by James Nally
The recording also reveals that both men clearly know something about how Nathan met his end, which rules out a jealous husband or a ‘Nathanised’ business client. Whether they commissioned his murder, or are covering up a wider conspiracy, we may never establish. Somehow, Nathan’s shape-shifting workmate Danny Bremner is involved. Quite how, we’ve yet to figure out.
Nathan may have had a scoop to sell about police corruption, which prompted Delaney and/or a cabal of bent cops to have him whacked. Nathan’s alleged accomplice in this ‘scoop’ had been Detective Sergeant Duncan McCall, who died four months after Nathan, in what may or may not have been suicide.
Fintan’s convinced that his colleague and nemesis, Alex Pavlovic, Fleet Street’s very own Prince of Darkness, had been offered this scoop. Now he’s working on a strategy to make the Prince talk.
My only lead is Delaney’s reference to ‘Walter’. He must be referring to Walter Moore, whose wife Karen had been sleeping with both the victim and the accused when Nathan was murdered. This spells a welcome return to the subterranean records dungeon beneath Camden Town, where I can read Walter’s statements to see if they shed any light on the mess. We need nothing short of smoking-gun evidence to convince police that Julie hadn’t been randomly targeted by Kipper, the serial kidnapper, but by a crafty copycat. What’s missing from this brain-bending theory is motive. Who wanted Julie Draper dead, and why? How can we even go about investigating this?
Now I’ve been selected for undercover training, I must park both the Draper and Barry cases in limbo, next to my clamped personal life. But I make a silent promise to both Nathan and Julie: if I get through this course, and learn the dark arts of undercover work, I shall apply those skills to solving their murders.
I’m ‘going for it’ with this undercover role for another, altogether more childish reason; to test Zoe. If she still loves me, she won’t let me risk my life by deploying undercover – and that may happen in a matter of days. The prospect of possibly losing me forever will surely make her see sense and beg me to come back. Surely …
It’s desperate, last-gasp, pathetic. She’d expect nothing less from me.
‘Quadruple Jameson?’ beams Fintan wickedly. ‘Maybe with a Charlie and weed speedball chaser?’
‘Yeah, look, I meant to say, thanks for sorting me out last night. And sorry.’
‘Sorry? What the hell were you thinking? Jesus, I daren’t let you out of my sight now. Are you still feeling, you know, that way?’
‘I’m not feeling anything, Fintan, okay? You know what happens when I drink whiskey. I don’t even remember deciding to do it. It’s not like I wrote a profound farewell note and spent ages on a hangman’s knot. It was a moment of madness, honestly. But thanks for, you know, helping me out there.’
‘Well I was hardly going to step over you to take a leak, was I? You need to lay off the sauce for a good old while, maybe even a few months.’
‘I’m not touching whiskey or wine for the time being,’ I say. ‘But if I don’t get another pint, I may not make it through your sensational news.’
Pumped and scoop-high, he almost runs back to our table clutching drinks.
‘Turns out DS Duncan McCall, Nathan Barry’s pal who committed suicide a few months after Nathan’s murder, was about to give evidence at an internal Met police inquiry into corruption, literally the day after he, er, died.’
He takes a long draw of his pint for dramatic effect, then waits for me to quiz him. He loves making me work for information.
‘Oh come on, Fint, I haven’t got the energy to play A Few Good Men. Just spit it out, will you?’
‘They were investigating links between notorious underworld kingpin, Mickey Sheeran and you’ll never guess who …’
‘Did I mention my energy levels are at an all-time low?’
‘Commander Neil Crossley.’
I suddenly feel much better.
‘What?’
‘Turns out Sheeran is a grass and guess who his handler was six years ago? Croissant Crossley!’
‘Are you sure about this? From what I hear, Sheeran had a couple of guys rubbed out when he discovered they were snitches.’
