Whistleblower

Chapter 3

Three

On the first Monday in May, DI Carl West was in his third floor office scrolling through the emails in his inbox. There was nothing terribly exciting: a reminder from DC Lisa Templar that she was on the pursuit drivers course this week, another from DC Wayne Paterson about being in court, and one from DCI Rankin, officially allocating DC Wayne Paterson and DC Nigel Beard to his team following DI Reid’s early retirement.

Carl smiled when he read the chief’s email and thought of his wife, DS Nina Strong, the other member of DI Reid’s team, at home on maternity leave, expecting their first child in about six weeks, if their dates were right.

He gazed out of his office window across the rooftops of the southern side of the city and wondered how she’d managed to talk him into becoming a father. His own father had been killed in Vietnam before he’d been born, so he’d had no modelling of what a father was supposed to be like. He’d been reluctant to take on the role, not sure that he would make a good father but, somehow, she’d persuaded him that he’d be good at it, pointing out how he’d mentored Harry and Peter James before him, and how his cousin’s children thought the world of him.

His thoughts turned to his maternal grandfather, who’d been like a father to him after his mother had taken ill and they’d moved in with her parents when Carl was in his early teens, and was the main reason Carl had become a policeman. Carl knew his grandfather would have encouraged him if he’d still been alive; he’d believed in him.

His attention settled on Peter James. He thought of Peter every day. He’d been standing next to Peter the day he’d been shot and killed when they’d gone to interview a suspect in a r**e case. He hoped his child would not have to face what Peter’s children were living with.

He took a deep breath. He knew he couldn’t change history but that didn’t mean that history didn’t exist. He pushed down the reminder that was always just below his conscious awareness whenever he thought of Peter, that he’d also killed a man that day, and turned his attention to the overnight incident log. It was filled with the usual fights and disorderly behaviour stories. Some i***t had set fire to three bins outside the railway station, and a young man had been knifed in a drunken brawl in front of the Merlin on North Terrace. He thought there was nothing out of the ordinary until he noticed that another homeless man had been found dead inside 7 Long Street. That was the second one in a week.

The phone on Carl’s desk rang.

‘Got a minute, Carl?’ said Mike Jonas, the police pathologist.

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve just finished the post mortem of the homeless guy they brought in from Long Street last night.’

‘Another overdose?’

‘That’s my problem, Carl. I don’t think these guys are druggies. I know the lab report says the body we picked up last week was full of high grade heroin and alcohol, and I suspect this one might very well be the same, but there’s only one needle mark on his body. If he was a user, he’d be marked up like a pin cushion.’

Carl got the feeling he wasn’t going to like where this was going. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Mike?’

‘I double checked my notes from the autopsy of the one they brought in last week. There was only one needle mark on his body as well.’

‘Do you think they could be first time users?’ said Carl.

‘I guess that’s possible, but it’s also possible someone injected these guys while they were comatose, given the amount of alcohol in the bloodstream of the first guy.’

‘Better send me your reports when you’re done, Mike.’

Carl called Forensics and asked for whatever they had collected from Long Street when the bodies had been picked up and taken to the morgue. If they’d followed protocol, Forensics would have at least photographed the bodies and the location, even if there had been no apparent signs of foul play.

He dialled DCI Rankin’s number.

‘Chief, I’ve just been talking with Mike Jonas. He doesn’t have a good feeling about these homeless men from Long Street. We might have a killer on our hands.’

‘What makes him think that, Carl?’

‘Mikes reckons they’re full of heroin and booze but he can only find one needle mark on their bodies. If they’d been injecting the stuff on a regular basis there should be a lot more puncture marks.’

‘First time users?’

‘Maybe, but they’d have to be bloody unlucky. The lab report is showing high grade heroin, not s**t stuff. We need to consider the possibility someone’s knocking them off in their sleep.’

‘Look into it, Carl, but see if you can keep a lid on it. I don’t want the media knowing anything about Mike’s theory until we’ve got something a little more conclusive. There’ll be a s**t storm if it gets out someone is knocking them off.’

Carl wondered just how many people would really care if someone was knocking off homeless men. Then he thought of Bishop Kerry. He knew the bishop would enjoy sticking one up the Commissioner, especially after the Church’s embarrassment over the Skinner case, and the Church was the major supplier of services to the homeless in the city.

When the evidence packages arrived from Forensics, Carl called DS Harry Fuller and DC Nigel Beard into the Incident Room.

‘What’s up, Boss’ said Harry, as he and Nigel took a seat in front of the whiteboard.

‘We need to take a look into the deaths of a couple of homeless guys Uniform have picked up in Long Street over the last week. Dr Jonas is not convinced they’re accidental overdoses. He thinks someone may have injected them with heroin while they were asleep.’

‘What makes him think that?’ said Harry.

‘There’s only one needle mark on their bodies.’

‘Perhaps they were unlucky first time users,’ said Nigel.

