Looking around him at the familiar surroundings-the punters crowding the oxblood leather banquettes, the croupiers in their tight red dresses, the cigarette smoke hanging in the lights over the blackjack tables-he tried to impress its details on to his memory. He would need something to draw on in the months ahead. Wryly, he raised his glass of Johnnie Walker Black Label to his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. An ugly bastard, sure-he’d always been that-but a man who could hold things together when the situation called for it.
“You on your own, love?”
She was about forty, probably. Blonde streaks, glittery top, desperate eyes. You got them in every casino, the women who, having blown whatever they’d managed to scrape together that day, hung around the male punters like pilot fish. For a handful of chips, Mitchell knew, he could have taken her down to the car for ten minutes. Tonight, though, he just wasn’t in the mood.
“I’ve got people coming,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Anyone nice?”
He laughed at that, and didn’t answer, and finally she walked away. From the moment he’d walked into the toilet at the Fairmile and seen Ray Gunter’s body lolling against the tiles, he’d known that the people-smuggling racket had been blown to the four winds. The police wouldn’t have a choice; they’d have to go all the way with this one-follow as far as the trail led. And the short answer, of course, was that it led to him. He’d been seen with Gunter, he was a known confederate of Melvin Eastman… He took a deep slug of the Scotch and refilled the engraved tumbler from his private bottle. He was fucked, basically.
What the hell had Eastman been thinking of, getting into bed with those Krauts? Before they’d come calling he’d had a sweet little franchise running, bringing in illegals for the Caravan. Asians, Africans, working girls from Albania and Kosovo, all of them properly cowed and respectful. No trouble, no argument, and everyone going home happy.
The moment he’d clocked that Paki, though, he’d known he was going to be trouble. A rough crossing usually shook them down nicely, but not this one. This one was a psycho-a real hard nut. Mitchell shook his head. He should have drowned him while he had a chance. Nudged him overboard, rucksack and all-he’d heard that most Asians couldn’t swim.
Ray Gunter, of course-idiot that he was-had spotted the rucksack and decided to take it off the Paki. He hadn’t said anything about stealing it, but looking back it was blindingly obvious. And so the Paki-psycho nutcase that he was-had taken him out.
All of these events leading him, Kieran Mitchell, in his slate-grey silk suit and his midnight-blue Versace shirt, to this moment. To this glass of Scotch that could be his last for years. Conspiracy, immigration offences, terrorism, even. It didn’t bear thinking about. Not for the first time, he considered cutting and running. But if he ran, and they found him-as they surely would find him-it would go worse for him. It would cancel out the one card that he held. The card that, if he played it properly…
In the mirror he saw what he had been expecting for the best part of an hour. Movement near the entrance. Purposeful men in inexpensive suits. The crowd parting. Downing his Scotch in three measured draughts, he felt in his trouser pocket for the coat-check disc. It was cold out, so he’d brought the dark blue cashmere.
30
Liz sensed the quiet excitement in the place as soon as she walked into Norwich police station. The Gunter murder investigation had been going nowhere fast and suddenly here was a solid lead in the shape of one of Melvin Eastman’s senior associates. There had been some talk of taking Kieran Mitchell to Chelmsford, where all the Eastman files were held, but Don Whitten had insisted on Norwich. This was his murder hunt, and every aspect of the investigation would be carried out under his jurisdiction.
When Liz and Mackay walked into the station’s operations room, the place was crowded with bullish-looking officers in their shirt sleeves taking it in turns to congratulate an uncomfortable-looking Steve Goss. Amongst them, sent over as an observer by the Essex force, was the Special Branch officer Bob Morrison. Don Whitten, Styrofoam coffee cup in hand, presided over the mêlée.
Seeing Liz, Goss waved and extracted himself. “They think I lined up the arrest,” he murmured, running a hand through his scrubby ginger hair. “I feel a total bloody fraud.”
“Enjoy it,” suggested Mackay.
“And let’s pray it’s not a dead end,” agreed Liz.
She had called Goss with Kieran Mitchell’s details as soon as she and Mackay were clear of Braintree. Then they had driven north to Norwich, stopping on the way to pick up a pizza and a bottle of Italian beer each. For the time being, perhaps as a way of acknowledging Liz’s earlier fury, Mackay had shrugged off his romantic seducer’s skin, and without it he proved a surprisingly entertaining companion. He had a near inexhaustible fund of stories, most of them concerning the extreme behaviour-or misbehaviour-of his service colleagues. At the same time, Liz noticed-and however much she tried to lead him on-he never actually fingered anyone directly. When names were named, they were never those of the actual perpetrators of the cowboy operations that he described. They were those of their friends, colleagues, or superiors. He gave the impression of extreme indiscretion, but actually gave away little that wasn’t already reasonably common currency in the intelligence community.
He’s on to me, thought Liz, enjoying the game. He’s aware that I’m watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake. And he’s playing up to my expectations of him as a reckless freelancer, because if he can convince me that that’s what he is, then I’ll stop taking him seriously. And the moment I stop taking him seriously he’ll find some way of stitching me up. There was even a certain elegance to it all.
She had briefed Goss over the phone about the conversations with Cherisse Hogan and Peregrine Lakeby that had led her to Kieran Mitchell’s name, and suggested that he set up the arrest. Impressed by her investigative work, and understanding her need to keep a low profile in the affair, he had agreed.
Liz had considered sharing her concerns about Bob Morrison with Goss, but had finally decided to let the matter lie. It was only her instinct that suggested that he might be in the pay of Eastman-she had no evidence of any kind beyond his dilatory attitude and a general impression of venality. Besides which, Eastman would know with or without Morrison that Kieran Mitchell had been arrested, and would make his arrangements accordingly. And if Mitchell came up with solid information and was prepared to go the distance in court, then Eastman would be out of the game anyway.
With the return from the custody suite of Mitchell’s solicitor, a sense of order and restraint re-established itself. The solicitor, a silkily exquisite figure with an established reputation as a “gangster’s brief,” was named Honan. Thanking the custody officer who had accompanied him to and from the cells, he asked to speak in private to DS Whitten.
As Whitten and Honan took their places in one of the interview rooms, Goss ushered Liz and Mackay into the adjoining observation suite, where half a dozen plastic chairs faced a large rectangular panel of one-way glass. A moment later, with the faintest of nods, Bob Morrison joined them.
In the interview room, on the other side of the one-way glass, the overhead strip light cast a hard, bleaching glare. The off-white laminate surface of the table was pitted with cigarette burns. There were no windows.
“Could you repeat what you’ve just said to me,” Whitten asked Honan. Amplified by the speakers in the observation suite, his voice sounded harsher and clearer than usual.
“Bottom line-and without prejudice-my client doesn’t want to go down,” said Honan. “In return for a guarantee of immunity from prosecution, however, he’s prepared to go into the witness box and produce the wherewithal to put Melvin Eastman away for offences relating to narcotics, immoral earnings, and conspiracy to murder.”