Bad Blood (20 page)

‘And Davies?’

‘Davies?’ Hardin raised a hand to his chin, rubbed two fingers up and over his lips and made a sucking sound. ‘Just for you, Charlotte, I won’t tell him a thing.’

Nr Bovisand, Plymouth. Sunday 20th January. 6.13 a.m.

Sunday morning and Savage was up before the light again. Twenty-four hours until the Standards interview regarding Matthew Harrison’s death and she’d still not done more than scribble a few thoughts down on a scrap piece of paper. She spent a couple of hours trying to put those thoughts into some sort of order and by the time the kids came down to breakfast, dragging a weary Pete behind them, she felt a little happier about the trip to force HQ. She had her story off pat and if the panel didn’t believe her then there wasn’t much she could do.

The rest of the morning went in a blur of homework and household chores. Savage was just about to eat lunch with Pete and the kids when a call came through from the Stonehouse beat manager about Vanessa Liston. The PC said he knew the girl’s mother – she had been convicted for soliciting a number of times – and had seen Vanessa around, talked to her once a couple of years ago at a local youth group. Nice girl, but with a mum like that … The sentence trailed off midway through and the PC instead gave Savage the address for the mother.

Savage called the station to see who was available, finding – surprise, surprise – Enders there and keen to accompany her. A little over half an hour later and she pulled her car on to the curb alongside a terrace in the maze of roads north of Union Street. Enders stood leaning against the battered Focus pool car. The row of houses looked in a state too, ripe for refurbishment or maybe demolition, judging by the crumbling facade of number thirty-one. The skinny woman who answered the door had some sort of dragon tattoo on her right wrist, a gold chain adorning one ankle and a fag in her mouth which drooped when she muttered an obscenity as the door swung open.

‘Yes?’ The woman’s eyes wandered from Savage to Enders and back again, finally alighting on the card Savage held out.

‘Police, Ms Liston.’ Savage said. ‘We wanted a word with Vanessa if she’s around and you wouldn’t mind.’

The woman’s eyes moved again, a flicker, no more, but enough for Savage to guess Vanessa was around and Ms Liston would very much mind the police having a word.

Enders moved forwards to force the issue and the woman shrugged and stood to one side to let him in, then trekked up the corridor behind him.

Savage entered, taking in the odour of roll-up tobacco and the sweeter, lingering aroma of cannabis, before following Enders through a doorway to the left and into a room where the furniture consisted of a scattering of sofa cushions, two beanbags, an upturned tea chest – which functioned as a table – and a large flat-screen television standing on a pair of nested Tesco home-delivery crates. There was no carpet, but a number of rag-type rugs overlapped each other. Between the gaps Savage noted cardboard had been laid on the floor, presumably for insulation. The window in the room faced south and the sun would have been shining in if it hadn’t been for the old woollen blanket hung half across as a curtain and secured with clothes pegs to the curtain rail. Savage realised the purpose was to prevent the light falling on the TV screen, but
Homes and Gardens
styling it wasn’t.

‘Tea?’ the woman said. ‘Only the kettle’s just boiled.’

Savage glanced at a stained mug standing on the crates next to the TV. The mug overflowed with ash and fag ends.

‘That would be great, love.’ Enders said, before Savage could say anything. ‘And if you’ve got any biscuits …’

‘Biscuits?’ The woman stared at Enders as if he was mad and turned and left the room.

‘We are here to question Vanessa Liston,’ Savage said. ‘Not have a snack and a tea break.’

‘I thought being friendly would get us off on the right foot, ma’am.’

‘Not if you eat all the poor woman’s biscuits it won’t. Besides, have you seen the state of this place?’ Savage pointed at the mug. Enders went over and peered in.

‘There’s some silver foil down in amongst the ash, ma’am. I guess she’s a smackhead. Think I just went off the tea. You are right, this place is bloody disgusting.’

‘OK, go and tell her to forget the tea and that we need to speak to—’ Savage turned to see the woman standing in the doorway to the room, a pot of sugar in one hand and a packet of chocolate biscuits in the other.

‘You fucking pigs are all the same,’ the woman said and slumped against the doorframe as if the simple expression of emotion had sapped all her energy.

‘Sonia, isn’t it?’ Savage asked, going over and taking the biscuits and sugar and placing them on the tea chest.

