by John Harvey
‘How much?’ Ramsden had asked. The room a sweat box, despite the outside temperature; low ceilings, space just enough for a metal table and chairs, the only window locked fast, heating turned up deliberately high.
‘How much?’ Ramsden said again.
‘How much what?’
‘How much they drop you?’
‘I told you, nothing.’
‘Listen, you miserable little scrote, don’t fuck me around. How fuckin’ much?’
‘Couple of hundred, that’s all.’
‘And the rest.’
‘No, no, straight up.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come cheap, then, don’t you? ’Less you knew them, of course. Make more sense that. Old mates pulling a favour. That how it was?’
‘No. No, I swear.’ Sweat pouring off him like rain.
‘You did know them, though.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Never seen ’em before. Not till that night. I told you. Never.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I told you, my oath.’
‘Your what?’
‘My oath. My word.’
Ramsden grated out a laugh. ‘Your fucking word! Not worth a fiddler’s fart and any self-respecting silk who gets you on the stand’ll have the lies stripped off you so fast you’ll be up there shivering with one hand hanging on to your scrawny balls and the other covering your arse.’ He laughed again, pushed back his chair. ‘You’re going down, you miserable little dipshit, down for a long time, unless you give me something I can use. You understand? We understood?’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I dunno. I dunno if I can.’
‘Pentonville. Brixton. The Scrubs. Aiding and abetting, that’d be the least of it. Accessory to murder, I’d say. Depends. ’Less, of course, you recognise the shit you’re in. Give us a reason for putting in a word. Show us how good you are, remembering faces, naming names.’
Head bowed, the security officer closed his eyes. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose. His voice was a whisper, little more. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘Say again?’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
Ramsden allowed himself a smile. It wasn’t to last for long.
Four sessions: faces on the computer, folders of well-handled 6 x 4s, try as he might the man failed to pick out a single face, a single name. He was lying, of course, just as the CCTV operator was lying, but what could they do? The threatened possibility of a jail sentence against the embedded certainty that if he grassed sooner or later someone would use a blade on him, likely even cut his throat, in the nick or out.
In her office later, Karen read the anger, the frustration on Ramsden’s face.
‘Bastard!’ he said, slamming a fist down on to her desk. ‘Chickenshit bastard!’
‘It’ll come. You know it will. Sooner or later, it’ll come.’
Not soon enough for Burcher. True to his word, he had made more officers available, civilian support staff, too, but for that he expected results. Homicide, he had said, holding back just a little on the irony, your field of expertise. There’d been an urgent message just that morning: the Detective Chief Superintendent would appreciate a progress report ASAP. So far she hadn’t returned the call.
When the phone rang, she thought it was possibly Burcher himself, snotty and impatient, demanding action, answers.
Counting towards ten, she picked up on six.
‘We were going to have a catch-up?’ Alex Williams’ voice, pleasant, even.
‘Yes.’
‘How about this evening? Short notice, I know, but if we keep leaving it …’
‘No, this evening’s fine.’
‘You remember how to get here?’
‘I think so.’
‘Around seven, then? Seven thirty? See you then.’
‘A date?’ Ramsden said, eyebrow raised, having heard just one side of the conversation. ‘All right for some.’
37
It was dark by the time she arrived, had been dark for a good couple of hours. The house was quintessential South London suburban: generous bay windows, white paint, red brick; an attic room with a steeply angled roof. Shrubs in pots in the small front garden; a bare bed with the earth set hard from where it had last been turned. A child’s scooter resting against the green recycling bin. Please! No Junk Mail! stickered to the letter flap in the front door.
Karen rang the bell.
The door opened to a small child wearing Miffy pyjamas; startled eyes, curly hair: Alex stood behind her, denim shirt hanging loose over blue jeans, bare feet, glass of wine in her hand.
This is what I’ve been missing, Karen thought. For that brief moment, it mattered.
‘You found us again then. No trouble?’
‘No trouble.’
‘This is Amy. Say hello, Amy.’
Amy did no such thing.
‘Hello, Amy,’ Karen said, leaning towards her, and Amy wriggled away.
Alex laughed. ‘Come on in.’
What had been two good-sized rooms had been knocked through to make a large space that was filled, nevertheless, with soft-cushioned settees, easy chairs, a dining table of scrubbed pine, more chairs, magazines, comics, a flat-screen television, children’s toys. Paintings vied with bookshelves for space on the walls; one section crowded with children’s drawings, brightly coloured, starting to curl.
Amy had retreated behind one of the settees and was clutching a one-eyed bear. Another girl, older, sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a book. A boy of eight or nine lay on his tummy, watching a programme about seals on TV, the sound turned down to a whisper.
‘I think they were all in bed, last time you were here,’ Alex said. ‘So, that’s Ben, that’s Beth, and Amy you’ve already met.’
Self-conscious, Karen said, ‘Hi,’ and was predictably ignored.
‘And I’m Roger.’ Alex’s husband was wearing a long butcher’s apron, flour on his hands, flip-flops on his feet. ‘We did meet before, though I don’t expect you to remember. And I won’t shake hands or you’ll get this all over you. Dumplings. For the casserole. Lamb, I hope that’s okay.’
