The Blue Notes (3 page)

When he’d finished he reloaded his van, secured the St. John’s yard and drove back to his own small depot, with the freshly painted Hood’s Haulage sign swinging stickily in the cold, midnight breeze. He parked the van, checked that his storage building was secure, and walked home. And a police car did come past, with its blue lights flashing, just as he was about to turn into his own street. He made that about a thirty five minute response time, assuming they were headed to his first port of call. They’d have been down on Botchergate before, he thought, sorting out the drunks and the dirtbags, and in a few minutes time they’d be talking to the irate owner of another one of his competitors.

But Hood didn’t give a shit about Harry Watkins, or his business. Because Watkins knew something that the two PCs in that jam sandwich most certainly didn’t, which was that half of his haulage contracts came courtesy of Dai Young, whose boys made bloody sure that when the best local contracts came up for renewal they went to Watkins, and a couple of other local firms too. Davey Hood was sure that they all paid handsomely for that muscular endorsement, and no doubt they also moved stuff around for Young as and when required, but he also knew for certain that he’d never, ever go down that same path.

When he’d left the army, over a year before, one of the so-called advisors down at the dole office had told him that soldiers tended to be a bit too rigid in their thinking when they returned to civvy street, and that they often needed to work in structured environments, where they were given clear instructions. And Hood had told the bloke, in no uncertain terms, that the only reason he’d left was to get away from a bunch of upper-class chinless bloody wonders telling him what to do all day and night. And now, with a van bought and paid for, and two decent ex-army lads on the payroll, he’d be buggered if he’d let the likes of Dai Young give him orders.

And his twelve years in the army had also taught him that there were some people that couldn’t be reasoned with, and that it didn’t pay to even try. Not ever. So he’d carry on getting his little bit of retaliation in first, and if Young’s lads came round some time, then he’d be ready for them. Both of the lads he’d recruited had been regular customers of Young’s drug pushers when Davey had first found them, and now that they were both clean and healthy he had no doubt that they were loyal, and more than willing to mix it if needs be. And Dai Young had to be one of two things. Either he was a paper tiger, a straw man, or he was a proper fanatic. A true believer. But Hood had come across that type before, back in the military, and he was pretty sure that he’d learned how to deal with them too.

Easter Monday, April 6th

Dai Young’s office, Carlisle, 12.10pm

Dai was enjoying being in the office without his staff. Some of the lads called them the stiffs, but he just thought of them as civilians. There were five of them, one man and four women, and they were responsible for running all of the legitimate operations. They knew nothing about his other interests, or rather they knew nothing more than that it would be deeply unwise to steal so much as a paperclip from work. They were all intelligent people, plenty clever enough to know that there was a reason why they were being paid twenty percent more than the going rate for their roles, and also that it would not be sensible to try to find out what that reason was. They seemed like nice, normal folk, and he’d pretty much forgotten what those were like. Sometimes he sat in his office and just listened to the feed from the hidden microphone in the ceiling of the open office beyond. Their talk of children, holidays and extensions, both built and yet to be constructed, was strangely soothing. Like getting a glimpse into a world where everything was beige, and soft, and deadly, deadly dull.

He’d trained himself to become a different person when he walked in through that office door, as he did on most working days. It was how he imagined a normal boss would be, and although the staff seemed to go a bit quieter than he expected when he arrived they seemed friendly enough. One or two even shared a joke occasionally, and when they did he did his level best to laugh. But today was different, because it was a bank holiday. Which meant that only the bad guys had come in to work.

Jonny Adams was his first caller of the day. He liked Jonny, partly because he was a local lad, but mainly because he frightened pretty much everyone except Dai himself. And that made him useful. So Young found himself smiling as he watched the younger man walk from the main door towards his office. He made all the furniture look too small, somehow, and Jonny had to bend his head, as if in respectful genuflection, to get through Young’s door.

‘Sorry to come in so early, Dai.’

‘I keep punter’s hours these days, son. I’m in here at nine sharp, five days a week. You should try it. See how the other half lives. It’s like eating that bran breakfast cereal. It tastes like shit at the time, but you feel better for it afterwards.’

