Stealth (14 page)

‘Shepherd's Bush,' Patrick decided after finishing the call and relating what had been said. ‘Tomorrow. D'you want to tag along?'

No, but thank you, dearest heart. Slumming it around pubs playing darts and poker with the locals for money isn't my thing at all. It is definitely Patrick's and always has been, nothing whatsoever these days to do with making a good job of roughing it undercover. It had not gone down too well with his superior officers in the Devon and Dorset Regiment either.

Da Rosta did suffer a setback to his recovery, not in connection with his actual wound but an unspecified complication thought to be brought on by obesity and high blood pressure. His interview with the Met, and anyone else wanting him to help with enquiries, was postponed for at least two days. As I had been wondering if Mike Greenway would allow me to have second bite at the mobster while Patrick was lurking in Shepherd's Bush, this was disappointing. I stayed on in London working at SOCA HQ and, the commander having been impressed by my clarification of the Rosemary Smythe case notes, asked me to rewrite a few more for him, in-house ones this time.

I had heard nothing from Patrick during the first twenty-four hours but did not expect to. As already indicated, he does not carry credit cards, his SOCA ID or even his own mobile phone when engaged in this kind of activity, using instead an ‘anonymous' one with no phone numbers stored in the memory. This caution stems partly from our inclusion on terrorist hit lists and also the knowledge that it can be extremely hazardous to be identifiable as a policeman in some of the places he goes.

Then, when almost another day had gone by and I was still deeply involved with clanking syntax, my mobile rang for the fifth time that afternoon just as I was about to call it a day and go back to the hotel.

‘Hi,' said a voice I recognized. ‘I'm at Shepherd's Bush nick and have been trying to get hold of Greenway.'

‘He's at the dentist's for an emergency appointment,' I told him. ‘Broken crown. Perhaps his phone's switched off.'

‘Can you come over and bring my ID?'

‘What's going on?'

‘I've been arrested for public disorder and they don't believe I'm one of them.'

I
almost
laughed.

The need to preserve your cover can land you in trouble, especially if you have mistakenly decked a plain-clothes copper. Bundled unceremoniously with the other brawlers into a police van, Patrick had preferred to keep quiet. OK, he had yelled ‘drunken' abuse and thumped on the sides of the vehicle along with everyone else and this was the reason for official, added, chagrin.

‘Serious Organised Crime Agency?' said the custody suite officer slowly and disbelievingly, staring at the warrant card as though I had just fashioned it in the garden shed. He then transferred his gaze – he had dark, beady eyes – to me and I thrust my own ID under his nose for good measure.

Finally, after a lot of heavy breathing, they dug Patrick out from where he had been incarcerated and returned to him what personal possessions he had, including rather a lot of money – notes.

‘So, if you don't mind my asking, why carry all this cash if you're pretending to be as rough as rats?' enquired the man on the desk.

‘I won it at cards,' Patrick answered with a sunny smile. ‘Do apologize to the chap with red hair for me and tell him to sharpen up a bit if he doesn't want to be gone over by yobbos on a regular basis.'

‘Apologize to him yourself – he's in the canteen.'

The speaker then registered surprise when Patrick did exactly that, returning, I felt, with less of his winnings.

‘So, was that a fiasco or was it a fiasco?' I felt I had to ask when we were outside and having spotted a bruise under the stubble on the side of his chin.

Unconsciously perhaps, he touched his face. ‘No, by no means. Most of those arrested were Anthony Thomas's lot.'

‘
Really?
You saw him?'

‘Yup, an older version of the bloke on the horse in the movie. He wasn't far from what's supposed to be home either as Barnes is just across the river over Hammersmith Bridge.'

‘He can't have known who you were.'

‘No, but he and another bloke were getting out of a car driven by Clement Hamlyn so I made sure
he
didn't see me.'

‘I take it Thomas wasn't among those arrested.'

‘Predictably he did a runner with the bloke, presumably his minder. I could have done with cutting myself in half right then and following them.'

