A fatal drug, p.12
A Fatal Drug, page 12
There was another pause. This time Simon thought it went on slightly too long to be completely natural. Was there a power struggle? The man with the Brummie voice sounded as if he was going to win just from the tone of his voice. He wants to control this, Simon thought.
“As we are now partners I am pleased that you have shared this with me. It is always important to be open and honest about anything that could affect our operations. You must keep me informed as to the outcome of this small problem.”
The voice was smooth and well-modulated but there remained that underlying, almost tangible taste of menace. There was an evil undercurrent to everything this man said. The voice went on after a short pause.
“Now I must leave you. It has been a great pleasure to deal with someone whom I believe is honest and of the same frame of mind. You have my contact details, so when you are ready to accept the first products please call me. It is likely that you will initially speak with Joseph here, but I trust him implicitly.”
The room went quiet. Simon heard a door open and gently close. He silently stepped along the partition wall until he saw a tiny gap and he peeked through it. There was one man in the room and he was leaning over to close the window. It was the man Simon had seen at the bar drinking a vodka with ice topped up heavily with tonic. He’d seen him before but not very often. He’d thought then that it was a waste of good booze to drown it in so much quinine and ice. The man was sitting heavily, his shoulders drooped and his hands behind his head. Slowly he stood up and walked out.
Simon brushed at his trouser leg and swore. His mother said that a stain shouldn’t be rubbed or smeared: get it straight into the wash. He sat back at the table, poured himself another mug full of the wine and began to go through his shorthand notes, checking that he’d got a complete record of the exact words of the conversation he’d just heard. As he began to transcribe the notes he felt a cold stab in his back at the same time as a bead of sweat on his brow.
CHAPTER 20
Tom Freeman was nursing his fruit-flavoured fizzy sweet water and mulling over the relationship with his friends. He was fed up with meeting in pubs all the time. Dave and Simon were good guys but their lives revolved around opening hours and that was messing with his job. Simon had this stress problem – he couldn’t think of anything else that would affect his eyesight, but he’d not mentioned it and he wasn’t going to ask – and Dave was simply drinking too much. The old man could handle it but somewhere down the line it was going to hit him.
Tom was also feeling undervalued as a DJ. It was a lot more than simply spinning a few discs and watching people dance. Everything had to be planned and programmed: there was a natural cadence to every evening but nobody seemed to understand that. In general he was not feeling too good with what life was throwing at him.
Tom sat at a small leaded window in The Greyhound in Ashbourne Road. Simon was at the bar. Dave had asked them for the meeting and said that this pub was closer to his home, and it was quieter than The Dolphin and The Exeter Arms, both in the town centre, and both regular haunts of the police. He turned from the window and looked around him. The place was reasonably quiet – two elderly men sat at the bar and a young couple stared out of the window at the far end – so perhaps Dave had a point, but it was still not secret enough for Tom. If what Dave had said was right, that Simon had news to divulge, then a walk round Markeaton Park would have been better. There’d be no fear of eavesdropping when every word would be whipped away on the breeze.
“Hello,” said Simon, “is there anybody at home?” He’d sat down with his full pint, but Tom was faraway, staring out of the window
“I’m sorry, mate, I was just thinking about the mess we seem to be getting into. We’re not getting anywhere are we?”
The passageway door crashed open and Dave walked in. Simon’s open mouth closed again.
Dave looked to his left, saw his friends, and said: “My round then?”
“Not for me, I need to get back to work,” said Tom, followed immediately by Simon saying that he’d already got a full pint.
On the short walk from home to the pub Dave had been thinking hard about their investigation. How far had it got? What direction was it going in? It seemed to be stalled and he was going to have to suggest dropping it until DI Ludden came up with some new information.
The ex-convicts who were a discreet source of many of his crime stories had been telling him about the mystery surrounding the body found on the Savoy roof. So much for the police keeping it under wraps; the word on the street now was that the body might be linked to drugs.