‘If you say so, boss.’

‘So what can I do for you? You look like a bloke who’s come with good news.’

Adams looked worried now, and Young always liked to see that too.

‘Do I, boss? Well, it’s not exactly good news. More of a heads up, you might say. You know Harry Watkins?’

‘The haulier? Not personally, but I know of him, aye. A weak, greedy bloke, just like the rest of them.’

‘He’s been robbed.’

‘Diesel again?’

‘Aye.’

‘And he was under our protection, right?’

‘Aye.’

‘So what are we doing about it?’

Adams looked confused now. He’d expected that Dai would have told him what to do next already. That’s how it usually worked, anyway.

‘I don’t know, boss. He’s not asking for owt from us, like. I just thought you should know, that’s all.’

‘I see. So what would you do, Jonny? If you were in my place, like.’

‘I don’t know, boss. Tell him to get a guard dog, maybe. Or better security lights, some shit like that.’

Dai Young got up, and moved fast to Adams’ side of the desk. He was a head shorter, and fully forty pounds lighter.

‘That’s what you’d do, is it? Improve their fucking security?’

‘Aye, well, like I say, he’s not complaining, and we’re not talking about much. Just a couple of hundred quid’s worth of derv, that’s all.’

Young was right in his face now, and Adams couldn’t help himself, he took a step back.

‘So that’s it, is it? You’d just tell him to get a bloody dog? No way. We’re the fucking guard dogs, son. That’s what Watkins pays us for.’

But Adams didn’t get a chance to reply, because the first punch came from nowhere. He started to raise his own fists as the second blow landed, but he knew better than to hit back. Young wouldn’t really hurt him. Not for this. But that was before the left to the face came in like a hammer, and he saw stars, then felt the floor.

‘Don’t go bleeding on the fucking carpet,’ said Young, helping him up and passing him his handkerchief. Then Young walked back round to his desk and sat down, as if absolutely nothing had happened.

‘Do you see the point I’m trying to make here, son? Do you understand why I had to hit you? We can’t let anyone take liberties with us, not ever. Not even tiny ones. Because that will give them confidence, make them think that we’ve taken our eye off the ball. And then we’d be fucked, totally fucked. It’s all about respect. You do see that, don’t you?’

The young man nodded, and tried to smile. He expected it to hurt, and it did.

‘Good. We’ve got enough problems with the fucking cops, without having other villains looking to take from us too. So, Jonny, what are we going to do about this wanker who’s trying to make dicks of us?’

‘Find him, boss.’

‘And then what?’

‘Hurt him?’

‘And whose responsibility is that?’

‘Mine, boss.’

‘That’s it, good boy. It’s your responsibility. All yours. You earn from Watkins, so you protect him.’

‘But how do I find this bloke?’

‘That’s up to you. It’s why it’s called delegation. I tell you what needs doing, and you work out how to do it. I’m not a micro-manager, Jonny. That was mentioned at my last appraisal, actually. It’s a good thing, is that. Lets me take a more strategic approach, like. So you just get it done, and you bring me the person, or the people, responsible for nicking that diesel. Because I want a little chat with them, just like the one we’re having now, except not anything like as friendly.’

Rex Copeland drove carefully over the unmade road to the big white caravan next to the show home on the edge of the new housing estate. Those raised manhole covers would ruin his rims, if he hit one. He parked, and sat and watched a young couple come out of the caravan holding brochures and chatting. He smiled, because they looked so happy. ‘Well, at least you can still afford to buy a house up here’ he said out loud, as he was turning off his music.

The woman running the showroom was called Ruth, and she looked relieved when she saw his Warrant Card. It wasn’t an unusual reaction, and he’d almost stopped noticing, because this was probably the whitest place in the whole wide world. Ruth explained that when she’d come in to work she’d found that the patio doors to the show home had been forced, and that someone had been inside. Various items were missing, but before Copeland could ask any questions he heard the door open behind him, and his name being spoken. He turned, and was surprised to see Sandy Smith, carrying a blue SOCO case.

‘All right, Sandy? I’m surprised to see you turning out on this one. Isn’t this more a job for one of your minions?’

‘Blame Jesus, mate.’

