walk away.’
With a sigh, Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and faced the sea. A few streaks of cloud drifted along the horizon like smoke from a distant war zone.
He heard Ruth moving, thought for a second she was abandoning him, but after inspecting the ridge for damp, she chose a patch of dryish stones and sat down.
‘Were there any discrepancies between what you said during the break-in and what you told these visitors last night?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘And you didn’t mention me?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘What about your wife? Did she give anything away?’
‘No, she—’ Harry stopped, but it was too late. ‘Alice doesn’t know about you yet. I held off because I wanted to meet up today and …’ He opened his hands and let them slap against his sides.
‘Makes sense,’ Ruth agreed. ‘It would be one hell of a deception to send me in like this, but not impossible. Except they didn’t, okay? I don’t work for them.’
‘So I trust you or walk away?’ he said.
‘That’s about it. Your call, Harry.’
H e couldn’t walk away ; not with that nagging voice saying it was a mistake to go it alone. If there was any chance at all that Ruth could help, Harry had to take the risk. Besides, he could also play it cagey: he didn’t have to tell her about Alice receiving the parcel.
He sat down, and Ruth produced a small notebook and pen.
‘Give me the names of those cops. I can get them checked out.’
‘So you are a police officer? Or you were?’
All he got was a shrug. ‘Names?’
‘Uh, DI Warley. Dean. And the woman was … Sian. Sian Cassell.’
Ruth seemed to react to the name Sian . She asked him to describe them both.
‘He was in his mid-thirties, about five ten, not fat but solid. Dark curly hair. Bad skin, with a lot of acne scars.’
‘Accent?’
‘South East. A deeper voice than the man on Wednesday. The woman was thirtyish, painfully thin with a narrow face, and sort of pinched features. Long red hair, pulled back in a Croydon facelift.’ He cracked a smile but Ruth ignored the reference. ‘Do you know who she is?’
‘I think so. There’s a Sian who’s part of this organisation.’
Harry deflated at the news. He realised he’d been clinging to the hope that they were genuine detectives.
‘And what kind of organisation is it, exactly? I know they’re criminals, but what do they do?’
Ruth let out a long sigh, which seemed to signal that she had made a decision.
‘It starts with an old-time villain called Kenny Vaughan. A serious face in his day. Armed robberies in the 1970s, then drugs in the eighties and nineties. A gang like Vaughan’s is hard to bring down. The main men keep a safe distance from any incriminating activity. But one day Kenny let his temper get the better of him. He suspected one of his subordinates of cheating him, and beat the man to death with a crowbar, in a warehouse containing a shipment of heroin with a street value of forty million pounds. Unfortunately for him, the police had the warehouse under surveillance at the time.’
Harry whistled. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t hear about this.’
‘It was a while back. 2002. The first trial collapsed amid allegations of jury tampering, but Vaughan was finally sentenced to thirty years. Most of his key people went down with him. The gang collapsed, and rival operators moved in to carve up the territory for themselves.’
Harry was puzzled. ‘So how does this relate to us?’
‘Three men were absent when the police raid took place. A violent enforcer, Niall Foster, his sidekick, Darrell Bridge, and a young man called Nathan Laird. Nathan was just beginning a partnership with Vaughan, part of a plan to diversify, steering the business away from the high-risk area of drugs into something nearly as lucrative, but a lot safer.’
‘Like what?’
Ruth shook her head: he was interrupting her flow. ‘Once Vaughan was in custody, the other three melted away.
With a sigh, Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and faced the sea. A few streaks of cloud drifted along the horizon like smoke from a distant war zone.
He heard Ruth moving, thought for a second she was abandoning him, but after inspecting the ridge for damp, she chose a patch of dryish stones and sat down.
‘Were there any discrepancies between what you said during the break-in and what you told these visitors last night?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘And you didn’t mention me?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘What about your wife? Did she give anything away?’
‘No, she—’ Harry stopped, but it was too late. ‘Alice doesn’t know about you yet. I held off because I wanted to meet up today and …’ He opened his hands and let them slap against his sides.
‘Makes sense,’ Ruth agreed. ‘It would be one hell of a deception to send me in like this, but not impossible. Except they didn’t, okay? I don’t work for them.’
‘So I trust you or walk away?’ he said.
‘That’s about it. Your call, Harry.’
H e couldn’t walk away ; not with that nagging voice saying it was a mistake to go it alone. If there was any chance at all that Ruth could help, Harry had to take the risk. Besides, he could also play it cagey: he didn’t have to tell her about Alice receiving the parcel.
He sat down, and Ruth produced a small notebook and pen.
‘Give me the names of those cops. I can get them checked out.’
‘So you are a police officer? Or you were?’
All he got was a shrug. ‘Names?’
‘Uh, DI Warley. Dean. And the woman was … Sian. Sian Cassell.’
Ruth seemed to react to the name Sian . She asked him to describe them both.
‘He was in his mid-thirties, about five ten, not fat but solid. Dark curly hair. Bad skin, with a lot of acne scars.’
‘Accent?’
‘South East. A deeper voice than the man on Wednesday. The woman was thirtyish, painfully thin with a narrow face, and sort of pinched features. Long red hair, pulled back in a Croydon facelift.’ He cracked a smile but Ruth ignored the reference. ‘Do you know who she is?’
‘I think so. There’s a Sian who’s part of this organisation.’
Harry deflated at the news. He realised he’d been clinging to the hope that they were genuine detectives.
‘And what kind of organisation is it, exactly? I know they’re criminals, but what do they do?’
Ruth let out a long sigh, which seemed to signal that she had made a decision.
‘It starts with an old-time villain called Kenny Vaughan. A serious face in his day. Armed robberies in the 1970s, then drugs in the eighties and nineties. A gang like Vaughan’s is hard to bring down. The main men keep a safe distance from any incriminating activity. But one day Kenny let his temper get the better of him. He suspected one of his subordinates of cheating him, and beat the man to death with a crowbar, in a warehouse containing a shipment of heroin with a street value of forty million pounds. Unfortunately for him, the police had the warehouse under surveillance at the time.’
Harry whistled. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t hear about this.’
‘It was a while back. 2002. The first trial collapsed amid allegations of jury tampering, but Vaughan was finally sentenced to thirty years. Most of his key people went down with him. The gang collapsed, and rival operators moved in to carve up the territory for themselves.’
Harry was puzzled. ‘So how does this relate to us?’
‘Three men were absent when the police raid took place. A violent enforcer, Niall Foster, his sidekick, Darrell Bridge, and a young man called Nathan Laird. Nathan was just beginning a partnership with Vaughan, part of a plan to diversify, steering the business away from the high-risk area of drugs into something nearly as lucrative, but a lot safer.’
‘Like what?’
Ruth shook her head: he was interrupting her flow. ‘Once Vaughan was in custody, the other three melted away.
Similar Books