‘They all say they hate rats, but every major-league villain grasses. It’s the perfect way for villains to take out rivals. And it’s also profitable. Every time a tip leads to a seizure, they get ten per cent of the value. It all makes Crossley look good. A real win/win. Of course, the downside is Crossley had to turn a blind eye to Sheeran’s scurrilous activities. If he arrests his own grass, the whole house of cards collapses. He loses his best source of intelligence. Everyone he’s put away can seek grounds to appeal over the fact that the man who dobbed them in is of worse character than them.
‘So, as these handlers rise up through the police ranks – Crossley went from Inspector to Detective Superintendent to Commander in record time – their snouts make dramatic, unchecked charges up the criminal ladder, virtually immune from prosecution. The collars got bigger, the rewards got bigger. What could possibly go wrong?’
Fintan devours the second third of his pint in one wallop, giving me a chance to butt in. ‘I remember my old boss Shep saying the whole system is doomed because the grass has too much power. Instead of the handler running the grass, the grass starts to run the handler.’
Fintan nods. ‘After a while, it’s impossible to tell who’s handling who … the games they play to get what they want. That’s the allegation here, that Mickey Sheeran corrupted Crossley with cuts from his criminal spoils. Crossley’s 600-grand house on a golf course, flash suits, cars and holidays were a bit of a giveaway. Duncan McCall clearly had some sort of evidence about it, otherwise the enquiry wouldn’t have subpoenaed him. Which begs the question, did he really kill himself?’
‘Edwina’s taking a look at the pathology report for me. If she recognises anything dodgy, what then? This could be dynamite, especially if your reporter the Prince spills the beans.’
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ says Fintan, uncharacteristically reserved. ‘I need leverage before I approach that snake. I thought it best to eliminate every other journo first, so I’m working through the whole shebang, even TV current affairs shows. It’s where journalism goes to die, but they do have a lot of money. Have you checked out Walter Moore’s statements yet?’
‘I’m going there after this. I just can’t figure out what else I should be looking for in the Nathan Barry paperwork to connect it to Draper.’
Fintan’s already on it, of course. ‘I’ve sent my most ravenous and heartless cub reporter, Dennis Bradley, down to Croydon to do some digging into Julie’s life, all hush-hush,’ he says. ‘If Julie Draper made any enemies, he’ll find out. He even looks like one of those snub-nosed bloodhounds you see chasing escaped convicts in the films. I get a dreadful sense of déjà vu every time I talk to the immoral little fucker. He really is a mini-me.’
‘Must be nice to know your legacy is secure, Fint. Sounds like this venal little fucker has tripped your paternal instincts.’
‘He’ll get my job one day, I’ve no doubt about that, and he’ll kick me into the gutter while he’s at it. But I do feel a certain fatherly pride. Speaking of which, any news from Princess Zoe?’
He lifts his pint, jaw locking to empty.
‘No, but I’ve got news for her. I’ve been selected to go undercover.’
Cue his spray of lager across the table.
‘What?’
‘I’ve been hand-picked by SO10 for an undercover assignment.’
‘What, to infiltrate Alcoholics Anonymous?’
‘The Molly Parker-Rae case. They need young officers to get into the rave scene down there.’
He laughs. ‘My God, you in a vest with a glow stick, blowing on a whistle and screaming “acieeed”. This is too funny. You hate all dance music! Tell me you’re having me on, please.’
‘They’ve put me on a course. If I get through it, then it’s happening.’
‘You�
�ll never pass. Seriously, Donal, you can’t even tell a white lie. But I see what you’re doing here. It’s the ultimate ultimatum for Zoe, right? Why don’t I call her and break the news that you’ll be tackling the nation’s most wanted drugs gang in a matter of days? That should focus her mind.’
‘That’d be just great, Fintan, because she believes every word that comes out of your mouth.’
‘You can’t tell her, Donal. She’ll start asking questions and you’ll crack like an egg and reveal it’s a course, and we all know how you’ve fared before on courses. Look, I’ll say you weren’t going to let her know as you didn’t want to put her under any undue pressure. How could she resist such noble, selfless sentiments?’
Fintan doesn’t take no for an answer. ‘I’ll see you at home tonight so, tell you how she reacts?’
‘You don’t have to babysit me, Fintan. I’m fine.’
