Good Bait

by John Harvey

  ‘Gut feeling?’

  ‘My gut feeling, he could have. He’s capable of it, I’m sure. Reason enough in his mind, too, tanked up especially.’

  ‘So what you gonna do? You and sonny boy?’

  ‘Sonny boy’s all right. Just needs a little perspective, that’s all. Realise he doesn’t have to be grandstanding all the time.’

  ‘I’m sure in your guiding hands …’ A lascivious grin on his face, Ramsden was cheerfully miming masturbation when the door opened sharply and a sandy-haired man took half a step out on to the low porch, stopped, looked from Ramsden to Karen and back again, then winked merrily at Ramsden and withdrew.

  ‘Thinks there’s something going on,’ Ramsden said. ‘You and me. Didn’t want to spoil my chances.’

  ‘Yes?’ Karen laughed. ‘What chance is that?’

  Ramsden took a healthy sip from his glass.

  ‘So, Martin, what’s your plan?’

  ‘Sonny boy, as you call him, is going back to the landlord at the Four Hands, dredge up some more names, try to get a sharper line on how long that night Martin was in the pub. Then we’re checking taxi firms, minicab drivers, anyone who might have had Martin as a fare. And that includes the driver he alleges took him home in the early hours.’

  ‘Could have been a mate, a friend.’

  ‘I know. I can get some of the team talking to his known associates, see if there’s anything there.’

  Ramsden’s look was dubious. ‘Lot of manpower, lot of hours.’

  ‘Better suggestion?’

  ‘Bring him in. Make him sweat. Then see what he’s got to say. Let me have a word with him.’

  Karen smiled. ‘Is that the bit where you swipe him round the back of the head with a good old-fashioned telephone directory?’

  ‘Does the trick. Used to.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  Ramsden swallowed down the last of his beer. ‘Want another?’

  ‘Maybe. Just the one. But now you’ve finished that vile little cigar, can we at least go back inside?’

  They found a table far enough from the jukebox to make conversation possible. Hector Prince, Ramsden said, was still lording it over the fact that he’d walked away from police custody scot-free, bragging about it, apparently, how there was nothing they could do to touch him.

  ‘Riding for a fall?’ Karen wondered.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘How about that accusation of Martin’s?’ Ramsden asked. ‘The Andronic youth might have been dealing?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Gives you another possible motivation. If he’d been siphoning some off, short changing, someone might have been out to teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Some lesson.’

  ‘Sets an example.’

  ‘There’s nothing else linking Andronic to drugs. I think that was just Martin blowing off hot air.’

  ‘Even so,’ Ramsden winced as a particularly loud riff from Iron Maiden made the room shake and rattled the glasses on the table. ‘Could do worse than taking a look at that pal of his again, the one he called that evening. Milescu? Check him out on Facebook, sites like that. Build up a bit more background, can’t do any harm.’ He winked. ‘Wouldn’t like to see you cutting off your options too soon, getting tunnel vision.’

  ‘What are you? My manager, all of a sudden?’

  Ramsden leaned back, smiling with his eyes. ‘Feels that way sometimes.’

  Karen smiled back. ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Karen was still wearing the vestiges of a smile when she exited the Tube. Whereas working with Tim Costello was interesting, almost fun, watching him showing off a little, seeing how far he could go, with Ramsden everything was easy, like slipping into a familiar pattern, easing on an old pair of worn gloves. What was that song? ‘An Old Raincoat Won’t Ever Let You Down’. Ramsden was like that. Old and dependable. If distinctly ragged round the edges.

  Taking the turning off St Paul’s Road into Highbury Grove, wind pulling at her coat and hair, the first inklings of rain, she noticed the car idling ahead of her, ignorant of the traffic. A Volvo, dark blue, shading into black. As she drew close, it pulled away, then slowed. She logged the number in her head, prepared to cross the street, take defensive action, if necessary run.

  When she came alongside the vehicle, it slid forward in tandem, the rear window slipping soundlessly down.

  ‘Karen.’

  It was Burcher. Detective Chief Superintendent Anthony Burcher. She hadn’t known they were on first-name terms.

  The rear nearside door opened.

  ‘Get in.’

  The car slid off into traffic, commuters on their way back through Seven Sisters, Stroud Green, Stamford Hill, Edmonton. Farther out there were real fields, paddocks, small orchards, golf courses where you could play a full eighteen holes without having to cross a motorway.

  It was close in the back of the car, the heater notched up a few degrees too high; the sweetness of peppermints on Burcher’s breath.

  ‘Just passing, sir?’

  ‘Something of the kind.’

  In front, the driver swallowed a chuckle, remembering he wasn’t there. See no evil, speak no evil.

  ‘The Hampstead business, Andronic, something of a breakthrough?’

  She told him about the Martins, Terry and Sasha, father and daughter. Her suspicions, unproven.

  ‘And this Milescu boy, he involved? Seriously, I mean?’

  No real reason to think so, sir. No more than peripherally. But I suppose it’s possible.’

  ‘His father, he was expressing some concern.’

  ‘To you, sir?’

