by Tania Carver
‘That’s right,’ said Anni. ‘So?’
‘So,’ said Marina, ‘what’s this one playing at?’
‘How d’you mean?’ asked Mickey.
‘Well, if what Anni said is true, it’s as if she wanted to be caught.’
Mickey shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So she’s manipulated you, too. She’s in here because she wants to be.’
Mickey fell silent.
‘But why?’ asked Marina.
Anni stood up. ‘Let’s go and ask her, shall we?’
10
‘S
he’d left her phone on the bed,’ said Sperring once he and Phil were back in the Audi.
Phil had given a silent prayer that the Audi was where he had left it and intact. He pulled away, hoping that the brakes still worked. Even though they hadn’t noticed anyone they would have been seen, made as police. He just hoped no one had had the time or inclination to tamper.
‘So you had a look,’ said Phil, leaning forward to turn down the Midlake CD that was playing. ‘You know that’s inadmissible.’
Sperring shrugged. ‘Won’t come to that. Anyway, I just had a look. She’d be none the wiser. Left no prints.’ He started to remove his latex gloves.
Phil drove in silence for a while, surreptitiously testing his brakes. They seemed to work fine. He relaxed slightly. ‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘you’re dying to tell me. What did you find?’
‘And you’re dying to hear it. Don’t try and kid me that you’re not. Well,’ he said, settling into the seat, making himself comfortable, ‘I had a look at her calendar, see if she’d marked down any dates and that. Strangely, she wasn’t the type to be that organised. So I had a look in her contacts.’ Sperring smiled. ‘Found a few names worth looking at.’
‘Such as?’ Phil kept his eyes on the road. He was still relatively new to Birmingham and had to concentrate every time he drove. Not just because the roads were confusing but because the other drivers were so aggressive. He had thought London drivers were bad but they had nothing on these second-city citizens.
‘Moses Heap.’ Sperring smiled as he said it, pleased with himself.
The name meant nothing to Phil. ‘Right. Good.’
‘You don’t know Moses Heap?’ Sperring smirked. ‘Must be before your time. There were two big gangs in this city.’
‘Were?’
‘Coming to that. There were two big gangs, been going for years. Back to the Handsworth riots in the mid-Eighties. The Handsworth Boys and the Chicken Shack Crew.’
‘Right. Those names meant to mean anything?’
‘Watson’s Café in Handsworth was where one of them formed. They controlled virtually all of the drugs, women and door security for nightclubs across the city. We could barely get a hook in them. Then there were some arguments – drugs, women, whatever it is that sort argue over – and the Chicken Shack Crew were formed, running out of the Chicken Shack on Soho Road. The Handsworth Boys took Aston, Erdington and Lozells, the other lot Handsworth, Perry Barr and Ladywood. Crack cocaine, heroin, the lot.’
‘Ironic that the Handsworth Boys shouldn’t run Handsworth.’
‘And a source of much anger, I gather. Long story short, they started to get out of control. Like the fucking wild west for shootings round there. School kids involved, the lot. Moses Heap ran the Handsworth Boys. Anyway, after the leader of the Chicken Shack Boys, Julian Wilson, was murdered – and no one was ever done for it – Moses Heap decided things had gotten out of hand so he tried to reach across to the new gang leader, Julian’s brother Tiny. They sat down like it was fucking Northern Ireland and brokered some kind of peace treaty.’
‘Good for them,’ said Phil.
‘Yeah. But not all of them got the memo. So it’s shaky, still. Dangerous. But some of them, Moses Heap being a prime example, are claiming to have given up the dark path and reinventing themselves as community spokesmen, educators, a force for good, all that.’
‘All very interesting,’ said Phil, ‘but how does that help us find Chloe and Shannon’s killer?’
‘Well, call me a cynic if you must, but I reckon that Moses’s sudden conversion is a load of bollo. He’s playing a game. Playing everyone. He always was a player. Bit of a pimp. He’s got previous for that as well as the other stuff and if he’s a friend of Letisha Watson, or if she’s one of his ladies, maybe he’s not above getting her a favour done in return for her doing him one?’