‘That’s a possibility, Nigel, but according to the lab report on Mark Tidler,’ Carl pointed to a photograph taken at the scene of Tidler’s death on the whiteboard, ‘it’s pretty high grade heroin. Not sure he’d have the money for that sort of stuff.’

‘See what you mean,’ said Harry, ‘unless there’s some new kid selling the stuff to these guys. You know, someone who doesn’t realise he’s supposed to cut the stuff.’

‘Either way, we need to find out what’s going on. Go and spend some time with the guys that hang around in Long Street. See what you can find out.’

‘Do we have a name for the second one, Boss?’

‘Richard Wentworth.’

7 Long Street was one of three derelict buildings on the block at the intersection of William and Long Streets in the south-western corner of the central business district. Everyone had been waiting for someone to redevelop the site ever since the collapse of the Nash Group in 2004. The papers had been full of proposed projects over the years but none of them had come to anything.

At some point, someone had smashed in the door to 7 Long Street and it had become a place of refuge for homeless men seeking shelter from the weather, and a place where the desperate came to trade their cash for a chemically induced high. The building was regularly visited by the police, who were only interested in interrupting the business of the drug dealers, not the squatting activities of the homeless.

The drug dealing happened on the ground floor, which provided the dealers with multiple exit points. Their lookouts stood in doorways on the opposite side of the street and around in William Street, from where they could communicate with their colleagues inside the building whenever a police patrol turned into the street. The homeless squatters preferred the third floor, away from the drug crowd and above the level of the street lights.

Harry parked their unmarked silver Ford in the car park of the men’s shelter at the western end of Long Street, where the homeless squatters came to shower and eat.

It was lunch time. The crowd sitting at the tables in the dining room on the ground floor, eating soup and bread rolls, was mostly older men dressed in ill-fitting, smelly clothes.

‘What do you fuckers want?’ said the man nearest the door when Harry and Nigel walked in.

Harry smiled. He knew they stood out like sore thumbs in their clean suits. He walked over to the elderly nun supervising the team of young people serving the meal. ‘Hello, Sister.’

‘What brings you here, Harry? Have they stopped feeding you down at the station?’ She beamed a smile at him. ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Sister Clare, this is Nigel Beard. He works with me.’

‘Well, I didn’t think he’d be your boyfriend, Harry. You’ve both got policeman written all over you, even if you’re not wearing uniforms. What brings you here today?’

Harry opened his iPad and showed her the photographs Forensics had given them. ‘Trying to find out what happened to these guys. We’re not so sure their deaths were from natural causes or accidental overdoses.’

‘Took your time working that out, didn’t you?’ said the old man standing next to Sister Clare.

‘Did you know them?’ said Harry.

The man looked over his shoulder at the men sitting at the table behind him. ‘Yeah, I knew them. They was in here all the time.’

‘Were they squatting up the street at number seven?’

The man didn’t say anything.

‘We’re not here to evict anybody. Just trying to find out what happened to them.’

‘There’s a few of us here that squat there. Not enough beds here and, besides,’ he winked at Sister Clare, ‘she won’t let us drink in here.’

‘That’s only because you don’t know when to stop, Gary.’

His smile revealed a set of nicotine stained teeth. ‘I always stop when I hit the floor, Sister.’

Sister Clare rolled her eyes. Harry wanted to laugh. He could see the smirk on Nigel’s face.

‘Do you think you could introduce us to the group that uses number seven?’ said Harry.

The man looked around the room. ‘I’ll ask if the boys want to talk to you.’

‘Thanks, Gary,’ said Harry. ‘Why don’t you enjoy your lunch while I talk to Sister? We can talk when you’re finished.’

The man grunted and shuffled away with his lunch. He sat down at the table behind them with his bowl of soup and buttered roll, and immediately engaged the other men sitting at the table in conversation. It wasn’t hard for Harry to work out who might be in the group.

‘What can you tell me about Mark and Richard, Sister? Were they into drugs?’

‘They were alcoholics, like Gary and his friends over there. We never saw them after lunch, just like we won’t see that lot until breakfast tomorrow. But I don’t think any of the older men are what you’d call drug users. They have to pester people on the streets to get the money to buy their booze, except for pension day. They don’t even turn up here on pension day. Sometimes we don’t see them for days.’

‘Were Mark and Richard regulars?’ said Harry.

‘They’d been coming in here for as long as I can remember, Harry, and I’ve been here since your father was a young constable. By the way, how is your father? I haven’t seen him for a while.’

‘He’s good. Taken up golf. Reckons he’s practising for his retirement.’

Sister Clare laughed. ‘I hear you’ve taken up with Max Walsh’s girl. She should keep you on the straight and narrow.’

The twinkle in her eye told Harry she knew a thing or two about Jessika, who often looked after Sister Clare’s men in court.

‘What’s your mother think about your girlfriend?’

‘Keeps telling me to marry her before she changes her mind.’

‘I wouldn’t wait too long, Harry.’

Gary and two of his mates invited Harry to join them in the car park after lunch. Nigel got the message that the invitation didn’t include him and went to introduce himself to a couple of younger men sitting in a corner of the room playing cards.

