‘Jesus,’ muttered a stunned Andy, ‘who did that and why?’
‘I can’t tell you. You just need to protect me and my girlfriend. They will kill us if you don’t help.’
Three uniformed PCs arrived and Andy told them to take positions outside the room to prevent anyone dodgy getting near Angus. He briefed the hospital staff, informed hospital security and did his best to ensure no-one had a second go at punishing this mysterious villain. After all, the windows here were significantly higher than the last one he had been thrown out of.
Everything in place, Andy phoned his DI, John Grant, and asked to meet him back at the police station. John abandoned his plans for a night in front of the telly, made his excuses to his wife and rushed back to the nick to run his own real-life drama.
They needed to find out who was behind all of this. With Angus disinclined to further endanger his precarious future by naming names, the only hope was Jenny, the girlfriend.
Andy briefed John while they headed off to find the tiny Kemp Town flat. It was relatively easy — the marked police car guarding her door was a bit of a giveaway.
Kemp Town features heavily in Peter James’ novels due to its quirky multiple characteristics. It is described in Looking Good Dead as having evolved from a posh Regency enclave to one that has ‘the same seedy tatty aura that has corroded the rest of Brighton’. Logan Somerville in You Are Dead was kidnapped in that neighbourhood and an officer met a fiery death there in Want You Dead.
Playing good cop, bad cop, Andy and John pumped Jenny for information, Andy using his matey charm in an effort to persuade her to see the sense of spilling the beans and his boss adopting a less compromising style. The combination soon drew from her what they wanted.
She knew that Angus had been in deep trouble for a few weeks. It was all down to some money that three blokes accused him of stealing. As the phone calls had become increasingly menacing, so he had been getting more and more scared. She insisted that she did not know their names or what it was all about, but she gave enough to set the police on the trail.
‘Right, love, where are you going to stay tonight?’ demanded John.
‘Well, er, here, can’t I?’ she asked, glancing from one officer to the other, seeking reassurance.
‘No you can’t,’ replied John. ‘I’m not giving you a twenty-four-hour guard. You need to find someone who can put you up where these delightful people can’t find you. Once you have found somewhere, give the details to your babysitter here,’ pointing to the bored-looking police constable, ‘and we will get there like yesterday.’
On the short drive back to the police station, at around 2 a.m., they agreed that Andy would need to turn the screw on Angus. The time for pussy-footing around had come to an end. Others would be following up the scant leads they had picked up so far, but Angus needed to fill in the gaps.
As Andy slipped into the side ward shortly after 7 a.m., an almost indiscernible flick of his head gave the uniformed guard the clear message that he was not welcome for the moment. He stepped outside.
Angus tried to sit up, momentarily forgetting in his trepidation the extent of his massive injuries. He was convinced that Andy was bearing bad news. Sensing his anxiety Andy quietly reassured him, ‘Jenny’s fine, Angus.’
Visible relief washed through him.
‘Jenny is safe, out of the way, but you and me are going to have a chat.’
‘I’ve told you all I can,’ Sherry replied.
A common tactic when trying to get someone to do or say something they would rather not is to blame an uncompromising higher authority.
‘Listen, Angus,’ urged Andy, ‘my boss is getting very pissed off. When you see Jenny, ask her how he spoke to her. He can’t stand what he calls “tossers like this” upsetting his city. He doesn’t much care what you do to each other, but it never looks good with people flying out of windows on a Sunday evening and then us having to tie up our scarce cops sorting it all out and protecting people like you.’
Before Angus could argue Andy held up a hand. ‘His words not mine. So. Let’s have it. Everything. No more bullshit. No more misguided loyalty to blokes who use kneecaps as trampolines. I want everything and I want it now or else, the mood my governor’s in, the next time you see me I could be wearing a hospital gown identical to yours.’
Silence is a powerful tool. People hate it. The power lies with the person who left it; the person whose turn it is to speak feels an almost irresistible urge to fill the gap.
Andy just sat there; nothing but the whirr of machines and the distant chatter of nurses punctuated the hush. He simply stared at the man in plaster. He knew he would give in first. They always did.
‘Shit, I’ve never been a grass before.’
Bingo. Works every time. Now for a little encouragement.
‘You’re not grassing, Angus. You’ll be saving your life and Jenny’s. It doesn’t get much bigger than that. Tell it from the beginning and we can stop all this.’ Keep it all positive. Emphasize the benefits, don’t mention the risks.
Criminals would have you believe that they subscribe to some Mafia-like code of omertà — or not informing to the police. Unlike in Sicily, most UK villains are more fickle in its application. Darren Spicer, the career burglar in Not Dead Yet and Dead Like You, is typical of many in being happy to play Judas when it suited him.
‘What will happen when I’ve told you?’ asked Sherry.
‘We will look after you and Jenny will be safe, but we have to know. You have to trust us. We can’t do this without you and, from where I’m sitting, you need all the help you can get right now.’
‘What are my options?’
‘You’ve run out of those.’
‘Shit.’ Angus closed his eyes. His fists clenched. He shook his head. Andy saw that he was in turmoil. He was weighing it all up. This was positive. So long as he was thinking about it, rather than telling Andy to go fuck himself, there was hope.
Silence again, then: ‘Bollocks. Right, here goes.’
In the back of the net! Andy was all ears.
‘You’ll have worked out I’m no choirboy. You’re right but, believe it or not, I have some honour. I never break my word, I am loyal to my mates and, until now, I’ve never grassed.’
Andy kept quiet; just a nod of the head encouraged Sherry to continue.
‘Me and my mates, we’ve been very busy. You must have heard about what we have been up to but hopefully not who we are. All across the south of England, we’ve been robbing travel agents. Their security is a joke compared to banks or building societies but they all have thousands of pounds in traveller’s cheques and foreign currency. I’ve got a mate who tells me which shops are having cheques delivered and when.’
Andy listened intently. He, along with just about every other detective south of Bedford, was well aware of this vicious spate of tie-up robberies.
We had all dealt with them. The calls always came in before the first coffee of the day had been drunk. The gang struck, seemingly at random, at small travel agents, in numerous towns and cities, just as they opened. Relying on a lack of customers, they would bundle the staff into a back room, force the shop keys from them, lock the door, tie them up and then, with threats of horrific violence, similar to those used on ninety-eight-year-old Aileen McWhirter in Dead Man’s Time, demand the safe keys. They would grab as many traveller’s cheques as they could in a minute or two and then scarper.