The Bug House (13 page)

‘Naughty, naughty,’ says WPC Millican, who has come across with a plate of biscuits. She reaches down for the object on the desk. ‘I thought these were illegal.’

‘
Don
’
t touch it!
’

Millican recoils and the biscuits fall to the floor. Ptolemy reaches into her pocket for a pair of thin rubber gloves. She puts them on and picks up the object. It is the size and shape of an electric shaver, except instead of blades it has two raised nubs.

‘Get me an evidence bag,’ she says.

Millican hurries across to her desk and returns with a clear Ziplok bag. Ptolemy drops the object in the bag and seals it.

There is something else in the box.

It is a rope, coiled like a sleeping snake.

Detective Chief Inspector Frank Maguire, head of the Greater Manchester Police Drug Squad, is a tall man with the languid demeanour of someone who has ruled his particular fiefdom for so long that he has outlived all his enemies.

But Newcastle is not his patch – and Mhaire Anderson, while not strictly an enemy, is not beholden to him either. Furthermore, Maguire has been conducting an investigation on her patch, without telling her. And if there’s one thing that pisses Anderson off, it’s a lack of professional courtesy.

‘Six months?’ she exclaims disbelievingly. Then, noticing the other diners in the restaurant looking at her, she lowers her voice to a hiss. ‘You’ve had Wayne Heddon under surveillance for six months? And how many fucking times has he been to Newcastle?’

Maguire, trying to remain calm under fire, offers a weak smile and plucks distractedly at the
moules marinière
in the bowl in front of him.

‘Listen, Mhaire,’ he says in his smooth Ulster brogue. ‘You know the form. If Heddon had had meetings at the Savoy we wouldn’t necessarily have told the Met about it.’

‘You fucking liar, Frank. You would been round at Scotland Yard kissing their arses for permission to be on their patch. But just because this is Newcastle, you think you can do what you bloody well like.’

‘That’s not true and you know it. I have the utmost respect for—’

‘Ah, don’t give me that slaver, Frank. I’m too old and I’m too ugly. I ought to make an official complaint and bugger your six-month surveillance operation.’

Maguire shrugs. ‘Look, we could have done this over the phone, Mhaire, but I came up to see you personally as a gesture of good faith.’ He hands her a slim file. ‘And I’ve brought this with me, in a renewed spirit of cooperation.’

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a log of Wayne Heddon’s visits to Newcastle. All his meetings with Jack Peel and Okan Gul. Where he stayed. What he did. When he went for a shit. It’s all there.’

Anderson flips through the file suspiciously, but from what she can see it’s as thorough as Maguire claims.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘Then answer me this: who tied Okan Gul to the railway line?’

Maguire shakes his head. ‘I have no idea. I didn’t even know he was dead until you told me.’

‘You don’t seem terribly bothered about it, considering Gul was central to your investigation.’

‘If I thought it had anything to do with my investigation then I assure you I would be.’

Anderson narrows her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean on the night Okan Gul died in Newcastle, Wayne Heddon was in a hotel in Amsterdam having a meeting with several high-ranking representatives of the Kaplan Kirmizi.’

‘You’re saying Gul’s last visit was nothing to do with the drugs deal?’

Maguire smiles, sensing that after all his discomfort, he has finally gained the upper hand.

‘Not unless it was a social visit to catch up with his Newcastle middleman. In which case, I wouldn’t be interested anyway.’

‘His Newcastle middleman had been dead two weeks, Frank,’ Anderson reminds him.

‘Jack Peel was dead, yes,’ Maguire says, ‘but heroin abhors a vacuum. The deal still needed to go through.’

‘So who was the replacement, Frank?’ Anderson says.

Maguire avails himself of a long, feline stretch. ‘I know it’s frowned on in these politically correct times in which we have the misfortune to live,’ he says, ‘but I don’t suppose you’d care to discuss this over a glass of whisky back at my hotel, Mhaire? Bushmills, of course. County Antrim’s finest.’

‘
What sort of relationship do you have with your ex-wife?
’
Gilcrux asks
.

‘
None of your business
.’

‘
I understand she left you. And left you holding the baby, as it were
.’

