Staying Power (25 page)

‘Lichfield. I like Lichfield. And we could take in Tamworth: there are a couple of good quality factory shops you should see. But, Kate, it'll all be like this, won't it?' He spread his hands miserably at the tat. ‘And all couples with too many kids buying too many tacky presents.'

‘It is nearly Christmas,' she said, mildly. ‘What are your plans?'

‘Clive's got family back in Wales. They think he's straight. Tough for both of us, usually, but he goes because his Dad's coughing up his lungs with pit dust. I usually put myself down for the Christmas Day rota. What about you?'

‘My name's top of the list. Come on, we'll get some food and booze in and have a great Christmas evening at my place. What do you say?'

‘Apart from yes? What about Pat the Path? Won't he be expecting you to join him in a leatherwear party?'

‘Tough if he is. I can't quite see him and Cassie hitting it off. Oh, yes, we'll have to fit Cassie into the schedule. I can't let her down.'

‘Of course not. We'll spike her gin. Great.' He gave her a quick hug. ‘Now I can face Fivers ad infinitum.'

‘What I want to know is what bastards reported that there was good quality stuff in these shops! They should be hanged with tinsel and stuffed with festive balls.'

‘And crowned with chaplets of plastic holly. OK. OK. But you've got your shirts and refused to let me buy that lovely dress.'

‘Which was designed for someone six foot tall with no hips. And – Jesus Christ, Kate. Cast your beadies on that lot.' Grabbing her firmly by the wrist, Colin pulled her towards yet another shop. ‘Under a fiver they may not be, but who's arguing? Leather warehouse.'

The shop sign was so temporary Kate was afraid the next gust of wind would bring it down. They'd done no more than put piles of bags and jackets in the window. Punters could get the message – no-frill bargains.

Inside the smell of hot, sticky bodies battled it out with the scent of leather. Kate reeled.

Colin gripped her arm tightly. ‘Lack of air or excess of emotion?'

‘Both. Come on. Let's check those bags out. Yes: look at the label. Firenze. Leather-lined. There's the little city crest. And those shoes. Firenze. Leather-lined.' She stroked a pair. ‘Hand-made, I'd say. The sort of thing Alan Grafton spoke about with such love. They'd probably fetch well over a hundred pounds in a legitimate store. And someone's flogging them for fifteen. And fifteen for that bag!'

‘What next?'

‘We talk to the management. Now. I don't trust this place to be here when we come back all nice and official on Monday.'

‘I've never done an interview clutching Jaguar carrier bags before.' Colin flapped them.

‘First time for everything, isn't there? Right. Into battle.'

The kid on the checkout was almost certainly under-age and definitely overworked. Mention of management brought tears to her eyes. ‘Dunno where they are. Honest. They just told us cash only, not credit cards, and pushed off. Honest.'

‘No credit cards. OK. What about cheques?' Kate asked.

‘What about them?'

‘If I want to pay by cheque, who would I make it out to?'

‘Oh, we got a stamp. We do that.'

‘OK, then. Say I want to buy these shoes. Here's my cheque and here's my card. Now, I prefer to fill it all in myself. Tell me who to put here,' Colin asked, smiling patiently.

‘No. I said, we got a stamp. We fill it in.'

‘When we've handed it over?'

The girl nodded. ‘Look, there's ever such a queue. I got to serve people.'

Kate looked at Colin who nodded. As one they produced their ID cards. ‘Like I said, we want to talk to your manager. Now. We could ask you to shut the shop until he comes back.'

‘Get out the fucking way, you stupid cow.' Someone shoved Kate in the back so hard she nearly fell. ‘You don't like the stuff, you don't have to fucking buy it. Just shift your fucking arse so we can.'

There was an ugly murmur in support. There must have been some thirty people backed up.

Kate smiled at the girl on the till. ‘Looks like you'd better find him fast, doesn't it? Before Tamworth has its first Christmas shopping riot.' She turned to the man who'd pushed her. ‘Keep it quiet, Sir, will you? We wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, would we? I'm quite sure no one would want to be buying dodgy goods, would they? Not if you have to give them up if they're needed as evidence?'

‘Here – who's talking about stolen goods? You want to shut your fucking mouth!' A man was pushing his way to the front of the queue. Those at the back weren't happy.