‘Like killing her rival and child?’
Sperring shrugged. ‘Worth looking into.’
Phil nodded. ‘So where can we find Moses Heap?’
Sperring smiled. ‘From what I hear, he’s discovered the healing power of music.’
As soon as Phil opened the door his ears were assaulted by a barrage of sound. Hip hop beats punched up to ear-bleed level, an angry, violent rap fantasy of guns, gangs and hoes being spat over the top. At least Phil assumed it was a fantasy. Given the people he was visiting he wasn’t so sure if they weren’t just recording their day-to-day life.
The studio was in an old Victorian redbrick building in a run-down area of Aston, given over to the No Postcode Organisation, as it said on the front, a charity-funded community base. He and Sperring had shown their warrant cards on the way in, asked the young black man on the reception desk if Moses Heap was in the building. The young man had clearly had dealings with the police before and regarded them with suspicion if not downright hatred. He told them he would call through to the studio and see if Mr Heap was available.
‘No need for that, son,’ said Sperring. ‘We’ll go and see if he’s there ourselves. Wouldn’t want you spoiling the surprise.’
He walked off down a corridor, Phil following. Phil wanted to take issue with his subordinate’s aggressive approach but he also wanted to see Moses Heap in his own surroundings. Gauge his responses from that.
They walked through the building, the original green ceramic tiled walls incongruous with newer plasterboard partitions and corridors, the walls covered with posters imploring the viewer to put down their knives and guns, with inspirational messages from figures such as Martin Luther King, Bob Marley and Tupac Shakur. They stopped before a plain wooden door with red and green lights above it. The green light was on.
‘After you,’ said Sperring.
All eyes turned as Phil and Sperring entered. Even given Phil’s casual clothing they were immediately made as police. The room was full of black youths in their twenties and thirties relaxing on low sofas and chairs, and their expressions showed that their experience with the police had been negative. One of them stood up, stepped up to Phil. Eyeball to eyeball.
‘I’m looking for Moses Heap,’ said Phil, ensuring his voice was calm, his gaze level. Not matching aggression with aggression but careful not to back down.
‘What you want him for?’ said the man in front of him.
The room stank of sweat, skunk and alcohol.
‘Just want a word,’ said Phil. ‘That’s all.’
Another man stood up. He was better dressed than the man who had stepped up to Phil, the same kind of street uniform but with better labels. ‘’S okay, Clinton,’ he said. ‘Stand down.’
The man reluctantly moved away but kept his eyes tight on Phil.
The other man crossed to Phil, took Clinton’s place. ‘I’m Moses Heap.’ He swallowed down his ingrained distaste of police. Despite the anger Phil noticed a clear intelligence in his eyes. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’
‘Can you turn the music down, please,’ said Phil, ‘or shall we step outside?’
Moses Heap gestured to a teenager sitting behind the mixing desk. The music disappeared. The silence that replaced it was deafening. Phil’s ears were ringing.
‘You can say what you got to say in front of my bredren. We got no secrets from Five-0 here.’
‘Letisha Watson,’ said Phil. ‘She a friend of yours?’
Moses Heap frowned. ‘Letisha Watson…’ He shrugged. ‘Don
’t recognise the name.’
‘She’s a working girl, lives on the Trescothick Estate,’ said Sperring.
Moses Heap kept his face impassive, shrugged. ‘So?’
‘She knows you,’ said Phil. ‘Her ex-boyfriend’s Darren Richards. Ring any bells?’
Moses Heap said nothing.
‘And her ex-boyfriend’s current girlfriend has met with a very untimely demise.’
Moses Heap kept his gaze focused on Phil, but Phil was sure he saw something flinch behind his eyes. ‘My condolences to the family,’ he said.
‘Her baby daughter was killed too,’ said Sperring. ‘Murdered. Not an accident.’
