Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

Yewdall and Kemp returned to the house and sat in the kitchen after putting large quantities of toothpaste into their mouths as they had planned. They waited in silence. At twenty-five past the hour a key was heard turning in the lock of the front door; heavy footfall tramped down the hallway and the kitchen door was pushed open. A tall, well-built, muscular man stood in the doorway. He looked at Yewdall and then at Kemp and said, ‘Come on.’

They rose and followed him out of the house. In the road, double-parked, was a black Mercedes with the rear door opened. Without a word being said, Kemp and Yewdall slid into the back seat. The door was closed behind them. Yewdall tried to open her door but couldn’t. The child locks had been put on; a useful piece of kit for parents and felons alike. The man who had collected them sat in the front passenger seat, and the driver started the car and pulled away.

Yewdall sat in silence but took careful note of the route. They drove north-west out of London, past the wealthy, well-set suburbs, out to Hemel Hempstead, and then to a village Yewdall noticed was called Water End.

Water End.

Water End.

Water End.

She committed the name to memory.

The phone on Harry Vicary’s desk warbled twice. He picked it up leisurely. ‘Vicary,’ he said.

‘We have a problem. .’ the voice on the other end of the line said.

‘Who’s we?’

‘I’m Penny Yewdall’s handler.’

‘Yes.’

‘We got the DNA results from the cigarette butts — just been delivered.’

‘Sorry, you have lost me. . calm down. .’

‘Sorry, we fixed Penny up with a false ID — a home in Hanley in the Potteries; a retired officer from the Staffordshire force occupied the home address posing as her father.’

‘Yes.’

‘She was checked out by a couple of heavies who sat outside her “father’s” house in a car. . then they emptied the ashtray in the road.’

‘Ah. . hence the DNA results,’ Vicary observed, ‘I see now.’

‘Yes, they came back no trace, which was unusual, but not only that, the DNA is from four people not two. . and two of those four are female. .’

‘Oh no!’

‘Yes. . oh yes. . those two geezers must have picked up the cigarette ends from the ground, knowing we’d pick them up for DNA sampling. She’s been rumbled. From day one, she was rumbled as being a cop.’

‘Now they’re playing us. . taunting us. Where is she?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘You don’t know!’

‘Either down Piccadilly panhandling, or at the house in Kilburn. I’ll go to Piccadilly.’

‘OK, I’ll take a team to the house. I hope we’re in time.’

‘Praying might be better than hoping,’ the handler said, but by this time Vicary had slammed the handset down and was reaching for his hat and coat, and calling for assistance.

The driver threaded the Mercedes-Benz through the village of Water End and continued for a mile, Yewdall guessed, and then turned right, directly opposite a thatch-roofed, white-painted cottage with the date 1610 AD above the door, which caused Yewdall to smile inwardly — a four-hundred-year-old cottage, what better landmark? The metalled surface of the road eventually gave out to an unsurfaced road, liberally covered with gravel to provide some grip for car tyres, Yewdall assumed, and possibly to give warning of approaching vehicles. The track led shortly to a collection of farm buildings — a house, a barn, outbuildings — which formed an L-shape around the courtyard. Parked on the courtyard was a collection of vehicles. Yewdall noted a Rolls-Royce, mud bespattered, a Ford Granada, a Land Rover and a transit van. The driver halted the Mercedes beside the van and the occupant of the passenger seat got out and opened the rear door. He knelt down, and quickly and efficiently pulled Yewdall’s shoes from her feet. Then he addressed Billy Kemp, saying brusquely, ‘Your shoes too, matey.’ Kemp obediently leaned forward and began to tug at his laces. Once the hard-faced man was in possession of both pairs of shoes he said, ‘You’ll get these back when you need them. Right, out. .’

Yewdall and Billy Kemp slid one by one out of the car and stepped gingerly on to the cold, rough surface of the courtyard. The man then tossed their shoes into the rear of the Mercedes and shut the door. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘this way.’ He led them across the courtyard, walking comfortably in heavy working shoes, accompanied by the man who had driven the Mercedes. Yewdall and Kemp followed, walking with difficulty. Yewdall had not realized until then how disabling it can be to be relieved of one’s footwear.

Upon reaching the barn, the driver of the car opened a small wooden door set in the larger barn door and entered. The second man stood to one side and indicated for Yewdall and Kemp to go through the entrance. Then he followed them and shut the door behind him. The interior of the barn was illuminated by a single bulb set on the wall by the door, which left the greater part of the interior of the barn in darkness, but what it did illuminate was a man and a woman standing together, a youth on the floor dressed only in his underpants and whimpering with fear, a domestic bath filled with water, and various items of machinery.

‘Nice one, Rusher.’ The man smiled at the driver’s companion who had occupied the passenger seat during the journey from Kilburn to the farm. ‘Any trouble?’

‘No, boss, they was as good as gold, they was.’

‘Let’s hope they stay like that.’ The man addressed Yewdall, ‘You know who I am?’

‘No. .’ Yewdall whispered. ‘Not your name, sir. . but I was in your house. .’

The man smiled. ‘Course you do, you’re just being cagey. You know, don’t you lad?’

‘Mr Yates.’

‘And the lady. .’

‘Miss Bowling.’

‘Yes. . course, we’ve all met before, ain’t we?’

‘Y-yes. .’

‘Yes, course we have. We want you to watch this. . this. . this little toerag — ’ Yates pointed to the whimpering youth — ‘this thing. He couldn’t pull a bird he couldn’t, so what does he do? He half-inches off me to buy himself a brass for the night. Went down King’s Cross with bundles of smackers — nothing wrong with that you might say — but the problem is those smackers were not his, were they?’

‘I was going to put it back,’ the youth wailed.

‘Course you were. . course you were. . but that’s not the point. Now I don’t mind a thief, not until he half-inches from me. . then that is like well out of order. . it is really well out of order, and the bottle it must have taken to believe he could get away with it.’ Yates took a running kick at the youth who doubled up under the impact to his stomach. ‘That is just so out of order. . so out of order. . it ain’t exactly what you’d call polite. . not polite at all. . not respectful like, not to a man who took him off the street and gave him a drum and a job. Alright, Rusher, make this one quick. . you too Henry.’

Rusher and Henry — who had driven Yewdall and Kemp to the farm — advanced on the helpless youth and proceeded to kick him about the head and body, but particularly about the head. The youth very quickly became lifeless but continued to emit gurgling sounds, which after a period of less then five minutes, Yewdall estimated, ceased.

‘That it?’ Yates asked when Rusher and Henry stopped kicking.

‘Yeah. .’ Rusher showed no sign of being out of breath. He and Henry both gave the impression that they could have carried on kicking the youth for a further half hour before showing any sign of fatigue. ‘It’s done.’

‘OK.’ Yates looked down at the bloody, pulped face of the youth. During the assault, neither he nor Bowling had made any movement or made any facial expression that Yewdall had noticed, but rather, both had stood as calmly as if waiting for a bus. Detachment, she thought, was just not the word. ‘Give him a bath.’