No Way Home Page 13

  ‘That’s what I’d like to find out. Whatever it was, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’ He turned to face the seated man. ‘Your brother was found deceased this evening, Mr Pati.’

  ‘Deceased?’ The man frowned. ‘He’s… dead? How? When? Where is he?’ He stood up, his tea forgotten as grief and anger fought for dominance on his face.

  Pete lifted his hands in a placating gesture. Glanced at the woman, then focused on the bereaved brother. ‘Mr Pati, we’re doing everything we can to catch whoever did this and we’ll continue in that effort until we apprehend them. But, to make that happen, I need to find out everything I can about your brother, in order to work out why this might have happened.’

  The man turned on Pete, rage twisting his face now. ‘You think this was his own fault? That he doesn’t deserve justice if you can find fault with him?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Pete said, struggling to stay where he was. ‘As I said, we’re going to do everything possible to bring whoever did this to justice. All their motive does is make it easier for us to figure out who they are. One of my officers is talking to his wife now. We’ll be speaking to his neighbours, colleagues – everyone we can. It’s standard procedure. Now, have a seat, Mr Pati.’

  Pete waited until he stopped pacing the small room and returned to his seat. His mug of tea remained on the windowsill, forgotten as he leaned his elbows on his knees, face covered by his hands. The rise and fall of his shoulders gradually reduced as he calmed down until, finally, he let his hands fall between his knees and looked up, grief filling his eyes.

  Pete held his gaze. ‘So, can you tell me if your brother’s had any problems with anyone recently? If anyone holds a specific grudge against him?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Back in the squad room, Pete pulled up another whiteboard and started filling in the details of the second victim. Then he paused, an idea crossing his mind. Back at his desk, he switched on his computer and entered the Police National Database. Keying in Sunil Pati’s name and date of birth, he hit return on the search page and waited for the system to churn out what it would.

  It took only a couple of seconds.

  One arrest for possession of a controlled substance, a little over two years ago.

  So, was this some sort of turf war? Had the major sweep on local drug dealers a few months ago left a vacuum that was now starting to be filled? He frowned and looked across at the other board. The first victim, Ranjeet Singh, had no known drug connections.

  He was reminded of another case he’d worked recently. A university student and his buddy had instigated a clean-up campaign across the city, killing off ‘undesirables’ of various sorts in ways that attempted to conceal the murders as natural deaths. Was this a copycat? One suspected drug dealer and one possible rapist…

  He shook his head. No. That was too much of a coincidence.

  So, was it a race thing? Both were Indian males. Then again, both were taxi drivers, so it could as easily be about that. Perhaps some kind of revenge thing or, again, a turf war. He’d heard nothing about strife between the city’s firms, but it would be worth checking with the licensing office at the local council in the morning as well as with the uniformed branch.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the front desk.

  ‘Drummond.’

  ‘Bill, it’s Pete Gayle. Quick question. Have you heard anything about any problems between the taxi firms in the city? Any sort of agro?’

  ‘No. Why? You thinking this guy tonight might have been involved in something?’

  ‘Hmm. Just thinking through the possibilities. Another one is the fact that he’s got drugs in his background.’

  ‘We swept all that up last November, though, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, but we didn’t get rid of the demand, just the supply. Somebody’s going to fill the gap eventually, aren’t they?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I take it you’re not aware of any new sources cropping up lately then?’

  ‘No. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any, of course. We’re always the last to know.’ He laughed.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, Bill.’ Pete put the phone down, thinking of Darren Westley. That was his specialist subject, as a rule. He hadn’t seen or spoken to the lad in months and now he was going to do so twice in a couple of days.

  He stood up, grabbed his jacket and slipped his mobile phone into the pocket. He was stepping away from his desk when his phone rang. He paused. Checked the big clock on the wall at the far end of the room. Who the hell was going to be calling at this time of night?

  He sighed, turned back to his desk and picked up the phone.