Moses Heap acknowledged Sperring for the first time. ‘Why you telling me this? You think I did it? You think I murder children?’
‘We’re just asking anyone who knows either the deceased or anyone connected with the deceased,’ said Phil. ‘Routine. That’s all. Your name came up. We came to see you.’
Moses Heap thought. Nodded. ‘Yeah. Well, you’ve had a wasted journey. I can’t help you. I don’t know anything about Chloe Hannon’s murder. Or her daughter.’
Phil did a double take. ‘I didn’t tell you her name.’
Fear flashed across Moses Heap’s face, his composure crumbling for a few seconds before he regained it. ‘Must have been on the news.’
‘We haven’t released the details. Or the names.’
Heap shrugged, tried for casual. Missed. ‘Must have heard it somewhere.’
‘Where?’ asked Phil.
‘Dunno.’ His voice raised, anger dancing in his eyes. ‘You want to arrest me for it? You wanna charge me? Go ahead. Charge me. My brief’ll have me out in an hour. Have your jobs, too. I’m a businessman. A respected figure in the community. These here are my associates. And you come in and accuse me of murder in front of them? I don’t think so, man. I don’t think so at all.’
Phil looked around the room. It was tense to start with but the tension had palpably increased in the last few seconds. He knew there was nothing more to be done then and there.
‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Heap,’ Phil said. He turned to go.
‘Don’t plan on leaving town,’ said Sperring, following him out.
The music resumed before they had reached the door, louder this time, more aggressive. Once outside, Phil breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that went as well as expected,’ he said.
‘Dunno,’ said Sperring. ‘Saw quite a few familiar faces in there. Not all from the same gang, neither. Must’ve been having a meeting or something.’
‘Maybe they were settling their differences over a few beers, a bit of a smoke and some music.’
Sperring snorted. ‘Carving up territory, probably. Hardly the bloody Godfather, is it?’
Before Phil could reply his phone rang. He answered it. Listened, spoke, turned to Sperring.
‘That was Imani. Darren Richards has come round.’
11
T
he needle clicked, returned. Clicked, returned. Again. And again. Stuck after the fade-out, hissing and crackling, time looping on dead air.
‘Come on, Philip, where are you?’
He stared at the TV screen, sound down, waiting. He was becoming impatient, his earlier euphoria wearing off, the thrill of seeing his handiwork, his mission, on TV becoming something of a let-down.
‘Who are you talking to?’
He looked around, jumped a little. Christ, what a time for his sister to appear.
‘No one. The TV. That’s all.’
His sister looked at the TV also. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s just over the road.’
‘It is, yes. That’s why I’m watching it.’
‘Oh.’
His sister stayed there. He wanted her to leave again, go back to where she had come from but she didn’t move.
‘D’you want anything? You here for anything?’
‘What? No.’
‘Then why don’t you pop off for a while. I’ll let you know if anything happens.’
‘Okay then.’
And off she went. He waited until he knew she was gone then gave his attention back to the TV.
No one from the police had spoken directly to camera. No one. He had expected DI Brennan, considering their previous exchange, but no. Nothing.
He had played it over in his mind, what he was expecting, what he wanted. DI Brennan to be interviewed on TV, to stand in front of the camera, microphone thrust into his face, and tell him he knew what he was doing. He understood. Justice. Right. And he applauded his work.
And he would nod as he said this, listening, understanding what the detective was saying, feeling their bond. Knowing that his work was going to make him famous.
Famous. He felt immediately guilty at the thought. No. That wasn’t right. Famous. That wasn’t why he was doing this, not the reason behind it. No. Famous meant X Factor. The Voice. That jungle show. All those kinds of people. Katie Price. The Kardashians. He smirked. He had thought they were aliens off Star Trek when he first heard the name. Then after he saw them he was convinced that’s what they were. No. That’s what famous was. Being a celebrity because you couldn’t do anything else. Being famous because you were famous. Vacuous non-entities, all of them. Not like him. Not like what he was doing. Why he was doing it.
