The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(64)

“He’s relatively young,” she replied. “Early thirties, runs Singh Holdings, a property development company. He was flagged up a while back by the Financial Investigation Unit in connection with Martin Henderson, the bloke up at Cragside, remember?”

Lowerson pulled a face, then it cleared again.

“Right—I’m with you, now. The one when Ryan and Anna were staying in a cottage in the grounds of Cragside? How did Singh come into the frame?”

“The FIU suspected Henderson was one of Singh’s employees, hired to help launder money through a series of shady property deals. Unfortunately, when they tried to chase the money down, it was too well hidden. It’s an ongoing case, for them.”

“They might want to look at Rochelle Interiors,” Lowerson said. “But let’s wait until after we’ve spoken to her.”

Yates came off the dual carriageway at the turning for Corbridge, and they followed the winding country road leading to the town centre.

“The Drugs Squad have their eye on him, too. Since Jimmy the Manc is no longer on the scene, there’s been a bit of a turf war ongoing across Newcastle, Gateshead and Sunderland, with a spate of gang-related murders over the past couple of years. According to the DS, things had died down a bit until recently, which led them to think the war had been won.”

“By whom?” Lowerson asked. At one time, there had been twelve or thirteen distinct gangs operating in the North East.

“A gang calling themselves the ‘Smoggies’,” she said. “They don’t know who the leader is, but the name suggests a Teesside connection.”

Lowerson made a sound of agreement, then bit the bullet.

“Alright, smarty-pants, why does it suggest a Teesside connection?”

“Because ‘Smoggie’ is short for ‘smog monster’, of course,” she replied. “It started out as an old derogatory football term used by the Sunderland supporters, when they were playing Middlesbrough. It’s a reference to the air pollution that used to be quite heavy around Middlesbrough, back in the day.”

Lowerson looked at her as though she’d grown another head.

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“Common knowledge,” she said, maddeningly. “Heads up, there’s the petrol station.”

*

It was just shy of ten o’clock, so Yates found a parking space opposite the petrol station which afforded them a good view of the forecourt. Luckily, her research the previous day had included a picture of Rochelle, taken at a recent charity benefit that had—irony of ironies—been held to raise money for several charities working against drug addiction.

Time ticked by and, twenty minutes later, they started to worry she wouldn’t show.

“God, I hope nothing’s happened to her,” Lowerson said. “If my phone call put her in danger—”

“Over there,” Yates interrupted him, and pointed towards a new white Jeep with blacked-out windows turning into the petrol station. Instead of moving into one of the petrol pump spaces, it reversed into an area to the side of the air and water terminal. Its engine was turned off, but nobody exited the car.

“Are you sure it’s her?” Lowerson asked, and Yates gave him a sideways look.

“Check out the plates,” she said. “They’ve been personalised to ‘CHELLE 1’.”

“Ah,” he said.

They got out of the car and walked at a normal pace across the street, not wishing to draw any undue attention to themselves. As they neared the Jeep, its engine started up again, as if its driver was getting ready to bolt.

Lowerson took a good look around, making sure they were not being watched, then tapped on the driver’s window.

After a moment, it was lowered so they could see the top of a woman’s head.

“Rochelle?”

“Get in,” she said. “I can’t stay long.”

*

Rochelle White was not what they had expected.

She was a quietly attractive woman of around twenty-five, with highlighted blonde hair, perfect nails and understated jewellery to match the classy linen summer dress she wore. In fact, she looked very much like the woman who might have decorated the late Daniel Hepple’s home, but not at all like the sort of person they expected to find attached to a serious gangland criminal.

It took all sorts, they supposed.

And, to Yates eternal annoyance, Lowerson was clearly impressed with what he saw.

“Thanks for coming to meet us, Ms White,” he said. “As I said on the phone, we’re from Northumbria CID. I’m Jack, and this is Mel.”

“You said you found my number on Dan’s phone?”

She came straight to the point, because there was no time for pleasantries. She’d needed to fabricate an excuse as to why she was heading out, and had come up with a last-minute consultation with a client in Corbridge, just in case she was seen around the town. She’d found that it was best to stick to the truth as far as possible; it reduced the likelihood of being found out.

“Yes, we found the phone at his address in Whitley Bay,” Lowerson told her. “We understand you were…close with Mr Hepple?”

She smiled at that.

“If you’ve had a look on the phone, you probably saw some of the pictures,” she said. “So, yes, you could say Dan and I were close.”