‘So long as you open yours – somewhere nice and private – that's fine,' Kate said, projecting her voice like an old-time actor-manager. ‘Just lead the way and we'll follow, won't we, Constable?'

The office they found themselves in would never have been spacious but was now so cramped it was difficult to sit in the chairs which the man had spirited up from somewhere. If they'd been inspecting it for a fire certificate it would have failed miserably. It would have been somewhere below zero on the general health and safety scale, too, the way his kettle, fan heater, lap-top computer and electric razor shared a socket divider.

Computer? In this mess? Kate caught Colin's eye, raising her eyebrows in the computer's direction. Colin's nod was almost as imperceptible as hers.

‘So what's all this about stolen goods? I shall sue if I've lost any sales.'

‘That lot down there would buy the Crown Jewels hot from the Tower provided they could get them for twenty quid,' Colin said. ‘And I didn't hear the word stolen until you used it. All Detective Sergeant Power and I want is a quick look at your invoices and receipts. I mean, you're selling lovely stuff, Sir, aren't you? And no one would call it expensive.'

‘It's all legit. Not even bankrupt stock.'

‘Great, Mr – I don't think I caught your name, Sir?' Colin produced his pocket-book and held his ball-point ready. He might have been Dixon of Dock Green, his smile was so cosy, his posture so stereotyped.

Kate watched the man riffle through his wallet. He might almost have been selecting the card he flicked on to the desk. This was so filthy she got her fingers dirty just picking up the card, which she passed to Colin.

‘Right – Mr Edmonds. Thanks.' Colin unobtrusively slipped it into his pocket book. ‘Now, all we need to know is who supplies you. That's all. Who knows, we may even want to buy some items ourselves, once we know everything's OK. Real bargains, aren't they?'

Kate didn't reckon that Marten-with-a-Y Edmonds believed Colin's patter any more than she did, but he got up and made great show of moving slippery piles of polythene-wrapped leather so he could get to a filing cabinet so old it might have been army surplus.

And failed, of course, to find the papers he wanted.

‘What I'll do is get my secretary to find everything you want and pop it in the post to you,' he said.

‘I don't think we can wait quite that long. Do you, Sergeant?'

‘I'm afraid not, Constable. Perhaps we'd better close the premises after all.' It wasn't often Kate employed police jargon, but once in a while she didn't object to giving it an airing.

Colin pushed the phone towards him. ‘Maybe your secretary could tell you now? Or your boss? Come on, Mr Edmonds, you know as well as we do there's something strange with your suppliers. Not you. Don't think that we suspect you of any wrong-doing.'

Edmonds pushed the phone away. ‘Monday. It'll have to be Monday.' He was beginning to sweat, but it could just have been the intolerable fug building up.

Kate leaned to pull out the fan-heater plug. ‘You want to watch that lot. The socket's very hot,' she said. And could have bitten her tongue off. The last thing she wanted was to give him the idea of a smart bit of arson. In for a penny … She pulled the splitter from the socket. ‘Before we go we'll tape over that, Mr Edmonds. In the interests of health and safety. And suggest to our colleagues in the Fire Service they might like to talk to you.'

‘But we'll only be here—' He stared. Two bitten off short tongues in the room.

‘Only be here till when, Mr Edmonds?' Colin was on his feet, leaning over that filthy desk. ‘Only be here until you can scarper with all the stock and all the paperwork? I think not.'

‘All we need,' said Kate encouragingly, ‘is names and paperwork. Then I can go and buy myself a nice pair of shoes and Detective Constable Roper can buy that briefcase he's got his eye on. In fact, we could put all the paperwork in one of those cases. Now, let me make out a cheque.' She flourished her pen.

‘No, please – have one on the house, Sergeant – Sergeant Powell, is it?'

‘Sergeant Power. West Midlands CID. Currently on attachment to the Fraud Squad. No, thanks, Sir. I'd rather pay in full. Wouldn't want my boss to have any thoughts about bribery and corruption, would we? All I need is a receipt, please. And, of course, the name to make this cheque out to.'

The poor man was writhing. Colin waded through leatherwear to open the door, leaning casually against the jamb. In her mind's eye Kate could see the overworked air crawling out, with a slightly cooler supply coming in at nose level. Not much cooler.