The woman nodded and came into the room, dropping onto one of the beanbags.

Savage opened the biscuits and handed the woman one, putting the packet back on the chest and ignoring Enders’ open mouth.

‘We are sorry about Gavin, Sonia.’

‘Yeah? Well don’t be. Gavin was a tosser. Anyway, we split years ago. He dumped me and then what do you know, he goes and gets rich.’

‘So you didn’t get a share of the business?’

‘There was nothing to share back then.’ Sonia glanced across at a patch of damp around the window frame. ‘I got this house, or rather the bit of it which wasn’t mortgaged. Apart from that he never did anything for me or the kid.’

‘Where is Vanessa, Sonia?’

The eyes flickered again, alighting on the door for a second. Savage took another biscuit from the packet and handed it to the woman. Then she gestured for Enders to follow and went out into the corridor. Further down, away from the front and on the right, there was a door to a bathroom. At the end of the corridor, on either side, two doors stood opposite each other. One opened into what must have been Sonia Liston’s room; items of women’s clothing hung over a wire-frame dryer and on the table by the double bed a box of Durex promised a few minutes of safe fun for somebody.

The other door was locked.

Savage bent to the door. ‘Vanessa? Are you in there? This is Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage. I’d like a word.’

Nothing for a moment or two. Then came a scraping, followed by a clatter of something falling over.

‘Vanessa?’ Savage waited for a few seconds before motioning at Enders. Enders stepped back and then barged forwards, ramming his shoulder into the door. The lock splintered away from the frame and the door slammed open. Sonia Liston shouted obscenities from the living room.

‘Ma’am!’ Enders shouted.

On the far side of the room Vanessa Liston stood on a table, trying to get herself through the top part of the window. Enders ran in and grabbed the girl round the waist and pulled her back. She toppled off and fell on top of him, her gangly limbs kicking and punching, blonde hair flying everywhere as she shook her head and screamed. Then she turned her head and sunk her teeth into Enders’ arm.

Which was when Savage decided to punch her in the head.

Budgeon flicked up the peephole and looked into the stable. The cop lay in the centre where he’d piled a mass of straw over himself in an attempt to keep warm. Budgeon had a mind to go in and pull the straw off, give the man a good kicking. For old times’ sake.

Old Times.

A London club. Steps down to a smoky basement with a ceiling you can touch if you reach above your head. A residue of sweat and nicotine stuck up there, decades in the making. Girls dancing on a tiny stage, men watching and drinking beers in bottles served from a bar in the corner. Deals going down in an alcove to the side.

‘Darius Rogere’ the man says as he sniffs the sample of coke from the back of his hand, the white powder contrasting with black skin. The accent with a whiff of France about it. A hint of the Caribbean and a couple of streets of South London thrown into the pot too. The subtle mix marking the guy out as genuine. That and the sharp suits and relaxed attitude.

Not a care for Darius Rogere.

‘Ricky B.’ He holds out his hand and after Rogere brushes away the specks of coke the handshake is firm, the eyes full of cocky confidence. A young gun on the make, looking for deals, a way up the ladder. ‘Maybe we can do business some time.’

‘What sort of business would that be then?’ Rogere says, glancing towards the little stage where a girl shimmies out of a G-string to a roar of approval from the crowd. Then he looks back, eyes steady and confident.

‘We’ll see.’

Drinks then, the pair doing a bottle of Scotch, Rogere never asking any questions, just listening, watching and waiting. Hours later and Rogere’s standing there saying he’s away. Hand outstretched for a parting handshake.

‘A few Ks’ worth a month,’ Rogere says. ‘Personal use and parties. Bankers mostly. Rip off the city boys.’

Then he’s gone, the stripper with him, not much under the long coat she’s wearing but perfume, not much doubt either that Rogere is kosher.

Budgeon dropped the cover on the peephole and, shaking his head, stepped away.

The man had turned out to be a long way from kosher since his real name was not Darius Rogere, it was Darius fucking Riley. Detective Sergeant. The Met. By the time that had come out it was too late. Rogere had managed to get up close and personal, helping in negotiations with the spics, handling the money and the toot, mucking in and getting his hands dirty. And then dumping a heap of shit from a very great height.

The Colombian bigwigs managed to evade arrest, but three foot soldiers were caught. To say the spics hadn’t been happy was a bloody understatement.

