by Jeff Gulvin
Mickey looked up at her. ‘I ain’t no grass.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ His mother slapped her hand on the table. ‘Aren’t you in enough trouble? Did I bring you up on my own just so you could do this to me?’
Mickey looked at the floor.
‘Mickey,’ Anne went on. ‘There’s been two murders. They’re both connected with the drugs that you’ve been dealing. How d’you think that’s going to look in court?’
‘I didn’t kill nobody.’
‘We know you didn’t. We know who did. All we want is for you to help us find him.’
Mickey hunched himself up in the seat. ‘I don’t know nothing about it.’
‘Tell me about The Wasp. He supplied you. Right?’
Mickey chewed his lip.
‘Come on, Mickey. He’s in custody. He can’t hurt you.’
He looked at her then, thought about it and nodded briefly once.
‘Good.’ Anne said. ‘That’s better.’
‘Why’s he called The Wasp?’ McCleod asked him.
Mickey patted his hair. ‘Used to have it short. When he was a kid. Dyed it in yellow stripes.’
Anne smiled. ‘Tell us about Ninja.’
‘I ain’t talking about him.’
‘He’s still out there somewhere.’
Mickey shook his head. ‘I ain’t talking about him.’
Vanner sat in the café across the road from the Kirstall Estate. On holiday. He glanced at the picture of the desert island on the wall. The Indian woman brought him a cup of tea and he thanked her.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘You live above the café?’
She nodded.
‘You know many of the kids on the estate?’
‘Some.’
‘Like the two with dreadlocks?’
She looked at him then. ‘I know who they are.’
‘When did you last see the white one?’
She scraped at the floor with her shoe. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘I’m a policeman,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Always in some kind of trouble aren’t they. Children today. He was sitting on the wall above the arch over there last Friday. I was putting out the rubbish and I saw him.’
Vanner looked where she pointed. A woman toiled up the ramp with a shopping trolley.
‘Not since?’
She shook her head.
He thanked her and drank his tea.
He crossed the road and walked under the arch. The buildings lifted around him, not high and imposing like some of the estates, but strung out in a warren of five-storeyed front doors. Brown, withered stone, smeared in white and yellow and red. The children’s playground, the swing seats missing, he moved between the red posts of the frame. The buildings ran straight down to the railway line from here and back to the road behind him. Cutting a path between the two main blocks, he came out on Leith Place. Above his head he could hear the whirring of sewing machines.
The sky leaked cloud, grey and white and in places black where rain threatened. He stood on the corner, with his hands in his pockets and looked to the far end of the road. It was blocked off by the rising red of a wall. Four separate businesses and then a filthy green door; daubed over with paint. The downstairs window was boarded where it had been smashed, only a small piece of glass was left. Stepping across the road, he cupped his hand but saw nothing.
‘Can I help you?’
He turned and saw a squat-set man looking at him. He was wiping his hands on a rag, the tailgate of his van raised to eye level. Vanner squinted at him.
‘You live round here?’
The man laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
‘Work?’
‘I run the Art Workshop.’ He pointed to the building that butted against the west wall of the estate. Vanner looked it over, wire on the windows, wire on the door.
‘Has to be like that.’ The man nodded towards the flats.
Vanner showed him his warrant card. ‘They’ve smashed my windows more times than I can remember,’ the man said. ‘At least the wire keeps them out.’
‘You rent it all?’
‘Yes.’
Vanner indicated the lofts. ‘What about those?’
‘All occupied. I don’t know what they do. Design agency at the end, and the factory up there.’ He pointed to the third floor of the middle block. ‘Saris, I think.’
‘What about that one?’ Vanner pointed to the green door.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Empty?’
‘I’ve seen a light on.’
Vanner looked back at him. ‘At night you mean?’
The man nodded. ‘I work pretty late sometimes.’
‘Have you ever seen anyone in there?’
‘No.’
‘But a light.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which floor?’
‘Second, I think.’
Vanner looked back at the door.
Michael Terry stood at the window of the first-floor portakabin and watched the car parked at the far end of the road.