‘Come again?’

‘It’s Easter Monday, you prat. Which means it’s a Bank Holiday, which means we can’t afford the overtime, which means that muggins here gets to cover nonsense jobs like this. Oh, no offence, love,’ added Sandy, smiling at Ruth. ‘It’s just that I usually do jobs where there’s blood everywhere. You know, right up the walls. Is there any this time?’ Ruth shook her head, but looked satisfactorily shocked. ‘Shame. He might at least have cut himself, the bastard, something like that. All right, Rex, lad, shall I get in there and get on?’

‘Yeah, you do that, Sandy. I’ll be through in a minute with a list of what’s missing.’

‘All right, fine. Listen, love, you haven’t got the coffee on, have you? And maybe a biscuit. I could eat a scabby horse, me.’

When Sandy had slurped down her coffee and finished the last of Ruth’s biscuits she wandered off to start dusting for prints, and Rex watched her go. ‘Sandy’s one of the finest forensic scientists in Britain’, he found himself saying. ‘Now, about what’s missing. What did you notice?’

‘The laptop, obviously.’

‘Right, and what was it like?’

‘I don’t know, quite big. Black, it was.’

‘And what make, can you remember?’

‘What make?’

‘Yeah, what brand? Apple, Samsung, whatever.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t any brand, dear.’

‘You mean you can’t remember?’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s not real, love, that’s what I mean.’

‘Not real? You mean it’s a dummy? It just looks like a real laptop, but there’s nothing inside?’

‘Aye, that’s it.’

Copeland threw his head back and laughed. He’d been keeping a private log of all the stupid things that cons did, almost from the start of his career, and this one was a belter.

‘Anything else? Tiny twigs in a miniature vase, maybe?’

‘There aren’t any twigs, dear. Nothing like that. And I clean the show home every day, before we open. The little ones have such sticky fingers these days, don’t they?’

Copeland wandered through to the living room of the show home, where Sandy Smith was working, and he told her what had been stolen. She enjoyed it almost as much as he did. ‘Wankers’, she said, when she stopped laughing. It sounded almost affectionate. ‘Nothing missing from upstairs?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘So he pinched the laptop from over here? Looks like he took the power cable too. Can’t get any prints off the socket, though.’

‘I doubt there was a lead, Sandy.’

‘Shit. I suppose you’re right. You’d think he’d have realised the thing was fake when he picked it up, wouldn’t you?’

‘I would, but it seems that he didn’t. So is there anything else in here?’

‘Nothing. You want to hang on while I check the kitchen? They almost always open the fridge, don’t they?’

Copeland sat on the sofa, checked his phone for email, and tried to imagine himself living in a house like this. It didn’t work, or at least it didn’t until he imagined a family living there with him. But his train of thought was interrupted by Sandy, calling him through to the kitchen. He found her crouching in the far corner, looking at something on the floor.

‘You won’t bloody believe this, Rex, but it’s a plastic wine bottle. It’s against nature, is that.’

‘How did it get there? Our man tried to open it, couldn’t, and chucked it over here?’

‘Sounds reasonable. I get pretty pissed off if I can’t open a bottle of wine, I can tell you. I always keep a pair of mole grips handy, just in case I struggle with a screw top, like.’

Copeland wasn’t surprised. ‘Any prints?’

‘Aye, looks like it. Might only be partials, though. I’ll take it back to the lab and see what I can do. Because I bet you’re dying to nick this criminal fucking mastermind. What a way to spend a Bank Holiday, eh?’

‘I know what you mean. But what would you be doing if you weren’t here?’

‘Not much, to tell the truth.’

‘Me neither.’

‘What a pair of sad bastards we are, mate. Tell you what. Give me ten minutes to get finished up here and you can buy me a real glass of wine from that pub down the road, how’s that?’

‘Good idea, you’re on.’

‘Is the right answer. I must say one thing for Pepper Wilson. She does know how to train her boys properly.’

Tuesday, April 7th

DI’s office, Carlisle Police HQ, 9.07am

Acting DI Pepper Wilson read the crime report again, and then looked up at Henry Armstrong. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and she felt muzzy-headed, so maybe she was missing something obvious.