‘D'you reckon this was some kind of committee meeting?'

‘Could have been, but later perhaps, when they'd done some drinking.'

Another few hundred yards down the road, I said, ‘I have an idea you started the fight.' Which, I had been told at the nick, deep frowns all round, had spilled out from the public bar into an alleyway at the rear, three men having been found in a wheeled refuse bin marked General Waste Only.

‘It's always a good idea to lessen the criminal odds against you.' Patrick then suddenly stopped speaking and I knew why.

‘The leopard, non-changing spots for the use of,' I observed gently.

He shrugged sadly. ‘I suppose so.' Then remained silent for a few moments before saying, ‘I wasn't expecting the cops to turn up so quickly but with a bit of luck some of those nabbed are wanted for questioning in connection with other inquiries.'

‘Was that the only reason you decided on a free-for-all?'

‘It wasn't the reason at all. One of the men I'd been playing poker with suddenly decided he wanted his money back and produced a knife. People don't get away with doing that to me.'

I did not have to be told that this individual had been one of those in the bin.

‘
And
. . .'
Patrick began with a hint of triumph.

‘And?' I queried obediently.

‘Just before he disappeared I took Thomas's photo with my phone. Shall we put the cash towards the children's Christmas presents?'

‘That can't be ethical. I mean, poker winnings from sleazy pubs, you having fought like a tomcat in an alley to keep hold of it?'

‘Would you care to launder it for me then?' he enquired, straight-faced.

‘OK, I'll pay it into
my
bank account.'

We had a very good meal out that night instead.

A
ngelo da Rosta scowled at us. ‘Not more bloody filth. Sod off, I'm not talking to you.'

Patrick blithely introduced us, as usual just referring to me as his assistant, no name, drew up two chairs and we seated ourselves. The man in the hospital bed – a specially reinforced one for the seriously overweight, I felt – was the most unhealthy-looking human being I had ever seen in my life. His complexion was putty-coloured and he was sweating heavily, the overall impression, this deathly sheen, being that he was made of some kind of rancid tallow. This echoed a remark that had just been made to us by the doctor heading the team caring for him, a no-nonsense man who had said that if someone plaited what was left of his hair up into a point to make a wick he could be lit and used as a candle. This had staggered me coming from a medic and actually made me feel a bit sick.

‘They've got their hands on me now, haven't they?' da Rosta bellowed. ‘Effin' quacks. This test, that test, no proper food, shoving needles in me, pills, pills and more bloody pills. If I could get my hands on the bastard who—'

‘You'd do what?' Patrick butted in with. ‘Unintentionally, he's saved your life.'

‘Balls.'

‘That's what we've just been told. Apparently you've been living what was described as a suicidal lifestyle. Another six months, or less, and you would have been a dead man.'

‘Someone did say that. I don't believe it.'

‘Sad waste of a perfectly good bullet then.' Into the ensuing silence Patrick added: ‘Why didn't you pay up?'

‘Eh?'

‘You heard.'

‘I thought you were going to ask questions about my . . . er . . . well – business dealings, like the last lot.'

‘No, this is me from the Serious Organised Crime Agency asking who's been threatening you.'

‘No one threatens me. I can take care of myself.'

‘We
know
people have been threatened and when they didn't pay they ended up fried in their cars or floating down the river with important bits of their heads missing. So, up till now, you've been lucky.'

Again, the man remained silent, albeit, I guessed, working on it.

‘The thing to remember,' Patrick went on in a conspiratorial undertone, ‘is that I'm not like other cops, I don't work like a cop and if you refuse to talk I shall simply walk away and hope that whoever's after you makes a much better job of it next time, whether you're inside prison or strutting around Shepherd's Bush.'

‘I might take my chance then,' said the man with a big but wobbly smile.

‘This is a very well organized and murderous outfit, clever mobsters preying on mobsters.'

No reply seemed to be forthcoming.

Patrick rose from his chair. ‘With a bit of luck they'll clean up London and do the Met, and us, a favour.' He glanced at me. ‘Shall we go?'

