by Jake Cross
This was serious, of the deadly kind. Nobody stormed the home of a gangland boss unless they were planning to spill blood, and nobody got where Grafton had if enemies were dealt with by a stern telling-off.
Whatever had happened at the cottage, the decor wasn’t going to appeal to Home & Fashion.
Twelve
Mac
Bad news came thick and fast.
First, Ramirez’s solicitor arrived with a disk that he said had been delivered to him right outside the station. A hooded man had approached him as he turned into the car park, slapped the disk against his windscreen, and scarpered. Ramirez hadn’t explained, so three cops and one solicitor watched the film it contained without knowing what was going to be shown. And once it became apparent, someone quickly hit fast forward to spin through the feature as quickly as possible while the others studied the carpet or their fingernails.
So, Ramirez hadn’t phoned his mum, as they’d expected. He’d called one of his boys to bring the video along.
The next piece of bad news: Ramirez’s mum had been informed of developments by one of her son’s friends, and she’d thundered down to the station to raise hell. She was taken to Ramirez’s cell and given five observed minutes, but only after Ramirez promised to placate her and send her on her way, and under no circumstances to discuss the case with her. Clearly someone forgot that this guy was a criminal.
After her five minutes, she got time with the solicitor as she headed for the exit. What was said became clear not long afterwards.
* * *
The main players grouped in the interview room. Lawyer and client conferred in whispers, like lovers. Ramirez was smug when the lawyer said his client wasn’t going to answer questions but would make one statement. Ramirez rolled his shoulders and took a breath, like a guy getting ready for a long and eloquent speech.
‘I lost that dog tag. Like years ago. I ain’t seen it since. If you found that on Grafton’s body, someone’s setting me up. You got nothing on me.’
He went on to explain that his mother had admitted she took a whole bunch of her son’s stuff and got rid of it. The dog tag, she remembered, had gone into a box that had been stored in the attic. Over the years, all sorts of people had been in that attic: builders, family, friends, even the police. And they’d moved house, so the removal guys also had an opportunity to steal.
And that was that. The interview was paused as the detectives went out for a chat.
* * *
Mac met them in the hallway. Gondal was angry: he accused the solicitor of coaching the mother and son in how to discredit a major slice of evidence. Cooper, though, liked Mrs Ramirez’s input: it backed up his idea that someone out to frame Ramirez could have accessed the dog tag. The two detectives started to argue, but Mac shut them down.
‘Let’s forget the dog tag. The CPS wasn’t interested. It’s documented that Ramirez’s silly GodZillas gang is defunct. The tag will still make its way into court as padding, but we can’t rely on it. So, let’s focus on other things. Next step?’
Gondal said they should get the video analysed, just in case there was digital witchcraft involved: anyone planning a triple murder, especially of a man like Grafton, wouldn’t just hope for the best. They’d erect a force field.
Cooper disagreed, instead wanting to pursue Ramirez’s own theory: the set-up. Guys like Ramirez collected many enemies – ‘so let’s start looking at who might prosper with him locked in a cell.’
They looked at Mac to see which side of the fence he’d take.
‘Send the video for analysis,’ he said. ‘You never know. Ask him to clarify how to spell his surname. But wake him at four in the morning to do it, just to give him a headache. I’m going home. Call me if anything important pops up.’
Cooper asked: ‘You want to apply to hold him for longer?’
They had Ramirez for twenty-four hours before they had to charge or release him, but higher authority could extend that up to ninety-six. Or fourteen days if they could angle towards a terrorism offence, which Gondal made a joke about doing. But Mac told them to hold off until tomorrow, when they knew more, if anything.
That wasn’t the end of the bad news.
* * *
Before heading home, Mac dropped by the incident room, just to see if the worker ants on the phones and computers had learned anything that would make him groan. Brand new murder case, so the room was bustling with activity, most of the team bleary-eyed because they’d been up all last night on another case and had been woken by the call to arms. On-call detectives knew they could be summoned to a moonlit murder – but they hoped for a daylit discovery. In he walked, and there on the incident board was a printout from a car sales website featuring a dark blue 1999 Volvo V70 estate for £1,200. What the hell?
