It took them about a day to solve, and they certainly have enough evidence to arrest him. But they are biding their time in order to look busy while they’re working on finding the heroin with the Thursday Murder Club. He’s not killing the horses, so they can afford to let him nick a few more, safe in the knowledge that they’ll be back with their rightful owners soon enough.
If SIO Regan knew what they were up to, there would be immediate disciplinary action, but Chris and Donna are now being as good as gold around the station, giving her plenty of space, and no trouble. So she, in turn, is leaving them alone. Whatever SIO Regan’s problem is, it is now not Chris and Donna. Which gives them a certain freedom.
If she were ever to ask why they are staking out this particular lock-up, which she won’t, as she is very incurious for a police officer, they will say they are investigating a tip-off about a Fairhaven local who has suddenly come into possession of a number of saddles.
‘Here we go,’ says Donna, binoculars up again. She hands them to Chris, so he can see what she has just seen.
Mitch Maxwell, glancing this way and that, is walking between the garages, holding a piece of paper in his hand. He reaches Number 1772 and tries the door. It doesn’t budge. He takes a piece of metal from his coat, jams it in the lock and pushes. The faint clang carries up the hillside. But the door doesn’t open. He tries again.
‘There’s a knack,’ says Donna.
On the fifth attempt the lock springs, and Mitch opens the garage door.
‘So we tick Mitch Maxwell off the list,’ says Chris. ‘If he knew where the heroin was, he wouldn’t be searching here. I’ll text the boss.’
‘The boss?’ says Donna.
‘Elizabeth,’ says Chris.
‘Silly me,’ says Donna. ‘How’s the sea-swimming going?’
‘I went once,’ says Chris. ‘It was freezing. I mean, I figured it would be cold, but come on. So I’m going to learn the trumpet instead.’
Mitch is clearly busy in the lock-up garage. Searching for the heroin, which Chris and Donna could already tell him isn’t there.
‘Have you found out anything about Samantha Barnes?’ Donna asks.
‘I put in a call to Chichester CID,’ says Chris. ‘Told them we were looking into the horse thefts and her name came up. They said she’s very polite, and never puts a foot wrong.’
‘Any previous connection to drugs?’
‘Connections to everything, they said. Though the DI said that horse theft was a new one to add to the list.’
Chris looks through the binoculars again. ‘Poor Mitch, no one to trust.’
‘It’s a real shame,’ says Donna, ‘when even heroin dealers lose faith. Has Elizabeth replied?’
Chris checks his phone. ‘Hasn’t even been received. What’s she up to?’
‘And how about you?’ says Donna. ‘You thinking of getting married to anyone?’
‘I promise you’ll be the second to know,’ says Chris.
A black Range Rover cruises slowly down the lane between the garages, and pulls up outside lock-up Number 1772.
Mitch is too clever for Elizabeth, and, on this clear Monday afternoon, he is already inside the lock-up, searching through cardboard boxes. Mitch had seen the look on Elizabeth’s face when Nina Mishra had mentioned the lock-up. There was
A Fairhaven Council data clerk with a heroin problem had been only too happy to help with the address. Though he was slightly miffed afterwards when Mitch had told him that, due to unforeseen circumstances, just at the moment he had no heroin.
Hanif has landed and given Mitch until the end of the month to find the heroin. Mitch has assured him he will have it back by then.
If Dom really was the weak link in his organization, his death should iron things out a bit. Perhaps Hanif will understand even if Mitch can’t find the drugs? But he
Mitch picks out a vintage TAG Heuer watch from one of the boxes and slips it into his pocket. Waste not, want not.
The garage door opens with a metallic roar and Mitch pulls his gun. The figure of Luca Buttaci ducks into the garage, and Mitch tucks the gun back into his waistband.
‘Wondered how long you’d be, lad,’ says Mitch. ‘How’d you find it?’
‘Tracker on your car,’ says Luca. ‘You find anything?’
‘Some nice watches,’ says Mitch. ‘No heroin.’
‘Anyone else been in here? The Canadian?’
‘If he’s been here, he left it neat and tidy,’ says Mitch. ‘And he doesn’t seem the neat and tidy type.’
Luca sits on a pile of boxes and lights a cigarette. ‘Where the hell is it?’
‘You haven’t heard a peep? I still don’t trust Connie Johnson.’
‘It’s just’ – Luca makes a ‘puff of smoke’ motion with his fingers – ‘gone, pffff. You know at some point I’ve got to find someone else to supply me with heroin, Mitch? If you keep having these problems?’
‘I know,’ says Mitch. ‘Can I ask you a question? And you tell me the truth?’
‘Depends on the question,’ says Luca. ‘Try me.’
‘OK, I’m asking John-Luke Butterworth now, my oldmate,’ says Mitch. ‘Not Luca Buttaci. Have you been in touch with the Afghans?’
