by Hayden, Mark
‘Resolutions.’ said Di. ‘It’s coming up to Midsummer, and we should make resolutions that we have to achieve before Midwinter.’
‘What do you mean, Midsummer?’ asked Kate.
‘Diana’s a bit of a pagan,’ said Tom. ‘She likes to celebrate the solstice.’
‘Heathen,’ said Di, ‘not pagan. Let’s meet up again on the twenty-first of June and make proper resolutions.’
They looked at each other and nodded. Kate asked Tom about the Plea & Directions hearing the next day.
‘Are you doing anything tomorrow morning? Half past nine?’
Kate shook her head.
‘Good. The Old Bailey is two minutes’ walk from Horsefair Court.’
There are two ways into the grounds of Ezekiel House. One comes from the Elijah estate and leads to Earlsbury town centre; the other comes from the Smethwick Road and leads towards Birmingham. Concrete bollards had been placed in the middle to stop it being used as a rat run.
The police vans had taken the long route out and round to the Smethwick side because the target property was facing town, and they didn’t want anyone to see them coming. At this hour on Monday morning it was unlikely that the target was out of bed, but one of the neighbours might see them and raise the alarm. The police were rarely welcome visitors to Ezekiel.
Ian Hooper knew that this was only part of the story. Most of the residents worked hard at minimum wage jobs to keep themselves afloat. Yes, a good number also claimed benefits illegally, but he found it hard to blame them. They wanted to keep their heads down and enjoy a quiet life – they were no keener on drug dealers than were the police themselves, but when the boys in blue have so often been the enemy, it was hard to win their trust. Ian was glad that he would be part of a team and wearing a helmet.
His tip-off had borne fruit over the weekend, and he had been summoned to join the squad for the take down. They had assembled at 0500 for a briefing which Detective Sergeant Griffin gave after introducing the team.
‘Thanks to information received, we have good intelligence that a known dealer from Birmingham has taken up residence in Ezekiel House. The flat is rented to his sister, but the Target has been seen entering the building on CCTV. We’ve checked the tapes from the lobby, and from Saturday afternoon onwards, most of our known drug users were seen arriving at Ezekiel House. Word gets around fast when there’s a new supplier in town. Following that info, we used binocular surveillance, and yes, they all called at the door of flat 428. We also believe that the Target has not yet had time to reinforce the door – another reason for going in today.
‘You’ve all done this before, so I’ll cut to the chase. The Target has numerous convictions for dealing and two for wounding. There is no intelligence connecting him to firearms, but I’m not about to take that risk. Tactical Seven will lead the take down and make the arrest. The Earlsbury officers will secure the property and conduct a preliminary search while we wait for SOCO. Detective Constable Lindow and I will be waiting well out of sight to take the glory afterwards.’
At least he was honest and got the laugh he deserved. Ian had been on many raids, several take downs, two riots and even a hostage situation. He quite enjoyed them as a change, but he didn’t want to make them his career. He wanted to be standing next to Griffin, and using his brains instead of his right arm to make arrests.
As usual, Ian was on ram duty. It was his job to break down the door and duck. The giant policeman next to him was the leader of Tactical Seven – one of the specialised support groups. This one was also armed. He would be the one who went through the door first. On the other side of that door could be a man whose grip on reality had been blown away by drugs, and the weapon next to his bed could be a submachine gun.
Tactical Seven took up positions beside flat 428 and their leader waved him forwards. Ian took a look at the door. It was fairly new and therefore not made of plywood like the older ones. It also had a decent lock. Even so, he reckoned he could do it with one blow and he took two steps back.
On the signal, he surged forwards and smashed the ram into the lock. Timing was everything to get the maximum force on the sweet spot. The door and the lock held firm, but the frame gave way. Before the door had banged into the inside wall, Ian had dropped the ram and rolled to one side.
Shouts of armed police and on the floor reverberated around the landing along with more crashes as internal doors were brushed aside. It took nine seconds for the squad leader to call them in. Two females were kneeling on the floor crying, and one male was face down and restrained. He was stark naked.
It was a good haul. There were enough drugs to get a conviction for possession with intent to supply, and a large roll of banknotes. There was also a knife. Ian hoped that he would never see the day when there was a gun on his patch.
Tactical Seven had left almost immediately, and DS Griffin had decided not to call in SOCO for a detailed search. They had their evidence, and the cost saved would go towards another raid in the future. He gathered them together in the living room before they left.
‘Good job, well done. Thanks Boys.’ Ian looked at DC Lindow (who was most definitely not a boy), but she smiled. ‘It’s not a coincidence that you four were asked to join us today,’ continued Griffin, gesturing at the uniformed officers (who, yes, were all male). Angela gave me some news last week – it’ll be round the station by lunchtime so she won’t mind me telling you here. I’m pleased to announce that Earlsbury CID will be advertising for a temporary maternity cover from October.’
They congratulated the detective and were about to go when Griffin resumed. ‘Three of you have applied to CID before, and I’m sure Hooper will be doing so soon. Just to let you know, I’m going to make sure the appointment comes from Earlsbury and not Birmingham or Sandwell. It won’t be me who chooses between you – but the DCI will be listening to what I say.’
