Blood Substitute (15 page)

Patrick looked at me.

‘Ah,' Greenway said. ‘Undercurrents.'

‘Ingrid has a tentative theory,' Patrick said slowly. ‘She wonders if he's on our side.'

To Greenway I said, ‘Frankly, the theory is not made up of the kind of thinking to which you'd give credence.'

‘Nevertheless I would be very interested in what you have to say.'

He heard me out and then slowly shook his head, saying, ‘I agree that there are strange aspects to this case and I know it's appalling for Carrick but without real evidence it's fairytale. Believe me, I'd like to go for your theory myself but—'

I interrupted with, ‘Is there no way at all of finding out if he is undercover with some unit?'

‘In theory yes, but as I'm sure Patrick has told you undercover bosses
never
tell anyone who their people are or what they're doing. Unless someone's in real danger of losing their life, and even then, rarely.'

Patrick said, ‘And, as I've already stressed, by interfering we might put any number of operatives in danger. Whether Kennedy's a cop or not he must be aware that someone's going round carving his initials on people.'

‘Have you spoken to Carrick about this supposition of Ingrid's?'

‘No, in case it was wrong.'

‘That was wise. One wonders, if it's right, whether this man knew he had hold of his own son.'

‘It's open to conjecture,' Patrick said. ‘For although James closely resembles his father at that age he hadn't even been born when Kennedy was supposed to have gone overboard from the yacht.'

Greenway breathed out hard and remained silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘We mustn't lose sight of what we're supposed to be doing here. We're after the bastard who killed Morley. Let's concentrate on the tall guy and his set-up. Get yourselves into this head office or store, or whatever it is, in Walthamsden. Try not to start a war this time. And stay alive.'

‘Short of disguising ourselves as Daleks I don't see how we can just walk into that wretched shop,' I said, on reflection not intending to sound so acidic. ‘They know what we look like – or at least the men who arrived at the warehouse do.'

Patrick made no comment, brooding, and might not even have heard me. But a few seconds later he said, ‘It's pretty obvious that senior staff at Slaterfords are up to some kind of no good but the only connection with Morley is Madderly Ritter, who sometimes worked there. The fact that they and Kyle Jeffers were murdered by a person, or persons unknown, who left an autograph on their bodies might have nothing to do with the store at all. Ritter could have done all kinds of
other
things in his spare time, been involved with another gang altogether.'

‘So we could be wasting our time in going to Walthamsden, you mean?'

‘Yes. And end up by stirring all kinds of filthy ponds without finding anything in the muck that connects with this case.'

‘But, as we've said before, there are no other real leads,' I pointed out. ‘And, don't forget, Morley was after the tall man and making enquiries about anyone with his description.'

‘The tall man you saw might be back in the shop in Bristol calmly getting on with whatever he does. They might have a store policy of senior management bailing out if there's a fire alarm or bomb warning.' Patrick shot to his feet. ‘More single malt might cure the mental stalemate. Another glass of wine?'

‘Perhaps I'd better just have orange juice.'

We were staying at an hotel for the night. For some reason the place was very quiet and the large lounge in which we were sitting before having dinner was practically empty, seemingly a quarter of an acre of dark blue carpet patterned with gold stars a stage for the usual sofas, tables and chairs and huge plants in Oriental ceramic containers. A dozen or so people were seated, several more standing near Patrick over by the bar and a couple plus one other man, the latter wearing evening dress, walking a few paces behind them, just entering through one of the large arched doorways. I always make a point of noticing my surroundings and what is going on – we both do: in some circumstances such vigilance can save your life.

I did not feel unduly threatened when the man on his own approached even though I immediately recognized him as someone I had met before, at Sheepwash Farm.

‘May I join you?' he asked.

‘Please do,' I replied.

He seated himself in the chair next to the one Patrick had just vacated.

I said, ‘So
are
you Archie Kennedy?'

He shook his head. ‘No, I told you the truth. Archie's dead.'

‘Deid?'