‘Where’s this from?’ he shouted at the room, his finger stabbing the picture.
A young DC looked up from a file she was studying at her desk, and raised her hand like a kid about to ask for the toilet. In fact, everyone was looking in their direction. A rare outburst from a usually introspective team leader. ‘I printed it off. I found it. Someone called it in.’
A helpful member of the public, she explained. A man had seen all the police activity around Tile Kiln Lane and had remembered a suspicious car because it had been driving close to the scene with three men in dark clothing inside. He’d noted the registration and had called in with it. She had interrogated the PNC, the Police National Computer, and discovered that the owner had reported the vehicle stolen four days ago.
Now that she’d explained, she was smiling, perhaps thinking she’d get a compliment – because this was a big lead, right?
‘Don’t just pin stuff on the board without telling a superior,’ Mac roared at her. ‘What if I didn’t see this for a week?’
She didn’t know what to say, but managed: ‘I’m sorry. It just came in. Five minutes ago—’
‘And what if I’d already had information about this car from another source, but the report said a BMW? I’d be out there looking for a BMW, wouldn’t I? While all along you knew it was a Volvo. How much time would that have wasted?’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call. You and DS Gondal were busy downstairs. I was going to say when you came back.’ Those watching tried to pretend they were busy minding their own business.
‘From now on, all of you, anything important that comes in comes straight to me. Within one minute. Understand?’
A chorus of acknowledgement.
Mac stormed out. Which meant he didn’t see the DC, Downey, take a stroll to the kettle. Downey didn’t want a drink, though: he wanted to see the details of the car pinned on the board. Back at his seat with a coffee he wasn’t going to touch, Downey took out his phone and sent a text to someone very interested in how this investigation was progressing.
Thirteen
Karl
Karl arrived at his street twenty minutes later. He checked the time and figured he wasn’t much later than he would have been if he’d continued on to the Wilmington job, so there would be no need for a bullshit story to tell his wife. Unless he walked in the door and she straight out accused him of being spotted with a woman in his van.
This was the moment of truth, then. He got out and walked casually to his gate. If bad guys were lying in wait with knives or guns, running for the front door wouldn’t help him. Better he got killed out here instead of inside where Katie was.
No gunshot. Nobody jumped out from behind a car. No deadfall was sprung. Of course not – Liz Grafton was letting her paranoia dictate her actions. Karl walked to his front door and unlocked it. He had to use two hands on the key to keep it steady. He looked up and down the street one last time. Once inside, he locked up and set the house alarm, and waited until enough anxiety had sluiced away that Katie wouldn’t feel it pulsing off him like an electrical charge. Then he went upstairs to pretend everything was five-star in their world.
* * *
Katie was in the bedroo
m, tucked up in bed with just her head and arms showing. Her long dark hair was splayed on the pillow like black blood from a vicious head wound. She was on her electronic tablet again, probably looking at fireplaces: her new obsession now that they’d bought everything they needed for the back bedroom. He stopped in the doorway. She hadn’t seen him yet. He took a breath, cleared his head as best he could, and spoke up.
‘Apparently the British Medical Journal said athletes live longer lives than the average person by two-point-eight years,’ he said, referencing their ongoing joke.
She lowered her tablet and grinned at him. ‘That right? Well, Doctor Jane will help by fixing their injuries.’
‘Decathlete Gold Medal-winner Michael won’t be injured.’
‘Maybe Doctor Jane could toss javelins in her free time.’
‘Decathlete Michael could read medical books on the treadmill.’
Her grin widened. She held out her arms for him. Carefully, he laid atop her, bracing himself with his arms so he barely touched her belly. She kissed his nose. ‘Any problems tonight?’