Nine months in custody for Budgeon as well after that while the CPS built a case. Watertight, until, ironically, the prosecution were forced to disclose that DS Riley had been dipping his wick a little too freely. Not just with the stripper, but with other girls, one young South American lady in particular.

‘Corrupting a witness,’ the lawyer had said. ‘Not so much an undercover cop as an under-the-covers cop. You’re home free.’

And so he had been. But that didn’t mean the pig was off the hook. He had plans for Riley, but there were other things to do first. Always business before pleasure. And sorting DS Riley was going to be very pleasurable indeed.

Savage stood on the curbside watching the squad car drive off, Vanessa in the back, struggling against the handcuffs. Enders stood rubbing his arm, cursing but refusing to entertain the idea of going to A&E.

‘She’s a kid, ma’am, not a dog. I’ll be fine.’

Savage nodded and then called Hardin.

‘I told you softly softly,’ he said when she explained what had happened. ‘Don’t suppose you remember, do you? Undue attention on Vanessa Liston, and we might as well hang a sign around her neck advertising her involvement with us. Now get on and interview her and be circumspect.’

On the drive over to Charles Cross – the station in the centre of town which housed the custody centre – she filled Enders in on certain parts of operation
Sternway
. As they went over the interview strategy, Savage told him they’d need to bring up aspects of the drugs case, but without revealing too much. Enders shrugged his shoulders and, given his lack of surprise, Savage wondered exactly how watertight
Sternway
was.

At the station, Vanessa appeared unimpressed with the hospitality offered by her hosts. When Savage and Enders entered the interview room, Enders carrying a tray holding two coffees and a can of coke, she made no attempt to conceal her feelings.

‘I’m pressing charges. You hit me you bitch.’

‘Reasonable force,’ Savage said. ‘You were assaulting DC Enders.’

‘Fucking wankers, let me out. I know my rights. You can’t keep me here. I need an adult present. A solicitor.’

Enders started to put the tray down on the table but Vanessa banged her hands down on the surface and then tried to lift it, to make it impossible for the DC to finish his task. She swore when she realised the table legs were bolted to the floor.

‘Charming,’ Enders said, placing the tray on the table well out of reach. ‘Didn’t your parents teach you any manners? Like not assaulting police officers?’

‘Mum’s a prossie and Dad’s fucking dead. Not exactly role models, are they?’

Savage shook her head. ‘That’s no way to talk about your mother.’

‘What’s she ever done for me? If she hadn’t shopped me I wouldn’t be here.’

‘She didn’t. She said nothing about you. That’s what mothers do. Unconditional love. Do you understand what that means, Vanessa?’

‘Fuck off!’ The girl turned to Enders who had a smirk on his face. ‘And you can fuck off too. Has anyone ever said you look like a right thicko with that grin?’ The girl spat across the table, a globule of spit landing close to Enders’ coffee. The DC moved his hand over the cup to prevent Vanessa from getting lucky if she was tempted to have a second try.

‘Actually, several people have, Vanessa,’ Savage said. ‘Including me.’

‘Hey?’ Vanessa’s mouth dropped open, the anger replaced by astonishment.

‘Not my mum though,’ Enders said. ‘She always said I was both clever and handsome.’

‘The thing is, Patrick,’ Savage said, smiling, ‘she was wrong. Parents sometimes are. They’ll do anything for their kids though. Blood is thicker than water and family ties and friendships are ones which bind. However much you try, they are impossible to break.’

‘My mum is dead, Vanessa, like your dad.’ Enders said. The girl looked like she was about to begin another outburst, but when she opened her mouth nothing came out. Enders continued. ‘But I know she still cares about me because I can feel her love right here.’ Enders clenched a fist and punched himself in the chest. Vanessa closed her mouth and her eyes glazed with a watery film.

‘Your dad was mixed up with some dodgy people, Vanessa, you know that. But recently he’d started spending time with you, hadn’t he? Because he liked you. Loved you.’

Vanessa raised her arm and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She sniffed and then looked away and down at the floor. Enders waited a moment and then laid the coke can on its side and rolled it across the table. Vanessa glanced up and caught the can as it fell into her lap. She sniffed again and stood the can upright, popped the ring pull and raised the can to her lips, taking a deep draught.