‘So what you’re saying, Henry, is that we’ve got a right vicious bloody criminal here, who’s spending his time breaking into charities and giving them free diesel. Is that right? What a total bastard he must be.’

‘I know, but it’s odd, isn’t it? This bloke has broken into two charities that we know of, the food bank and St. John’s, and in both cases he’s filled up their vehicles with diesel, then secured the premises again when he left. That’s a bloody strange way to make a donation, isn’t it?’

‘So he’s some kind of Robin Hood you reckon? Robbing the rich to give to the poor, something like that?’

‘Pretty much. That fuel must be nicked, mustn’t it?’

‘I suppose so, aye. But there have been no reports? No tanker lorries gone missing, owt like that?’

‘No, none. That’s what’s so odd.’

‘Maybe it was nicked somewhere else, and then brought here.’

‘Aye, that’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely. It’s all so small scale, is this. It feels local, almost like a community thing, you know? We’re not talking about someone turning up with a great big lorry. As far as we can tell it’s just one bloke, wheeling a big plastic barrel about. He’s got some skills though, I’ll say that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well he can pick a lock, no problem, and make an electric pump work when it shouldn’t. Not easy, apparently. He’s fit and quick too. With the two jobs we’ve got on CCTV he’s just so focussed, I suppose you’d say. Like he’s been trained, you know?’

‘One of us, you mean? A copper? No way, Henry. None of our lads are generous enough.’

‘I don’t know, it was just a thought, like. I just wanted to ask if I could spend a bit of time on it, that’s all.’

Pepper took a sip of the coffee that Henry had brought in with him. It was good, she had to admit that, but it would make no difference.

‘I’m sorry, Henry, but you know how it is. We’re bloody snowed under, and these are nothing offences, aren’t they? There’s not even a victim, as far as we can tell. I can see why you’re interested, and I admit I’ve never seen anything like this before, but the days when we could look at something just because it took our fancy are long gone, I’m afraid. It’s just one scumbag at a time now, even though we’ll never, ever get through them all.’

‘What about the risk of fire, or an explosion? We’ve got fuel, electricity, possible vapour issues. It could all blow up in his face, quite literally.’

‘I thought you said your boy was a pro?’

‘He seems to be, aye, but how can we be sure? What happens if it all goes tits up, and he blows himself to bits, and maybe takes the local St. John’s Ambulance HQ with him? That’d make a few headlines, wouldn’t it?’

Pepper smiled, and shook her head. ‘You knew how this discussion would go, didn’t you Henry? So you’re playing the public safety card here, right?’

‘I know how stretched we are, aye.’

‘All right, stay on it. I suppose Sandy couldn’t help?’

‘No. but did you know that she’s a volunteer at the local St. John’s Ambulance?’

‘I didn’t. And you help out at the foodbank, don’t you?’

‘Just a few hours a week, aye. I just help moving stuff about in the warehouse, that’s all.’

‘Aye, well I can understand why they wouldn’t want the clients to see you. Half of them would run a bloody mile if they ever caught sight of you, what with the pointy hat and everything.’

‘Actually, Pepper, not all poor people are cons…’

‘Spare me, mate. I’ve heard it all before, honestly. But just let me be quite clear about one thing, Henry. Whoever this bloke is, he’s committed an offence, probably several, and he does want nicking. You spend the time on this, then I want a collar in return. I hope that’s understood.’

‘Aye, of course.’

‘All right. Just because you’re the kind of person who tries to help people, even when they don’t deserve it, doesn’t mean that this bloke is as well. For all we know he might be up to all sorts here. So I expect a result, Henry, a proper result. We’re not some kind of bloody charitable institution, now are we?’

Ten minutes later Armstrong was scanning his emails, a little nervously as usual. Because although he’d been out of uniform for a year and more he still had the vague sense that he was about to get found out, and that some stupid investigative error was about to come to light. It hadn’t happened so far, but the feeling was surprisingly hard to shake.