  ‘Friends, shall we say, one or two, high places.’

  ‘I doubt he has reasons to worry.’

  ‘Good to know. Though of course, if there were anything, anything serious, you might just run it by me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Burcher nodded, found something interesting through the opposite window. At the crossroads, without being asked, the driver took a left, then left again.

  ‘Cooperation, resources, you’re getting what you need?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  The car came to a halt some sixty metres from her door.

  ‘Walk from here?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The rain was starting to fall more heavily, bouncing off the roof of the Volvo as it moved away. It was beginning to look as if Mike Ramsden was right, a little more digging in Ion Milescu’s direction might not go amiss after all.

  17

  The London College of Communication was a little way south of the river, too close to the monstrous traffic island that is the Elephant and Castle for comfort. For reasons best known to its custodians, much of the frontage was given over to large panels bearing stylishly lit close-ups of a couple passionately kissing. It pays, Karen guessed, to advertise. Amongst a bustle of activity, legions of students were foregathered on the street outside, garbed for the most part like students the world over. She was glad she’d dressed down herself, cotton jacket, sweater, worn jeans, her second-best pair of black Converse. Scuffed leather satchel.

  Winter sunshine reflected back off the glass.

  Voices raised in greeting. Arms round shoulders. Laughter.

  A bus pulling by on its way towards New Cross Gate.

  She spotted Ion Milescu walking briskly, winding between small knots of people, rucksack slung over one shoulder.

  Karen moved to intercept him and as she did so he stopped to talk to two fellow students, the man seemingly African, the girl Chinese.

  ‘Ion …’

  At first he didn’t recognise her, a face seen out of context.

  ‘I just need a word.’

  ‘I’ve got a class.’

  ‘A quick coffee, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He seemed flustered, uneasy.

  ‘Look,’ the Af
rican said, ‘if he doesn’t want to speak with you …’

  ‘No,’ Milescu said, ‘it’s all right.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The African shrugged — ‘Catch you later’ — tapped the Chinese girl on the shoulder and they walked away.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Karen asked.

  What she was hoping for was a little pop-up espresso bar run by a couple of Kiwis working their way round the world; what she got was a tired cafe between a launderette and a newsagent’s, on a small row of premises laid back from the main road; a greasy spoon that had moved some way to catering for its increasing student population, then stalled. Paninis alongside fry-ups; soya milk cappuccinos and mugs of tea you could stand a spoon in.

  Karen played safe with an Americano; Ion Milescu a Pepsi.

  ‘A few things,’ Karen said, ‘have come to light since we talked last. I just wanted to make sure I’ve got the right end of the stick.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ He was looking off in the direction of the counter, the far wall, anywhere but at her.

  ‘You and Petru, for instance, from what you said before, you didn’t know him very well at all.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘A few kickabouts and stuff like that.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which sort of leaves out Victoria Park.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Victoria Park. Hot Chip. Lesley Tabor. You remember Lesley?’

  He mumbled something that might have been slag. She hoped it wasn’t.

  ‘You do remember Lesley?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘I thought you went out with her, for a while at least.’

  ‘She thought so, you mean.’

  ‘You and Lesley, Petru and Sasha, quite a foursome.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘It wasn’t like anything. I just went with her a few times because …’ Ill at ease, he took a quick breath, dipped his head.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘’Cause he asked me to.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Petru. Petru, who else?’

  ‘This kid you hardly knew.’

  ‘All right, all right. God!’ His voice loud enough to turn heads, the workman on his right glancing up from the Sun, a couple of students looking across from the plate of beans on toast they appeared to be sharing.

  ‘All right, we hung out for a while, went to a couple of gigs here and there — he didn’t have many friends, I don’t know why. After we played soccer a few times, went back to the cafe…’

  ‘The Chiswick cafe?’

  ‘Yes, after that he sort of latched on to me. For a while anyway. I suppose I felt a bit sorry for him. Living with some uncle over Wood Green somewhere. Least, that’s what he said.’

  ‘You didn’t believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was all a bit — you know — vague. We were going to go over there once, I remember, he sort of built it up, then at the last minute he called it off, something about his uncle being busy, not wanting to be disturbed. Way he said it, just seemed a bit strange that’s all.’

  ‘You carried on seeing him?’

  ‘Maybe not as much. I had all this work, you know, college. Different assignments. I was busy, and he — most of the time, he didn’t seem to be doing anything. Just hanging out. And then there was all that stuff with Lesley. Her friend, the one Petru was going with, Sasha, every time I’d see her it’d be, oh, why don’t you get in touch with Lesley, send her a text, she’s dying to see you, blah, blah, blah. I got sort of sick of it.’

  Karen took a mouthful of coffee. No better nor worse than she’d expected.

  ‘Petru, you say he spent a lot of time just hanging out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He didn’t have a job, then? Wasn’t studying, anything like that?’

  ‘He’d applied. Some college, to do I’m not sure what. Computer stuff, maybe. IT. I don’t even know if he got in or not. If he did get a place, he never took it up.’