He was glad their faces were close because he was certain she would have read the whole damn story in his eyes. He dampened a rising fear that she somehow knew what had happened earlier. Just an inert question, the same asked of husbands by wives all across the city after a working day.
‘I cancelled. Too dark to put an alarm in this late. I’ll go another time. He won’t mind as long as his car isn’t nicked tonight.’ The lie, as it passed his lips, tasted foul.
But what could he do? The truth was a bad idea. No way was he going to burden her with the possibility of vicious criminals intruding into their lives. End of. He’d get rid of Liz tomorrow and forget her, and Katie need never know. As long as that was the end of it.
She kissed his nose again and said: ‘I need water,’ which was perfect timing because the pinball of worry was back. Now he had an excuse to go and check out the windows. He kissed her nose right back and headed for the door.
Downstairs again, he flicked off the living room light so he wouldn’t be exposed with his face pressed up against the window. Nobody out there. Liz had been wrong. There were no gangsters after him. But what did he expect, a line of bad guys on the street, staring up at him?
Or maybe they didn’t know who or where he was. Yet. He pushed that thought from his mind and went back upstairs. At the last second, he veered into the rear bedroom to check that window, slave to a wild idea that intruders were lurking in the back garden. But he didn’t reach the window. He stood and looked around. On the bed covers, on the walls, on the shelves, Peppa Pig glared back at him. Michael – or Jane, if Katie got her wish – was three months yet from the world, and already possibly in danger? No, no, no. The worry transformed into anger. His fists clenched by his sides.
‘Did you come up?’ Katie called. ‘Where are you?’
He headed back to the bedroom and produced a Peppa pillow from behind his back like a magician. ‘I thought Michael could sleep with Peppa tonight.’
‘Oh, Jane says bring, bring, bring.’
He gave her the pillow, and she balanced it on her belly. Karl laid his ear on Peppa’s snout. ‘Even through this I can feel – ow!’ He jerked upright.
With a face as innocent as her unborn child’s, Katie said: ‘Did you feel a kick?’
‘Kick? You slapped me in the head, girl.’
She laughed. ‘So didn’t. It was Jane, probably telling you she’s not happy that you hope she’s a boy.’
He climbed over her legs carefully and lay beside her. ‘If that was a real kick, Michael’s showing us how good he’ll be as a decathlete.’
‘Did you get my water?’
‘Shit.’
He apologised for the language and headed downstairs again. Water came third to another glimpse out the window and a double-check that the front and back doors were locked. For a silly moment he considered staying up all night, in case a group of killers was right now riding his way, weaponed up like a SWAT team. But what could he do, fight them off with a broomstick? Besides, they might come tomorrow night, when he’d be unable to prevent himself dropping off to sleep.
‘Besides, she’s full of shit,’ he said aloud, unable to contain his frustration.
‘What?’ Katie called down.
‘Nothing,’ he said when he returned to the bedroom. He handed over the water and undressed, but left his boxer shorts on – to save the ambulance crew some embarrassment, his mind joked. He got into bed, and Katie switched off the bedside lamp. She pulled him close so his chest pressed against her warm back. That was a comfort he needed now it was pitch-black.
‘You’re cold,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, I set the Sky Box to record something for you. That cage fighting event you like.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied. He loved how thoughtful she was, even recording the sports events she couldn’t stand herself. ‘And you’re my big hot water bottle.’
As he lay in bed, he hoped this was all some scam after all. He’d love to get to the shop tomorrow and find Liz and all his stock gone. But then he had a worrying thought: what if her crime boss husband got angry because Karl had dumped Liz to fend on her own? Perhaps he should take her home tomorrow after all? His mind was all over the place.
‘Remember you’re back early tomorrow to take me for my nails.’
‘Yeah. Twelve o’clock. Hair last week and nails tomorrow. You start buying new underwear and I want a paternity test.’ That got him a heel kick in the shin.