His job. His calling. After waiting so long for acknowledgement from the police on the TV and in the downer of a mood he was currently in, he felt slightly ridiculous saying it. Calling. But that’s what it was. He knew it. Like when religious types hear the voice of God and get called to be a priest. Or go and work as a missionary with Mexican street kids or something. Yes it was his work, but it was pure. Unsullied by financial transaction. Or by God. It was a service he had decided to provide but in return he didn’t want payment. All he wanted was recognition for what he was doing. Fame didn’t enter into it.
He shook his head once more, concentrated on the TV screen. It was brand new. A huge, smart flatscreen TV. Almost the size of a cinema screen. And surrounded by all the latest equipment for the enhanced home cinema experience, the brochure said. But he needed it. All of it. It was for work.
He watched as the news came on once more, back to the same scene. He held his breath.
‘… at this time, but from what I can gather…’
The reporter stood at the bottom of Legge Lane, young and ambitious, tie tight, hair perfect, eyes shining with the thrill that this could be the story that gets him out of the provinces. Behind him, the half-demolished building cordoned off with police tape, covered with white plastic sheeting. Shadows moved against it from inside and it ruffled in the breeze, making the building look like a becalmed sailing ship.
‘You’ll find nothing there,’ he said out loud, ‘nothing. I promise you.’
‘… two bodies have been carried out of the house. It’s thought that one person was still alive when police arrived at the scene. This person was in a critical condition and has been taken to hospital. There’s no news yet on the identity of the two dead individuals, nor who is responsible. But the police are treating these deaths as suspicious.’
He laughed. Was that as much as the reporter had managed to get out of the police? With everything that had gone on in there? Pitiful. No national jump for him. A life in the provinces beckoned.
The camera panned round the area then ended up back on the fluttering white plastic sheet. The reporter was talking over the top but the more he went on, the less he said. Eventually he was left standing in the street as the news returned to the anchor in the studio.
He sat back. His heart sank even further. Where was Brennan? Why wasn’t he on there, talking to him, making an appeal? Why? Blood pumped quickly round his body. He became short of breath, slightly giddy. Yes, he had done it. That was true. All that planning and it had paid off, actually worked. Hooray for him. But they hadn’t worked it out. Hadn’t got it.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps he had been too oblique. Too obscure. May
be they really were as thick as he had heard, maybe he was giving them too much credit. He had thought Brennan was clever. Or at least cleverer than the rest. That’s what he had been led to believe, anyway. What his research had told him. Maybe he had been told wrong.
He opened his eyes, looked at the screen once more. The news had moved on and they were now talking about a traffic accident on the M6. The feeling of sudden, euphoric elation was just as suddenly disappearing. Yes, that was his work up there on the TV for everyone to see but… there was something missing. He thought, staring hard at the TV. Not seeing the images, only the thin, black frame. Something missing.
But what?
He kept staring. And it began to reveal itself to him.
No word from the police. No news yet. One person in a critical condition. Treating the deaths as suspicious.
He nodded. Yes. That was it. That’s what was missing. What had he just seen on TV? What had he really just witnessed? Just a breathless, slightly incompetent reporter talking about a double murder. That’s all.
And what was missing?
Everything.
The work. The explanation. What he was really doing. What had actually happened.
Justice.
Yes. A sense of justice.
He flicked off the TV, sat back. All around him were the carefully made structures of ages gone by. Craft. Pride. Old words now, he thought. Dirty words.
He heard, as if for the first time, the click and hiss of the old 45 as the needle caught the groove. Dropping back, never finishing.
The room began to feel dark and oppressive. He began to feel uncomfortable in it.
He closed his eyes once more, tried to think.
Justice. How could he let them know about his work, his quest?
He smiled. Quest. Yes. That was the right word. Quest. Something mythic, something epic. A great achievement. Quest. Good.
So. He had to explain. They had to understand. Only after they understood what he was doing could they realise that what he was saying was the truth. In fact, it was the only way until everyone learned from his example. And then he would be celebrated.