A Fatal Drug, page 27
Dave was getting into a bad mood. The beer was awful, the place was awful and here was Simon prevaricating and finding an excuse that could put him in real danger. With Tom threatened and thugs apparently following Simon, the situation was real. He, Dave, was supposed to be the mature one and he had to do something. He pointed his finger almost into Simon’s face. “She’s not in Derby; she’s not even in England; she’s in a different country. Ludden’s looking out for us; if he hasn’t got the bodies to look out for us, he’s not going to be sticking them on an aeroplane to sunny Spain, is he.
“You’re no bloody use to Janie or anyone if you’re targeted and get caught by Jamal or his henchmen. You’re young. You’re no headless chicken and you think things through. You’re not going to put yourself knowingly in danger, but that still doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”
Simon nodded, inwardly acknowledged that Dave was right, looked down at his pint and stayed silent. He knew he could be headstrong, but sometimes a situation needed a young, bright mind to cut through the obfuscation and red tape. But with his own wellbeing threatened, this was not a case of bravado being better than a considered approach. If truth be told, he’d been using Janie as an excuse: he wanted this story as much as Dave.
“You were threatened by that imbecile Sam Guttridge,” Dave said, looking at Tom. “Was that for real or just a vague threat? With Harry Ponds safe in a police cell, Jamal’s position is a bit different. He must be feeling a bit less secure.”
“Yes. Who knows what goes on in Jamal’s devious mind?” said Tom, standing up and heading to the bar.
Dave looked at the other two. He’d been a bit harsh but someone had to tell it like it was. He clapped his hand on Simon’s upper arm. “Don’t take it the wrong way. We’re all on your side. Sometimes doing it by the book doesn’t work, sometimes it takes a new approach, like wiggling a stick in the wasps’ nest. I just feel that these wasps have got a very nasty sting if they’re aroused.”
Tom returned with a fresh round of drinks and Dave began again. “There’ve been lots of complications but I think we can agree that Simon’s initial reason for trying to find out why that body was on the roof is still right. If we can find that out it’ll be the key to the whole investigation.”
“Thank you,” said Simon with a note of sarcasm. He was still miffed about Dave telling him to pull his horns in. “It’s good to know we’re still all on the same side.”
Dave laughed. “We’ve always been on the same side, it’s just that we’ve got different ways of looking at things.” For Simon’s benefit, he re-emphasised Ludden’s absolute embargo on anything appearing in print.
“How sure are you that Janie can look after herself?” Tom asked Simon, who leaned back and looked at the ceiling.
“I don’t think that’s too much of a problem. As the Scots would say, she’s a canny lass. In the first instance, she’s clever enough to understand that sniffing around too deeply will not produce the right results and may disturb something she can’t handle. The hotel she’s working at would not appreciate visits from people connected to the drug trade, and she wants to keep this job. She may be feisty but she’s sensible and won’t get herself in trouble.
“Secondly, she’s not involved in drugs at all, to my knowledge, and tends to avoid parties where people are smoking dope or dropping pills. It’s not her style. On top of that, she says she’s encouraged, along with all the hotel staff – and they come from several different countries – to phone home as much as they can. All the telephone calls are free.”
Dave lapsed into thought. The girl’s safety was obviously important but they could do little to help when they were sitting in a duff bar in Derby. Their safety was paramount. “Simon’s right” he said. “The best way to help Janie is to solve the mystery here. If we can do that, she’ll have nothing to worry about. Apart from the fact that we haven’t any influence about what goes on over there and we aren’t going to fly out and get involved, there’s a continuous link between Spain, drugs and Harry’s arrest in Derby.
“Let’s think about a few scenarios. We need to look a lot closer at how this is going to pan out back here. Harry’s arrest will be common knowledge, if not now then certainly within a few hours. Having a newspaper reporter in custody is just too good a story and it will leak through the police to the criminals and low life very quickly, apart from the fact that we will publish a story. That’s when it gets difficult. If Harry’s involved in drugs then he’s either going to be owed money or he’s going to owe it – probably both. That means he’ll have contact with dealers or users and suppliers, which brings Jamal centre stage.
“There’s a chain, a sort of pyramid of drugs supply. There always has been. The big dealers need lots of little dealers below them. Sam Guttridge may be one of them. Harry is just a small-time drugs conduit but his arrest makes him a lot higher profile.
“There’ll also be a ripple effect that’ll run through the town’s drug trade. That’s one of the reasons why he’s still banged up and not on bail. Professional criminals don’t take kindly to youngsters getting involved and spoiling their trade. If the business gets too well known, the police show more interest. Harry’s smuggling escapade is the sort of thing the big dealers like to stamp on, and when they stamp, someone gets hurt. And his arrest just makes it worse.”
Dave waited momentarily for one of the others to make a comment, but from their questioning expressions he clearly still had the floor. “I don’t trust this Jamal guy or his henchmen. Drugs and common sense or loyalty aren’t natural bedfellows. These people can react violently and suddenly without warning.
