Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

Gail Bowling smiled.

‘But the offer was made and it stands, and we make the same offer to you — turn Queen’s evidence. . and we’ll be making it to others in your little outfit. . Put Curtis Yates away, go into witness protection, start a new life in a new town somewhere north of the River Trent.’

‘North of the Trent!’ Gail Bowling sat back in her chair, seemingly amazed at the suggestion. ‘I am. . I have never lived anywhere but London. For me the world stops at High Barnet.’

‘Well. . elsewhere — Cornwall, Devon, if you like the beautiful south so much.’

‘You know what London is like, a collection of little villages — if I moved from Whitechapel to Notting Hill, I’d be just as far from my mates as if I did go north of the Trent.’

‘Not as safe though.’

‘Anyway. . thanks for the offer. But not interested.’

‘Well, think about it, a lot of people want to bring Curtis Yates down. . ourselves. . the Drug Squad. . Internal Revenue and if he falls-’

‘If!’

‘When he falls, a lot of folk will fall with him. The first two or three to squeal will be doing themselves a huge favour — something for you to think about.’

Gail Bowling stood. ‘Just see me to the door.’

Penny Yewdall slept late, then rose nervously, living the part as she had been advised. She left the room wrapped in her coat over her underwear, and padded barefoot along the hallway and into the kitchen. She found Josie Pinder sitting at the table in a short yellow towelling robe, smoking a thin roll-up cigarette and sipping a mug of milkless tea. Her right eye was black and was bruising to the orbit.

‘Nice shiner you got there, darlin’.’ Yewdall sat in a vacant chair at the table. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘Who punched you?’

‘No one punched me. It was a slap, and I don’t mean a push, I mean a slap — flat hand, side of my head, blood flows into the old eye socket; makes it look like a punch but it was a slap.’

‘That true?’ Yewdall sounded surprised, though she had seen the like many times before, usually upon women slapped by an angered partner, but once upon a man, and which had been inflicted by a powerfully built woman whom he had taken as his wife. ‘So who hit you?’

Josie Pinder drew on the cigarette and inclined her head upwards, indicating the rooms on the first floor. Specifically, Yewdall realized, the room she shared with Sonya Clements.

‘So why stay with her?’

Josie Pinder shrugged. ‘Why does anyone stay with someone who knocks them about? It was my fault. . a sense of loyalty — misplaced, I know — lack of self-respect. . it wears you down so you get to accept it as a way of life.’

‘You seem bright, like smart in the head, worth more than this.’

‘Oh, I am smart, Manchester University would you believe? But I was too working class and I was too close to home. I came from Salford, next door to Manchester. One bus from the Uni to the city centre, but only if it was raining, other times I’d walk it in twenty minutes. One bus to Salford, then I could walk home. If I had gone further away, like to Swansea or Canterbury, then I might have battled against the snobbery working-class students meet at university. . but I met her at a dykes’ club in Manchester — thought I’d met my soul mate, so I jacked in civil engineering and came south with ’er.’

‘Civil engineering?’

‘Yes, that was another thing, as well as the snobbery, as well as being little working-class Nellie from the Dellie among these privately educated types, I was penetrating a male bastion. It’s getting better but engineering is still a male preserve. . largely. . no matter what university. So this is the south — hardly what it’s cracked up to be. A room in a house like this and a black eye for touching her. She can touch me all she likes but I can’t touch her. I’m the female. . she does. . I am done to, I need to remember my place.’

‘I know what you mean. Still think that you should leave.’

‘Where?’ She dragged deeply on the cigarette. ‘Like where?’

‘Shelters. .? Back to Salford?’

‘Can’t go home — not like this. . half-starved, dressed in rags — such an admission of failure. If I go to a shelter I’ll get dragged back here.’

‘Who by?’

‘Yates. Who do you think?’ She lowered her voice and glanced around her. ‘These walls have ears. . seems like it anyway.’

‘You’re paranoid.’

‘Believe me, there must be hidden microphones. . Mary, is it?’

‘Penny.’

‘I’m Josie. That accent, Stoke-on-Trent?’

‘Yes, that way. . the Potteries.’

‘Been in London long?’

‘Just less than two years. Can’t go back for the same reason as you. . too proud to admit defeat.’

‘It traps you like that, London does. That’s what Gaynor’s problem was.’

‘Gaynor?’

‘The Welsh girl, she had the room you’re in. She was murdered in there. . remember. . we told you. .’

‘Yes. .’

‘Best not to ask too many questions, but like we said, she was brought home by the guy whose room it really was — brought her in off the street, just to keep her safe. He was going to send her home and he also wanted away from Yates. They both made the wrong sort of noises. . so follow my drift?’

‘Yes, I think so. Am I in danger?’

‘We all are — that’s why her majesty upstairs is on edge. She runs this house for Yates; she tells him everything that goes on here.’ Josie Pinder’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘She would have told him about Mickey Dalkeith and Gaynor planning to leave.’

‘Why didn’t he want them to leave?’ Yewdall paused. ‘Sorry, questions. . I shouldn’t ask. . you’re right. . that’s good advice.’

‘Best remember it, but Mickey was a long-time member of Yates’s firm, more than a gofer. . not real high up but high up enough to know where all the bodies is buried, makes him a liability. Yates had Gaynor strangled in Mickey Dalkeith’s room so Mickey would get fingered for it if he ran, but Mickey does not come home as expected. . turns out he went to sleep on Hampstead Heath instead. He told Sonya where he was going, and Yates and one of his heavies went after him. . followed a set of footprints on the off chance and came across Mickey Dalkeith lying there. So I was told, anyway.’

‘Asleep?’

‘In the snow. . hypothermia. . suicide, I reckon. He must have thought it was his only exit.’

‘I see.’

‘So the police came here investigating Mickey’s death and found Gaynor’s body, put two and two together — Mickey’s slain Gaynor and then topped himself by lying down in the snow rather than do life. So Yates is well pleased. He’s off the hook and Mickey’s not a threat to him no more. But things have not gone away for some reason I don’t know about. The filth is still sniffing around Yates and Bowling.’

‘Bowling?’

‘His female oppo. Watch her if you run into her; they say she’s worse than him.’

‘OK, thanks for the warning.’

‘So that’s why she’s on edge.’ Josie Pinder pointed to the room she shared with Sonya Clements. ‘She came back from the garage yesterday. She had to watch one of Yates’s heavies get a kicking.’

‘The garage?’

‘Yes, a lock-up really, under the railway arches, down the East End somewhere. I’ve never been there myself. He’d been lifted by the filth who took him in for a chat. He says he didn’t say anything to the filth but he got a kicking anyway as a warning. He was one of the heavies who iced Dunwoodie, so he can damage Yates if he wants to do so. You know, turn Queen’s evidence, go into witness protection. This guy, Clive someone, he swore blind he didn’t tell the filth anything, but he got a kicking anyway. . like just a gentle — a very, very gentle — reminder not to ever say anything. . not ever.’