Val Mcdermid - Blue Genes

‘You can talk,’ I muttered. Della wore a white shirt with the collar turned up and the buttons undone almost as far as her navel. The shirt tucked into a black lycra skirt a little wider than the average weightlifter’s belt. Her legs were bare, her feet sensibly shod in flat-soled pumps. From her vantage point washing glasses behind the bar, no one would see more than the tarty top half and immediately dismiss her. With her hair loose and enough make-up to change the shape of eyes and mouth, Lovell was never going to recognize a woman DCI who might have been pointed out to him a couple of times across a crowded canteen. ‘Did you manage to pick up anything on the grapevine about Lovell?’ I asked.

She pulled a face. ‘Not a lot. I didn’t want word getting back to him that I was interested. I heard his wife divorced him because he was too handy with his fists, but that’s hardly exceptional in the Job. What I did find out, though, was that he claims to have a couple of weeks’ time-share in a villa in Lanzarote. Very tasteful property up in the hills, swimming pool, terraced garden, half a dozen en suite bedrooms. A little bit of poking around and the calling in of a couple of favours reveals that the holding company that owns the villa is in turn wholly owned by Peter Lovell. Since the property’s worth the thick end of quarter of a million, it does raise one or two questions about DI Lovell’s finances.’

‘Nice one, Della,’ I said.

‘That’s not quite the end of it,’ she said as we walked up to the waiting car. ‘An old school friend of mine is married to a chap who manages one of the vineyards there, so I gave her a call. Her husband knows Lovell. Clothes by Versace, car by Ferrari, part owner of a restaurant, a bar and two discos in Puerto del Carmen,’ she said, her voice tight with anger.

‘Obviously not the kind of life style one could sustain on a police pension.’

‘Quite. And about bloody time his gravy train hit the buffers. Let’s go and make it happen.’

The plan was simple enough. Della would be inside the club watching what was going down. Three of her most trusted lieutenants would be hidden within yards of the main bar where the meeting was scheduled for — two in the ladies’ loo, one behind the DJ’s setup. Another four hand-picked officers would be stationed outside the club, listening to the transmission from my radio mike. When they had enough on tape to hang Lovell out to dry, they would move in and relieve him of his liberty. A classic sting.

Considering Tony had only had eight hours to sort everything out, he’d come up with a credible cover story for me. I was the keyboard player in a new all-female band. We’d allegedly got together in Germany and we’d been touring in Europe, so successfully that we already had a recording contract with a small indie label in Hamburg. But we wanted more, so we’d come back to Britain to make a full-frontal assault on the music scene in a bid to get a major label contract. Because we were already fairly established, we didn’t want to piss around. We wanted promotion, we wanted exposure. We wanted it fast and we wanted it top quality. And we’d told Tony Tambo we wanted to talk to the top man because we weren’t going to waste time or money. Now I just had to pray that Lovell would give us enough to pull him on, or I was going to owe so many favours the only solution would be to leave town.

Thinking of favours reminded me of my grave robbers. ‘Did you turn over Sell Phones?’ I asked.

Della nodded. ‘We sent a team in this morning. The shop was clean, but one of my bright boys noticed there was a trap door for a cellar. And lo and behold, there was a phone room down below.’

‘A phone room?’

Della raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean I’ve finally found a scam you haven’t heard about?’

‘Try me.’

‘OK. There’s a little electronic box you can buy that allows you to eavesdrop on mobile phone calls. What it also tells you is the phone number of the mobile phone that’s being used, and its electronic code number. With that information, you can reprogram the silicon chip in a stolen phone and turn it into a clone of a legitimate phone. You can then use that phone to call all over the world until the cellphone company cottons on and cuts you off. Normally, you can get a few hours’ worth of calls, but if you’re making international calls, sometimes they cut you off within the hour. So if you’re cloning phones, you set aside a room with a dozen or so cloned phones in it, and hire the room out for, say, £20 per person per hour, and as soon as one phone gets cut off, the hirer just moves on to the next phone on the table. The hirer gets their calls dirt cheap and untraceable. And the crook’s got virtually no outlay once they’ve got the original scanner and stolen phones.’

‘And you found one of these at Sell Phones?’

‘We did.’

‘So I’m flavour of the month?’

‘Let’s see how tonight goes down.’

At ten past eight, Della and I descended into the club via the fire escape, as I’d prearranged with Tony. He was waiting for us, nervously toking on his Camel. ‘Your friends got here,’ he said, his unease and resentment obvious.

‘Where are we going to do this?’ I asked.

Tony pointed to a small circular table in the far corner, surrounded on three sides by a banquette. ‘That’s my table, everybody knows that. Anywhere else and he’s going to be even more suspicious than he is already.’

I followed him across the room while Della made for the bar and the dirty glasses stacked ready for her. The lights were up, stripping Manassas bare of any pretensions to glamour or cool. In the harsh light, the carpet looked stained and tacky, the furnishings cheap and chipped, the colours garish and grotesque. It was like seeing a torch singer in the harsh dressing-room lights before she’s applied her stage make-up. The air smelled of stale sweat, smoke and spilled drink overlaid with a chemically floral fragrance that caught the throat like the rasp of cheap spirit.

Tony gestured for me to precede him into the booth. I shook my head. There was no way I was going to be sandwiched between him and Lovell. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that I was about to become the victim of a classic double-cross, and if Tony Tambo had decided to hitch his wagon to the rising star rather than the comet starting to dip below the horizon, I wasn’t about to make it any easier for him. ‘You go in first,’ I told him.

He scowled and muttered under his breath, but he did what he was told, slipping over upholstery cloth made smooth by hundreds of sliding buttocks. I perched right on the end of the seat, so Lovell wasn’t going to be able to corner me without making a big issue of it. Tony pulled the heavy glass ashtray towards him. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said.

‘So do I. Or we’re all up shit creek.’

‘I fuckin’ hate you women with the smart mouths, acting like you’ve got balls when all you’ve got is bullshit,’ he said bitterly, crushing out the remains of the cigarette with the sort of venom most people reserve for ex-lovers.

‘You think I like hanging out with gangstas? Get real, Tony. It’ll all be over soon, anyway.’

He snorted. ‘So you say. Me, I think this’ll be rumbling round for a long while yet.’ He leaned forward and shouted in Della’s direction. ‘Hey, you!’ Della looked up from the glass she was polishing. ‘Do something useful and bring me a fuckin’ big Southern Comfort and lemonade.’

Della’s look would have shrivelled Priapus, but Tony was too tense to care. ‘You want the usual, Kate?’ she asked me. I nodded.

The door at the far end of the club crashed open with the force that only a boot can produce. All three of us swung round, startled. In the doorway stood a tall, thin man dressed in the kind of warm-up suit top tennis players wear when arriving at Wimbledon. He was flanked by two men who could have played line backer in an American football team without bothering with the body padding. Their shoulders were so wide they’d have had to enter my house sideways. They looked like they were built, not born, complete with suits cut so boxy they could have been constructed out of Lego.