“Ludden is convinced that Bateman, this missing Conlon bloke and Harry Ponds’s drug smuggling are connected, not just to each other but also to the larger drugs scene in Derby. Look at the clues – similar ages, connections to Lapdog Lovers and Conlon’s links to Greg Simpson. I can’t stress enough the need to take extreme care. Drugs and violence are a world away from what we’re used to handling.” Dave took a long, deep drink of beer and pulled a disparaging face.
There was a long silence – much longer than normal for these three. Simon broke it. “We’ve got much further than the police, and I’m convinced we could crack this whole thing safely and hand it to Ludden on a plate. What we need to do is flush Jamal out and identify this Mr Big that I heard him talking to. The links are there, but the police can’t find them. It’s down to us.”
He outlined a plan he’d been thinking about. As he spoke, Dave and Tom alternated between slowly nodding and vigorously shaking their heads as they tentatively agreed and then vehemently disagreed. There was no dissenting voice, though, and neither interrupted.
There was an air of purpose as they left the pub. Tom went first and quickly scanned the street. With so many people milling around, he was unlikely to spot anyone behaving suspiciously so he waved Dave and Simon out. Two women in long, flowing skirts or saris and three children meandered towards the Telegraph building. Dave and Simon followed them about twenty yards behind.
CHAPTER 53
Rashid Jamal heard about the arrest of Harry Ponds from Greg Simpson. His first thought was regret. He should have found and silenced all three of the smugglers as soon as they got back, rather than rely on his enforcers. The Londoners had screwed up by not disposing of Bateman’s body quickly and discreetly. He may, as it turned out, have been innocent, but that wasn’t going to bring him back. The sudden appearance of his body had been dramatic and the police were still sniffing around, but he could not be implicated and he was happy to stand back and let the police do their job.
Jamal sat in a comfortable armchair beside a fireplace with an unlit fire, andirons and a metal grate. Across the Axminster-carpeted room was a deep leather settee and a bookcase. In miniature, this was what Jamal perceived as the archetypal sitting room of the quintessential Englishman. He sat back and rested his hands across his stomach. The disposal of one of the real smugglers had been carried out professionally, if expensively, but that still left the other two. One was now in the protective arms of the law; the other was loose somewhere in this area. He had to be found. That was a priority.
The reporter held in the police station was a worry but if he eliminated the other smuggler and tightened up the Spanish network, Ponds’s testimony would have nothing to back it up; without proven and credible evidence it would founder in a desert of supposition and conjecture.
If the young man went to jail, which seemed inevitable, he had the resources and contacts to eradicate him permanently, and that would put an end to the potential problem.
Jamal did have some good news: a spike in sales at both of his petrol stations was reaping a big rise in profits and the trade was proving secure, without any interruptions from the police.
His thoughts reverted to the demise of the Londoners he’d hired to find the drugs. Their end had been swift and was unlikely to be connected to his operations. The barman on the ferry had not only followed his instructions to the letter but had used his initiative as well. Two had disappeared overboard and the third had been found dead in a toilet. The only minor drawback was that the car they’d stolen could be traced back to Derby, but that was the only connection.
Why couldn’t everyone carry out their jobs with such ruthless efficiency? It wasn’t about money – every job deserved recompense, and taking out weak links like this was very well paid – it was all about discipline.
Jamal pondered again on the missing third smuggler; the one who was last seen in Derby and had now gone missing. He didn’t want to involve George Washington again, but was there a workable alternative? His Derby people were fully occupied watching the two reporters and the private detective, who would all need dissuading from any more snooping.
Jamal never got his hands dirty. He was a businessman who gave orders; he was not a thug. He made the money that paid others to carry out such tasks, and right now the money was flowing in like a river in flood. He rubbed his hands together: it wasn’t the action of a man thinking about cash; Jamal was washing away the stain of carrying out summary justice.
He needed time and space to think. He was financially secure but the new, growing trade in hard drugs through his outlets, the bases he’d developed gradually and securely over the years, was gnawing at him. Was he letting absolute control slip though his fingers? Was his business moving, surreptitiously and against the two men’s agreement, out of his tight grasp and into the hands of George Washington?
Jamal paced the room. Perhaps that third bloody smuggler could be found quickly and easily after all. His eyes and ears in Derby might have their hands full but there was still room to find out who this young man was and where he was staying. It would not require too much intelligence, just a few simple questions to the right people.
Ponds, however, was still an annoyance. He should have been taken out as soon as his identity was discovered. Jamal scratched his head. Simpson must have known his identity, but he hadn’t said anything. He would pay heavily for this mismanagement. In fact he was already paying. He was nothing now. His rundown hotel was worthless. If Ponds had been granted bail, his disposal would have been so much easier.
Like an itch that only gets worse the more you scratch it, Jamal’s thoughts returned to the missing smuggler. The man had been seen talking to that reporter from the local newspaper, Simon Jardine, a colleague of Ponds and one of the three he was having tailed. But while the reporter was still freely walking round the town and working at the newspaper, the smuggler had disappeared immediately after leaving Jaguar Nights and had not been seen since. This was a job he’d hand to the two who’d lost him; this would be their way to claw back some credibility.
