Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

‘In the garden.’ She spoke with clear difficulty. Even from the distance he stood from her, he could smell her searing breath. ‘Behind the shed.’

Vicary walked to the kitchen and out into the back garden. He looked behind the garden shed and found a metal bucket covered with a generous amount of sacking. Neither the bucket, which was shiny and new, nor the sacking, which was old and worn, had he seen before. He took the sacking from the bucket and exposed three more bottles of gin contained within the bucket. He opened each bottle, and holding it away from him and with his head turned from it, lest he got a whiff which he would find difficulty in resisting, he emptied the contents on to the ground. Holding the bottles as far from him as he could, he took them into the kitchen and rinsed each one clear of any trace of alcohol. He then placed them in a plastic bin liner, and went back outside and picked up the screw tops from each bottle, and those too he rinsed and put in the bin liner, which he secured with a firm knot at the top.

He stood silently in the kitchen wondering if he should make his wife a cup of strong black coffee, but he decided against it. He said not a word, and walked out of the house carrying the bin liner with him, which he would place in the first waste bin he came across.

Cold caring.

DC Frank Brunnie walked into the front entrance of the Westminster Hospital and enquired at the reception desk as to the whereabouts of patient J.J. Dunwoodie. Following the directions given, he took the stairs, rather than the ease of the lift, to the given floor, and walked along the corridor, which had a light-fawn coloured floor and cream-painted walls, busy nurses scurrying about and aloof doctors who moved more leisurely, but who were equally serious in their attitude. It had that distinct smell which Brunnie could never analyse. It smelt. . just like a hospital. He saw a police constable sitting on a chair outside a private room. The constable stood defensively as Brunnie approached him. ‘Help you, sir?’ he asked coldly.

‘Alright — ’ Brunnie showed the constable his ID — ‘I’m in the club.’

‘Oh. . sorry, sir, didn’t recognize you.’ He was young, early twenties Brunnie guessed.

‘No worries. What happened?’

‘Don’t know a right lot, sir.’ The constable spoke with a distinct Lancashire accent; a young man taking the opportunity through his employment to live in London for a few years, as do many teachers and other public and civil servants, before returning to the provinces and their roots, where housing is affordable. ‘I am told not to allow anyone in except hospital staff and the interested officer, sir.’

‘Who is?’

‘DC Meadows, Kilburn nick, sir.’

‘I see. DC Meadows. .’ Brunnie committed the name and workplace to memory, noting that he knew a Meadows once — the name would be easy to remember because of it. ‘I’ll take a drive over to Kilburn.’ He nodded to the door. ‘How is he. . the patient?’

‘Unconscious, sir, all wired up like I don’t know what. I think he was worked over and left for dead, so I heard, but I wasn’t told that. I’m just here to make sure no one goes in apart from those what should go in, those what has a right to go in, sir.’

‘Someone wanted him dead?’

‘Sounds like, sir.’

‘He must be in a bad way.’

‘Not moving. . and I heard one of the doctors say that it was a miracle he was still alive and that he must have a right strong will to live, but he’s a long way to go before he’s out of danger.’

‘That was said?’

‘Yes, sir, the doctor was explaining the situation to the nursing team and I was standing there in the background, like, but I heard him say that. This must be more than a random attack in the street, otherwise I would not be here to protect him, would I?’

‘Probably not. DC Meadows of Kilburn nick, you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Harry Vicary easily found the call centre. It still occupied the same premises as it did when Rosemary Halkier was employed therein, and still had the same business name. He pushed open the glass front door of the building and walked across deep carpeting to the reception desk. The receptionist’s smile was broad, with teeth that could sell toothpaste, and, like an air hostess who does not want to be flying again so soon, utterly disingenuous. She wore loud scarlet lipstick and had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Police.’ Vicary showed the young woman his ID. The reception area smelled powerfully of air freshener and polish, so much so that Vicary felt overwhelmed. The absence of even a plant in a pot did not surprise him.

‘Oh. .’

‘I would like to talk to a senior person. . the manager. . the personnel officer, someone who can tell me about staff here, long-serving staff.’

‘Yes, sir, please take a seat.’ The woman picked up a brown-coloured phone off her desk, pressed four numbers and relayed Vicary’s request, and then said, ‘Yes, alright. I will.’ She smiled another broad ‘I’m only doing this job for the money’ smile at Vicary and said, ‘Mr Perkins will see you directly, sir.’

Vicary, his hat resting upon his crossed knees, inclined his head in thanks. He and the woman then proceeded to sit in an awkward silence, and Vicary sensed from the young woman’s embarrassment that it was clear she had nothing to do all day but receive visitors and answer the telephone, with not even a colleague or two to talk with. Being photogenically attractive clearly had its downside. Moments of awkward silence elapsed and then the door at the side of the reception area was opened, and a short man in a sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers stood in the doorway. Vicary thought him to be mid-thirties. He had a businesslike manner about him, and upon his entrance the receptionist lowered her head slightly as if making a careful study of her desktop. She was evidently intimidated by him and perhaps, Vicary pondered, the reception area, being out of the way, was the safest place for her.

‘Police?’ The man was clean-shaven with piercing eyes.

Vicary stood, ‘Yes, Detective Inspector Vicary, New Scotland Yard.’

‘Scotland Yard? Must be serious.’

‘Murder and Serious Crime Squad.’ Vicary showed Perkins his ID. ‘Doesn’t get more serious.’

‘How can we help you, sir?’

‘I need information about your staff.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Rosemary Halkier.’

‘Halkier. . Halkier. . I confess that name doesn’t ring any bells but I have only been here for six weeks; I was headhunted from Thames Bridges.’

‘Thames Bridges?’

‘Oh. . a rival company.’

‘I see, well you won’t know her, she used to work here but that was about ten years ago.’

‘Ten years!’ Perkins gasped. ‘We might have some documentation. We have a few long-staying staff but most go after a few months. The only person who is likely to be able to help you is Mrs Maas, she deals with our personnel, and she’s been here for a long time.’

‘She sounds ideal. Mrs Mars, like the planet?’

‘Pronounced the same but not spelled the same.’ Perkins corrected Vicary on the spelling of the lady’s name. ‘I’ll take you to her.’

Perkins led Vicary up a narrow stairway of unsurfaced breeze-block walls. On the first floor the workers sat in small cubicles, each isolated from the other, each with a headset rather than a hand-held phone, each in front of a computer screen and keyboard. Perkins walked quietly by. With working conditions like this, Vicary thought, the call centre could aptly be described as a modern day sweatshop. Perkins led Vicary across the open-plan area of the call centre operations room, humming with voices, and opened a door at the far end, which led on to an area of individual offices. He walked to an office on the left-hand side, tapped once on the door and opened it. ‘Mrs Maas, this is a Mr Vicary. .’