”

“You haven't changed much, have you?”

Burgess winked. “Governments come and governments go, but basic truths remain the same.”

“And so does Dirty Dick Burgess. And the other? Kieran Welles.”

“Don't know anything about him. Kieran's an Irish name, though, isn't it?”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“Hmm. I'll see what I can find out.” He sipped his drink. “Sometimes it's like pissing in the wind, this job. Christ, don't you long for the old days, Banksy? You were down here then. Out on the mean streets. You had a bit of a reputation. Took no prisoners, as I remember.”

“Different times.”

“Too true. But let's not get all nostalgic, hey?” He hoisted his glass and they clinked. “To old friends.”

“You sentimental bastard.”

“Go carefully,” Burgess said. “I mean it. ­People like Havers, and perhaps even your Beddoes, for all I know, look harmless on the surface. They'd run a mile if you raised your fist to them. But they don't have to deal with that end of the business themselves. They use ­people like your Kieran Welles, and they don't care what damage they do. Do you think Welles is behind the killing?”

“Off the cuff?” said Banks. “I don't know Kieran Welles—­don't even know if he was the one who stole the bolt gun. All I know about him is that he was cruel to animals in an abattoir, if that doesn't take the biscuit. There's a ­couple of others—­Ronald Tanner, who threatened a witness, and a mate of his called Carl Utley, who we think might have driven the van with the tractor away from the scene and dumped it outside Dover. We're looking for him. I don't rate Tanner. He's a bruiser. He's never worked in an abattoir, and we've found no trace of a bolt gun at his house.”

“He could have dumped the body.”

“Oh, he's involved somehow, but the impression he gives me is that he's just low-­level muscle. Bruises and fractures, maybe, but not whack jobs, to use the correct parlance. I hope not, anyway. We had to cut him loose today.”

“Why?”

“Cassandra Wakefield.”

“Bloody hell! Is that gloriously shaggable bitch still putting criminals back on the streets?”

“Indeed she is.”

“Talking about shaggable, that DI MacDonald you've got up north on Operation Hawk is quite tasty, isn't she?”

“You know her?”

“We've met at a ­couple of meetings. Bit frosty at first acquaintance, but those types often turn out to be the loudest screamers. I'm not treading on your toes, am I, Banksy? She did mention your name. But I hear you'd got a bit of young Italian crumpet on the go.”

Banks smiled. He hadn't heard the word “crumpet” for years. Trust Burgess. “I have a girlfriend, yes, and her family's Italian. I worked with Joanna MacDonald when she was Inspector Joanna Passero, that's all. Before her divorce. She was in Professional Standards then.”

“Bloody hell. Now you come to mention it, I can just see her doing that job.”

“She didn't like it. She's happier now.”

“A happy divorcée. Just friends, then?”

“Just friends.”

“Even after that dirty weekend in Tallinn?”

Banks gave him a look. Burgess held up his hands and responded with the closest he could get to feigning innocence. “OK,” he said. “I'll be in touch on the names and anything I can find out about your John Beddoes. And remember what I said.
Adi
ó
s, amigo,
and be careful out there.”

Banks finished his pint and stood up. “I will.”

IT WAS
just after dark when Alex decided to nip to the mini supermarket down the street. She was out of milk for the breakfast cereal, needed bread for toast, and there was no white wine left. Ian was playing
Call of Duty,
legs crossed on the armchair with his game console, and he didn't want to stop while he was ahead. As the two of them, and their flat, were being watched over by the police, Alex knew there was nothing to worry about. They had said she was free to come and go as she pleased, to carry on as normal. She wouldn't see them, but they would be watching her. Even so, she felt a bit nervous leaving Ian alone when she put on her leather jacket and picked up her handbag. It was the first time she had been out after dark since her visit from the man they had identified as Ronald Tanner. And she had seen on the local news just an hour ago that he had been released from police custody that morning, despite the fingerprint and her identification from the VIPER screen. Alex couldn't really get her head around that. She knew criminals were always getting off, but this Tanner had so obviously
done it
. She guessed that the police were looking for more evidence, and she imagined they would be watching him very closely. He certainly wouldn't want to give them any reason to put him back in jail by coming to visit her flat again.

Alex could hear hip-­hop coming from one of the flats on the floor above as she walked along the balcony toward the lifts. She had never been able to understand hip-­hop, though several friends and neighbors had tried to explain its virtues to her. She'd been to raves when she was a teenager, danced all night to pulsating, repetitive electropop, even popped Ecstasy on one or two occasions; she was open-­minded, but she had never taken to hip-­hop, even when it wasn't grime, or using ugly words to describe women and the things men should do to them. Still, she knew the kids up there, and they were OK. It was probably just a matter of taste. She liked Beyoncé and Rihanna; they liked Tinie Tempah and Dizzee Rascal.

The lift was working, thank God, though the smell of piss was as bad as ever. It was just as likely down to the incontinent old geezer on the tenth floor as it was to kids. He'd been told often enough but he said he couldn't help himself. It was quiet out on the street, the lamps giving out that eerie late twilight glow, just a few ­people walking about, heads down, the smell of someone's cigarette drifting on the damp night air, mingling with the hot grease and acrid hint of vinegar from the fish-­and-­chips shop. She glanced around but could see no signs of her police watchers. They were being very discreet. She stuck her hands deep in her jacket pockets, bag slung over her shoulder bumping against her hip. She could see the lights of the supermarket about fifty yards ahead, just across the street, could see ­people coming and going. She passed a woman who lived on the same floor as her, and they said hello. The night was still and cold. Cold enough to freeze the puddles, Alex thought, with a shiver.