Someone Who Isn't Me, page 5
Curwen’s big mistake had been to go it alone. He wanted to be the one who carried out the raid and he wanted to be the one who made the arrests. He’d been too eager, too greedy. He’d kept the tip-off to himself, pimped the story, got a warrant and gone in.
He could remember that moment in the pub cellar, when room after room had been searched, coming up with nothing. They were standing there in a small room just off the main cellar, listening to the occasional glug from the beer barrels. It was the last place left to search. In the wall, there was a cupboard. The door was locked. ‘What do you keep in here?’ he’d said to Lavery. He could see wariness enter the other man’s eyes.
This was it. They’d found it.
‘Not much,’ Lavery had shrugged.
‘Have you got the key?’
Slowly, reluctantly, Lavery handed it over. One of the search team had unlocked the cupboard door. It’d swung open, revealing rough, slatted shelves. Pushed to the back of one of the shelves was a battered hold-all. The man carrying out the search had used his gloved hands to ease the handles apart and slide the zip back.
A few bags of coins gleamed dully in the dim lights, and there was a mixed bundle of notes – fivers, tenners, twenties – rolled up with an elastic band.
‘So what’s this?’ Curwen had asked.
Lavery had shrugged again. ‘Last night’s takings. I don’t have a safe so I keep it down here until I can get to the bank.’
‘You leave it here all day?’
‘Quiet night.’ Lavery had explained. ‘I’ve got other things to do. No one knows it’s down here.’ His eyes had narrowed. ‘Or they didn’t. If I get a break-in, I’ll know who to thank.’
Lavery’s explanation held up. The flicker of anxiety on his face as they’d opened the cupboard told Curwen there was something to find, but whatever it was, they’d missed it. Even checks by sniffer dogs revealed nothing.
It was a fiasco, and it hurt him, badly. Lavery had put in a complaint, and when Curwen’s application for the warrant was looked at closely, the evidence he’d used to support it didn’t stand up. He’d been reprimanded, and Gallagher had started closing his team down, leaving Curwen with just Andy to keep an eye on the Bridlington street drugs trade.
It was a bitter pill, and there was worse. He’d been up for promotion. He’d passed the exams, put the time in, applied to the promotions board – and been rejected.
Curwen’s informant had turned up a couple of weeks later in Hull, in a squat inhabited by junkies. He was dead, the needle still in his arm.
But Curwen knew Lavery was dirty. He’d known the instant he’d seen that wariness creep into Lavery’s eyes.
Curwen owed Lavery big, and he was going to pay him back. Every penny. With interest.
Andy shared his frustration, so when Curwen had suggested Andy keep an unofficial eye on the pub, he was enthusiastic. ‘No reason why I shouldn’t drink there,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll chat up the bar staff, keep an eye out.’
Andy’s brief had been simple: Go in, pose as a buyer looking for a big deal. Find the dealers in the pub, find out when the drugs came in and where they were stored, find Doc and Stoner.
Nothing, he kept reporting back.
Nothing.
Until Curwen almost believed that there was nothing to be found.
And then, just over a week ago, Andy had been approached – no direct contact, no offer, just samples of the drugs that were, presumably, available. He’d been waiting, since then, for the next contact that would lead to a meeting.
Instead, he’d ended up dead.
Curwen stood in the shop doorway, watching as Lavery stopped to say a quick word to a vagrant who was half hidden in an alcove to one side of the pub door. Lavery’s stance, and the abrupt jerk of his head, made it easy to translate what was going on. The vagrant was being given his marching orders. Lavery set off along the lane towards the main road.
Curwen knew he’d fucked up. He couldn’t tell DCI Hammond, or even his own boss DCI Gallagher, what Andy had been doing – not if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his career watching speed cams on the East Yorkshire roads. He needed to know what Andy had found and, once he had the evidence, go after Lavery with everything he’d got. But until he had the evidence, no one could know about this.