‘Coffee?’ his secretary asked him. Terry did not reply. She asked him again and he looked round. ‘What?’
‘Do you want any coffee.’
‘No. I don’t want any coffee.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Only asking.’
Terry ignored her. He moved to his desk once more and sat down.
‘Are you okay, Michael? You’re not yourself today.’
He looked witheringly at her. ‘Will you just leave me alone.’
She shook her head and turned once more to her typewriter.
Terry stared at the desktop. The nagging sensation squatted in his belly like an unwanted visitor. Every time he moved it irritated him. He got up again and went back to the window. The car was still there. Who was watching him—Drug Squad? He had a good mind to go and ask if they had everything they needed. He shook his head as if to clear it. Gallyon gone. His edge gone. He looked again through the window and then sat down in his chair. He snapped at his secretary and she removed the dictaphone set from her ears.
‘Yes?’
‘The two Cats. They’re arriving tomorrow. I want to know what time.’
Pierce took the call and stared hard at the wall. Morrison was pouring coffee. Pierce gesticulated to him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right. Thank you. Thank you very much.’ He put down the phone.
‘What is it?’ Morrison asked him.
Pierce sat back, hands behind his head, eyes suddenly shining. ‘That was Van Gelder, Sir. Drug Squad in Amsterdam. They’ve had a tip-off.’
‘And?’
‘Consignment of Ecstasy tablets—arriving in Tilbury tomorrow.’
‘How?’
‘Freighted in two used diggers.’
McCague was in the incident room. Ryan nodded to him as he came down from interviewing Damien Jackson, the second cardholder.
‘Result?’ McCague asked him.
‘Yes, Sir.’ Ryan lit a cigarette. ‘We’ve got one body for the murders. Fingerprint at the flat and a bootprint at the Norwich scene. We’ve got a couple of dodgy pictures from the car park tape, but I don’t think they’ll stand up.’
‘Positive ID from a waitress though.’
Ryan nodded.
‘And you’ve got a thirteen-year-old dealer who likes to cut people at cashpoints.’
‘Yeah.’ Ryan grinned then. ‘IC1, Guv. Bit of a blow for the Commissioner.’
McCague did not smile.
‘Little bastard,’ Ryan went on. ‘In a couple of hours he’ll be home with his mum. System’s shot to fuck. We’re trying to get the whereabouts of the Gypsy from him. But he’s keeping his trap shut on that one.’
‘What about the hostels?’
‘Loads of bloody pager watches. Operation spreads right across North London.’
‘Nasty.’
‘Very. Not sure what Joe Public’s going to think about street crime being set up from hostels.’
McCague sat down on the desk. ‘So Vanner was right about that then.’
Ryan nodded.
‘You seen him?’
‘No. Said something about taking off.’
‘He needs to. Came back too early.’
‘Only came back at all because somebody spanked him.’
‘I know. My mistake that. I should have let him be.’
Morrison addressed the briefing. McCague sat at the back of the room to listen.
‘Okay,’ Morrison lifted a hand and the conversation died. ‘We’re halfway there. For those of you who don’t know we’ve got two bodies in custody. Target 2, The Wasp. He’s spinning us a story about the Gypsy—but we’re humouring him. He just might give us a location. We can place him at both murder scenes. The glove from Milo’s flat and his footprint on the bank of the river in Norwich. He wears basketball boots which fit the cast exactly, right sole sitting slightly inwards. We’ve also got both him and the Gypsy in McDonalds the day before.’ He paused and caught McCague’s eye.
‘We’ve now picked up the second cardholder, Damien Jackson. He makes the collections from the post office boxes and delivers to the mailing address in the Strand. We caught him delivering a package full of cash, with half a dozen cards in his pocket. So far he’s not talking, but it’s only a matter of time.’ He paused again and sipped at a plastic cup. ‘The girl at the mailing address can tell us nothing except the packages are collected by a messenger. Cyclist. No distinguishing mark, i.e. no badge or logo or anything. Wears a one-piece lycra suit and a helmet with a smog mask. So she never sees his face.’