A smile and a nod of the head and he disappeared back to the kitchen.
‘Just sling some of that stuff off there and have a seat,’ Alex said. ‘Let me get you some wine. The kids will be in bed any time soon and we can eat. After that we’ll talk. White or red?’
It was past nine. Between them they’d cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, then Roger had excused himself to go upstairs and wade through his emails. Alex had stuck some Chopin on the stereo and opened another bottle of red.
‘Stansted,’ Alex said, ‘all the crap that goes with it. They’re hanging you out to dry on this, you realise?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘They’ll let you and your team keep ferreting around, kicking up as much dust and trouble as you can. Hoping you’ll shake something down into the net. Anything useful that looks as if it might bear fruit, they’ll have it for their own, work it whichever way they can. Whatever’s deemed expedient. And if you come up short, fail to get a result, well, nobody else but you to blame.’
‘What else could I do? Tell Burcher to take a hike?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘And besides — Warren, Charlie and Alex, wasn’t that what he said? Intent on the bigger picture. All three of you. Or isn’t that true?’
Alex shifted position, folding one leg beneath her. ‘No, it’s true. As far as it goes. But, you know, SIS, we can be proactive in the gathering of intelligence, but basically we’re there to support. What’s the rubric? Something about helping prevent harm and enforcing legislation against organised criminal networks at National Intelligence Model levels 2 and 3.’
Smiling, she drank some wine.
‘They use us, sweetie, like we’re all using you. I just wanted to be su
re you knew.’
Karen sighed and settled back into the comfort of her chair; she’d eaten too much — too much casserole, too much crumble. Her bed was the other side of London and she had an early start next day. Nonetheless, when Alex reached the bottle in her direction, she nodded and held out her glass.
‘Let me ask you something,’ Karen said.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Valentyn Horak, one of the victims at Stansted, he was subject to a surveillance operation before, yes?’
Alex nodded.
‘Placed under arrest, charged — presumably with the go-ahead of the CPS.’
Alex nodded again.
‘Everything’s fine almost up to the trial and then, out of the blue, someone at the CPS decides, after looking through the evidence again, oh, no, sorry, this isn’t going to stick, and recommends no further action be taken.’
‘Yes. At least, that’s what I understand.’
‘And you don’t think that’s a bit funny?’
‘Funny, no. Lazy, maybe. Slipshod, possibly. And whether that’s down to the officers involved in the arrest, or the CPS barrister, I don’t know. Most likely a combination of the two. But, Karen, you know, it happens. More often than we’d like. More often than it should.’ She sipped some more wine. ‘Water under the proverbial bridge.’
‘You don’t think it might have been a matter of money changing hands?’
Alex looked at her appraisingly. ‘Whose hand did you have in mind?’
‘Take your pick.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose, but …’ She shook her head a trifle wearily. ‘Corruption, it’s there, certainly. Fact of life. Just turn on the news.’
‘But in this case?’
‘If there’s anything more than the usual vague suspicions, I haven’t heard.’ Alex pushed herself to her feet. ‘Let’s go into the garden. I need a cigarette.’
Who was it who said in London you could never see stars? There they were, peppering the purple darkness above their heads; the night clear and cold, intimations of a frost.
Alex’s lighter flared.
‘Sure you won’t join me?’
‘Sure.’
‘I always thought you smoked.’
‘I did.’
‘When did you give up?’
‘Which time?’
Alex laughed. The tip of her cigarette bobbed like a firefly in the dark.
‘It’s nice out here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Quiet.’
‘Yes.’
They stood there, silent, absorbing the small sounds around them. Other people’s lives. Lights were showing, muted, at the rear of several other houses, but not many. Alex’s husband and children were inside sleeping. The other side of the city seemed far away.
Karen shuddered involuntarily, as if someone had stepped over her grave.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes. Yes, fine. Just thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘Whatever it is I’m missing.’
‘Are you missing something?’
Karen looked into Alex’s face before answering. A long moment, wondering. ‘Probably. Yes, maybe.’ A small laugh, shake of the head. ‘I don’t know.’
Alex touched the back of her hand to the smooth skin, slightly chilled, of Karen’s arm. ‘Best go back inside.’
Dropping her cigarette, she ground it out on the path.
In the kitchen, Alex made coffee while they waited for a cab and Karen asked about Roger’s job — she could never remember exactly what it was — the kids, how the two eldest were getting on at school. In less than the promised fifteen minutes, the driver was at the door.
‘Anton Kosach,’ Alex said, as they stepped into the hall. ‘The guy Charlie Frost was interested in. You’ve not turned up anything that involves him, I suppose?’
Karen stopped. ‘Kosach, no. Why d’you ask?’
‘Oh, no special reason. Just thought you might have run across the name, at least, that’s all.’
Karen shook her head. ‘If I had, I’d’ve reported back. You’d’ve heard.’
‘Yes, of course.’
The cab was in the middle of the road, indicators clicking on and off.
Alex squeezed her hand, brushed her cheek. ‘Keep in touch.’
