Bad Blood (31 page)

An hour later, as she got out of her car and walked to the cafe, she wondered if the venue was Jackman’s idea of a bad joke. Not a stone’s throw from the toilets where Owers’ body had been discovered crammed into a cubicle.

She approached the cafe and spotted Jackman sitting at a table outside. He was wearing the same raincoat as the other night, but now it was light she could see his features: short hair, dark eyes and a wide mouth which in the picture on the front of the
Herald
had been a slimy smile. Now it was more like a grimace.

Jackman noticed her approaching, but did nothing to greet her. Instead he tore the corner off a sachet of sugar and poured the contents into his cappuccino, stirring it with a wooden spatula and then taking a scoop of foam and sucking it in between his lips.

Savage scraped back the chair opposite him and sat down. Jackman said nothing for a few seconds, merely took another sachet of sugar and repeated the actions of emptying, stirring and slurping.

‘Sweet,’ he said at last, looking up at Savage for the first time. ‘Very sweet.’

‘OK. Point made. Now what the hell do you want?’

‘I want what anyone wants who involves the police. Help.’ Jackman glanced down at his phone, moved his hand over the number nine on the keypad and pretended to press down three times. ‘Think of this as a personally delivered distress call.’

‘999 is for emergencies only.’

‘And you don’t think this is one, you stupid cow? A psycho on the loose and me as a potential victim? For God’s sake woman, this
is
an emergency.’

At first sight Jackman had appeared calm and in control. His face wore a white pallor Savage had taken for the natural coolness of a man who didn’t need to raise his temper. Now she could see the blood had drained from his cheeks, the lack of colour down to fear.

‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Catch the bastard.’

‘And who is “the bastard”?’

‘Come on, I
know
you know. You’re not stupid. You’ve been to see Kenny so you know the story. I bet he told you in his own inimitable way, but you’ll have worked it out.’

‘Look, what do you expect me to do? We are looking for the killer, I don’t see how you think I could help you further.’

‘Ricky Budgeon is a psycho. Not right in the head. He’s going to come after me next.’

‘Budgeon.’

‘Of course. The black and white stripes. Newcastle United. The cocaine. Budgeon wanted us to know from the start so we’d be scared.’

‘You’d every right to be. You and Fallon set up Budgeon so Fallon could take over. Budgeon went to prison while you and Fallon made a mint. Fallon built a string of dodgy businesses on the back of the money and you went legit and made a fortune too. Now it is payback time. You can’t really blame Budgeon for wanting what he regards as his.’

‘Budgeon scares me, but that’s not all. What he’s done has stirred things up over at Tamar Yachts.’

‘I’m sorry about your brother-in-law. He got caught in the crossfire.’

‘Rubbish and you know it.’ Jackman picked up his cup and took a gulp. ‘He was up to his neck in trouble. The thing is, now he’s dead it would be very handy if Gavin’s connection to me could be swept under the carpet.’

‘How exactly can I do that? You were related for God’s sake.’

‘Don’t be flippant with me, detective.’ The cup went down heavy on the table and brown-grey liquid slopped out, a puddle sliding towards Jackman’s phone. He moved the phone out of the way and looked across the table at Savage, eyes narrowing. ‘I realise I can’t hide the fact that my brother-in-law is a loser whose enterprise needed regular doses of cash to keep afloat. What I want to conceal is my direct involvement in anything – how shall I put it? – untoward? Gavin was a prick. He was starting to get uneasy and his loyalty was about as thin as the layer of wax he shone his boats with. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left a little insurance policy somewhere. Which is where you come in.’

‘Look, your family problems are your business. Redmond got out of his depth. Now you’ll just have to weather the storm.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Jackman leant forward, lowered his voice. ‘I need you to help me hide certain emails I’ve sent him.’

‘What emails?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Just get rid of everything I’ve sent him.’

‘You’ve …’ The realisation struck home and Savage was unable to complete the sentence for a few seconds. She shook her head. ‘You’ve been passing stuff directly to Fallon and Redmond, Redmond in turn feeding the wrong info back to us.’