‘I know I don’t. But I’m allowed to come home occasionally, aren’t I? And what happened last night kind of brought something home to me. We only really have each other now, Donal, so we need to stick together. That means no more secrets, and no more lies. Everything up front, okay? Especially if you’re planning to do something rash or dangerous. Make sure someone close to you knows, preferably me.’
I nod.
‘Promise? On Mam’s grave? Say it!’
‘Okay Fintan, I promise, on Mam’s grave.’
Chapter 34
Camden Town, North London
Monday, June 27, 1994; 14.30
I spend hours leafing through thousands of statements, looking for all those taken from a ‘Walter’ or ‘Walt’. Just one crops up; Walter Moore, cuckolded husband of Karen.
I’ve always favoured the theory that an apoplectic husband murdered Nathan. Fintan points out, quite rightly, that any man gripped by jealousy would’ve confronted Nathan, not sneaked up behind him and split his skull like a log. What if that confrontation had already taken place? Nathan could be belligerent; maybe he ignored a previous threat to back off from a woman, prompting his frenzied killing. What if that warning had come from Walter Moore?
Records show that Walter has no criminal record or history of domestic abuse. He and Karen had lived blameless lives at the better end of Crystal Palace, raising two daughters who went on to university. But this had been personal. Sometime around late 1987 or early 1988, Walter must’ve realised Karen was seeing another man, maybe more than one.
Her frequent nights out, the constant calls from men to their home, the drunken lunch clubs that lingered well into the night, sometimes over to the mornings. He must have known. What if Walter followed his wife, saw her with Nathan, plotted his revenge?
Fintan’s right, part of me hopes he did it, to teach Karen and Nathan a lesson. Then I remind myself that I don’t know the circumstances. Karen may have had perfectly legitimate grounds for dumping Walter. She just chose to do so without mercy or grace. Like Zoe.
I sift out Walter’s first statement, taken just four days after the murder. His alibi seems bulletproof. A professional chauffeur, he spent the evening driving a director of British Steel around various functions in west London. The list of locations and times, vouched for by his boss, proves he could never have nipped down to South London to conduct even the swiftest of axe murders. What if he paid someone else to do it, having confronted Nathan on a previous occasion?
According to his statement, Walt hadn’t even heard of Nathan Barry until after the murder; a claim backed up by his then wife Karen and John Delaney. He’d been aware that Karen had a business relationship with Delaney; the calls John made to their home had always been about work – at least the ones he’d been privy to.
My guts twinge in empathy. Like me, witless Walter had no idea she’d been cheating; another unquestioning loyal mutt utterly humiliated by a woman who claims she loved him. How many more men must there be out there, doggedly enduring sexless, joyless relationships, oblivious to the fact their partners are playing away? It’s always assumed men are more likely to stray, but who do they stray with? Judging by this case, other attached women.
Walter’s statement provides no insight into his personal agony, though it does offer a fresh perspective on Karen’s reaction to Nathan’s murder: ‘She said she believed it must be something to do with some sort of drugs racket at West Norwood cemetery. When I pressed her on this, she said that Nathan had got wind that the crypts at the cemetery were being used to store cocaine, and that he was in the process of doing something about it.’
I scan his second and third statements for further references to the cocaine racket. None is made, and I can’t imagine why.
Dough, blow or a ho …
Surely, DI Lambert couldn’t have been so insanely fixated with Delaney that he ignored a classic motive for murder; Nathan Barry’s uncovering of a massive cocaine ring?
Chapter 35
Arsenal, North London
Monday, June 27, 1994; 18.30
I slip silently through our front door. Coast clear, I sprint upstairs and secrete both bottles of Shiraz under my bed. Right now, I’d sooner drink cat piss direct from source. But tomorrow’s my first day at Undercover School. I need to get some sleep tonight and three pints of wine is my only hope.