  ‘DS Gayle.’

  ‘Pete. Bill, on the front desk. I’ve got a call for you. From Panama.’

  ‘Panama? Who the hell’s calling from there?’ He knew no one in Central America. He’d never been further west than Falmouth.

  ‘A Martin Devonish.’

  ‘Means nothing to me. OK, put him through. Let’s see what he wants.’

  ‘Right-o.’

  There was a click, then another. ‘Hello? DS Gayle speaking, Exeter CID. What can I do for you, Mr Devonish?’

  ‘It’s more the other way round, actually.’ Pete instantly recognised the man’s local accent, despite the hollow echo on the faint line. ‘I’ve just seen a report on the news about Ranjeet Singh’s death. My wife and I own Cathedral Cabs. He used to drive for us.’

  ‘Ah, yes. So, what can you tell me about him?’

  Pete recalled Dave’s remarks about Singh having a couple of complaints against him; one just before he left.

  ‘Well, most of the time, he was the picture of politeness and professionalism, but there were a couple of occasions when we had cause for concern. After the second one, we let him go. There was never anything official – the customers didn’t want to take it that far – but it wouldn’t have done our reputation any good if we’d kept him on, so…’ The man’s voice tailed off. Pete could almost see his shrug down the phone line.

  ‘So, what can you tell me about these instances, Mr Devonish?’

  ‘They were about a year or so apart. The first one was a molestation complaint. A young woman reckoned he’d groped her backside as she was getting out of the car. She was angry, offended, but to be honest, the way she was dressed… I mean, I’m not condoning or excusing what he did for a second, but it made me wonder at the time if she might have a reason for avoiding the police. Do you know what I mean?’

  Pete’s mind went back to the previous evening around Queen’s Square and the clock tower. ‘I get the idea.’

  ‘Then the second one – well, that was a lot more serious. I was amazed the girl didn’t want to press charges, but it’s their choice, isn’t it? At the end of the day, if it goes to court, they’ve got to go through it all again, but with an audience, haven’t they? I mean, I can see why, but it’s nasty, really, isn’t it? Like they’re being victimised – attacked – all over again by the state.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘She was younger. Fifteen, I think. Indian girl although she was wearing Western clothes. Nothing too revealing, not like the first one. Just typical teenage gear. And this time, he actually raped her. Or at least, she said so. Again, there was no police involvement. She insisted. Got quite tearful about it.’

  ‘OK. Do you remember a name for either of the victims?’

  ‘I asked, of course. Wrote it all down at the time. The first one had a name I thought sounded professional. False. Cindy something….’ He trailed off as if he was thinking. ‘Cindy Cummings, that was it. The girl had an Indian name, of course. Leela Banerjee. I’ll never forget her. She was devastated, poor kid. But she was adamant. Didn’t want us to call anyone. Not even her parents. I don’t think we’d have even known about it if it hadn’t been for the others.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘Three of them. Two white girls and another Indian one. She’d been on the way to meet them, appare
ntly. They saw the state she was in and marched her straight down to the office, despite the fact she didn’t want to come.’

  ‘OK. Any other details on any of them, Mr Devonish?’

  ‘Yeah. One of them was the daughter of another of our drivers. Tony Seger. He’s still with the firm. One of the few.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘English taxi drivers in Exeter. Most are Indian or Bangladeshi nowadays.’

  Pete had noticed the same, but he wasn’t going to comment and open himself up to accusations of racism. ‘Well, thanks for the call, Mr Devonish. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘No problem. DS Gayle, was it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, best of luck catching whoever did for Ranjeet. As long as it wasn’t one of his victims, that is.’

  Pete knew what the guy meant, even if he couldn’t condone the sentiment. ‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday, Mr Devonish.’

  ‘Will do.’

  There was a click as the call ended. Pete picked up his notepad and crossed to the whiteboards to add the new information.