Ian glanced at the three other potential recruits. Two were younger than him and were graduates; the other had applied several times and not been successful. Neither of the graduates were from Earlsbury originally, and Ian reckoned that local knowledge might be his competitive advantage.
Kate was standing on the steps of the Old Bailey staring at the statue of Lady Justice, trying to work out if she were wearing a blindfold or not. Tom had already been into his office and came up to her wearing too much of a smile considering the amount they’d drunk last night. He escorted her through security and headed for the public gallery.
‘Are we allowed up here? Should I be here at all as a witness?’ she asked as they climbed the stairs.
‘You aren’t a witness in this case. You have nothing to say about Moorgate Motorhire. Your evidence was for R v Finch, and Mina pleaded guilty a few weeks ago.’
They arrived outside Court No Four and Tom peeked inside. ‘We’ve got a few minutes yet.’
‘What did they get her for in the end?’
‘GBH with Intent. Her brief argued that there was enough evidence to support a plea of self-defence for the actual killing, but she confessed to shooting Croxton in the back. She pleaded guilty to money laundering as well.’
‘Except she didn’t shoot him in the back, did she?’
‘I doubt it. There was definitely someone else there – I proved it when I read the report on that Nissan Micra. The fire burnt out all the forensic evidence, but one thing’s for certain: five foot two Mina Finch did not drive that car into Croxton’s Mercedes. The seat was too far back for her to reach the pedals. I reckon that whoever drove that car shot Croxton, and she administered the coup de grace.’ He finished with a shrug.
‘Is that it for her? Nothing that can be done to make her give up the other name?’
‘No. Without a murder charge to threaten her, the CPS took the rational decision to focus on Thornton and Co. Especially the wife and son.’
‘Why?’
‘Money. Thornton never denied distributing the counterfeit notes or the money laundering, but he said that Ada
m and his wife had nothing to do with it. With Mina’s evidence the CPS had enough to charge them. That means they can pursue all of his fortune under Proceeds of Crime Recovery. It’s a tidy sum.’
Kate felt cheated again. She knew that compromise was important – she couldn’t have functioned as an officer without it – but she had seen the casual violence that spread around Thornton’s empire, and it was very frustrating that only those caught red-handed would pay for it. Tom glanced inside and waved her forward.
It was all over in minutes. It took the clerk longer to read the indictments than anything else. George Thornton, his wife, his son and eight others all pleaded guilty to a bewildering array of crimes. Kate lost track of the statutes referred to and wondered if Tom had been required to memorise them for his exams last week. The judge nodded at the end, and she was surprised to see him referring to a discreetly hidden computer when they discussed dates for sentencing. The other surprise came when the Crown’s barrister asked if he could raise the question of Mina Finch.
‘We’re not planning to sentence her alongside these defendants, are we?’ said the judge.
‘No, my lord, but I have received a request from her counsel that sentencing be deferred for her to undergo a major medical procedure which will require inpatient treatment.’
‘Of what nature?’
The barrister looked at the dock and raised an eyebrow. The judge dismissed the prisoners. When they had gone, the lawyer continued. ‘You may recall that she suffered a significant facial trauma some years ago. She is now in a position to have corrective surgery.’
‘The Crown is content?’
‘I don’t think it’s in anyone’s interest for this to happen while she’s serving a prison term.’
‘Very good. I’ll cancel the hearing and you can let me know when you’re ready to proceed.’
‘All rise.’
Kate and Tom made their way downstairs, lost in their own thoughts. In the lobby, a bewigged woman was waiting for them. Kate heard Tom hiss when he recognised her. It was his wife.
‘I was looking for you in the court, Tom: I didn’t expect you to be skulking in the gallery. Now I know why. Hello, Kate.’
‘Hello, Caroline,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll see you later, Tom. Thanks for bringing me.’
As she left the building, Kate looked over her shoulder. Caroline was handing him a bundle of papers that could mean only one thing – divorce. She waited outside for a few seconds, and he came out still carrying the documents. It was already hot on the steps.
‘Are you okay? That was a mean trick, ambushing you like that.’
Tom shrugged as if it were nothing, but the corners of his mouth were turned down and his eyes were half closed.
‘She said that she didn’t want to serve the papers before my exams, but couldn’t wait any longer after that. That’s Carrie for you: half thoughtful, half selfish.’
‘Let’s get a coffee before you go back.’
‘No thanks, I shouldn’t really have come here: it’s not my job. How about we meet up at the Creed Lane wine bar tonight, and you can tell me about your interview with the Men in Black?’
It was Kate’s turn to offer the wry smile.
James King had already been approached by two security guards outside the prison. He informed them that the sign on the car park entrance was very clear – it was not part of the prison premises. On the one hand, he told them, this meant he had to pay a fee to park there. On the other hand, they had no jurisdiction. He had bought his ticket and he was waiting for his brother; if he chose to sit outside his van and play music, he had every right to do so. If they didn’t like it, they could call the council and ask for environmental health. Not even the police had jurisdiction here.