Karen gave the driver her address and settled back. Her head had started to swim and it wasn’t just the wine.
38
Karen woke to the low thrum of music from the flat above; rolled over slowly, groaned, raised herself gingerly up on to one elbow, reached out and illuminated the small bedside clock. 6.03. What the hell was going on? For weeks on end it was as if no one was there, not even the faintest of footsteps criss-crossing above her head, and now, suddenly, it was whatever sad DJ had pulled the early breakfast show on Kiss or Choice, kicking things off with a chunk of dubstep reggae her neighbours seemed to be playing at full volume.
When she sat up something akin to a squash ball caromed, side to side and front to back, inside her head. Wincing, she closed her eyes and levered her legs slowly round, and as her feet touched the floor, the music stopped.
Thank you very much.
Gingerly, she made her way to the bathroom, peed, splashed water in her face, pressed two paracetamol out of their foil and swallowed them down. The last time she’d had a hangover to equal this had been Carla’s birthday the previous September, the night Carla had insisted on treating them to her impression of Christina Aguilera at full shriek and she herself had come close to copping off with a startlingly beautiful black man who claimed to have played for Leyton Orient.
Now, as then, she should never have had that last glass of wine. Although, at Alex’s, she hadn’t realised she was drinking much at all.
Pulling back the curtains, she gazed out into the empty street, the convoy of parked cars. A cyclist in reflective gear, front light pulsing, swished past and out of sight.
Karen leaned slowly forward and rested her forehead against the welcoming glass.
She was in the kitchen, making coffee, trying to decide whether or not she wanted toast, when her mobile trilled to life.
That bloody phone!
Tim Costello’s voice. A shooting outside the twenty-four-hour Tesco at Woodford. Close on four in the morning. Sixteen-year-old using the ATM. Bullet wounds to the side, shoulder, backs of the legs. Taken to Whipps Cross. Still touch and go.
‘The ATM, a robbery?’
‘Either that or drug related. Local Drug Squad’ve had half an eye on him. Lot of manoeuvring going on, apparently. Usual squabble over territory.’
‘Could be a hit, then.’
‘Possibility.’
‘Witnesses that early?’
‘Not so far. But CCTV. Still checking.’
‘Let me know, Tim, anything shows.’
‘Will do.’
She was barely out of the door when the phone rang again. The switchboard with a call from a Detective Sergeant Barry Morgan, a hostage negotiator in the Notts Police.
‘Got a situation here. Mansfield. Armed male holding a pregnant woman hostage. Both known to you, I believe.’
Karen drew breath. ‘Jayne Andrew?’
‘You got it.’
‘Wayne Simon.’
‘Wanted in connection with the murder of his partner and their child, back end of last year, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any history? Anything useful you can tell us?’
‘Useful? He’s been stalking her for a while. Work and home. I made the point when I was up there not so long ago. Strongly, I thought. The likelihood of something like this happening. Obviously not strongly enough.’
Morgan said nothing.
‘What’s the likely outcome here?’ Karen said. ‘Which way you leaning?’
‘Hard to say. Blokes like Simon, not exactly rational. Spoke to him a couple of times on the phone. Her mobile. Lot of anger, not a lot of sense. Since then no one’s picking up. Case of wait
ing it out, I’d reckon.’
Karen heard her own voice, low and persuasive: He’s not going to hurt you, I promise.
‘I’m on my way,’ she said.
‘Likely no need.’
‘Anything happens, get me on this number.’
Karen broke the call and, taking care not to move her head too sharply, bent low and reached for her shoes.
It was a grey kind of day. Clouds the colour of pale slate that presaged snow. Karen drove too fast, using both her siren and magnetic beacon to clear a way through the traffic that clustered along the motorway between Leicester and Nottingham.
A command post had been set up some seventy-five metres from the front of the block in which Jayne Andrew lived, rutted tarmac and muddied grass in between. Residents of the neighbouring flats had been evacuated as a precaution, the immediate area cordoned off.
Barry Morgan met Karen with a quick handshake and ushered her inside. Made the introductions, senior firearms officer, incident commander. More handshakes and down to business. A plan of the flat’s interior had been stuck up alongside the windscreen. Living room and kitchen with windows to the front, door leading out on to a narrow balcony, bedroom and bathroom with windows to the rear. Armed officers were already in position.
‘Last sighting,’ Morgan said, ‘best part of half an hour since. Living-room window. Lass standing there with Simon close behind her, knife to the side of her neck here.’ He rested two fingers just behind the jawline, immediately below the ear. ‘Cowardly bastard.’
‘Maybe should have taken him out then,’ the firearms officer said. ‘Clear head shot for a full five seconds.’
‘No need,’ Morgan said. ‘Not while there’s a risk of hitting the woman. Not while there’s time.’
‘Is there?’ Karen asked. ‘Time?’
‘Happen.’
‘When did you speak to him last?’
‘An hour back. Same barely coherent ranting as before. What a crock of shit the world is. Everyone conspiring against him. Doing him down. Women especially. Whores, the lot of them.’
‘He’s not made any demands?’
‘Just threats. If we come near the flat, attempt any kind of rescue, he’ll cut her throat.’