Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

‘No.’

‘So that was a waste of good gear,’ Brunnie added.

The youth suddenly looked unwell. He was dressed in a tee shirt and jeans, and was barefoot. ‘And we don’t even have a search warrant, but we can get one.’

‘We want information,’ Ainsclough said, ‘about a fella who has a room here, Michael Dalkeith.’

‘Irish Mickey? He’s not in.’

‘We know.’ Ainsclough spoke quietly. ‘In fact, we’d be very, very surprised if you said that he was here. When did you last see him?’

‘A week ago. . ten days. . something like that, walked out when the snow was on the ground. He hasn’t come back yet.’

‘You haven’t reported him as a mis per?’

‘Mis per?’

‘Missing person.’

‘No.’ The youth shrugged. ‘That’s Irish Mickey, he goes away for days at a time and he’s got family in Palmers Green or someplace, so he told us once. . and he stays out all night earning money.’

‘He’s on the dole. Unemployed.’

‘You try surviving on the dole. You can’t do it. Not in London anyway. You got to do a little bobbin’ and weavin’. . a little duckin’ and divin’ if you want to keep your old tin and lead above the wet stuff.’

‘Is that right?’

‘It’s how it is.’

‘Are you duckin’ and divin’? Is your head above water?’

Again the youth shrugged. ‘I don’t go stealin’, I’m not a crook. I got a job washing up at the Chinese food joint.’

‘Washing dishes?’

‘They pay cash and I get a meal at the beginning of each shift, keeps me alive.’

‘And the DSS don’t know about it?’

‘Nope. . I mean, do me a favour, the nice thing about those DSS snoopers is that they only snoop during office hours.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘So they say. . and I take a different route to work each evening and a different route home. There’s a whole hidden army working at night for cash; you need to moonlight. Irish Mickey was like that, he’d be away for a day or two, come back with hard cash in his pocket; more than I could earn but we never asked questions. So he keeps a drum here but his Giro goes to another address. We don’t get much post.’

‘Which is his room?’

The youth pointed to the window beside the front door. ‘That’s his, downstairs front. Nobody wants a front room, too noisy. . got noise from the street and you’ve got noise from the railway, so the last person in the house gets the downstairs front, the second last gets the upstairs front. Me, I got the back room.’

‘So, Mickey Dalkeith was the last lodger to move in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which was when?’

‘About a year ago. It’s a fairly settled drum. I’ve been here two years, I’m comfortable. There are better, there are worse, but I’m happy. Queen’s Park tube and railway station is at the end of the street and it’s not too far to walk to work.’

‘We need to look inside Mickey’s room.’

‘Why?’

Ainsclough pushed the door open, and as the youth stumbled backwards, he said, ‘Let’s just say we’re interested and let’s just say a warrant won’t be needed.’ Ainsclough and Brunnie entered the house and instantly fought for breath, the heavy malodorous air within smelling, it seemed, of a combination of damp and kitchen smells, both compounded by a lack of sufficient ventilation.

‘Don’t you open windows in this house?’ Brunnie complained.

‘You get used to it.’ The youth sank back against the wall, merging with the gloom.

Ainsclough tried to open the door to Michael Dalkeith’s room and found it secured by a barrel lock, but only loosely so. He shoved the door and it opened easily. He turned to the youth. ‘Thanks for your help. So sling it, unless you want us to search your room as well.’ The youth quickly ‘slung it’, climbing the stairs hurriedly and silently. The officers stepped into the darkness that was Michael Dalkeith’s room.

The body on the bed was that of a young female. Naked. Eyes open, arms and legs raised in rigor. Body fluid had drained from the eye sockets and had solidified at the side of her head. She was Northern European and had short blonde hair. She was thin and wasted in terms of her appearance. She was bruised about the throat.

Ainsclough and Brunnie glanced at each other.

‘So what do you think?’ Ainsclough reached for his mobile phone. ‘Strangled her and then went for a walk in the snow? Murder/suicide. . the alternative being a life stretch?’

‘Possibly,’ Brunnie murmured. ‘Certainly looks that way. We’ll need to speak to everyone in the house. I’ll round them up.’

Ainsclough nodded. ‘I’ll ask for assistance. .’

Brunnie walked out of the room as Ainsclough requested the attendance of a senior officer, SOCO, pathologist and a vehicle to ‘remove persons to custody’. He went up the stairs, which creaked under his weight, and knocked on the bedroom door at the back of the house, opening it before the occupant could ask him to enter. The youth stood in the middle of the floor looking lost and helpless. ‘Who else is in the house?’ Brunnie demanded.

‘Just the women. Front room.’

‘What about the top floor?’

‘Empty. Three rooms up there but the landlord doesn’t let them out. Go and look if you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh, I will, don’t worry. A landlord that doesn’t let rooms out. .’

‘Used for storage. He’s got other properties. The upstairs rooms are full of furniture and stuff.’

‘I see. Well, get some clothes on and some shoes, you’re going for a ride.’

‘I’m working this evening.’

‘Possibly. Possibly not. Get ready, and go and wait in the kitchen. So, the two women share one room?’

‘Yes, but that’s their business. . if you see what I mean.’

‘So what about the girl, the girl in the front downstairs room?’

‘Oh, her?’

‘Yes, her.’

‘She doesn’t really live here. . she stays now and again. Mickey brought her home a few weeks ago. She comes and goes. Didn’t know she was in the house to be honest.’

‘What do you know about her?’

‘Not a lot. Welsh girl. . Gaynor. . she’s dead young, teenage runaway.’

‘You’re right there. . about her being dead young. Now, get some more clothes on and go to the kitchen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the house is now a crime scene and we’re going to search it.’

‘Search. .’ The youth’s face paled even further.

‘Why? You got something we might be interested in?’

‘Just a bit of blow, sir.’

‘Thought you’d flushed it.’

‘That was those two women. Me, I took a chance.’

‘How much have you got?’

‘Just enough for two spliffs, sir.’

‘So not supplying?’

‘Oh. . no. . no, sir.’

‘So why are you shaking like a leaf?’

‘I’m under a two year suspended sentence. . for possession. So any conviction, even a minor one, will have me in the big house for two years.’

Brunnie paused. ‘OK, I’m going to talk to those two women you mentioned. Better flush what you’ve got, but mind our dogs can detect the slightest, and I mean the slightest, trace. . so for this I want cooperation.’

‘Yes, sir. . about what?’

‘The murder of the Welsh runaway.’

The youth made a strangled cry, ‘Murder! I saw nothing.’

‘You’ll have seen something. . you’ll know something. . so flush it and get down below.’

Brunnie walked along the landing and knocked on the door of the upstairs front room.

Five minutes later the three tenants of the house were mustered in the kitchen, which had newspapers for floor covering and a pile of unwashed plates and pans in the sink. It seemed to be the rule that if you wanted to cook a meal in the house, you first had to wash whatever it was you might need, and upon cooking and eating said meal, you left anything you had used to be washed by the next hungry tenant. The youth gave his name as William ‘Billy’ Kemp. The larger of the two women, who wore jeans and boots, gave her name as Sonya Clements, and the slighter of the two, who wore an ankle-length dress and heels, gave her name as Josie Pinder. They said they were ‘girlfriends’.