‘
Alex was ten years old and he chose to live with me
,’
Vos says
. ‘
But like I say, it
’
s none of your business
.’

‘
Must have been difficult looking after a kid, holding down a job with antisocial hours
.’

‘
We got by, Mr Gilcrux. We managed
.’

‘
Well-adjusted boy, is he? Does well at school?
’

‘
He still gets a bit of teasing sometimes
,’
Vos says
.

Gilcrux rolls his pen between his fingers
. ‘
About what?
’

‘
The scars
.’

‘
Scars?
’
The rolling becomes faster
.

‘
On his back
,’
Vos says
. ‘
From when I used to thrash him with my belt. Poor little bastard. I hate his mother, but I should have never taken it out on him
.’

The pen is still. Gilcrux blinks slowly
.

Vos sits back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other
. ‘
Like I said, Mr Gilcrux, it
’
s none of your fucking business
.’

‘Hey, kiddo. What’s happening?’

Alex looks up from his Iain M Banks novel. Then he looks at his watch. ‘You’re back?’ he says. ‘Before nine? Did you forget something?’

Vos picks up a cushion from the end of the sofa and throws it at his son. ‘Thought we could have some quality time together. Go for a curry or something.’

‘Jesus. No, Dad. That’s so
creepy
.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Vos collapses in his armchair and kicks off his shoes. ‘It was a terrible idea.’

‘It’s the sort of thing Trey would say.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ He presses the remote and some Spanish football match comes on, featuring two teams he has never heard of.

‘What’s the latest on his son, anyway?’

Alex sniggers. ‘Dufus? They’ve got him enrolled in counselling.’

‘What, for crashing into a tree?’

‘ “Managing life/alcohol expectations”.’

‘You are kidding me.’

‘This is Florida, Dad. They have counselling for
everything
. If you’re not in therapy, you need to have counselling to deal with the fact you’re not in therapy.’

‘Christ.’ He pops the ring-pull on a can of lager. ‘This country might be fucked but at least we’ve still got the stiff upper lip, eh?’

Alex grunts and returns to his book. Vos watches the match for a while, then clicks off the sound. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘
You
don’t have any issues, do you?’

‘Issues?’

‘You know. About me and Mum. About my job. Anything like that?’

Alex looks at his father. ‘Piss off, Dad,’ he says.

‘I’m serious, Son.’

With a sigh Alex puts down the book. ‘What’s brought this on?’

‘I dunno. Just thought I’d ask, that’s all. We don’t really talk much.’

‘Thank God.’

‘I just want you to know that if there’s anything you ever want to—’

‘I will,’ Alex says. He picks up the book and, shaking his head, begins to read again. Then he stops. ‘It’s Chris’s birthday day after tomorrow. There’s a group of us going out.’

‘Nice one. Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

‘Oh yeah? Whereabouts?’

‘I don’t know. Anywhere we can get served.’

Vos regards his son with surprise. ‘You’re going out
drinking
?’

‘
Underage
drinking, Dad,’ Alex says. ‘We’re relying on Chris’s advanced ability to grow facial hair to get us served.’

‘Well, that’s great!’

‘It’s against the law. You’re a police officer.’

‘Yes, but you’re not.’

‘Then you don’t mind?’

‘As long as you don’t fall in the river, then no.’

Alex seems uncertain. ‘Why are you being so liberal and open-minded about this, Dad?’

‘Maybe I trust you not to make an arse of yourself,’ says Vos. ‘And because underage drinking is one of the pivotal experiences in a man’s life.’

‘Does this count as quality time, then?’

‘Yeah. Now shut up while I watch the match.’

A moment later his phone rings. It’s Anderson. Cursing, he hurries upstairs and takes the call on the balcony.

‘Guv’nor. Not dining this evening?’

‘Yes I am. And unfortunately I’m dining with Frank Maguire.’

Vos stifles a laugh. ‘His treat, I hope.’

‘Never mind about that. I think the fucking eejit’s just made a pass at me.’

‘Then it’s going well.’

‘The things I do for Northumbria Police, Theo. But now it’s your turn. You know we were talking about Jack Peel’s replacement as middleman in the drugs deal? Well I know who it is.’

‘Al Blaylock?’ Vos says.