Another fly in the ointment was the girl who had been in the room when Bateman’s body had slid into view, although that was hardly her fault. She was now working on the south coast of Spain and had been to one of his major drugs staging posts, the bar in Fuengirola. Even if it had been an innocent visit to see that brainless bar manager, it was too close. Just by being there, she was making a nuisance of herself.
The latest report was that, after befriending Hewson, she’d duped him. As with so many of the young people he employed, his brain was in his trousers and she’d used her natural talents as a woman to play on his immature, testosterone-filled frailties. He’d agreed to sell her some marijuana, and that meant she’d found out about the drugs link.
The girl had been back to the bar. Two of his senior operatives had failed to stop her and she’d escaped. Jamal couldn’t work out who she was working for. He was physically distant, his people were making excuses and he could feel that his discipline and control was slipping. The girl’s link to the hotel in Derby was tenuous, but the link to Simon Jardine was much more tangible. He was a snooping reporter; so was she working for him?
The Fuengirola bar would be closed down immediately. The Yorkshire idiot who’d screwed up would disappear – Jamal would say he’d returned to England – and in a few weeks’ time a Spaniard with no criminal record would take over. He still owned the bar, through a subsidiary, but it would cease to be a drugs trading post for the time being.
Jamal had given instructions for a watch to be kept on the English girl for the moment. She was visible in the Parasol Gardens bar most evenings, so surveillance was easy. The manager was tough, imported to open the hotel and make it run successfully, and he had a reputation for keeping a close eye on his staff, but such discipline was ideal. It meant that Jamal’s people in Spain would know exactly where she was at all times. She wouldn’t be removed yet. There were enough dead bodies littering his operations and another would stir up the police even more. She would eventually have a fatal accident but he could bide his time.
Jamal walked towards the window and stubbed his foot on a small stool that crashed against the skirting board and bounced back. Red faced and angry, he stared out across the residential street.
“A month ago I was running a successful business and had the law in my pocket. Ever since meeting that bastard George Washington everything’s grown, but something’s going wrong. I want out. I’m calling a stop to this,” he shouted at the double-glazed window.
CHAPTER 54
Martin O’Donnell loved music. He didn’t pretend he could play an instrument, compose songs or even write about it like Steve Conlon, but he did have broad tastes. He’d not been like his friends at school. He’d actually looked forward to the dose of classical music that the English teacher thought was good for growing minds, especially when it was powerful and invigorating, like The Planets Suite. He’d also listened to his dad’s records and the soppy stuff his mum liked on the radio. Music of any kind was always better than silence or someone rabbiting on about nothing important.
Now that he was back home with his parents, O’Donnell had resurrected the sound system he’d put together in his room a few years ago as an escape from what he felt was the constant nagging of his parents and the noisy rows they used to have. Today, lying on his bed listening to long forgotten singles, EPs and LPs, he realised that he actually liked being at home. Independence could be overrated. There was still tension. He had, after all, left home in high dudgeon, insisting on being left alone while he ‘got his head together’. After a few weeks of worry, his parents had found that their son’s absence provided emotional space as well as an unused bedroom. No longer hamstrung by the words mum and dad, they got to know each other again as people: the rows and arguments stopped and they started to enjoy their own company.
Martin’s return home was an added, and surprising, pleasure. He was no longer the angry, argumentative, juvenile rebel but a more considered, amiable and partly grown up person. For Martin, there was unexpected affection and the security of knowing that he wasn’t going to be kicked out for non-payment of rent.
He rolled off the bed and turned the record over to listen to ‘Dolls’ House’ by Family, a Leicester group with a singer who had one of the most mesmeric voices he’d ever heard. Rolling back, he plumped the pillows, put his hands behind his head and smiled. One of the really good things about moving back home was how close it was to the Crown Club in Spondon. Apart from Friday night bingo and Saturday’s open mic night, when all the old folk got to their feet to sing, the club was a haven for local musical talent.
His midweek favourites were Tuesday nights, when pianist Jim Finney headed up the brilliant resident jazz band. It was also the night when some of the most talented national and international stars would perform. On Thursdays the stage was given over to local pop and rock bands, with volumes turned up and constant reminders from the landlord to cool it as there were residents less than half a mile away.
Best of all were Sunday lunchtimes, not for the music, although that was usually very good, but for the party atmosphere fuelled by the relaxed attitude of the performers and the even more relaxed support of the beer drinking audience. It was like an impromptu musicians’ party every week.
On Tuesday jazz nights, respect for those on stage was paramount. There was silence during the sets by the star guest, and conversations were reserved for the minute or so between each number. It was a serious night for music lovers. On Sunday lunchtimes, respect was not the right word. There was a cacophony of music and chat, jam sessions and rousing solos, and the more beer that went down, the louder the chat became, but it never drowned the up-beat tempos from the stage.
Martin and his father had reconciled their differences at one of the Crown’s Sunday sessions. For several years they had not exchanged a civil word. They hadn’t disliked each other; they’d just had nothing in common. That Sunday, they’d walked to the club in silence. After a couple of beers Martin had asked his father if the jazz was up to standard. He knew his dad liked jazz – he had loads of records – but he was worried that the relaxed, occasionally shambolic atmosphere of the Crown on a Sunday was not to his taste.