There was the trace of a smile. ‘I use my Scottish accent when it suits me.'

I now knew exactly to whom I was speaking and, suppressing a shiver, said, ‘Is the mugshot of you in police records actually a photo of Archie?'

‘Oh, aye. He was a real villain but it was lung cancer that got him in the end.'

‘There's no record of his death in West Devon.'

‘No, he died here, in London.'

‘You must be taking huge risks coming here tonight.'

‘Needs must. I'm unarmed but I know that husband of yours
is
armed and also a fine shot.'

I postponed thinking about the implications of this remark and said, ‘I have an idea it was you who decided not to shoot me the day before yesterday.'

‘I didn't fire any shots that night.'

Over his shoulder I could see Patrick coming back. He arrived, placed the drinks on the table and said to this wonderfully presentable, but older, version of James Carrick, ‘What can I get you? The Macallan?'

‘Thank you.'

There were a thousand things I wanted to say to this man but, for now, merely murmured, ‘You must have followed us to know where we were staying.'

‘You two are too canny when you travel to make following easy. No, I asked Mike.'

‘Mike?'

‘Mike Greenway.'

I was sure my hair was standing on end. ‘But …'

‘We carefully share intelligence. But he doesn't know me as Robert Kennedy. You can call me that though, it's sort of my real name.'

I leaned forward and spoke quietly. ‘Someone else who knows you as that is carving your initials on people.'

‘Yes, that must have been on the orders of one of the men in the little empire I'm working to dismantle. It has outposts in just about every large town in the south and west of the country, starting in Reading.'

‘So you're working within one of his gangs.'

‘As what he likes to call a sub-contractor. I have a gang, only I prefer to call it a unit, of my own – some with genuine, and some with phoney form. The idea is to put him out of business, starting by recruiting his hoodlums, picking their brains, keeping some on and taking the others out of circulation for a while. They don't know they're helping the law, of course.'

‘But he knows your real name.'

‘I went to prison for six months not so long ago under that name.'

‘But he's really on to you. Two police informers were recently found murdered at Sheepwash Farm. That is your hideaway, isn't it?'

‘Yes, it is. But no one is actually on to me in the way you mean. The man in Bristol resents my presence; he seems to think I want to force him out, which I do, but not how he imagines. Somehow they found out about the farm and hoped, as with Morley, to lay the blame for the two murders on me. I shall have to sell the place now – I can't go back there. I shall also have to leave the Bristol area for a while. I don't want more people killed because of my presence there.'

‘But Morley didn't tell them about it under duress surely – he can't have known about you.'

‘No. I don't know how they found me. It's worrying.'

Patrick returned with the whisky.

‘Thank you – your good health,' said Kennedy, raising his glass.

Patrick said, ‘I take it the purpose of this visit is to deliver a warning-off.'

‘Nothing unfriendly. It's more to clear the air and answer any queries you might have.'

‘From what he's told me he has to be working for F9,' I said to Patrick, voicing something I had wondered about for a while. ‘David Rolt's unit.'

Kennedy said, ‘I've heard you have real brains, Ingrid. Yes, but David retired last year to take over the family stud farm when his brother died suddenly, although what he knows about horses is anyone's guess. I was lucky enough to be promoted to second in command of the department. But I don't want the top job, this is my last – then I'm off too.'

I quickly related to Patrick the rest of what had been said.

‘So if you carefully share intelligence with Greenway,' Patrick said to Kennedy, ‘why are we getting under one another's feet in warehouses in Bristol? What were you doing delivering stuff to the said warehouse and why the hell is it my brief to find out who mutilated and killed Detective Sergeant Cliff Morley when it appears that you knew all along?'