There’s a pause. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because it makes sense. There are plenty of monkeys in this city, but only one organ grinder.’

‘So you made me sit through a meal with Frank Maguire and you already knew?’

‘I just made an educated guess, guv’nor. It was your sacrifice that confirmed it.’

‘You owe me one, Theo Vos,’ Anderson says.

‘I shall carve your name with pride, Superintendent Anderson,’ Vos says.

Al Blaylock’s office is on the third floor of a building on Grey Street, the great Edwardian thoroughfare that sweeps down from the city centre to the Quayside. The legend on his window, inscribed in gold paint, reads
BLAYLOCK & ASSOCIATES, PARTNERS IN LAW
– but this is misleading, as Blaylock is the only associate, and the only law he practises with any regularity involves protecting the city’s criminal fraternity from police investigations. He has a secretary, however, and it is she who informs Vos that her boss has not shown up to the office this morning and nor has he called to explain where he is – which is strange, because he had two important meetings with clients in the diary.

Instead Vos drives to Blaylock’s house, a large stucco residence overlooking the Town Moor. The door is opened by his wife, who says she hasn’t seen her husband for six months, not since she caught him screwing a topless croupier at one of Jack Peel’s casinos, and furthermore she doesn’t give a damn where he is. Pressed on the subject, Janet Blaylock says she thinks he might be renting a flat on the Quayside. Pressed further, she gives him the address.

It’s a modern block with a curved roof, near to the Crown Court. According to the names on the secure intercom console, Blaylock’s flat is on the top floor, although there is no answer when Vos presses the button. He waits until one of the residents comes out, then slips into the building and takes the stairs. Blaylock’s door is one of four on a curved hallway and when Vos goes to knock, it swings open.

The flat is like something out of a Sunday supplement, with low Scandinavian furniture made of leather and stainless steel and a view over the river. Vos goes into the bedroom, which is dominated by a vast sleigh bed with black satin sheets. There is a walk-in wardrobe containing a dozen or so suits and a rack of shoes, but the drawers are open and there are clothes and underwear lying discarded on the floor.

Blaylock is long gone, and it looks like he left in a hurry.

It is five months since Vos last drove through the gates of Jack Peel’s mansion; the beech hedges that grow on top of the perimeter wall have turned golden brown and the birch trees lining the driveway have shed their leaves. Somewhere in the grounds a bonfire is burning; the rich, pungent smoke hangs at knee height above the lawn and swirls around the paddock, where a rider is expertly guiding a horse around a series of low jumps in the distance. On the stone-flagged patio the whirlpool bath has been drained of water and covered with tarpaulin and the wrought-iron outdoor chairs are tipped up against the table.

The summer, Vos thinks, is well and truly over.

He stops the car on the driveway and gets out. The paddock is fifty yards away across thick, wet grass. It is surrounded by a wooden, barred fence, and at the far side is a small stables complex. The horse and rider are still going through their paces on the jumps and Vos, who knows nothing about equestrian sport and cares even less, cannot help be impressed by the agility of the horse and the dexterity of the rider.

After a few moments the horse and rider approach the fence. Melody Peel glares down at Vos from the saddle. She is wearing a protective helmet and her hair hangs in a fat, milky plait over her left shoulder.

‘You’re looking good out there, Melody,’ Vos says. ‘Keep it up and you could win gold at the next Olympics.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to see Kimnai Su. Is she in?’

‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

‘How should I know?’

‘She didn’t tell you?’

A bitter smile. ‘Maybe she did; I don’t understand a fucking word she says.’

‘Has she gone to see Al Blaylock?’

‘Like I said, I don’t know where she’s gone and I don’t really care.’

‘Al’s gone missing,’ Vos says. ‘I need to find him. Do
you
know where he is?’

‘Why? So you can kill him too?’

Vos shakes his head. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Melody?’

‘Al says there’s going to be an investigation. He says they’re going to hang you out to dry for what you did.’

‘There
was
an investigation,’ Vos says. ‘And I was cleared. So here I am. And I’m very sorry for your loss, but you need to face up to the facts. Your dad fell. People keep saying that I pushed him, but I didn’t.’

‘Fuck you.’

She pulls the reins and the horse’s head moves, but Vos reaches across and grabs the bridle.