First of all, he was going to take advantage of Lavery’s absence and get in the pub. Andy had a contact there, a young woman who worked behind the bar.
Becca Armitage, or Becca the Barmaid as Curwen had dubbed her – to himself. Andy had implied she knew something but he wouldn’t tell Curwen anything more specific; just that he didn’t want to get her into trouble.
That was his choice.
Curwen’s was different.
Two birds, one stone. If he could pin the drug dealing on Lavery, and link that to Andy’s death, then the black mark of a reprimand on his record would count for nothing – he’d crack the drugs case, and bring Andy’s killer to book.
And the killer of the man who’d given him the tipoff. Curwen knew that overdose hadn’t been accidental, even though he hadn’t been able to convince Gallagher.
Waiting until he was sure Lavery had gone, Curwen crossed the road to the pub entrance. He glanced at the alcove before he went in and was surprised to see the homeless man hadn’t moved. He was still sitting there huddled under a blanket, with the mandatory dog beside him. The dog turned its massive head and stared at Curwen. Curwen hesitated, wondering whether to ask the man about Lavery, but right now, he wanted to get into the pub before the landlord returned. He filed the homeless guy away for future consideration.
Time to find out what had gone so wrong. He stepped through the pub door.
Chapter 7
Curwen sat at a table on the far side of the room, ignoring the drink in front of him. He was watching the girl behind the bar; Becca the Barmaid.
She was fiddling with her phone, picking it up and putting it down, cleaning the beer taps, rearranging the glasses, and exchanging the occasional word with the guy who was working with her – a geeky student type who spent more time playing on one of the games machines than he did serving.
Right now, he wanted to locate the two people whose names he had: Stoner, the man Andy was supposed to be contacting the night he vanished, and Doc, whose involvement was less clear. But whatever contact had been made, the information had died with Andy.
He was pretty sure the proof was here. Somewhere. Something that linked this pub to the drugs that were moving up and down the coast. He was still betting on the cellar. These old buildings had a lot of obscure nooks and crannies. Every copper’s instinct Curwen had told him it was here. They’d missed it, that was all.
He turned his attention back to Becca the Barmaid. Time to make contact. She might know Doc and Stoner, but the most important thing he wanted from her was information about who Andy hung out with when he was here, and what went in and out of the cellar.
He strolled across towards her, trying to make eye contact before he got there, but she didn’t even bother to look up from something she was doing around the cold shelves. She continued to ignore him even when he stood in front of her. Frustrated, he banged a fistful of coins down on the bar, making her jump. Good. ‘You serving or anything?’ he said.
She looked at him blankly. ‘What?’
‘Got any food on?’
‘No.’
He sighed and spoke with exaggerated slowness. ‘OK. What have you got? To eat?’
She shrugged. ‘Crisps. Nuts.’
‘What are those?’ He pointed behind her.
‘Pork scratchings.’ She reached for the card hanging on the wall. He remembered his grandfather telling him that there used to be a picture of a naked woman under the bags, so as they were sold, the punters gradually got the chance to see a nipple. Nothing more than that – which said a lot about the kind of world his granddad had grown up in. But he wasn’t spending money on bits of rancid dead pig. There was something about her monosyllabic indifference that got right up his nose.
‘Didn’t say I wanted any, love. Just asking.’
She rolled her eyes and dropped her arm to lean against the bar, waiting. Had Andy really liked her, this sullen chav? He was tempted to see how long he could keep her here, changing his mind, asking for this, saying no to that… He wanted to make someone else’s day as bad as his, and a bit more.
Then the light caught the faint line of a scar running down from her nose to her upper lip, giving it a slight twist, and he realised where he knew her from. He’d seen her in the custody suite a few months ago. They’d been dragging her out of a cell where she’d spent the last hour screaming and throwing herself at the wall – off her face on something.
A user.
That could be useful… she was exactly the kind of contact he needed. Maybe this was why Andy had been so wary about making her an official informer. He’d been right to approach with care. ‘OK, what flavour crisps have you got?’