He was almost content that there was nothing to fear in today’s torrent of verbal diarrhea from the top floor - why they even bothered copying him he had no idea - when his eye was caught by one from Josie Jackson, the volunteer who helped out in intelligence collation and CCTV analysis. It was called ‘An idea’, and he opened it first, in advance of one from the Super, and three from Pepper Wilson. The email was short, simply asking Henry to pop down if he had a chance, because Josie had spotted something interesting related to what she called the ‘great fuel un-theft mystery.’ Un-theft, he thought, that’s nice. He opened the online duty roster and saw that Josie was just about to finish her shift, so he ran down the stairs and met her just as she was leaving the CCTV suite.

‘Were you looking for me, Henry?’

‘I was, but you get off. I don’t want to keep you from, you know, anything, like.’

‘Don’t be daft. You got my email, then?’

‘I did, aye.’

‘Come on, and I’ll show you. I’ve watched it through a few times, and there’s something that’s struck me.’

‘Right, aye.’ Henry was struck by how glossy Josie’s hair was, even under the harsh strip-lights, but he didn’t want to mention it. ‘All right, thanks. After you.’

It took Josie a couple of minutes to log back on, so Armstrong went and made them both a coffee. When he got back she told him that she didn’t have to be at university until later on, so there was no rush. He was surprised to hear that she was still a student, and his expression must have said so.

‘I’m doing a post-grad, at the university here in town.’

‘Oh, aye, what in?’

‘Law and criminology.’

‘This must be a bit of a busman’s holiday for you, then.’

‘Not really. I enjoy it. College can be a bit, you know, abstract.’

‘The shit we deal with is real enough, that’s true. Depressing though, most of it. It’s not all serial killers and master criminals, is it?’

‘Tell me about it. I spent half my shift pulling together the CCTV evidence against a couple of dick-heads who attacked a taxi driver in town last month. Even they don’t know why they did it now, apparently. And then they even had a go at the WPC who attended.’

‘They’re keen on equal opportunities, are some of our regulars, I’ll say that for them. They’ll batter anyone, irrespective of gender or race. Anyway, what have we got?’

Josie cued up the CCTV and played it through, without saying anything.

‘What have you spotted? I can’t get a look at his face, anything like that.’

‘Oh, no, Henry, it’s nothing as clear-cut as that. It’s just how quick he is. Have you noticed that?’

‘Aye, that’s true enough. But I don’t see where that takes us, Josie, to tell you the truth.’

Armstrong glanced at his watch, and for the first time in the fifteen minutes that he’d been with her Henry was aware that he really should be somewhere else.

‘Well, I had an idea. What if he’d done it before? What if he’d visited to make a donation, or whatever it is, before? Could he be so quick because it isn’t the first time that he’s done it?’

It took Armstrong a moment to see what Josie meant. ‘It’s a thought, certainly. But Ted at the foodbank would have mentioned something if it had happened before, wouldn’t he?’

‘Maybe he forgot.’

‘Possibly, but I doubt it. I volunteer there, so I know Ted pretty well. He’s a pretty switched-on old guy, to tell the truth. They get quite a few chancers in there, and he usually sees them off.’

‘You volunteer at the food bank? Really? I’ve been thinking about doing that.’

‘Great. Why not come with me one evening then, and I’ll introduce you.’

‘I’d like that, thanks. So is it worth checking with this Ted bloke? Just on the off chance, like.’

Josie smiled at him, and Henry fished his personal phone out of his pocket, and called the foodbank. Josie listened to his half of the conversation as he spoke first to Ted, and then to one of the volunteer drivers.

‘So about two weeks ago, you think this was? And the vehicle seemed to have more fuel in it than it had the previous day? OK, thanks.’ When he rang off he smiled at Josie. ‘Nice one. It looks like you were right. Our man has done it before. So if he’s done it twice…’

‘He may go back again?’

‘Exactly, he just might do that. Pepper, my boss, has told me that I can spend a bit of time on this one, so I will. Thanks for the heads-up, like.’

‘You’re not going to stake the place out, are you?’

‘No, certainly not. If I can actually get a few quid out of Pepper I’ll contact the tech team and ask them to put a wireless intruder alarm on the garage door for me. It’ll send me a text if the door is opened at night. What time was he there before, when we’ve got him on CCTV?’

