Good Bait by John Harvey Page A

Carter. ‘Mad Mike’ to his friends.
    Ramsden told Karen he’d seen Carter once, during a raid on a club in Peckham where he was employed as bouncer, lift an officer off the ground, two-handed, and hurl him against and almost through the windscreen of the nearest car. After that it had taken half a dozen men to overpower him and hold him down.
    And then there was Martin’s involvement with the BNP. Several photographs and a short piece of video footage culled from Special Branch files. Martin at full throttle, mouth wide open, shouting racist abuse, singing ‘God Save the Queen’, the flag of St George fluttering behind him.
    All of which was enough, Karen thought, to brace Terry Martin on his return from Tallinn. Taking Tim Costello along would give her a chance to see how well he handled himself, as well as, maybe, offering a little light relief.

15
    Terry Martin walked through from airside with the look of an ex-footballer for whom life on Sky Sports News was always going to be a step too far. Close-cropped hair, stubble, pricey suit that he somehow managed to make look cheap. Carry-on held in one large hand.
    Costello had written Martin’s name in marker on a piece of card and stood amongst a gaggle of minicab drivers and other meeters and greeters, holding it high above his head. His little joke.
    Humour him, Karen thought. She was interested in seeing for herself how he handled himself in situations like this. ‘You do the talking,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll listen.’
    â€˜What’s this?’ Martin said, his face too close to Costello’s for comfort. ‘Someone looking to do me a favour?’
    â€˜Not exactly.’
    The airport had allotted them a small room devoid of decoration save for a CityJet calendar for 2009, open at October, a picture of the Dundee Botanical Gardens in autumn. There was an air vent, a small window that didn’t seem to open out on to anything, several stacking chairs and a square metal table.
    â€˜Whatever this is about,’ Martin said, sitting heavily, ‘make it snappy, okay? I ain’t got all day.’
    â€˜How was Tallinn?’ Costello asked chirpily, sounding as if he really cared. ‘Successful trip? Business, was it? A little R & R? Bit of both? Sex tourism’s the big thing, apparently. Several hundred per cent rise in prostitution. AIDS too, of course. Hand in hand these days, unfortunately.’
    â€˜What the fuck is this? Some kind of market fucking research?’
    Close up, beneath the stubble, Martin’s face was slack and pale. His breath, in Costello’s face, was sour. Not enough sleep. Too much airline booze. Burning Tallinn at both ends.
    â€˜We’ll say business then, shall we?’
    â€˜Say what you fuckin’ like.’
    â€˜What is the nature of your business, Mr Martin?’ Karen asked, stepping in, the voice of reason.
    â€˜My business?’ A burly shrug. ‘Textiles, import and export. Tallinn it’s mainly sportswear, a little Gore-tex, women’s clothing. We bring it in, sell it on.’
    â€˜We?’
    â€˜My partners and me.’
    â€˜Which partners might that be?’ Costello asked.
    â€˜Never you mind.’
    â€˜Dougie Freeman? Mad Mike Carter? Some of your pals from the BNP?’
    â€˜You little shit!’ Martin slammed a fist down on the table, hard.
    Holding his nerve, Costello had scarcely blinked.
    â€˜Instead of losing your temper,’ Karen said firmly, reckoning Martin was disorientated enough, ‘why don’t you tell us where you were on the evening of December 21st last.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜December 21st.’
    â€˜How’m I supposed to know that?’
    â€˜21st December,’ Karen said, ‘the night you locked your daughter, Sasha, in her room, and left her there till the early hours of next morning.’
    â€˜Who says?’
    â€˜Sasha. Your wife. They both