The girl sighed and reeled off the list. ‘Plain, cheese and onion, salt and vinegar.’ He could hear the subtext – Make your mind up and piss off.
‘No prawn cocktail?’
‘No. No dog shit either.’
Comedian. ‘OK, salt and vinegar.’ She put a bag on the counter. He kept hold of the note in his hand. ‘I’m getting a drink as well. What have you got on tap then?’ Curwen smiled amiably, a good-natured punter chatting with the barmaid.
‘Beer.’
He laughed. Genuinely. He was starting to enjoy her relentless spikiness. What was it Andy had said? She’s nice… once you get past the claws. He realised, as he thought about it, that he didn’t know exactly how far past the claws Andy had got. Shit! He should have thought of that. Andy wouldn’t have… not with her. Or would he? He pushed the thought away. It was something for later. ‘Yeah, OK, got that. Tell me about this one.’ He pointed at one of the taps – The Earl, an IPA. Curwen could talk beer with the best of them.
‘It’ll make you drunk. So will that one and that one and that one. Right?’
‘Sounds OK to me. I’ll have a pint. You worked here long?’
‘Long enough.’ For the first time, her gaze focused on him, as if she was beginning to realise he wasn’t just some arse chatting her up. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m looking for my mate who comes in here.’ He watched her closely as he spoke. ‘He’s called Andy. He’s in here a lot.’
He saw her face flood with colour as her eyes moved towards his quickly, then away. She was definitely listening now, still not meeting his gaze, but she was on the alert as she pulled his drink.
‘Andy,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know him.’
‘OK, I won’t.’ She pushed the drink across the bar to him.
‘He might have got into trouble. With the kind of people you really don’t want to get on the wrong side of, if you get me.’
She gave him the same quick glance, but her expression was guarded now. She wasn’t giving anything away. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Hear me out… Becca.’
She froze, then turned slowly back. ‘What do you want?’
Leaning forward to look as though they were sharing something trivial, part of the flirtation, he put Andy’s photo on the bar. ‘This guy. Andy. Did you see him in here on Tuesday evening?’ Andy was supposed to be keeping away from the pub until after Stoner had been in touch, but Curwen wasn’t certain he’d kept to that. He might have nipped in here early doors.
She barely glanced at it, but he could see the flash of recognition in her eyes.
‘If he was in here, I need to know who he was with, and what time he left.’
‘It was busy. I don’t know what people do.’
‘Yeah. Busy on Tuesday, quiet tonight. Funny, that. OK. Do you know anyone called Doc? Or Stoner?’
Her chin came up and she met his eye. ‘You a copper?’
‘Do I look like one?’
She gazed at him for what felt like a long time. ‘You smell like one.’ She ducked under the hinged flap on the bar and emerged carrying a crate. ‘Excuse me.’ She pushed past him and let herself into a door just to his left, marked ‘–ELLAR: STAFF ––LY’.
The cellar. Curwen hesitated a moment too long, and the door swung shut. He pushed it cautiously, but it had locked. Shit and shit again.
He’d let his mood get the better of him. He should have stayed the fuck out of it until he could control his temper. Not to worry. If she had form, he could use that to put pressure on her. He’d get what he wanted, eventually.
Then he saw the pub door open, and Carl Lavery appeared, irritably shaking the rain off himself.
Curwen turned away, waited until Lavery had gone behind the bar with a quick bark of ‘Toby! Where’s Becca?’ and vanished into the back, then he headed for the door. Now was not the time to get caught. Anyway, there was a second string to his bow that he could follow up now – the vagrant who’d been sitting outside the pub. That was someone who’d notice things, see what was going on. Andy was – Andy had been – a sucker for a sob story and had probably given the guy money at some time. So the guy would remember him. He might be able to help Curwen, with the right incentives.
But when Curwen got outside the pub, he was too late. The blanket lay in the alcove, but the man – and his dog – had gone.
