Someone Who Isn't Me, page 24
From Becca.
Call me now!!! was the first one. It had been sent shortly after midnight.
What had been going on?
For Becca to text so late, and so urgently, it had to be serious. And then – it was getting worse Coming to you. On my way! That had been half an hour later. Becca had no transport, so how…? Even Becca wouldn’t set out to walk.
Her bike? She could be heading south to Sunk Island on a bike that had been standing unused under a tarpaulin for weeks and probably hadn’t had any maintenance in all that time. The last text was almost two hours ago – if she’d found her way, she’d be there by now, but there was no further message.
Kay pressed the key to call, but Becca’s phone went straight to voicemail.
Oh God. What had happened?
Dev was watching her. ‘Something wrong? Can I help?’
‘Not right now, thank you, but I’d appreciate that lift to my car. I really need to get back.’
As she followed Dev to the car park, she tried Becca’s number, once, twice, three times, but each time she got the same response.
Becca’s phone was switched off, or she was somewhere with no signal.
On her own, at Kay’s house, on Sunk Island.
And now Kay remembered leaving the house, the yellow sack blowing across the ground in the darkness, and close by, the sound of a motorbike.
Chapter 39
Bridlington
Dinah had been chasing up the Stockport connection, the car belonging to the elderly Elizabeth Bagnall. She’d expected Hammond to liaise with the Greater Manchester force and get one of their people to interview the old woman. Instead, he had sent Dinah.
So she’d found herself in the cosy hallway of Elizabeth Bagnall’s house, stuck with the horrible feeling important things were happening, and she was in the wrong place, as if she was stuck in one of those dreams where your way back was blocked no matter what you did.
By the time she’d crawled round the outskirts of first Leeds then Manchester, then checked in with her Greater Manchester Police contact, it was well into the evening before she’d arrived at the Stockport house. Elizabeth Bagnall was too ill to talk to her, already in bed in fact, but the woman living with her, Janet Sandison, who was either a long-term friend or a partner – Dinah wasn’t sure of her status – had been very chatty.
Dinah had explained what she wanted, and that she had a warrant, if necessary, to check the car, but the companion waived the formalities. ‘Fancy doing that. Using the number of an old woman’s car. Liz might have got into trouble.’ But she confirmed that as far as she knew, the car hadn’t left the drive for weeks. Dinah went to check it. Would the Sandison woman notice if the car vanished overnight? Probably, but Dinah had learned early from Curwen never to take anything for granted. Janet Sandison had given her the keys. ‘I don’t drive myself,’ she’d said.
Dinah had slipped behind the wheel of the old Fiesta. When she’d tried the ignition, nothing had happened. OK, the battery was probably flat, as it hadn’t been driven for so long – but she would have expected a flicker of life. She’d opened the bonnet and had a quick look. It wasn’t hard to find the problem. The engine relay had been removed.
‘Did you know this had been done?’ she’d asked Janet. There didn’t seem any good reason why the car should have been immobilised unless someone wanted to make sure it stayed put.
Sandison had looked anxious. ‘I did it,’ she’d said. ‘I hope it was the right thing. I was told it would protect it. I didn’t want it getting stolen, sitting on the drive like that.’
Janet Sandison didn’t sound as if she had the technical know-how. There was something odd here. Watch out for odd things. It was something else Curwen had told her.
‘Why didn’t Miss Bagnall just sell the car?’ she’d asked. ‘It’s taxed and its MOT certificate is up to date, but…’ It sounded as though Miss Bagnall had been unable to drive for some time, and wasn’t likely to start again – so why pay good money for an unused car?
‘The family don’t like to think she wasn’t going to, you know…’ The companion had shaken her head.
‘The family?’
‘Yes. Well, it’s just her niece now. Her sister died a couple of years ago, but her niece keeps in touch, keeps an eye on things. It was her told me how to make sure the car was safe. She was worried about joy riders, and people like that.’
‘She told you to disable the car?’
