37

The taxi driver is a fucking idiot. Knows nothing. He can remember picking them up and dropping them off, but it seems like he’s the only person in the world who drives with his eyes shut. He’s obviously bullshitting. Fisher struggles to keep his patience in check. The guy knows that a serious crime has happened, that it’s to do with the underworld. He’s keeping his mouth shut, in case he says anything that gets him called as a witness. Nobody wants to be seen going into court to act as a witness against gangland people. Fear of reprisals. People keep their mouths shut even when they might hold the key to a case.

Chances are the taxi driver didn’t see anything. Pros like these gunmen wouldn’t have done anything that might draw the attention of the taxi driver and his cab’s occupants, but still, you hope. One interesting thing he does say – and even that’s largely by accident – is that the young couple seemed very much a couple. It hadn’t occurred to the driver that they were anything else. They were close. They were together. They didn’t seem, Fisher gleans from the conversation, like the sort of couple who would break apart at the front door. Seems like Cope had found herself a little playmate, someone more energetic than her usual decrepit partner. The other thing the driver says was that, as expected, the older guy looked pretty smashed. Didn’t look like he could stand up by himself. A few pieces of ammo to throw at Cope.

The plod who had been looking after Cope comes upstairs to see him. She knows that Fisher is in a monstrous mood with her, but that’s frequent and expected. She’s convinced she has done nothing wrong, and she’s sure that she now has the ammunition to prove it.

‘Zara Cope called the station, looking for me,’ she says, just a little smugly. ‘Wanted me to know the new address she’s taken. Little flat somewhere, away from the scene. Called me up without prompting.’

‘No, she didn’t,’ Fisher’s saying as the plod passes a piece of paper across the table with the address on it.

‘Excuse me?’

‘She was prompted.’

Another visit to her. This time to find out about her little bit on the side. Who the hell was he? She’s opening the door of her flat. Minimal make-up. Hair tied back. Simple, casual outfit. Very pretty. But scum. Total scum.

‘Nice to see you, Miss Cope. How are you feeling?’ Fisher’s asking. He hopes she can spot how little he really cares. She’s smart. She will.

‘About as well as can be expected. Would you like to come in?’

‘Please.’

Small flat. Basic furnishings. It looks, and feels, short-term. He’s found a place to sit down and he’s making himself at home. No need to wait to be invited.

‘I want to ask you some questions about the young man you took home with you. I want you to tell me who he is and where I can find him, and I don’t want you to lie to me.’ He says it sternly, but matter-of-fact. He’s not looking for a screaming match here. He’s giving her a chance to be straight with him for once. Fisher can’t help but feel that he’s showing more generosity than her behaviour has earned.

‘I don’t . . . I don’t know what you mean,’ she’s saying, and she’s sitting opposite him in the cramped living room. But she already looks rattled, and she knows it.

‘I mean that you lied to me about your relationship with this man. I mean that you know who he is. I mean that I’m fed up of you thinking you can string me along. Do you understand how that makes you look, in the light of what’s happened?’

This time she really does want to cry. It won’t do her any good, though. Quite the reverse, with this hard bastard. Don’t give away more than you absolutely have to.

‘You’ve obviously got the wrong end of the stick somewhere, Mr Fisher.’

‘DI Fisher, and I know what I’ve caught a hold of. A liar. You and this young man were practically inside each other’s underwear at the nightclub. You went out to the taxi. You didn’t just bump into him because he was leaving at the same time you were. You met him in the club, you got close, you invited him home. Hey, I’m not judging you and your old man – whatever you two got up to with consenting adults in your own home is your business – but I hardly . . .’

‘How dare you,’ she’s shouting. ‘How dare you speak about Lewis that way. Whatever we got up to? You cheap and nasty bastard.’

Okay, that went too far. Trying to avoid a screaming match, but letting your temper get the better of you. It happens. Now rebuild the bridge and try again.

‘Okay,’ he’s saying to her now, trying to find a tone that sounds contrite. ‘I accept that I went too far. It was wrong of me to insult Lewis that way. But you were not honest to me about your relationship with that young man, when we spoke at the station. I’ve come here to ask you to be honest with me. I don’t think it’s necessary for us to do this at the station, because I think we can find the right answers without taking it that far. What d’you say? I want you to start again, and tell me everything you can about that young man.’

She’s nodding her head. All right, he doesn’t know much, just that they were heavy in the club. You can still talk your way out of this one. ‘He was just some guy in the club,’ she’s saying, talking quietly. ‘He came over and we started dancing. He was nice. He was cute. We got close. I’d had a lot to drink. We’d been drinking at the house before we left; I had a few more at the club. I don’t . . . I remember leaving. Lewis was really drunk. He helped get Lewis out to the front. I hailed a taxi. This guy got in with us. I didn’t invite him, he was just imposing himself. We went back to the house. At the front door I told the guy it wasn’t going any further. That was it. I had to persuade him. He didn’t like it. He thought he was on a promise. That was it.’