Harry pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his coat pocket and passed it to Gary. His father had told him about cigarettes being the currency required to extract information from homeless men. He waited while the three men divided up the packet and then lit up.

‘Why are you here, mate?’ said the man Gary had introduced as Stan.

‘We think someone may have murdered your friends,’ said Harry.

‘How?’ said Stan. ‘I found Tids. There wasn’t a mark on him. Looked like he’d just died in his sleep.’

‘Yeah, same with Dicko,’ said the man Gary had introduced as Vince. ‘I found him when I got back last night.’ He held up his mobile phone. ‘I called it in. I’ve even got a picture of him laying there dead.’

‘Tids was full of heroin,’ said Harry. ‘He’s got a needle mark in his arm, here.’ Harry pointed to the inside of his elbow.

‘Bullshit! Tids didn’t do no drugs,’ said Stan.

‘I’m not saying he did but Dicko’s got a needle mark in his arm, in the same place.’

‘He wasn’t into that s**t,’ said Vince. ‘Shiraz was Dicko’s poison of choice but he’d drink anything. Never seen him do heroin or any of that s**t, and we’ve been mates for years.’

‘Have you seen anybody new hanging about the place?’

‘You know what it’s like downstairs. New idiots there every night,’ said Gary.

‘Anybody that’s come upstairs to where you guys sleep?’

The three men looked at each other, as if they were uncertain how much they could divulge about what went on downstairs.

‘The Westies control downstairs,’ said Vince, ‘and there’s one big guy that makes sure we keep out of their space. Reckons we scare the patrons.’ Vince laughed. ‘But he always makes sure we get upstairs if we get back late.’

‘What time do you boys usually bed down for the night?’

‘Hard to say, mate. We’re usually tanked by then but we like to get in before dark. There’s no bloody lights in that place.’

‘Where do you sleep?’

‘On the third floor. There’s a room up there where we can lock the door.’

‘What happens on the second floor?’ said Harry.

‘That’s where the s**t-heads shoot up. We don’t go there.’

‘Where does this big guy leave you if he has to help you up the stairs?’

‘On the third floor landing. He props us up in a corner.’

‘Isn’t that where Dicko was found?’ said Gary.

‘Tids too,’ said Stan. ‘I went looking for him when he wasn’t back when I woke up. Thought he must have passed out on the stairs.’

‘Are you the only guys squatting down there?’

‘Nah, there’s a few others. They just don’t like talking to coppers,’ said Gary.

Harry keyed his number into Vince’s mobile phone. ‘If you remember anything else or see something you think I should know, or if you feel threatened by anyone, call me. If I can’t come myself, I’ll send help.’

‘s**t! You’re serious, aren’t you, mate? No copper’s ever given me his number before,’ said Vince.

‘I don’t want to see you on a slab in the morgue, Vince. Not you; not any of your friends. Maybe you should find somewhere else to sleep.’

‘There ain’t anywhere else, mate.’

Harry waited for Nigel to slip into the car and buckle up. ‘Find out anything?’

‘Got an earful on how useless we are at protecting them from gangs like the Westies. Seems they control access to that building in Long Street.’

Harry started the car and eased it out into the traffic in Long Street. ‘Yeah, the guys said the Westies are running the drug exchange on the ground floor but they claim there’s one gang member that makes sure they don’t interfere with the punters. Apparently, he even helps them upstairs when they’re drunk.’

‘Did they know anything, Sarge?’

‘They’re the guys who found the bodies. Thought their friends had simply died in their sleep.’

‘So, Uniform might have statements from them.’

‘Only if they’d hung around to be interviewed. Besides, doesn’t sound like they saw anything. They were probably all out to it when it happened.’

‘The guys I was talking to told me about ten or twelve of them sleep in or around that building. Not everybody goes inside if it’s not raining, and they’re not all drunks,’ said Nigel.

‘Did they see anything?’

‘No, but they said they’d ask around and meet up with me if I came back in a couple of days.’

‘Make sure you bring some cigarettes.’

‘Cigarettes?’

‘Secret my Dad told me. If you want information from these guys you’ll need to pay them, and the currency is cigarettes. Even if they don’t smoke they can always use cigarettes or, if you’re really feeling generous, buy them some metro tickets. Just don’t give them cash.’

‘Do you think the inspector will want us to talk to the Westies, Sarge?’

‘I’m sure he will. Thing is though, will they want to talk to us? We might have to raid the place and pull some of them off the street. Perhaps we should take a look at Long Street.’ Harry pulled into a parking space in front of the building, behind a white delivery van.

They were about to enter the building when a uniformed officer stepped out of the gloom and motioned them over. ‘Sorry, gents, mind telling me why you’re coming in here?’

Harry showed him his badge. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Sergeant Lang’s upstairs, Sergeant. They’re doing a discreet recheck of the stairwell and the landing where the bodies were found, in case they missed anything, seeing this is now a suspected crime scene.’

Harry decided he could catch up with Dean back at Police Headquarters. ‘Okay, we can come back later if we need to.’