The van in question was mostly green with red and gold highlights. The words King James – by Royal Appointment were featured on each side along with a small illustration of him playing the bass. The picture was quite good, although it gave him more dreads than he actually had: James thought he might be going bald, which would be a tragedy of epic proportions. He blamed his mother for that, or at least he blamed the Irish genes which she had inflicted on him.
There was a much larger illustration on the van showing a black woman pouring her soul into the microphone. He wasn’t allowed to put her name (Vicci’s management company had wanted a huge fee), but people recognised her anyway; the Royal Appointment wasn’t just a pun on his own name – he played bass for Queen Victoria.
James and Vicci had been backing musicians on a recording when he heard her voice one night in the studio. Stripped of the music, and the lead singer’s pitiful efforts, he had listened to her pitch-perfect track through the headphones and fallen in love with the sound. He had stayed up all night to write her a song, and the rest was history.
They had played a couple of gigs together, and James had suggested that Queen Victoria was better than Vicci & King. Then she entered a TV talent show and made it to the Grand Final where the critics lauded her, and the Great British Public voted for the thin white boy.
James had been told to stay away during the competition because of his criminal record, but now they were back together and building up a head of steam. She was still officially signed to the competition’s promotion company, but she was pressing for a renegotiation that would recognise his contribution. Two years after the competition, the Great British Public had forgotten the winner, but the name of Queen Victoria was on a lot of lips.
Gentle sounds came out of the van, a chilled out ballad he had been working on ahead of the summer festival season. The top notes were melodic, but the beat was his own: the beat that his father had taught him before he died. James had visited this same prison twenty years ago, and his father had used the table to beat out a rhythm that he said came straight from Kingston, Jamaica. When he was released, they practised together with an old bass guitar. James preceded every gig he played with a prayer in memory of King Solomon and his wisdom. No one in the band except Vicci knew that Solomon King was his father.
James relaxed in his camping chair, enjoying the warmth and thinking about where to take the melody when suddenly it went dark. He opened his eyes, and instead of another security guard, he saw his brother.
‘What’s this shit, man? You got no decent music?’
James stood and embraced Robert.
‘Too long, man. Too long.’
Robert broke the hug and looked at the van. ‘Nice. I like that. Who’s the fat lass?’
‘Have some respect. She started out with less than you, and she’s got a lot more now.’
Robert shook his head. ‘I don’t know which is worse: Mom peddling vintage clothes and wearing them or you playing vintage music and listening to it. I think that jacket’s seen better days an’all.’
James was wearing an olive green lightweight combat jacket, adorned with patches and badges. He put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you recognise them? The coat ‘n’ the beat? Father bought this jacket in Jamaica and he wrote the bass line in that song.’
Robert started to twitch, but didn’t pull his brother’s hand off his shoulder. ‘What about my name? It’s usually my name next,’ he said.
‘And so it shall be. Father gave you the name Robert Marley King because he wanted you to remember it every day in your prayers…’
‘… and Robert Nestor Marley died in the year of my birth. I know. It’s Rob, by the way. Not to you or Mom, but to everyone else it’s Rob. Can we go now?’
James had no desire to linger, and he packed up the chair and turned down the volume before they set off. Robert was even more impressed by the air conditioning in the van.
‘You really are doing alright, aren’t you? Air con don’t come cheap, do it?’
It had been three years since James had seen his brother. In that time they had grown even farther apart, but Robert (not Rob – no, not Rob) still spoke like a child of the Black Country. It was good to hear; James had wondered wheth
er his brother would come out of prison as a wannabe gangsta.
‘I’m getting there. We’re playing five festivals this summer. No main stage yet, but we’re getting there.’
‘Not I & I is getting there?’
‘No. I’m not Rastafarian any more. A man has many roots, and he must draw sustenance from all of them. Including the Irish ones.’
Robert looked uncomfortable, but ignored the pointed remark. ‘Listen, I’m glad you’re doing well. I can’t thank you enough for paying off my suppliers. That was more than I deserved. I’ll pay you back with interest.’
When Robert had been sent down, he had left serious debts which James had paid off for him.
‘Maybe. We’ll see.’ Before they left the car park, James handed his brother a box. ‘As requested.’
The box contained a Pay As You Go mobile, and Robert asked if he could make a call. James turned the music off and then listened to a one-sided conversation which seemed to please his brother enormously.
After disconnecting, Robert told him that Erin was going to allow him access to his children, and that the police had made a dawn raid on Ezekiel House.
‘And how is that good news?’ asked James.
‘Eliminating the competition. I don’t want no Crew moving on to my patch.’
They met in a hired room in the City. On the way there, Kate started to appreciate why Tom had become so attached to the Square Mile.
Yes, the most likely thing to find round the next corner was either a building site or a brutal slab of glass and concrete, but the Ghost of London Past was never far away. Today the Ghost led her past the Drapers’ Hall. She lingered outside the extravagant baroque entrance and peered at the photographs of the gilded dining room (available for weddings and banquets); there was even a courtyard garden, tucked away inside.