Wednesday afternoon, contd.

Over at the SOCA unit embedded in New Scotland Yard the DCI sat in a swivel chair opposite his DS. She rolled her eyes at his obvious contentment to be reunited with an old friend.

"Not even two days. You didn't even hold out for two days. I wish my father was such a pushover," but the severity of her admonishment was offset by the affection in her tone and the smile on her lips.

"What do I want an iPhone for anyway? This," he waved the near obsolete piece of technology in front of her, "is all I need. Calls, texts and photographs," he smiled to himself recalling the joy on the boy's face when he had flung the box containing yesterday's instrument of torture at him this morning before his mother collected him to return to the home they shared. Within seconds, a sim card had been inserted and he was hard at work downloading various epps or apps or upps, or whatever they were, that would no doubt enhance the kid's life.

"You don't even know what to do with the photographs on that thing when you've taken them. I have to do it for you." He grinned and leant back in the chair lazily. Illnesses and cancelled meetings meant it was an unusually quiet day in an otherwise hectic summer so far.

In response to an email alert, the DS hit a key on her laptop. She frowned, "there's another one at it."

"At what?" the DCI yawned and linked his hands behind his head, this heat and the lack of activity was sending him to sleep. It didn't help that father and son had been making the most of their last night together by watching the entire Star Wars DVD collection well into the early hours. The boy's mother would no doubt pay for that later today. He smiled, feeling a little guilty for sending back an overtired young teenager, but probably not as much as he ought to.

"Information request on Fleischmann, financial records, tax returns, that sort of thing." She scanned the message for what was really relevant.

"Who?" marginally more interested, this was moving.

"A DC at Sun Hill."

"Which one?"

"G. Dassahree," she mispronounced.

He paused. That was a name he hadn't heard in a long while. A person he hadn't thought about in a long while. "Dasari," he corrected quietly. "Grace Dasari." His earlier easy contentment vanished.

"Grace? Five minutes, in my office. I want to know what you've got."

She replaced the receiver. It was almost the end of the day and she'd been waiting for this for the last couple of hours, torn between hoping he'd be too busy and would forget, but also wishing he'd hurry up and call her in, just so that the ordeal would be over with. It was all getting too much, this dread of Max Carter. It was bad enough when he had been her Sergeant, but as DI Grace found him unbearable. She'd been able to use her intelligence in battle against him back then, once even calling him a little boy who was scared he really wasn't up to the job. Point scored, but it had been the last time. Not long after everything changed. Manson was gone and Carter was at his desk with a deceptively different attitude, except where she was concerned. She knew he hadn't forgotten what she had said that day. And it hadn't gone unnoticed by her that Tommy Leighton had been brought in to do his dirty work, with Max reserving his bullying tactics just for her, as if for his own private amusement. She was going to have to move on and was pretty sure Max wouldn't stand in her way.

"Well?" he barked immediately as she entered his office, file in hand and pulling the door shut behind her. He was forced to admit that she was good, probably more incisive and astute than any other member of the team. But, and this was a big but, she had a window onto his soul that was intolerable. It was one thing for Millie to know his weaknesses, he needed her to know, wanted her to know everything so she could understand and love him anyway, but he didn't need that from Grace. That she had once come so dangerously close to scraping away the veneer and uncovering the truth of him was terrifying. He could have ostracised her, made it clear that he didn't want her in the team so that she would leave. But she was popular with the others and good at her job, she got results through hard work and he couldn't fault that, especially when it made him look good. Besides, away from the fold she might talk and therefore the only thing he could do was to keep her so firmly in her place that she wouldn't have the confidence to chip away at him. Something along the lines of keeping friends close, not that there were many, and keeping your enemies closer, which was rather more to the point. And to Max's satisfaction, it had worked. In fact, it had been easy.

Grace took a breath, drew herself together and sat down opposite him, meeting his stare with as much strength as she could muster. "Okay, Fleischmann was well-financed up until a couple of years ago when his debts suddenly seem to have mounted. He's had significant debts before, re-mortgages, loans, that sort of thing, but has always managed to clear them before they got out of hand. But now, he is mortgaged to the hilt and I can't see that he is getting the kind of income from his businesses to stand a chance of making enough repayments to satisfy the banks. The only asset that is doing well is the daughter's beauty salon, Beautylicious." Grace pulled face akin to eating something sour, showing her distaste at the vulgarity of the name. "The debts started rising shortly after he bought that and put it in her ownership, I imagine so that his creditors can't get at it. I've estimated that the clubs can only be making enough in receipts to pay basic running costs, but that's all." As Grace came to a close, she realised from Max's still expectant expression that he was waiting for more. Her heart sank as his expectancy turned cold, heartless.

"Is that it? Twenty four hours of work to tell me more or less what I already know?" Of course, Max hadn't known all this, but he was in a foul mood, having been stood up by Millie and with an empty evening ahead of him, somebody needed to bear the brunt. Who better?

Indignation flooded Grace, strengthening her intention to be out of Sun Hill as fast as possible. "But this is all we're going to get from banking records and tax returns. Fleischmann clearly isn't playing on the level, he's hardly going to declare illegal income. My guess is that there's got to be cash floating around that isn't going through the books for some reason." And that's up to you to find out, she added silently to herself.

Max fixed his gaze on her, silent for a few moments, and although she did her best to maintain the high ground, it was impossible not to shrink under his cold scrutiny.

"Phone records? Have you checked phone records?"

"No, until I know what we are looking for it would be like a needle in a haystack," she countered defensively.