Everything he was picking up was leading towards a brilliant front page lead. There was the body, of course, as soon as he was allowed to write about it, and now drug dealing. Derby was no sleepy backwater, but these were big city crimes and that meant big city newspaper stories.
Dave came back from the bar and, as he sat down, Simon plonked his notebook down, leaned forward and spoke quietly: the tone of his voice pitched so that Tom and Dave had to lean forward, concentrating, to hear him.
“I think I know who killed Bateman. Well, not who actually killed him, but who ordered it and why.”
“Wha–” Tom said, breaking the near silence. He was interrupted by Dave.
“That’s a hell of a statement Simon. You’d better explain.”
Simon leaned back with a smile across his face. He’d been feeling a bit of a junior partner, what with his health problem and the fact that he’d not been doing as much asking round as the other two. He’d been involved right at the start when the body appeared, damn it. He wasn’t going to let this go. Simon ostentatiously picked up his pint, took a long drink and watched the other two watching him.
“I think I’ve found out what’s going on, or at least some of it. You know I went to see that band at the Cat last night. Well, I overheard a conversation that might shed some light on things, plus, it scared me rigid.”
The three leaned towards each other over the round table and Simon kept his voice low. He’d rehearsed this on the walk to the pub so he was able to recount in detail exactly what was said.
Tom and Dave were rapt. Simon’s flat monotone only served to increase the excitement level. As he finished Dave put a hand out and tapped the notebook that Simon had produced to refresh his memory.
“Have you got notes of everything you’ve told us?” he asked.
“It was a sort of automatic reaction,” Simon replied. “I was already writing up the notes on the band and when they started talking next door my hand just took on a life of its own. I transcribed them afterwards as well.”
Dave picked up the notebook and scanned the hieroglyphics, nodding like a dog in a car back window as his stubby finger went down the page line by line. He’d been reading shorthand for years, even though it was sometimes difficult to decipher individual touches. He passed the notebook to Tom, tapping some marks on the final page.
“I can’t read that stuff,” said Tom.
“Yeah. That’s the description of the guy left in the room. Do you recognise him?”
Tom passed the notebook back. “If it’s the Asian bloke, that’s Rashid Jamal. Your description fits him to a T. He’s been involved in buying and selling drugs for a long time but he’s harmless, or that’s the impression I’ve always had. He set up as a dealer of cannabis and marijuana and stuff: softer drugs that weren’t going to get people addicted. There’s lots of people who think smoking joints is a lot less anti-social that drinking. They say that a few puffs of hashish or something is not going to make you a violent thug, while a few too many pints seems to turn ordinary blokes, and girls, into mindless, violent thugs.”
Dave’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, OK. Drinking’s bad; drug taking’s good. I’ve heard it all before. Just tell me. Is this guy as dangerous as he sounds from what Simon’s been saying?”
“Jamal is one of Derby’s biggest suppliers but he keeps his head down and doesn’t touch hard drugs like heroin and cocaine, or pills and chemicals like LSD and amphetamines, only organic stuff, hence the term ‘vegetables’. He’s actually quite a pleasant guy and very sociable as long as you never, ever mention drugs in his company. He’s never struck me as the violent gangster type.”
Dave tapped the notebook, now back in Simon’s hands. “For someone who’s been a reporter for less than a couple of years, that’s pretty good shorthand. Even I can read it. Most people’s notes end up looking like a demented spider. The Press Council will love you if ever someone complains.”
Tom scraped his chair back and pushed himself away from the table. “You’ve got to tell Ludden. That’s dynamite. It’s too big for us and it’s too damn dangerous. Tell the bloody police and let’s all live a bit longer.”