McCleod shifted in his seat. ‘What about Target 1, Sir?’
Morrison glanced at Weir. ‘This morning we had a call from the Dutch Police. They’ve had word from an informant that a consignment of Ecstasy is crossing the water this evening. The word is the drugs are being carried in two used diggers. He paused again. ‘The surveillance over there’s paying off. If we’re very lucky—we’ll all be home for the weekend.’ He looked over at Starkey. ‘Dave’s team have done the works on his business. Asset-rich. Very little borrowing. Both his flat in Blackfriars and the Dartford yard are unencumbered.
‘We can link him to the mailing address and by definition the boxes. That’s good enough. If we can take him with the drugs we’ll be laughing.’
‘But we can’t tie him to the killings, Sir,’ Anne said.
Morrison scratched his head. ‘Circumstantially we can. Milo was a dealer and an informant. John Phillips Junior told DI Vanner that he knew who Denny was. Phillips told Mark Terry where he was. Mark Terry told his father.’
Ryan folded his arms. ‘Brief’ll pick away at the holes.’
‘Maybe.’ Morrison held up a finger. ‘But, The Wasp has told us they were ordered to kill both Milo and Phillips Junior. Contacted by phone on the night of Milo’s death, and two days before John Phillips’. We have the mobile phone they were called on.’
‘Check Terry’s records then,’ Ryan said.
‘Exactly.’ Morrison made a gesture with his hand. ‘We’re looking for a mistake. Just maybe here he made one.’
‘What about Gallyon?’ It was McCague who asked the question, standing up at the back of the room. Morrison looked at him for a moment and then glanced at where Jimmy Crack was sitting on a desk.
‘He got wise to the fact that we’re into Terry,’ Jimmy said. ‘Looks like he ditched him. Unless Terry is very very desperate we’re not going to get to Gallyon.’
Morrison continued: ‘Tomorrow we set up a plot in Dartford. I want the whole team there. There’s buildings we can use and a van. Customs’ll be at Tilbury and we follow the diggers from there. They’ll be transferred by crane to a low-loader and then driven to Terry’s yard. When they get there we hit him.’
Michael Terry sat in the darkness, idly flicking through the Sky channels on the TV. The sound was turned down. He was not really watching. Traffic moved outside: he could hear it although only vaguely through the window. Gallyon’s face in his mind. He touched his eye and thought about the bitch, Lisa Morgan. Switching off the television, he got his coat and went out.
Ninja walked the balconies, the chill of the night in his hair. By day the boiler room choked him. It was all he could do to sit there with the steam and the confines of the room and the door blocking his exit. At night he could breathe. He bought a kebab from the shop on the corner and ate it, squatting in the darkness with his sword hugging his side. He ought to go walkabout but did not have a clue where to go. He licked his fingers, the remnants of chilli sauce burning the skin.
The cloud of the day had gone and the sky lifted black and silver above the lights of the city. He sat with his back to cold concrete and let the breeze filter his hair. His stomach burned and he pressed one hand against it. Along the balcony something moved and instantly he felt for his sword. Voices, a girl and a boy.
He saw them come together against the yellow light at the head of the stairs and then they broke. Laughter in the breeze and then feet on the stone of the steps. Ninja let go of his sword, pushed himself to his feet and made his way back to the roof.
He stood by the light of the computer screen, rubber over his fingers as he trawled idly through the names as if he knew it was over. Damien taken. The Wasp taken. Ninja loose somewhere, like a wounded animal waiting to strike. Silence around him, nothing even from the street. Sitting down, he looked once more at the screen, thought briefly about erasing the hard disc and then switched it off. Downstairs, he stood by the doorway. When he was sure it was clear he pulled the door to and walked away. The padlock hung on its chain.
Twenty
MICHAEL TERRY WOKE EARLY. He did not remember sleeping, just lying in the dark with the curtains spread wide and the clouds massing above him. With the dawn he rose, showered and dressed and drank a cup of coffee. Outside he got in his car. From the dashboard the dwarf seemed to haunt him.