Colin shut the door. It started to get hot again.

At last, the sweat dripping off him, Edmonds reached for a briefcase of his own. He hadn't taken advantage of the stock downstairs. ‘I'll call my boss.'

‘Fine. So long as you tell us the number you're dialling. We need to keep our records straight, even if your company doesn't. And who, of course.' It was a long time since Kate had had the chance to use such an evil smile. If she wasn't careful she'd blow it by letting her dimples show.

He put back the phone, and grabbed a sheaf of papers. ‘There, damn you. Now get out.'

Kate leafed through them. There were names and addresses all right. ‘These mean nothing without an explanation.'

As he leaned towards her, she smelt Edmonds' fear. His index finger was rigid with effort not to let it shake. ‘That's the main supplier. See – those are lists of what we've had. There's his receipt. These are other suppliers – the bomber jackets, not nearly so good.'

‘What about future orders?' Colin asked. ‘Or are they all in files on that snazzy little lap-top of yours?'

Edmonds shot him a look.

‘So no future orders. You'll be closing as soon as this lot's shifted. Right?'

‘Pity we'll never be able to use any of this.' Kate indicated the dustbin liners full of top-class leather goods they'd bought. ‘Not even a carrier bag we could have traced back, you notice.'

Colin nodded. ‘Now what?'

‘Talk to our colleagues at the nick here. I don't want any of Mr Edmonds' stock coming to any harm tonight. And have a word with the Fire Service. Ditto.'

‘You are taking this seriously, aren't you?'

She paused long enough to shift her grip on the heavy bags. ‘I should hope so. You know the name I had to write on my cheque? Bel Canto. Them and all the other dodgy firms – they're all knitted up, Colin, like a plateful of spaghetti.'

Tamworth nick's Duty Inspector raised his hands in horror and then rubbed them with glee. If Kate and Colin were prepared to do half the cold and miserable observation, he saw no reason why his colleagues couldn't enjoy a bit of dramatic backup. It would make a change from the usual Saturday night, picking up drunken and drug-ridden yobs who'd blazed in from Brum to make a quiet copper's night miserable.

The Fire Service were also tickled, they said. Though they didn't see their way clear to checking for a fire certificate on a Saturday evening, if the premises in question were open for trade on Sunday, they wouldn't let Sabbath observance come between them and a sitting target.

Great. Except that Kate wouldn't be able to watch any Sunday fun. ‘BB football coaching, of course,' she grunted, shifting in the Fiesta's passenger seat. ‘You know, the first time you do obbo., you know the coffee can't ever be any worse. And yet each time you do it thereafter, it still manages to get worse. God, this is vile.'

‘Serves you right for trying to play Cagney. Or is it Lacey? And the worst thing about coffee, it means you want to pee all the time. In fact, I'm going to go and have a slash right now.'

At least men could use – as Colin was doing now – the shelter of a lamp post. There was nowhere in the ill-lit delivery bay behind the leather shop for Kate to relieve herself. She never learned, did she? Opening the door, she tipped the rest of the coffee away, lest she drank it without thinking.

As Selby had wanted Fatima to do. With different consequences.

Colin got back into the car. ‘He's still in there,' he said, blowing on his hands. ‘Busy packing, I'd say from all the frantic activity.'

‘Better than setting fire to everything. And it gives us a chance to pull him in for further questions if he tries. I only hope he moves fast. The public loos are way back down the road and I don't fancy being caught in mid-squat in the full glare of his mates' headlights.'

‘Go on. Stretch your legs. We're not on our own, here.'

Considering the so-called warehouse was in a well-lit pedestrian area constantly monitored by CCTV, no one would have expected anyone in their right mind to start moving quantities of large bags through their front door. Not with some amiable local or even Birmingham youths eager to see what was inside the bags. But when Kate returned on a circuitous route from the public loos, that was exactly what she found. Before she could dance with rage, she was joined by a man and a woman.

‘Don't worry: we made sure there was film in the surveillance cameras,' the woman, introducing herself as Trish Stone, told her. ‘We thought it might be more fun to let Edmonds think he was getting away with it. Ah! Do we have company?'