The three went silent. Simon’s head drooped; Tom stared at him; Dave slowly shook his head. “Simon can’t do that,” he said, looking at Tom. “I know safety is the most important thing, our safety, but that’s not evidence, it’s just a collection of uncorroborated statements that anybody could have made. This Jamal guy will deny it all, and from what you say he could get away with that, and we have no idea who the other guy is. Simon would be laughed out. They’d call him a fantasist at best and bugger up his job at the paper at worst. No. We can’t tell the police yet, but we’re on to something. It’s what we do next that matters.”
“Yeah. OK, but it’s still too dangerous. We need to bring Ludden in somehow,” Tom said and shuffled his chair back to the table.
Dave nodded slowly. “I suppose we may be getting out of our depth.” He looked at Simon. “You and I are total amateurs, and I’m sure Tom understands what this might mean. We have to tread very carefully. But I’m not prepared to lose everything just so that the police can file it away as an unsubstantiated rumour.”
Tom shook his head. “I still think we should tell Ludden something, if only to cover our backs. I’ve done my own ferreting. This is probably all about two different gangs vying for the top spot in Derby’s drugs trade, with a load of what they term ‘young guns’ waiting in the wings to pick up the juicy crumbs. If that’s the case there will be blood spilt, and I’d rather it wasn’t mine.”
“Maybe we’ve been talking to the same people, Tom,” Dave said, “but I’ve also been told the police are not doing a vast amount, they’re just playing a waiting game. DI Ludden, my dear friend and confidant, has warned me off and told me not to get involved.
“I have to ask him for verification every time I get a lead. The problem is that I’m under pressure to bring in stories that make the front page every day. Any snippets I pick up really should be published for the world to see, as long as they can be supported by facts. It’s Ludden who should have the facts.”
“It’s not just that,” Simon said. “I hear what Tom’s saying, and he’s obviously right, but if we tell Ludden everything now then we will lose the story. He or some of his flat-footed idiots will go in, ask a few questions, get a load of denials, and the gangs will shut the whole thing down. On the other hand, if we keep sniffing round there is every chance we could land ourselves in danger.
“What I overheard last night has proved that. I’m not prepared to stir things up so much that they, whoever they are, decide to take a pop at me, but I want that story, or at least I want it for you, Dave. I’m a reporter. I’m not putting myself up as bait for anything.”
.
CHAPTER 21
Tom watched as Dave and Simon finished off two more pints, their voices getting louder as they drank. He looked around: the pub was empty apart from bar staff, but that didn’t make it right. “For God’s sake lads, keep it quiet,” he said and both men stopped, looked at each other, then their beers, and then shrugged.
Dave gripped Simon’s shoulder lightly, smiled and said quietly and intimately: “Don’t worry. You’re in no danger from what you heard last night. Those guys have no idea who we are, but there could be a problem if you keep asking questions. Ludden knows you’ve been back to the Savoy. The manager and that woman Mary have been told to report anything, and Ludden can be quite scary if you don’t know him, and even if you do.”
Dave felt fine. The beer was having no effect and, anyway, he could handle it. “Ludden’s a policeman and a good copper. He’s tried to tell you what you can and can’t write, and he’s put a stop to us mentioning the body by invoking the law, but he’s a do-it-by-the-book policeman, so he’ll play fair. The only problem is how he’s going to react if you keep scratching around in areas where you’ve been told to lay off,” he said.
“OK, you want me to stop sniffing round. Is that it?” Simon asked.
“No. You’re a bloody reporter, a good one. It’s just that getting the police annoyed is not going to help us. Tom and I are raising enough hackles among the low life; anything more could easily work against. Just take it easy.”
Dave hoped that Simon was mollified. His contacts on the music scene were invaluable and he’d done a fantastic job by noting the whole conversation he’d heard.
“There’s more to this for Ludden, I’m sure,” Dave went on. “He’s got his fingers in every pie. I think it goes a bit deeper than that flea-bitten hotel. Ludden thinks Simpson is somehow involved. He’s not told me that, but I can read between the lines. The belief is that Simpson hasn’t got the nous nor courage to kill someone, but there’s a link and he’s being watched.