Right on cue, Fintan creeps gingerly through the front door as if he’s expecting a massacre. He looks visibly relieved to see me trotting down the stairs, rather than dangling from the landing. He’s carrying a plastic bag packed with beer cans, clearly planning to dose me up on weak lager so I don’t hit the hard stuff, like some Irish Betty Ford. His ritual patronising of me has officially plunged to dizzyingly new depths.
He hands me one, plucks out another and flops theatrically onto the couch. I’m dying to ask how his call to Zoe went, and he knows it, so neither of us mentions it.
Fintan flicks on the TV. The BBC’s Moira Stuart sombrely reports that the parents of Molly Parker-Rae have decided to turn off her life support machine. Molly’s family is launching a 1,500-site poster campaign to warn clubbers of the perils of ecstasy. The poster, which shows a picture of Molly on life support, bears the chilling caption: ‘Sorted. Just one tablet took Molly’.
‘God it’s such bollocks,’ snarls Fintan, flicking the TV off again. ‘I saw your new girlfriend’s report. Edwina found that Molly didn’t die from ecstasy. She died of water intoxication.’
‘What?’
‘After she took the tablet, she drank something like eleven pints of water in ninety minutes. It’s all these government warnings about dehydration that killed her, not MDMA. You know what the worst part of it is now? The poster campaign is being funded by three advertising companies. Guess who these companies’ other clients are? Energy drinks and alcohol.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘The alcohol industry is bricking itself because young people have replaced boozing with ecstasy. That’s why they’ve launched all these alcopops and that’s why they’re desperate to demonise E. And energy drinks are trying to market themselves as a “safe and legal” option to ecstasy. The whole rave thing has been swallowed up by the corporate monster, even the bloody tragic part of it. Oh, and speaking of corporate monsters …’
He pulls out another brace of cans, plucks them open and passes one over. ‘As requested, I’ve been checking out your love rival, Christopher St. John Green. Alias Christy G, as he likes to be known on the rave scene. Or Crusty E, as he was dubbed by the newspapers a few years back.’
‘He’s been in the papers?’
‘Oh, he’s quite the character. I hate to say it, Donal, but you versus this guy is like, I don’t know, Baldrick versus Lord Flashheart.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Back then, he gained what is known as “tabloid notoriety”. It all started about eight years ago when he staged these glittering “Pirate Balls” for posh public school Henrys and Henriettas. The toff kids behaved appallingly of course, and the cameras were on hand to capture Henry with his hand up some comatose Hen
rietta’s skirt. Those balls made St. John enough green to retire, but that was only the start of it.
‘Cut to 1989, he and his posh friends were organising mammoth illegal raves across Southern England, which your lot were desperately trying to stamp out. And you almost succeeded too. Until crafty Chris discovered the BT Voicebank System. This allowed him to dial in the location of a rave from a mobile phone at the very last moment. The voicebank could then be accessed instantly by thousands. So, Chris has been credited with saving the second summer of love, which made him even more popular with the tabloids.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘He next popped up in 1992. By then, criminals had muscled in on the rave scene and its astronomical profits. So instead of touchy-feely baggies hugging each other and bleating about peace, you had skinhead security guards with coshes and dogs, protection rackets, lorryloads of pills contaminated with shit. Legend has it that, towards the end, Christy G ghosted out of an East London rave with a massive bag of cash while a bunch of West Ham heavies were tearing the place up looking for their cut. He was never seen again.’
‘That’s when he did his runner.’
‘Where he ran to is intriguing. He spent a few months in Ibiza. Then he moved onto Bali and ended up on the Curacao Islands off Venezuela. Now those islands are Dutch-owned and just a three-hour speedboat hop from South America, so they’re notorious for cocaine smuggling.’
I can’t contain myself: ‘So you’re saying Chris is an international drug smuggler?’
‘We can’t say for certain, but I’ve got someone digging away who has the inside track on these toffs.’
I’m pumped. ‘It’s obvious he’s up to no good. How can we make sure Zoe finds out?’
He leaves that hanging. Why won’t he tell me what she said today? What’s his game?
He takes a greedy swig and wipes his mouth.
‘I had an interesting phone call with someone today,’ he teases. My insides scream: Spit it out!