Still lying. Still fucking lying. What is it with this girl? She doesn’t seem stupid, but maybe you’re misjudging her. Maybe it’s your fault, Michael Andrew Fisher. Maybe you overestimated her from the start. Just another dumb slut. Fine, time to shoot her down. He’s leaning back in his chair, going for the stern and disapproving look that he does so well.

‘So tell me what his name is.’

She’s sighing, putting her head in her hands. ‘I don’t remember. I really don’t. I think it was Sean. It was something like that. Sean. I don’t remember. I was drunk. He said it in the club. It was loud, and I didn’t really care.’

She really is something else. You can see why so many men fall for her, you really can. There’s something rather sexy about devious women; it’s what makes them so dangerous.

‘You dance with this guy for hours. He goes home with you. He thinks he’s getting some action. You turn him away at the door. You don’t even know his name.’

‘I don’t,’ she’s saying, carefully allowing a little defiance to return to her voice.

‘Thing is, I have witnesses saying you and this young man were still acting very much like a couple after you left the club. That you and he were still close.’ Okay, that’s exaggerating what the taxi driver said, but let’s see how she reacts.

‘Well, your witnesses are liars. I’m not sure I spoke a word to him from the time we left the club to the time I told him to go home.’

Last throw of the dice. You don’t have enough to take her in anyway. You don’t even know why she’s lying to you. It looks like she might have known what was going to happen, maybe was even involved. No evidence. You might have visited her too early.

‘You say you got Winter into the house by yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘You got him up the stairs by yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Along the corridor and into the bedroom by yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘And yet when he left the club he could hardly stand up. I happen to know that when he reached the house he could hardly stand up.’

‘He could stand up. It wasn’t easy, I never said that, but I got him to the bed by myself.’ Defiance, real and strong.

Leave her. Just leave her. You don’t have enough. Not yet. She knows that she’s under pressure, though, and you know that she’s likely to make a mistake because of that pressure. As soon as she does, you’ll be there.

Back to the station. Get a couple of plods up. Going to need a little bit of help finding this guy. Nobody seems to know who he is. Need a couple more bodies to get out on the street and see what we can find. Start by interviewing people at the club. Pick a couple of plods. Bollocks to who-ever’s due to be on duty tonight. Bollocks to whoever the desk sergeant recommends. You need people you can trust. Get a couple of good coppers. Young, willing to learn to do things the right way.

PC Matheson and PC Higgins standing in front of his desk. They both look like kids, but that seems to be the way of it. Both good young coppers. Both coppers who need to be taken in the right direction. Fisher knows Matheson is the better of the two. He knows that he needs to learn a few good lessons, having probably picked up a multitude of bad ones from that dickhead Greig. He’s heard good things about Higgins. Conscientious, decent, a proper copper. It would be nice to have a couple of plods that he can rely on. Call for them whenever he needs the help, and know that they can be trusted. Push them up the ladder.

‘Okay, you two; I want your help finding a man in connection with the Winter murder. This is the fellow we’re looking for,’ he’s saying and passing a picture across the desk.

He gives them their instructions. Go to the club, question people. If this guy’s been there before, then someone might just recognize him. They’re both nodding along, happy to be involved in something on this scale. They know it’s an opportunity for them. He tells them they can go now. Matheson turns and walks out of the office with his copy of the picture taken from the CCTV. Higgins stays. He looks nervous.

‘Something the matter?’ Fisher asks him.

‘I was given a tip-off, sir, and I don’t know if it relates to this case or not. It might, it might not. I certainly think it’s worth passing on.’

‘Okay, go on.’

‘Shug Francis.’

Fisher pauses. He’s sitting in his chair, thinking about the name that’s just been thrown at him. He knows who Shug is. Owns a chain of garages. Everyone knows that he moves stolen cars and parts through his garages. He’s a crook, but the cost of proving it wouldn’t be worth the reward. Tame stuff.

‘Shug Francis?’

‘I was told,’ Higgins is saying nervously, ‘that he was moving up in the world. I was told by a contact that he was worth keeping an eye on. At the time I wasn’t sure exactly what it was all about, but then this happens. I think, maybe, I was tipped off because people on the street suspected this might happen. I wouldn’t trust my contact much – lowlife, but still.’

Fisher is nodding. The boy might be onto something. Shug wants to move into drugs, so he needs to get rid of people like Winter and take over their patch. It’s possible. Not the most likely cause, but worth remembering. ‘You did right to tell me.’