“Ludden wants you on his side, but he’d never say it. It’s nothing to do with the newspaper, although he’s aware how important it is that we write stories to help his investigations. It’s more involved than that. You were in at the start, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
Simon sniggered. For the first time for ages he felt able to laugh about that incident: maybe the pills he’d been taking were having some effect, he thought.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny. Ludden doesn’t,” Dave added looking at his friend’s face. “He’s got his people watching Simpson, but who can he trust? Several senior coppers are using that brothel. Some are there to help keep a lid on the business and probably find out what they can about drugs, but some are there for personal reasons. He’s been told to go easy on the place and the one person you don’t ask to turn a blind eye is DI Ludden.”
“Simpson’s horrible,” said Simon. “He smells awful, he looks slimy. How that sleazy animal ended up running a hotel is beyond me.”
“What were you doing at the hotel anyway?” Tom asked. “Janie Caton’s not there. That room’s a crime scene. You were never going to be allowed in.”
The young reporter cast his eyes down. “I just wanted closure. I went to the doctor and he gave me some pills because I was getting this blurring over my eyes. You know all that. It’s gone away, but the whole thing at the Savoy was giving me trouble. I’m sleeping now, but before, I kept seeing that body and the look on Janie’s face. I hoped that going back to the room would help.”
“Bloody stupid,” Tom said quietly.
“Yes. It’s OK for you to say that, but you weren’t there. I was, and so was Janie. Anyway, I’m OK now; everything’s fine. One thing it did do was let me meet Simpson. For a man who owns a hotel and, you’re now telling me, a brothel as well, he was nothing like I expected. He looks more like a seedy tramp.”
The loudness of beer talking had given way to quieter sombre conversation and no one could overhear them. Tom looked round. “That’s a pretty good description of the man,” he said.
“I got to thinking after hearing those guys talk in the Cat. It’s too much of a coincidence. Simpson’s hotel is where the body was found, this Jamal guy has almost admitted killing him, and Simpson is running prostitutes and that brothel. On top of that there’s this Jamal running a drugs den or whatever,” Simon added.
Tom nodded in agreement. “Dave’s right. We’re all out of our depth tackling this head on. The police are warning us off. I’ve got contacts on the other side of the law. I don’t know what it is, but there seems to be some sort of air of anticipation. I can’t put my finger on it. I’ve been in this game for a while now and I have never felt such, I don’t know – is it apprehension? Is that the word?
“That body on the roof seems to have been like a starting gun. There’s just so much activity with people running around and it’s all drug-related.”
Simon nodded. “In that conversation last night, Jamal seemed to see himself as a kingpin but the other guy sounded as if he was bossing Jamal. Jamal’s admitted to murder, or something like it, but that’s not fazed the new guy, he’s worse. He was pushing to kill all three.
“I’m a bit scared now to be honest. I want the whole thing to stop. Simpson knows me. Jamal only has to ask and he’ll put me on his list. And this new guy is even more frightening. Maybe we should take Ludden’s advice?”
“Well that’s good,” Tom said. “Maybe if you are feeling a bit scared you might stop stirring things up. You’re not in any immediate danger. There’s no way that Jamal would harm a reporter. You’re just too well known and the newspaper would move heaven and earth to find out who did it.
“You two are in a great position to keep digging around, as long as you are a lot more discreet. I know enough about Jamal to know he’s a bit of a pussycat. Yeah, he’s into soft drugs, but I just don’t believe all this stuff about him terminating people. He hasn’t got the balls.”
Dave tapped his fingers on the beer mat. “It’s up to you, Simon. If you say stop, we stop. You could hand those shorthand notes to Ludden and that would be an end of it. Maybe they’d act on them; maybe not. Maybe they’d close Jaguar Nights down and send every criminal involved scurrying for cover, and I’m not too sure that your safety would be guaranteed. Jamal and his gang would soon find out.”
