Vicious Circle

Inside, there was a space about a foot deep, separated by three vertical plywood dividers into four compartments of roughly equal size. Three of the compartments were filled with identical brown paper bags, about the size of Tate & Lyle sugar bags, all double wrapped in plastic on top of the paper: the fourth was mostly full of black DVD sleeves, but two small notebooks with slightly oil-stained covers were sitting off in one corner. On the cover of the top one, written in thick black felt tip, were the two words “goods in.” What the other said I couldn’t tell.

At a nod from the detective sergeant, the grab-and-dab boys fished up one of the bags and both of the notebooks with gingerly, plastic-gloved hands and took them away to the desk, looking like kids at Christmas. Coldwood was still looking at me—a look that said the time for teasing was past. He wanted the whole story.

But so did I. I don’t prostitute my talents for just anyone, especially anyone with a rank and a uniform, and when I’m dragged into a situation I know sod all about I like to play just a little coy until I find my feet. So I threw him a question by way of an answer.

“Is your man about six two, stocky, ginger-haired, wearing Armani slacks and one of those poncy collarless jackets in a sort of olive brown?”

Coldwood made a sound in his throat that might have been a laugh if laughter was in his repertoire. “That’s him,” he said. “Now stop playing Mystic Meg and tell me where he is.”

“Tell me who he is,” I countered.

“Fuck! Castor, you’re a civilian adviser, so just do what you’re being paid to do, okay? You don’t get to look at my fucking case notes.”

I waited. This was my fifth or sixth outing with DS Coldwood, and we’d already established a sort of routine; but like I said, he wasn’t in the best of tempers right then—hence his attempt to lead me to water and then shove my head under it.

“I could arrest you for withholding evidence and hindering an investigation,” he pointed out darkly.

“You could,” I agreed. “And I’d wish you joy proving it.”

There was a short pause. Coldwood breathed out explosively.

“His name’s Lesley Sheehan,” he said, his tone flat and his face deadpan. “He deals whatever drugs he can get his hands on, plus some nasty fetish porn on the side as a bit of a hobby. That’s probably what those DVDs are all about. He’s maybe two steps up the ladder from the mules and the street runners, and he doesn’t matter a toss. But he answers to a man named Robin Pauley, who we’d dearly love to get our hands on. So we’ve spent the last six months watching Sheehan and building up a case against him because we think we can turn him. He narced before, about ten years back, to get out of a conspiracy to murder charge. When they’ve done it once, you’ve got a bit more of a handle on them. Only now he’s gone missing and we think Pauley may have sussed what we were up to.”

“Sheehan won’t be talking now, in any case,” I said, with calm and absolute conviction.

Coldwood was exasperated. “Castor, you’re not qualified even to have a fucking opinion on—” he snarled. Then he got it. “Oh,” he muttered, followed a second or so later by a bitter “Fuck!” He was about to say something else, probably equally terse, when one of the lab rats called across to him.

“Sergeant?”

He turned, brisk and expressionless. Always deal with the matter in hand: keep your imagination holstered like your sidearm. Good copping.

“It’s heroin,” the tech boy said, with stiff formality. “More or less uncut. About ninety-five, ninety-six percent pure.”

Coldwood nodded curtly, then turned back to me.

“So I’m assuming Sheehan’s somewhere in here, is he?” he asked, for the sake of form.

I nodded, but I needed to spell it out in case he got his hopes up. “His ghost is in here,” I said. “That doesn’t mean his corpse is. I’ve told you before how this works.”

“I need to see him,” said Coldwood.

I nodded again. Of course he did.

Slipping a hand inside my trenchcoat, I took out my tin whistle. Normally it would be a Clarke Original in the key of D, but some exciting events onboard a boat a few months prior to this had left me temporarily without an instrument. The boat in question was a trim little yacht named the Mercedes, but if you’re thinking Henley Regatta, you’re way off the mark: “The Wreck of the Hesperus” would probably give you a better mental picture. Or maybe the Flying Dutchman. Anyway, as a result of that little escapade I ended up buying a Sweetone, virulently green in color, and that had become my new default instrument. It didn’t feel as ready and responsive to my hand as the old Original used to do, and it looked a bit ridiculous, but it was coming along. Give it another year or so and we’d probably be inseparable.