"Well then, you'd better get on with it. I want to know who he is calling, most frequently dialled numbers. I want to know which associates he is talking to. You can rule out the daughter for now though," he added facetiously. "Don't let me down, Grace." The note of intended menace in his voice made Grace bite down on her tongue, if only to stop it lashing out, or more likely, to stop herself from submitting to the angry tears that were already welling inside.

Her jaw was still clenched when she returned to her desk a minute later, her eyes downcast to avoid the sympathetic glances of her colleagues.

"Is he at it again?" asked Terry, but Grace couldn't answer. Tommy Leighton was too close, and even if Terry didn't care about what the new DS thought of him, Grace wasn't prepared to hand easy ammunition over to Max via his lackey. Terry looked back over his shoulder at the spy in their midst and with an air of indifference towards the man, rose from his chair to perch on the edge of her desk. "Why are you putting up with this, Grace? You're letting him bully you. Again." Still Grace said nothing, instead opening her file and reaching for the directory which would give her the details she needed to start work on the telephone records. "Grace! You need to do something!"

That was enough, "Like what? Eh, Terry? What do you suggest? Shall I nip along to the Super's office and say, 'Sir, he's picking on me'? This isn't a school playground," she snapped furiously.

Terry raised his hands to her, surprised by her sudden vehemence. "Okay, I'm just saying …"

Behind him, Grace could see Leighton, sat a couple of desks away, watching them with obvious interest.

"Well 'saying' anything isn't going to help, Terry," she muttered returning to the file. "I know what I'm going to have to do."

"Guv?" Mickey answered the phone, his mouth full of bacon sandwich. "I was just about to ring you."

"Saved you the trouble then. Where are you?"

"At the caff on Radstock Street, late lunch."

Max grimaced at the thought of the grease Mickey was likely to be consuming at that place. "Stay there, I'm coming over."

Max wished he hadn't arranged to meet Mickey at the greasy spoon café before he even entered it. It confounded him that anyone would want to be inside this airless hellhole, filled with the stench of used cooking fat competing for dominance with the stale aroma of nicotine infused clothing and sweat. Yet it was Mickey's favourite, the best bacon butties in Sun Hill apparently. Max would take his word for it rather than his culinary recommendations. Even Millie's cooking was better than this. Curling his top lip in contempt for where he found himself, Max made his way over to Mickey in the far corner, by the fan circulating the same repulsive air, with a can of Coke and The Sun. He slid into the seat opposite, gaining Mickey's attention.

"Rushed off your feet, Mickey?"

"Like I said, late lunch. I've been doing your leg-work all morning."

Max might not like Mickey very much, but he had to respect that he stood his ground in the face of authority where others crumbled. "And?"

Mickey hesitated for a moment, he didn't want to appear interested in whatever vendetta Max had against Fleischmann, but what he had learnt a couple of hours earlier gave him reason to believe that perhaps there was a chance this time that the man had let down his guard enough to become exposed. And, if that was the case, then Mickey wanted in on it.

"I've an informant whose girlfriend works for Fleischmann at the Parisa Bar, she has done for years. She wasn't that keen to talk but Simon owes me and I convinced her that if Georgie is in some kind of trouble then we can help him-"

"Mickey," warned Max, "I'm not interested in helping him, unless it is on his way behind bars. How many times do I have to tell you lot we are not a bunch of social workers."

"I know, I know, but she wasn't going to give up anything and I sensed she was worried about him, you know?"

Max rolled his eyes at Mickey's tendency to get over involved with his informants. "Go on."

"Anyway, she, Lesley, said that Georgie has had his ups and downs over the years, but this is the longest she's been paid in cash, normally wages all go through his accountant's payroll system. The bars are making enough she thinks, but he's taken over banking the takings and is really secretive about it. It's made her wonder where the money is going.

"Is he being blackmailed?"

"I asked her that, she thinks it's a possibility but what she's more concerned about are the Russians."

"Russians?" Max thought back to Hammond's belief that Eastern Europeans were involved somewhere in Fleischmann's dealings. Close enough.

"Yeah. Russians. Several of them coming and going, boxes in and out of the storerooms. No questions allowed. Almost as if they have taken over the place. He still owns it but it's like they have free reign to do whatever they want and he can't stop them. He calls them his friends, but the staff are talking about some kind of protection racket going on. It's got me thinking that maybe these Russians are using Parisa, and maybe his other places, as cover for whatever they are up to."

"Any idea what?"

"Nah, but it's got to be drugs, smuggling or guns. I can't think of what else it's likely to be."

"Prostitution?" Max prayed this wouldn't be the case. He'd been too close to that line of activity when he was undercover, he never wanted to be near it again.

"Doubt it, unless the girls are in the boxes. But it's a possibility I suppose. Not Georgie's line of work. He genuinely cares about the girls that work for him. Lesley said he treats them really well. Same can't be said of his daughter though," Mickey chuckled. "Lesley ain't got a good word for her."

She's not alone, though Max wryly. "So, where have these Russians come from?"

"Now there's the mystery. No one knows. They suddenly appeared one day and moved in. Lesley overheard, she's a bit nosey like that, something about debts but she didn't get more than that."

Max nodded slowly as he tapped his fingers on the table top, piecing together the strands of information. "Smuggling, maybe. But my money is on guns. If it was drugs we'd know about it through the dealers we've brought in lately. There would have been talk of new suppliers. That's good work Mickey, good work, but it's not enough. Keep digging, I want to know who these Russians are. Get your Lesley to give us a name."

Mickey opened his mouth to object, knowing that he'd really had to push Lesley to get this much out of her, but closed it again. There was no point in arguing with Carter when he was this fixed on getting a result.