‘No. Well, she told me what to do so it couldn’t be driven.’
Dinah had tried to keep the excitement from her voice. She wanted the details of this niece, this woman who was so keen to make sure this car stayed off the road. Miss Sandison had been a bit reluctant at first, but after thinking about it, she’d said, ‘She deals with most of Liz’s finances. It was Liz’s sister first, but after she died, her niece took over. It was all signed and sealed before I came on the scene. Liz talked about changing it but she never got round to it. You know how it is.’
Dinah didn’t. Her own finances were mostly nonexistent, but what possessions she did have, she watched with care. ‘Her niece has power of attorney? Can you give me her contact details? It would be much simpler if I just talk to her.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Janet Sandison had led her back to the house and rummaged in a drawer as Dinah waited. ‘Here.’ She’d taken out a business card and handed it to Dinah.
Alicia Traynor, Director, CaLa Enterprises, Hull.
There was a phone number and a post code. ‘Thanks,’ Dinah had said. She’d wanted to ask some more questions, but the relative lateness of the hour had caught up with Janet. Dinah had decided further questions could wait for now. It was late and she had to drive back to Brid. She was behind the wheel, fastening her seat belt when her phone rang. She checked the screen, but she didn’t recognise the number. She answered with a feeling of trepidation.
It was Becca with a story of a break-in and vandalism. As Dinah listened, she could feel herself going cold. ‘Right. Listen. I’m sending a patrol car to you.’ She gave Becca more instructions, trying to make sure she’d covered all the bases. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m on it.’
After Becca hung up, Dinah dithered for a minute. She had to chase up the Alicia Traynor connection, and make sure someone would question Janet Sandison and find how much more – if anything – she knew. But there was a raw urgency to Becca’s call she couldn’t ignore. Her first instinct was to contact Hammond, but she was no longer confident she could trust him to help Becca. In the end, she called Dave Sykes. ‘I’ve got information about the car,’ she told him, and explained quickly what had happened to it, and gave him the details for Alicia Traynor. ‘There’s something else.’ She ran through what she knew about Becca Armitage and about the break-in at Becca’s flat. ‘I think the kid conned her to get the key off her and then they went in and trashed the place.’
‘Looking for something?’
‘I think so. Andy Yeatson was seeing her, so maybe that’s got something to do with it.’
‘Yeatson was seeing her? Why didn’t we know about this? Why didn’t you tell—?’
She cut through his questions. ‘I did. I told the boss this morning. Listen, I think they could still be after her, and—’
‘I want to hear what she’s got to say. You reckon she’s part of the drugs scene?’
Dinah outlined what she’d seen at the flat, and the evidence that Becca had been attacked. She could feel Dave Sykes’ disapproval radiating down the phone and wanted to defend herself, but needed to get help for Becca first.
‘I’ve sent someone round,’ Dave said. ‘And a car to pick her up. We need to talk to this Armitage woman. Now. Right, get yourself back here – we need to get all this in detail.’
Dinah’s head was spinning as she tried to work out how much trouble she could be in. She needed to prioritise – the whole thing was out of her hands now, but Becca could still be in danger. Dinah needed to let her know what was happening. She called her as she ran along the road to where she had left her car, but there was no reply. The phone rang and rang. Frustrated, she sent a text. Are you ok? Get back to me.
As she slipped behind the wheel, she tried to sort things out in her head. It would take her over two hours to get back – by that time, whatever was going to happen to Becca would have happened. What would Hammond say? What would he do? And Becca – Dinah had been quick to dismiss her as a user, a kind of low-life, and had been surprised at Andy’s choice. She could remember Becca’s prickliness, her apparent lack of concern about what had happened to him, but as the conversation came back to her, she began to wonder…
That odd exchange when she’d talked about Mia, about Andy’s baby, an orphan now, and all the colour had left Becca Armitage’s face. What was it she’d said? His wife died?