‘Gavin was a loser, but he wasn’t stupid. Do you think he’d risk crossing Kenny? Now, those emails will be on Redmond’s office machine, probably linked to their server which luckily is on site. I want them deleted, removed, ignored, I really don’t care what. As long as they never see the light of day. With the emails gone, the only evidence linking me with Tamar and Kenny is circumstantial. You’ll tell your superiors it is precisely because of this circumstantial evidence that Budgeon believes I am part of Fallon’s network and thus need police protection.’

‘Why not simply ask Fallon to get rid of the emails? He owns part of the company, presumably he could get access.’

‘I don’t trust him. Plus there’s all that computer forensic stuff. I know your guys can get to deleted emails, even retrieve things from disks which have been formatted. You’ll find a way of making the problem disappear for good.’

‘And what about Fallon? Where does he come in?’

‘Kenny’s got his own ideas, wants something too. He’s going to call you and when he does you’ll do what he says. If you know what’s good for you.’

‘Shit!’ Savage put her head in her hands and ruffled her hair. The situation was surreal. The deputy leader of the council, a member of the Devon and Cornwall Police and Crime Panel, had just admitted to her that he was involved in the murkiest aspects of Plymouth’s underworld and she couldn’t do anything about it. Worse, she was going to have to help him. She looked up and shook her head.

‘What exactly am I supposed to do? I’m a single detective on a large team, what if I don’t get to those emails first? What if I can’t find them, fail to delete them or can’t remove the evidence? What if there are backups somewhere? What if Fallon wants more than I can deliver?’

‘Then ACC Maria Heldon gets a private viewing of the main feature. The one where you’re the star.’ Jackman took his phone from the table and shoved it inside his coat pocket. He pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘She’s a sour-faced, humourless bitch, but even she will enjoy the show, don’t you think?’

Savage watched Jackman walk out of the cafe grounds and off along the Hoe, his raincoat disappearing behind a gaggle of foreign students in their brightly coloured identikit yellow waterproofs. They crowded round the Drake Memorial, taking it in turns to have their picture taken with Devon’s most famous son and pointing and laughing at his tights and frilly culottes. When they moved on over towards the red and white lighthouse Jackman had gone.

‘You think you can cross me and get away with it?’ Budgeon swung the pickaxe handle once more and the wood thudded into flesh. The man uttered a guttural cry, but the response was not much more than a physical reaction; he was losing consciousness fast. ‘Answer me, fucking answer me!’

Budgeon chucked the handle away and bent to the body. The yellow straw all around the man glistened with red and a stench of urine overpowered the smell of horse shit.

‘I’d thought about letting you off,’ Budgeon whispered. ‘But I changed my mind, so this is it. Bye-bye time. Anyone be shedding a tear once you’ve gone? I don’t think so. Never trust a woman, hey?’

‘Never, boss.’ The voice came from Stuey. He stood over near the door, cradling Budgeon’s shotgun. ‘Find ’em, fuck ’em, forget ’em.’

‘Give me the gun.’ Budgeon pulled himself up from the straw. He was getting fed up of this. The beating had gone on for long enough. At first he’d let his rage carry him along, but he’d soon tired. Now he just needed resolution; one more piece of the jigsaw to be fitted.

‘Fucking hey, Ricky,’ Stuey said, waving the barrels in Budgeon’s direction. ‘You’re really going to do it? Rock and fucking roll!’

‘Stop mucking around and give me the gun and then go and get some petrol and some rags and stuff. I’ve got an idea that’ll kill two birds at once. Something to throw those piggy-pigs off the scent.’

‘Sure thing, Ricky.’ Stuey handed Budgeon the gun. ‘This is going to be great. Payback time at last.’

Budgeon cracked the gun open and checked both barrels were chambered. He snapped it shut again and walked over to the body slumped near one wall.

‘Look up you fucking coward,’ Budgeon said bringing the gun to bear.

The head turned slightly, the eyes rolling open for a moment. Utter despair. A movement of the lips bringing forth a whimper which maybe was a last plea for mercy.

Budgeon placed the barrels up against the man’s forehead. A stab of pain stung him in an identical position on his own head and a white light flared somewhere deep inside his skull. Itching. Burning. Boring through his brain. He shook his head. Blinked. Pulled both triggers.

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Thursday 24th January. 11.07 a.m.

Calter was disappointed to still be confined to desk work. While other detectives were off doing the legwork involved in tracking down Stuart Chaffe, Collier had tasked her with getting more background information on Ricky Budgeon.