‘The corrected time was just after midnight.’

‘Fine, I’ll ask them to set it so that it’s active between 10pm and 4am.’

‘Will you nick this bloke, if you catch him?’

‘I’ll have a chat with him first. And I’ll certainly be telling him to stop making donations, if they are donations, like this. But if the fuel’s actually coming from a bent source then aye, I’ll nick him for that. Of course I will.’

‘But he’s actually a bit of a superhero, isn’t he? Going around giving stuff to good causes like that. And you wouldn’t arrest one of them, would you?’

‘If they were wearing spandex in the hours of darkness then I would, aye. There’s just no call for that sort of showing off, is there?’

Josie laughed. ‘So will you let me know when you’re going to the foodbank again?’

‘Aye, I’ll text you.’

‘Have you got my number?’

‘No, good point. You should be the bloody detective.’

Henry was whistling as he bounded back up the stairs. Well, it wasn’t every day that the food bank recruited a new volunteer. He overtook Pepper on the second landing, because she was carrying a steaming Pot Noodle as carefully as if it were spent nuclear fuel, and as they walked up the stairs to the CID suite he told her about the development in the un-theft case.

‘The what?’ said Pepper, and Henry told her that Josie from CCTV analysis had coined the phrase.

‘She’s that pretty young volunteer, isn’t she?’

‘Can’t say I’ve noticed’, said Henry, and laughed a nanosecond before Pepper did.

‘I’d say she sounds a bit posh for you, love, except you’re the poshest man I’ve ever met. And I’ve met some right toffs, in my time. Usually only when I’m nicking them, like, but even so. But if your man has been back on multiple occasions, like your new girlfriend says, then he must be nicking this diesel from somewhere, don’t you think?’

‘Aye, I do.’

‘But still no reports of thefts?’

‘No, nowt. A break in at a removal firm a few days back, but nowt stolen.’

‘Interesting. All right, Henry, I’ll bite. I’ll sign off on a grand of spend with the techies, but that’s it. And don’t lose their gizmo, whatever you do. They’ll bloody charge us for it if you do, you know. And you do remember what happened with that tracker on your old man’s car?’

‘We got the tracker back, didn’t we?’

‘Aye, we did. But remind me about what happened to the bloody car it was stuck on to?’

That evening Pepper parked her neighbour’s car on the quiet Victorian street on the south side of Carlisle, and thought about her story if anything happened while she was wandering around the allotments in the dark. She was on duty, and was due to meet Rex Copeland in town in less than an hour, but the pool car she’d been issued with was parked up at the far end of her street, and she would pick it up when this was done. She took the torch from her bag, got out of the car and quickly scanned the street and the close-curtained bay windows. The houses were very much like her own, but they all looked much more homely, somehow. She crossed the street and climbed quickly over the eight-foot high gates into the allotments. She walked to the shed nearest her, stood in its shadow, and looked back at the streets and the houses. There was no movement.

Then came the tricky part. She’d strolled through the allotments in the daylight earlier and had eventually identified the shed that she was almost certain had been her grandfather’s. But she hadn’t seen it in years, and they all looked much the same: like they’d been built without a single right angle, from creosoted driftwood and old pallets. So she still wasn’t completely sure, but she used the landmarks she’d identified and, after a couple of wrong turns, eventually reached the shed that she was after.

The padlock looked like the strongest part of the structure, which wasn’t saying much, but she still took the time to find the right skeleton key to open it. Inside it was much as she expected, with a couple of well-worn spades and forks hanging on the wall, and bags of chemicals on the wooden floor. And it was the floor that Pepper concentrated on, and it didn’t take her long to identify the boards that had been disturbed recently. There were new looking nails, and she was sure that she could see where a flat blade had been inserted between the boards to prise one up. She’d decided not to come equipped herself, just in case she was stopped, so she looked on the battered old bench for something suitable to use. All she could see were a pair of slim-bladed secateurs, so she inserted the blade between two of the boards and started to apply pressure. All she could do was hope that the board would come up, and not just snap in half. She gradually increased the pressure, and when the board finally moved it did so suddenly, and she sat down hard.