  *

  Darren Westley was in his favourite haunt – the pool hall on Fore Street.

  Pete walked in at ten to eleven. He didn’t know what time these places closed, but business seemed to be still brisk. The tables were all occupied and several bystanders with pint glasses in hand were standing around watching. Pete spotted Darren’s mop of red hair at the second table from the far end as he leaned down to take a shot. The bar was along the left side of the long, narrow room. Pete headed to the right and eased his way along, close to the wall. By the time he’d passed the five intervening tables, Darren had potted whichever ball he had been aiming at and was in a new position, at the near end of the table, lining up another shot.

  Pete slipped around behind a big man with a long, strawberry-blond beard and close-cropped hair, a half-empty pint glass in his hand, just as Darren’s arm swung forward. There was the crack of cue on ball, the second crack of two balls hitting, and then the black angled cleanly across to the far corner pocket. It dropped in without touching the sides.

  ‘Nice shot,’ he said loud enough for Darren to hear him.

  The red-haired youth’s head snapped up and around as he recognised the voice. His narrow face took on a frown.

  Forty-three popped up on the LED scoreboard above the far end of the table. His opponent had sixteen.

  Pete gave him a wink. ‘Doing well, Darren.’

  Darren’s lip curled into a brief sneer. He turned back to the table without speaking, moved around to replace the black on its spot and lined up a red into the left middle. His cue arm swung gently as he readied himself then drove through. Click, click. The red rolled towards the pocket, the white ball staying dead still, in position for the black again. Pete watched as the red rolled to the pocket, gently thumped the side cushion and stayed on the table.

  ‘Oooh.’ He joined the general groan of disappointment. ‘Bad luck, Darren.’

  As his opponent stepped up to the table, Darren stalked over to where Pete was standing, his face set in a scowl.

  ‘That’s the first ball I’ve missed tonight,’ he said. ‘And I seem to remember you don’t believe in coincidences, so what does that tell you?’

  Pete shrugged. ‘Some you win, eh?’

  Balls clicked and Darren glanced over his shoulder as the red he’d left over the middle pocket went in, the cue ball rolling swiftly away up the length of the table. He turned back to Pete. ‘So, what do you want? You’re not here for the beer – or for the snooker, I’m guessing.’

  ‘Something came up a little while ago and I thought of you, Darren. Thought you might be able to answer a quick question for me.’

  The click of balls sounded again and they both turned to watch the black drop into the corner pocket again. The dark-haired, clean-cut player came around the table, respotted the black and took position for his next shot.

  ‘Depends on the question.’

  ‘Well, once upon a time, there was this taxi driver here in Exeter. Indian chap.’

  Darren grunted sardonically.

  ‘Well, turns out he had a record for drug dealing. Only minor. But a few months after nearly all the dealers in the city were swept up and put away where they belong, all of a sudden he’s killed. So, I’m wondering if it’s related to his past. Specifically, the drugs. Was he, perhaps, dealing again? Got caught up in a turf war of some sort? You haven’t heard about anything like that going on, have you? I mean, there’s bound to be some new players coming in to replace the old – fill the gap in the market. No telling who they might be or how ruthless. And I dare say you know better than I do what kinds of crap they cut the drugs with nowadays, to boost the profit margins. They certainly don’t give a shit about the customer, do they?’

  ‘Whoah.’

  ‘Shot.’

  Applause rippled around the table as Darren’s opponent sank another ball, this one a long shot sending the pink into the far corner pocket, the cue ball bouncing off three cushions to come around for the last remaining free red on the table.

  Darren looked from the table to Pete and back again. He could see the game running away from him. He shook his head. Pete wasn’t sure if it was in response to his question or simply his presence here and the effect it appeared to be having on Darren’s concentration.

  ‘I haven’t heard about nothing like that.’

  ‘So, where’s the demand getting filled from now?’