And then she’d turned her back and started sorting through a pile of clothes as if she didn’t give a shit… or as if she didn’t want Dinah to see the emotion on her face. Dinah understood that. She’d schooled herself not to show her own feelings, especially not at work. She could remember turning away and involving herself in some random task when something upset her so no one would see the tears in her eyes.
She was leaving Stockport now. She needed to get back as fast as possible, but she pulled in at the side of the road just before it joined the Woodhead Pass across the Pennines and checked her phone – there was no response to her text. On the off chance, she tried Becca’s number again.
This time it was answered, but not by Becca. It was someone who was cagey until she identified herself. She was talking to one of the PCs Dave Sykes had sent to the flat. Becca wasn’t there. Her phone had been found in the mud in the backyard of her building.
Of Becca herself, there was no sign.
Chapter 40
Curwen had got his way, and things had moved faster than he had believed possible. Despite his low-key approach, Dom Maskall’s questions to the Tania’s House accountants had rung alarm bells. They’d contacted the police. Search teams had gone into the Tania’s House offices in Hull at once and taken the books apart. Less than an hour ago, they’d arrested Carl Lavery and were in the process of searching as many of his business premises as they could find. Curwen had no idea why things had happened so quickly, but he wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth.
‘It looks like you were right and there is a drugs link,’ the man leading the search told him. Though Curwen had no close friends among his colleagues, he was generally liked and respected – he was seen as a good copper. Everyone knew about the fiasco of the first Smokehouse raid, and most of them had been sympathetic. ‘We’ve found large amounts of cash stored at the pub and in a couple of the holiday lets. He’ll say it’s all legitimate – he gets paid in cash – but there’s too much. No way he can explain it all away. The money comes in from the drugs, he cleans it up, everyone’s happy.’
For Curwen, it was a result. It wasn’t what he’d been looking for, but it would do nicely, thank you. Money laundering. Was Lavery the banker for the gang? Or did he just take a cut for converting hot money into usable money? Money launderers were prepared to lose forty to fifty per cent of the value of the dirty money in order to clean it, but that still left them with plenty.
This could get him his promotion.
Finally, he had time to think about Becca the Barmaid’s phone call. He’d promised to deal with it, but he’d shelved that when he got the call about the raids on Carl Lavery’s premises. Whatever had been going on with her was probably finished by now. He had planned on going home – God knows, he’d earned it, but he needed to deal with this first.
He was mulling over what to do when he saw Karen Innes coming through the office towards him. She didn’t look happy. ‘Curwen.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I wouldn’t look so pleased with myself if I were you. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?’
Curwen managed – just – not to let the surprise show on his face. Trouble? He’d just uncovered evidence of a major money-laundering ring!
Oh shit. Had they found Andy’s phone?
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Innes,’ he said, managing to keep his voice casual. He suspected she wasn’t fooled.
‘Looks like you don’t need me to tell you.’ She nodded over his shoulder, and Curwen saw his boss, DCI Kevin Gallagher, heading towards him. He scowled at Curwen. ‘My office,’ he said abruptly. Innes, he couldn’t help noticing, looked pleased.
Keeping his face carefully blank, Curwen followed Gallagher through the office door. His mind was working fast. They’d know about Andy in the pub – Dinah Mason wouldn’t have kept that to herself – but they wouldn’t know that Curwen had sent him there. Andy’s phone? That could only raise a suspicion. Enough to put a blight on his future progress? Maybe, but it would be impossible to prove. There was nothing there that would lead to an instant bollocking, so what was all this about? ‘Sir?’ he said as Gallagher threw himself into his chair, leaving Curwen standing.
‘Curwen, what the fuck have you been doing? Weren’t you told to keep away from the Smokehouse?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Right. So why were you looking into Carl Lavery’s finances?’
Curwen hesitated. If he wanted the credit for the money-laundering bust, he’d have to put his hand up to the investigation. He made his mind up. ‘Sir, I always thought that pub was dodgy. I didn’t go back – I screwed up the first time, but this is something else.’