Calter soon discovered Budgeon was costing the taxpayer in disk space if nothing else, because his name brought up dozens of references on the Police National Computer. Each reference was accompanied by the same mug shot which revealed Budgeon to be a thickset man with broad shoulders, round face, bald or close-shaven head and not much neck. He looked like a bouncer or a rugby player, or maybe a wrestler, and everything about his appearance said ‘thug’. The most recent entry showed he’d done nine months on remand in a case connected with cocaine dealing up in London. The case had collapsed due to mistakes made in the operation to snare him and Budgeon had been acquitted at the end of May last year.

She drilled deeper and discovered the operation had taken place under the auspices of SCD7, a unit within the Specialist Crime Directorate of the Metropolitan Police which dealt with organised crime. Half-an-hour’s more research and three phone calls later she was talking to DCI Tom Bryant, an officer within SCD7 who had been involved with the case. Bryant had a soft, low voice – a whisper Calter found soporific – and sounded more like an East End gangster from the sixties than a modern policeman. She asked him about the operation to catch Budgeon.

‘It was part of the Middle Market Drugs Partnership,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘You and me both, sweetheart,’ Bryant said, a sigh coming down the line. ‘Things were a whole lot easier back when we simply went and kicked down a few doors and arrested the buggers.’

Sure, Calter thought. Back when you could get away with calling women colleagues ‘sweetheart’ or planting a packet of drugs under a suspect’s bed and neither word nor action would raise an eyebrow. She asked Bryant to explain.

‘The partnership involves a number of agencies working together, the idea being to disrupt class A drug supply in the capital. We’re not talking about targeting the guys pushing wraps, we go after the big boys.’

‘Budgeon?’

‘Right. When we first encountered him it was a few years after he had been released from a long stretch inside somewhere up north. We knew you lot had busted him over drugs so we weren’t too surprised to find him running with some Colombians. In a neat reversal of roles Budgeon acted as a middleman between the spics and a number of different smuggling operations. Budgeon never went near the drugs himself, he was a facilitator, arranging the deals and creaming a percentage off the top. In addition he provided muscle in the form of hired yardies – or rather ex-yardies. The muscle made sure the deals stayed sweet and nobody pulled any funny business. Rumour is, if they did, Budgeon liked to get personal. Do you remember the sack of body parts pulled out of the Thames at Teddington Lock a few years back?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Budgeon’s handiwork. Allegedly.’

‘So how come Budgeon isn’t inside?’

‘Evidence. We caught three of the Colombian’s foot soldiers receiving twenty kilos of cocaine from two of Budgeon’s men. Bang to. At the trial the judge hands out sentences totalling forty years.’

‘And Budgeon?’

‘Like I need reminding, love. Back to pretrial and our main witness against Budgeon is a South American woman, a beauty who had come to the UK with one of the Colombians, but is now Budgeon’s young squeeze. None of the spics will testify against Budgeon, but the CPS reckon the girl will. She’s got a little nipper see? Wants to protect the kid. We know the girl was at a number of meetings with the Colombians and Budgeon where they discussed terms. Sorted, we think. She’ll give evidence in return for immunity from prosecution and a citizenship deal which we can get her, because if she is deported to Columbia she’s dead in a week, right?’

‘Yes, but I don’t get it, what went wrong?’

‘I’m just getting to that, love. Everything is looking good until two weeks before the trial starts the bloody CPS tells us they are dropping the case against Budgeon. Turns out our undercover officer, the guy who’d sniffed half of all this detail out, has been sleeping with the girl and the CPS say if we use her as a witness her evidence will be viewed as un-re-fucking-liable. We might end up losing the lot of them so we have to drop Budgeon from the case. We never got a chance to go after the head honchos either. Talk about cock-up.’

‘So where’s Budgeon now?’

‘Now you’re asking. Sitting in the sun drinking sangria, I expect.’

‘In January?’

‘In Spain. He’s got property out there, assets laid down in the good times. Last we heard he was putting his feet up and counting his losses from the recent slump in the market. Whether his stay is for good or just a sabbatical, I have no idea. As long as he keeps out of the country he is off our agenda. SOCA are trying to recover assets, but cooperation across borders is tricky. So much for the E-fucking-U arrest warrant.’