He pulled up outside the gates to his yard. Seven o’clock and nobody had arrived yet. He glanced back down the road that led in past the diesel dump. No red car from yesterday. They were late or they had left him alone. Either way, the fact brightened him and he unfastened the chain on the gate. A few cars were parked outside the building opposite: a Mercedes, a Cavalier and a white, unmarked van. Terry ignored them, left his car by the portakabin and climbed the steps to his office. Inside he brewed coffee and watched as light grew over the city.
In the van across the road Ryan yawned. He shifted his position and glanced briefly at China. Anne sat in the front seat, flicking through a copy of the Express. Ryan looked over her shoulder. ‘No tits,’ he muttered.
China moved alongside him. At the back window McCleod was watching the yard through binoculars.
‘What’s he doing?’ China asked.
‘Drinking coffee.’
Ryan looked at the flask by his feet. ‘Be all right if there was somewhere to pee.’
In the upstairs window of the office block, Weir sat with Morrison. Pierce and two other AMIP officers stood at the window and peered through the blinds with binoculars. A mobile phone sounded. One of the officers answered it, then he looked over at Weir.
‘Customs, Guv. Low-loader’s arrived.’
Weir looked at his watch. ‘Be a few hours yet.’ He glanced back to the window. ‘Better let them know in the van.’
Ninja shifted himself where he lay, the condensed heat of the boiler room catching his breath. The door stood half-open, but even like that his skin was alive with his sweat. A sound by the door. He threw off the blanket and scrabbled between pipes for his sword. On his haunches now, peering at the door. A boy’s face appeared, half-hidden in the hood of the sweat top. Ninja grimaced at him. ‘What do you want?’
The boy did not say anything.
‘Get me some food.’ Ninja got to his feet. ‘Go on, you little bastard. Get me something to eat.’
He ate a sausage, cold and full of fat. The boy squatted before him, staring a
t the sword. Two others, a girl and her brother watched from the doorway. Ninja licked his fingers and looked at the kid in the sweat top. ‘You seen The Wasp?’
The kid shook his head.
Ninja glanced at the others. ‘Anyone got a spliff?’
The low-loader moved slowly into the yard. In the far corner, the operator climbed to the cab of the crane. Terry watched it all. The dirty yellow excavators, squatting on the reduced back of the truck. The cabs had been burnt out, an Eco’ protest in Guinea. Let them protest away. Made his job a damn sight easier. He had fresh parts for the cabs: instrument panel, console, seat. But he no longer had a buyer.
The crane lifted them as easily as a mother a baby. Weir watched from the window. Morrison stood next to him, his coat buttoned. No heat in the room. ‘Let him get them down and we’ll move.’
Terry was in the yard, the two excavators sat side by side and the crane was silent. His men stood around him, waiting. The foreman said: ‘You want us to fill ’em up and shift ’em?’
‘Not yet.’ Terry was thinking about Gallyon. He took out a cigarette. The foreman signed the paper for the driver of the low-loader. Terry lit a match, held the flame for a moment and the wind took it from him. Wheels screeched on the road outside. He looked up as a white, unmarked van sped in through the gates. Driver’s door open, the back doors open, and three men jumping from it. Terry stood where he was. His men stared. One of them reached for a crowbar. Then Ryan was in his face. ‘Police, Sunshine.’ He looked down at the crowbar. ‘Not a good idea.’
A car pulled up behind the van and Weir got out with Pierce. Morrison climbed from the back seat. Weir walked up to Terry: he chewed gum, skull glinting in sunlight that broke through the clouds.
‘Michael Terry,’ he said. ‘My Name’s Weir. Area Major Incident Pool.’
Terry gaped at him, still holding the unlit cigarette. Weir spat the gum from his mouth.
‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of dealing in Ecstasy and LSD. And of conspiracy to murder.’
Terry stared at him, face wasting under his eyes. He dropped the unlit cigarette.
Terry watched, lips compressed, as Ryan crawled on one digger. The foreman stood alongside him with his hands on his hips. His face was a blur, no expression at all. Ryan looked down at him. ‘Where’s the petrol tank?’