‘And why did you screw up? You listened to some little scrote who spun you a line.’
Curwen felt the hot anger of humiliation again. No one had spun him a line – he didn’t fall for things like that. ‘It was more than that, sir. It was a solid tip-off.’
‘Which was wrong.’
Curwen couldn’t answer that.
‘So why did you go back? Why did you disobey explicit—’
‘I didn’t go near the place.’ No point in mentioning his first contact with Becca the Barmaid. That had been a mistake. ‘When I was writing my report, I saw something in the finances that looked off. I checked it out, and the next thing I know is the fraud people are going in mob-handed.’
‘Curwen, did it never cross your mind that if you picked something up from a low-grade informer, people whose job it was to get that information had picked it up as well? Louder, clearer and in more detail than you? Officers from the National Crime Agency have been following a lead for weeks, Curwen! Weeks! Drug importers, Curwen. They were on the track of the importers. Thanks to you, they had to go in before they were ready, before Lavery had time to get rid of the evidence.’
‘And Andy Yeatson?’ Curwen had not expected this.
Gallagher shook his head impatiently. ‘We already know who killed Yeatson. Hammond could have made an arrest a couple of days ago, but if he had done, he’d have blown one of the biggest drug ops we’ve had for a long time. He agreed to wait, gather evidence and hold his fire.’
Curwen was silenced. Shit! A covert operation, under his fucking nose, and he’d missed it. And he’d sent Andy into the pub right into the middle of it. Had they spotted Andy? Was that why…? Suddenly, his coup didn’t seem like such a big deal. He was starting to feel sick. Had the undercover guys let Andy be led to his death and kept their mouths shut so their investigation wouldn’t be compromised?
‘Curwen?’
He still had to cover his back. ‘With respect, sir, what I found had nothing to do with drugs. Or the pub. I found some dodgy accounting and followed it up.’
‘And that triggered the gang. They’ve been carrying out a massive dump up and down the coast, getting rid of the stuff. We’ve had to go in sooner than we wanted, before we were ready. Which part of stay out of the fucking pub didn’t you understand?’
If he’d known. If he’d fucking known… If Andy had known… ‘I did stay out of the pub, sir. I can’t act on information I don’t have.’
Gallagher’s face darkened. ‘You obey orders, Detective Sergeant. That’s what they’re for. Now keep out of the fucking way. You’ve done enough damage already. Go home, Curwen. I’ll see you here in the morning. Nine o’clock. I don’t want to see your face again until then. Get out.’ Curwen left the office, resisting the temptation to slam the door behind him.
He had no intention of going home. Things were happening and he needed to be here.
The NCA. Jesus. And he’d had no idea. He was thinking fast as he went to his desk. If those shits had stood by and let Andy be killed…
He forced himself back to the practicalities. Gallagher said he was in deep shit. Well, Gallagher could go fuck himself. His first thought was that he’d blown it. But he was beginning to realise that he might be OK. He’d followed up a legitimate query. And this time, he’d covered himself every step of the way. Hadn’t he? His dealings with Becca the Barmaid? He doubted she would say anything, but if she did, he could work round it. His financial queries? Perfectly legitimate response to evidence. The texts that the app had forwarded from Andy’s phone? Those would be trickier to explain. He’d better get rid of those. In fact, it was time to get rid of that phone altogether.
Andy’s phone. If they ever found it, lying somewhere in the vast expanses of Sunk Island, and if it was identified, then it could tell a story that he really didn’t want to come out. He’d better make some plans to cover his back.
He told himself that overall, he was ahead. He’d been instrumental in uncovering a money-laundering racket. And if that investigation blew a big drugs’ bust? Nothing to do with him.
He should have been feeling good. Instead, he felt sick, as if he’d swallowed something rotten. He was tempted to change his mind and go home after all, but first off, he needed to find out what had happened to Becca the Barmaid. He owed Andy that.
Twenty minutes later, tiredness forgotten, he pulled out of the car park and headed south.
