‘What’s there to tell you?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I’ve met him a few times, but we don’t move in the same circles.’
‘Honest?’
‘How would I know?’
‘Rasta Joe, you know what’s going on. They fished Rodrigo Fuentes out of the Thames. Do you want to be next?’
‘Are you trying to frighten me?’
‘You’re already scared. I saw Fuentes two hours after the dredger had scooped him up. After a few weeks under water, it wasn’t a pleasant sight. That’s what you’ll look like if we don’t deal with O’Shaughnessy.’
‘Did he murder Fuentes?’
‘That’s what Pinto reckoned.’
‘What happened to him?’ Rasta Joe asked. Larry noticed that his concern had not quenched his ability to down the pints.
‘Vicenzo Pinto is missing, presumed dead. And why are you so frightened?’
‘I was buying from Fuentes. You’re not going to arrest me for that confession, are you?’
‘Dealing with whoever’s behind these murders is more important.’
Rasta Joe considered his position. It was either level with DI Hill or run the risk of an untimely death. He chose to level. ‘If I work with you on this, you’ve got to promise you’ll keep me out of prison,’ he said. It was the first time he had trusted a policeman; he knew it would raise the ire of his criminal compatriots, but they weren’t being threatened, he was.
‘That’s not a promise I can give.’
‘Then no deal.’
‘Is what you know crucial to our inquiry?’ Larry asked.
‘I can finger Hughenden,’ the Jamaican said.
‘What I can guarantee you is that your past and present crimes will be overlooked, but any in the future, then you’re on your own. No protection from me.’
Rasta Joe sat back and sipped on his beer. ‘It’s a deal. In writing?’
‘You know I can’t do that. You’ll have to trust me on this one.’
‘Alex Hughenden is not as clean as he pretends to be.’
‘We have strong suspicions that he’s not, but it’s difficult to prove.’
‘I don’t know about him and the drug trafficking, although Devlin O’Shaughnessy was drunk one night and he was talking.’
‘To you?’
‘After a few drinks, no way.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Sober, he’s decent enough, but after a few drinks he starts getting unpleasant, making comments.’
‘What sort?’
‘The ones I’ve heard all my life. Ask your DCI, he’ll know what I mean.’
‘Go back to where you come from, you black bastard. That sort of thing?’ Larry asked. ‘He still gets it occasionally.’
‘At the police station?’
‘They wouldn’t say it to his face, but some wouldn’t be sorry to see him go.’
‘There are still racists out there,’ Rasta Joe said.
‘And people who deal in drugs.’
‘Point taken. Besides, I intend to be an honest citizen from now on.’
‘Remember, I’ll only protect you as long as you're straight with me. Any further criminal activity, I’ll not protect you.’ Larry knew the Jamaican would not leave crime, no more than he would give up policing. Rasta Joe represented the worst in society: people who prey on the vulnerabilities of others.
Larry looked round the pub. He remembered in his youth, when he used to drink more than he should, that a public house was an Englishman’s enclave, but now in a pub close to Notting Hill he could only see people from elsewhere. In the far corner, he saw a couple of young lovers oblivious to their surroundings; at the bar, a group of migrants in from Eastern Europe speaking one of the Slavic languages. Larry assumed it was Polish, as they were everywhere in London. Most were decent people trying to make their way, but an undesirable element had come in with them.
Larry had to admit that he liked Rasta Joe as a person. The man was entertaining, and now that he needed him, affable. It did not excuse the man from the fact that he made a living out of the misery and addiction of others.
The two men organised a pub lunch. Larry knew that after five pints there would be no food for him at home that night. Not that he blamed his wife, as she only cared for him, but sometimes there had been some furious arguments, at least from her side, about why he needed to drink as part of the job. Larry was confident she understood, but it did not stop her complaining, although she was not a woman to dwell on it for too long. The next morning his breakfast would be on the table, and she would be back to her cheerful self.
‘What’s the deal with Hughenden?’ Larry asked as he proceeded to eat his steak and chips.
‘You need to check out the merchandise in his shop.’
‘I know it’s expensive.’
‘Ask him where it all came from.’
‘What do you know?’
‘One of my mates, he’s a thief.’
‘I thought all your friends were good citizens.’
‘He is. Anyway, what’s the difference between someone who steals from the rich and those rich bastards who never pay their taxes.’
Larry had to admit he had a point, but he was not there to discuss social inequalities. ‘Your friend, what does he say about Hughenden?’
‘Hughenden will buy the expensive stuff from him.’
‘Are you certain? Will your friend put that down in writing?’
‘What do you think?’ Rasta Joe said.
‘No, but I’ll need details,’ Larry said.
‘Then my friend will be in trouble with Hughenden.’
‘Is Hughenden the man in charge of the syndicate?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him involved, but O’Shaughnessy’s involved and Hughenden’s crooked. What do you think?’
‘We have our suspicions that Hughenden is a senior man, but no proof.’
‘I can’t get you proof. Too much risk for me.’
‘But you’re here.’
‘I’ve people watching out for me. If anyone makes a move towards me, they’ll see