  Balls smacked together and, from the corner of his eye, Pete saw the bunched reds going everywhere, including one of them into a corner pocket. Darren’s opponent leaned over the table, lining up the black again.

  Darren stepped in closer to Pete, his voice dropping to a murmur that Pete could barely hear over the general noise of the place. ‘Mostly from out of town. Southampton and Bristol.’

  Pete smiled. ‘You sure you’re not protecting your source, Darren?’

  ‘And have you after me for aiding and abetting? Yeah, right.’

  Pete slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Just pulling your chain, mate. Best get back to your game while there still is one.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They both looked at the scoreboard. The bright-red numbers told them that Darren had been overtaken. His opponent was now on sixty-three with the reds spread across the table and only the pink resting near a cushion, making it difficult to play.

  ‘Oh, well. Next frame, eh?’ Pete said lightly.

  He didn’t hear Darren’s response as he stepped away towards the entrance.

  *

  There was one more source Pete could check with tonight. This one might be harder to track down than Darren, but his information came without Darren’s conflict of interest. It wasn’t that Pete disbelieved Darren. He had more than enough on the lad to keep him honest. But it never hurt to be doubly sure.

  He headed back to the car, climbed in and keyed the police radio. ‘DS Gayle. General call. Does anyone have a location on Mick Duggan? I need to talk to him.’

  Static hissed over the airwaves for a moment, then a voice cut through it. ‘This is PC Collimore. I passed the old garage plot where he was last known to be living about half an hour ago. There was a fire going there.’

  ‘Thanks. I know the place.’

  Pete started the engine and headed across to the site where a set of old garages had been pulled down to allow for a housing development that never happened. It had been occupied by a few of the local homeless for months now, living illegally in tents behind the high wooden hoarding. The council had yet to do anything about it, despite several complaints from the surrounding householders. And the police couldn’t intervene until either the council or the landowner asked them to.

  The narrow, mainly residential street had very few unoccupied parking spaces at this time of night. Pete parked a hundred and fifty yards or so further up the street and walked back. The night was warm, the sky clear. As he neared the site he glimpsed the or
ange glow of flames between the big boards that closed it off from its surroundings. Slipping through the gap he knew the illegal occupants used, the first thing he noticed was the lack of smell. Last time he’d been here, the place stank. They must have cleaned it up in order to keep the council away.

  Over towards the back of the site there were now five tents where before there had only been three. The fire was in front of the one at the far left. Pete could see a figure hunched over it, sitting on an old camp stool. He heard the soft sounds of a guitar over the crackle of flames and glimpsed the long blond beard overhanging the front of the man’s jacket.

  ‘Hey, Mick. How’s it going?’ he called as he stepped closer.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  The figure put down the guitar and stood up. Pete could see him clearly now in the firelight. He looked as menacing as his voice had sounded, long hair hanging over his shoulders from under his battered and stained cowboy hat.

  ‘Pete Gayle,’ he said, stepping closer to the light.

  Hands deep in his pockets, Duggan didn’t move until Pete got close enough to be seen. Pete couldn’t blame him for his suspicion. Around the time they had first met, two of the site’s other occupants had been victims of a multiple murderer.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Duggan visibly relaxed, pulling his hands out of his pockets and straightening up to his full height of just under six feet.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. Been keeping out of trouble?’ Pete grinned.

  ‘Mostly. What brings you round here at this time of night?’ He extended a hand, which Pete shook. The man’s hands were hard and calloused, his grip firm.

  ‘Wanted to ask you about something.’

  Duggan grunted.

  ‘I’m wondering what’s going on in the local drug trade lately. I know you’re not into the stuff, but I expect you know a few that are. I need to know a bit about who’s dealing nowadays. Where the supply’s coming from, that sort of thing. I’ve got a murder victim who might be tied into it somehow.’

  Duggan was nodding slowly. He stopped at the mention of murder. Looked at Pete sharply.

  ‘Indian bloke. Taxi driver.’