  ‘And a job? Presumably if you were going out places, he had cash in his pocket from somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t know. He helped out his uncle sometimes, that’s all he ever said.’

  ‘Doing what, d’you know?’

  ‘No.’ A quick shake of the head.

  ‘There’s a suggestion that he might have been dealing drugs.’

  ‘Petru?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘You seem pretty positive.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘He wouldn’t even …’ He hesitated.’ If ever, you know, there was something going round, a smoke, a few pills, he’d always pass. Always.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean …’

  ‘I know. But, no, Petru getting mixed up in something like that, I just can’t see it. Really.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘I should be going.’

  ‘Okay. Fine.’ She pushed her half-full cup away. ‘This uncle — Petru didn’t mention a name? An address?’

  ‘Afraid not. He never said anything much about himself at all. Except something once about missing his family, his mother especially. So I guess he wasn’t living with them at least. I got the impression she was still back in Moldova.’

  Karen nodded. So far any attempts to contact Petru Andronic’s next of kin via the Moldovan Embassy in Dolphin Square had foundered amidst red tape and inertia. She would get one of the team to make a fresh attempt, diplomatically kick a few backsides.

  Out on the street, Milescu following, she took two paces, then stopped. ‘Apparently your father’s been talking to my boss, my boss’s boss. Whatever you’ve got yourself involved in, he seems a bit concerned about.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘He’s crazy. I’m not involved in anything.’

  I hope not, Karen thought. She slipped one of her cards into his hand. ‘Anything you want to talk about, any time, just give me a call.’

  18

  The rest of the day passed, for Karen, in some sort of middle-management haze. Questions that were at best half-answered, leads that petered out into blind alleys, areas of inquiry that became abruptly stalled; the distant but familiar sound of heads being banged, relentlessly, against brick walls.

  She stopped off at the supermarket on the way home and picked up a couple of ready-cooked meals and some discounted wine. Showered, she was just slipping the lamb kofta and rice into the microwave, a bottle of Shiraz already opened, when Ramsden called, his voice harsher than usual, more abrasive. The sound of a fist being rasped along raw brick.

  Karen swore to herself as she listened; switched off the microwave.

  ‘Be there, Mike, soon as I can.’

  Hector Prince’s body had been found jammed into the lift of a high-rise off Tottenham High Road, his left foot and ankle sticking out and preventing the door from closing, the lift marooned on the fourteenth floor. There were numerous stab wounds to his left side and down the backs of both legs, the cuts deep into the muscle of the thigh; his right shoulder blade had been shattered by a heavy blow from something like a baseball bat; something like the baseball bat that had crushed his cheekbone and splintered the cranial bone above the left eye.

  He was still alive when the paramedics got to him, breathing but only just, his blood matted against the material of his cuffed fleece trackies and sticking against the already sticky lift floor.

  One of the long-term tenants on the floor above, hearing the sounds of the assault, had dialled 999, and, watching from his balcony, seen the attackers flee. Now the lift and stairs were cordoned off, some officers already down on their knees searching for evidence, others beginning the thankless task of knocking on doors.

  Karen stood in the courtyard, hands wrapped around a takeout coffee from a fast food place on the High Ro
ad, the coffee still retaining the smell of grease and burning fat.

  Mike Ramsden ducked under the tape and made his way towards her.

  ‘Half a dozen of them by the sound of it,’ he said. ‘Fronted Prince while he was in line waiting to get his bucket of chicken wings, chased him in here, caught up with him on the stairs. Whether he got into the lift himself, trying to get away, or they pushed him in there isn’t clear. They did a runner when someone raised the alarm.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘One so far. Saw them legging it from way up. Black, or so he thinks. Hoodies. No surprises there.’

  ‘Payback, then. For Derroll Palmer. That’s what we’re thinking?’

  ‘Looks like. Once we’d brought Prince and he’d walked away, bragging about it, as far as Palmer’s cohorts were concerned he was marked meat.’

  ‘You think he knew that?’

  ‘Kids like Prince — what did he call himself on the street? Mohock? — they take their life in their hands each time they step out the front door. Part of the charge, the buzz, that risk. Never knowing when you might get capped.’

  ‘I thought Palmer wasn’t gang related?’

  ‘He was killed on gang turf, that’s enough.’

  ‘Wood Green, MOB gang, then? First port of call?’

  ‘I’d reckon. Talk to someone at Trident tomorrow, see if I can’t get them to throw us some names.’

  Karen turned aside as a shiver ran through her. Not just the cold. The whole senseless, bloody business. Revenge, respect, tit for tat. Standing up to be counted. What was it just the other day? One youth stabbing another to death for calling him a pussy on Facebook.

  Most times it didn’t get to her, not like this, but now, suddenly, it did.

  The waste.

  Ramsden read it in her eyes. ‘Go home,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re here. You’ve showed. No call for you to stay.’

  ‘Mike …’

  Not roughly, he rested a hand on her arm. ‘You look wasted, go home.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘One of the privileges of high rank. Delegation. Go on, get some sleep, I’ll close up here. See you in the office first thing.’