‘No!' da Rosta bawled as I also got to my feet, making me glad he was in a side ward.

‘No?' Patrick queried.

‘I didn't say I wouldn't say nothing, did I? And you'll have to give me police protection from now on whether I talk to you or not.'

‘Only if I'm feeling generous.'

As we already knew, there was an armed officer on duty out in the corridor.

‘All right, some bloke . . .'

‘Go on.'

The man flapped his podgy hands around. ‘For God's sake, sit down.'

We sat. We had been asked not to risk raising his blood pressure to even more dangerous levels.

‘Some bloke?' Patrick prompted.

‘Promise you'll give me protection if I tell you everything I know.'

After a fairly long silence, Patrick nodded. ‘I might, but only if I think you've been straight with me.'

‘Some bloke phoned me. Said—'

‘When was this?'

‘Around two months ago. He said people in certain lines of business had to pay their dues – a membership subscription, he called it. Said mine was owing and had been for a while. Said I had to give him ten grand. I told him he'd be lucky and cut him off. He kept on phoning – got really nasty, finally said that if I didn't pay – and it was twenty grand now – I'd soon be . . . soon be . . .' Here da Rosta showed real signs of distress, tears in his eyes.

‘Take your time,' Patrick murmured.

It all came out in a rush. ‘The bastard said that if I didn't cooperate I'd soon be just a pile of pork scratchings. You probably think that's funny.'

‘How did he know your number?' I asked, not finding it funny. Well, not right then, anyway.

‘I run a launderette. It's in the phone book.'

‘As a legal front to your other activities?'

No response came from this.

‘Is da Rosta your real name?'

‘It's the one I use,' the man growled. ‘My grandmother on my mother's side was Italian. It's her name.'

‘You often visit the nightclub that you were leaving when you were shot,' Patrick resumed. ‘Incidentally, it's crazy to have a regular routine when you're in that kind of situation. Someone I spoke to there a few days ago remembered an occasion when he'd seen you talking to a very tall man. Was that in connection with the threats?'

Da Rosta quickly shook his head. ‘No.'

‘D'you remember him?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘I think it was. You see, we already have a suspect. A very tall man.'

‘He wasn't anything to do with it.'

‘So what did he want?'

‘Nothing important.'

‘But you sent your minders away so it must have been something you didn't want them to know about.'

Da Rosta shrugged. ‘It was probably about the launderette. I've been thinking of selling it.'

I said, ‘Did he want you to buy some jewellery?'

‘No.' A flat denial.

I flipped back a few pages in my notebook. ‘A gold watch chain, another thick gold chain with a locket and a diamond ring. Items stolen from a murder victim.'

The man's mouth shut into a tight pout that reminded me irresistibly of a chicken's backside.

‘A harmless elderly lady,' I continued. ‘Her killer, and he almost certainly did intend to kill her, tried to make it look like a burglary and does indeed seemed to have made off with some of her jewellery. I have an idea that, among other things, you're a fence and this man offered you these items. Did you agree to buy them?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Why not? Well . . . because . . . er . . . he didn't try to sell them to me.'

‘You're a very bad liar,' Patrick said. ‘Did you buy them or refuse to because you thought they were hot?'

‘N-n-neither,' da Rosta stuttered.

Patrick flung himself back in his chair, turned to me and said, ‘God, if he wasn't in hospital already and not so bloody fat I'd take him apart right now.'

‘
Please
don't lose your temper,' I begged in an agonized whisper, playing along. ‘You know how much trouble it causes.'

No lies there then.

Patrick merely regarded the man in the bed with what I can only call extreme malice.

‘He – he said he'd let me have five grand off what I owed them if I took the stuff off his hands and paid up right then – fifteen grand,' Da Rosta finally said, tearing his gaze with difficulty from promised demolition, present or future, writ large.

‘And did you?' I asked.

‘No. I had an idea it was as hot as hell and planned to hire another couple of lads to watch my back.'