Angrily, he kicked the blanket out of the shelter and into the damp night.
Chapter 8
As Becca made her escape down the stairs into the cellar, she realised she was shaking. Andy – in trouble? With the kind of people you really don’t want to get on the wrong side of. She knew what kind of people those were.
Now his texts about the pub began to make sense. He’d got his boss on his back, he’d told her. Or had it been someone else? He’d asked her for help. He’d asked about this cellar, about what was stored there, and she’d just… She’d been angry…
She hadn’t helped him.
And now he wasn’t back like he’d said, and a copper was after him. She whipped out her phone to text him, then stopped. She could send him a warning, but she could also… She looked round the cellar. What had Andy meant in those texts, things that were stored down here? There wasn’t anywhere to store anything, apart from what you’d expect.
But… something in the cellar that shouldn’t be here. What did he mean by that? She looked round. Drinks, boxes of crisps, bottles…
The cellar consisted of two rooms. In the first one, barrels were lined up against the wall, hooked up to the pipes and the huge gas bottles that made the beer flow. Carl dealt with all of that, and Becca was glad to leave it to him. Against the back wall, a freezer buzzed. Boxes of soft drinks and mixers were stashed against the back wall. The other drinks were stored in a smaller room, with shelves that ran up the walls stacked with beers, ciders, and a few bottles of spirits. There was a damp, slightly sour smell in there, as if something had gone off and the air hadn’t cleared yet.
Against the far wall of the second room was another door, a sort of cupboard, but it was always locked. She couldn’t always get down here, anyway. Carl rarely left the cellar key in the till for them. He had done it tonight and she’d just grabbed it and come down here to get out of the way of the copper.
The pig.
The creep.
Asking questions about Andy…
Putting the drinks crate on the floor, she went across to the cupboard. The cellar key didn’t work in this door. And how did she know that? She’d tried it, out of curiosity. But…
The door was slightly out of line. She looked more closely, and saw that the lock hadn’t quite caught, like someone had pushed it closed behind them and not checked that it was properly shut. Slowly, she reached out and pulled it open.
Inside was dark. She took out her phone and turned on the flashlight application. The room was a deep, brick-lined space. The floor was flagstones, like the cellar. There were some shelves with old, sagging boxes that were covered with dust and cobwebs. They looked like someone had moved them recently then shoved them back onto the shelves. Was this what Andy meant? She opened the camera and took a couple of shots. In the light of the flash, she saw there was something on the stone floor, bundled into a corner.
A couple of holdalls. She took another picture, then stepped into the cupboard towards them. Andy would want to know what was in them. She grabbed the straps of one and tugged at it. It felt heavy, and the contents made a metallic noise as the holdall moved.
‘Becca!’
Her phone almost dropped from her hand. It was Carl, calling from the stairs. ‘Becca? What the fuck are you doing down here?’
He hadn’t seen her. She could hear his feet on the steps, and pushed the door shut quickly, wincing as the click of the latch seemed to fill the cellar. ‘I’m just bringing some stuff up while it’s quiet.’
He was in the room now. ‘What stuff?’
‘Mixers, stuff like that.’
‘We don’t need it. Leave it. Why are you in here anyway?’
All the soft drinks, all the mixers, were in the other room.
‘I might as well bring these crates up,’ she said, frantically trying to think. ‘If it’s busy tomorrow, we’ll need the shelves full.’
‘I said leave it. What are you doing in here?’ he asked again.
What could she say? Think! The pig creep copper! Use him! ‘There was a copper asking questions, so I just, you know. I didn’t want to talk to him. Sorry.’ She shrugged
Carl was looking at her. There was something about his face – a kind of cold anger – that gave her a shiver of dread. It reminded her of her stepfather. He always got that expression when He was angry, before He… She swallowed the lump that had suddenly grown in her throat.
‘What kind of questions?’
‘Just, who was in here the other night, that sort of stuff.’