Not remotely put out, Kennedy ticked off on his fingers, ‘First, Mike and I don't share everyday
detailed
information as a matter of routine so that convergence was just an unfortunate coincidence. One of the reasons I'm here tonight is to prevent a repetition of such occurences. Second, we were actually bringing the van with a view to making off with quite a lot of what was stored there, to rattle the enemy as well as to see what stolen goods they had hold of. We'd waylaid the real delivery boys – it was a regular run, same time, same night, every week believe it or not – and they're now helping with enquiries quite a few counties away. The idea was not to meet
anyone
at the warehouse. And third, I don't know the real name of this man, only that he looks like a stork, calls himself Steven Ballinger, and is the so-called managing director of Slaterford and Sons, which as I'm sure you must know by now, is a money-laundering tool. It only changed hands recently and they're hoping to get planning permission very soon to knock it down and build more shop units with luxury flats over.'

‘Why not just arrest him?'

‘I want real evidence. I want to know where they take people to torture and murder them and who else is involved. I want
all
of them.'

‘Isn't the shop in Walthamsden their HQ?' I asked.

‘It doesn't exist. Or, at least, it's just an empty room with a name board on the door in an office complex.'

‘Well, that's nice to know,' Patrick said crisply. ‘Greenway told me to look the place over.'

‘Your predictable annoyance is another of the reasons I'm here,' Kennedy said.

Patrick was more than annoyed. ‘And what was all that posturing and blazing guns about then? Not to mention beating up DCI Carrick!'

‘I could hardly be expected to know who you were, could I? Not until I saw Ingrid and remembered that Mike had told me that you were on the job. And there's always going to be collateral damage, even among the local police as we simply can't tell them what we're doing. I would like to point out that your activities ruined a well-planned operation that Bristol CID are now crawling all over
and
you wounded two of my men.'

‘Were they cops?'

There was a pause before Kennedy answered. ‘No.'

‘Thought not; just co-opted thickoes. What were you going to do with Carrick?'

‘Pretend to change my mind and shove him out of the van somewhere fairly close by.'

‘You could hardly have taken him along to your own secure place.'

‘No, only I and my closest, police, colleagues know where that is.'

‘MI5 do too,' Patrick said with a little smile. ‘You know who Carrick is, I suppose?'

The other looked blank. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘You don't know. His mother Orla changed her surname to Carrick for the sake of respectability when she had him – she was unmarried. The father went overboard from a racing yacht off the Scottish coast and until quite recently was presumed dead. You're that man.'

I thought the ensuing silence would never end.

‘Why didn't you contact her?' Patrick continued.

When he eventually spoke Kennedy whispered, ‘I nearly died. Found myself washed up on an island somewhere in the Sound of Sleat where the only inhabitant was a lighthouse keeper. He can't have found me for a while as I was stone cold, blue, when he did. But the man saw that I wasn't stiff like a corpse and lugged me back to his cottage where he stripped me off and wrapped me in every blanket, garment and rug that he possessed over every hot water bottle that he could find before phoning the mainland. I'd bashed my head and lost a lot of blood too and when I woke up in Oban Hospital I didn't know who I was. I didn't know who I was for the best part of two years and even then, when I remembered, my old life, as I thought of it, seemed unreal. It belonged to someone else, another man.' His voice dropped until I could hardly hear what he muttered. ‘No, I couldn't face digging up that past. Things were still in a kind of mist. There were still big gaps and I didn't know what I would find. Orla … do you know … is she still alive?'

‘No,' I told him. ‘She was killed ten years ago in a road accident in South Africa.'

Kennedy sat still, eyes downcast. ‘He must hate me.'

Patrick said, ‘We can't answer for James. But, no, I don't think he does. Not when you tell him the circumstances.'

‘It's in the past. I can't … meet him.'

‘You must!' Patrick exclaimed. ‘He thinks you're a criminal!'

‘No.'

‘At least allow us to tell him the truth!'

‘Will he be able to keep it to himself?' Kennedy said angrily. ‘If he's pleased by what he hears will he be able to conceal it or will he go round with a big grin on his face? If people ask will he blurt out why he's happy and send ripples of gossip and rumour right through the Avon and Somerset Force and from there to the outside world? No, it's too risky. He knows I exist. Isn't that enough for him?'