His mind whirred. He pictured a scene: Grafton and his minions are in the middle of chopping up the guys who stormed their house, and Karl rolls up with Liz as the bin liners of body parts are being loaded into a van. Now he’s seen too much.
‘I ate your pie, I’m afraid. Cravings.’
‘It’s okay. Michael needs shot-put muscles.’
The wild thoughts tumbled. He worried that Grafton would thank him. He’d seen gangster films before, so he knew you didn’t turn down the generosity of the kingpins. And once you’d accepted what they gave you, you were in their pocket. Before he knew it, he’d be asked to make some dodgy delivery, or to hide a suspect package at his house, or to drive three hooded men to a bank and wait outside with the engine running.
‘Doctor Jane says night night.’
‘Night, Michael.’
Or Grafton thanks him and lets him go, just like that. But the police have the ganglord under surveillance, and now they’re very interested in the new player who just shook hands with him. He might get swept up when the cops take everyone down. Or other enemies could be watching, and they might decide Karl was one of Grafton’s men and needed carving up.
So, taking her home was out. Hopefully she’d be long gone, giving him no choice at all. But if she was still at the shop, he was going to drag her out into the street and be rid for ever.
‘I love you.’
One final scenario played out in his head. Karl rolls up with Liz, but Grafton, instead of being thankful, is suspicious. Accusations of sexual misconduct fly, and the minions fetch another bin bag. Love was a powerful force.
‘I love you, too,’ he replied.
Fourteen
Mac
Mac was driving home when he got a call from DC Cooper. Ramirez was adamant now that he’d been set up, but he’d turned his focus onto the police. His new defence: the cops had been into his attic, and they had taken his dog tag to plant at the scene of Grafton’s murder. He was screaming his new theory from his cell like a town crier.
Mac turned his car around. At the station, he haphazardly parked across a disabled spot and, much worse, his superintendent’s, and ran up the stairs. Ramirez didn’t get off his bunk when his cell door was opened, but he jumped to his feet when Mac walked in.
‘Jesus Christ. Of all the wankers. Macintosh, eh?’
‘McDevitt. I’m running this case.’ He sent away the uniform who’d unlocked the door. Normally not protocol to leave a high-ranking of
ficer alone with a violent criminal, but an aggressive nature didn’t equal superhuman powers, and Mac had forearms as thick as the other man’s calves.
‘I know you,’ Ramirez said. ‘The takeaway thing way back. I remember you. I knew there was something booky about all this shit. It was your team of cunts back then, when my tag went walkies, and now you’re back with a new team of cunts, and my fucking tag is miraculously back. You fuckers planted that dog tag, just like I thought. Shit, man, let’s go tell that to my lawyer.’
He stepped forward, meaning to barge past the big cop, who was almost a foot taller. Mac grabbed him around the throat with one hand and pushed him back, hard. Ramirez staggered into his bunk, collapsed across it and banged his head on the wall beyond.
‘What the fuck?’ he yelled, clutching his skull.
Mac didn’t move from the doorway.
‘Stop swearing, Mr Ramirez, and stop using stupid gang slang in front of my officers. Now listen. Are you listening?’
‘You’re done for this, dickhead.’ He pulled a hand away to find fingers slick with blood. ‘This is your fucking job down the swanny. I should bust your other ear.’
McDevitt ignored the threat. ‘Shut your trap and listen to me. Maybe you didn’t kill Ronald Grafton, and maybe you did. If you lost your dog tag and someone planted it at the scene to frame you, it will soon come out. If you dropped it while you were cutting him to bits, it will soon come out. Are you still listening?’
Ramirez didn’t answer. But that meant the threats stopped, too.
‘But you will stop this lark about planted evidence. It muddies the water and gives everyone a headache. Say planted evidence again and I’ll spread the word to local hard boys that we’re looking closely at you for child molestation. Then I’ll have to lie to your bawling mum by saying I’ll do everything in my power to find out who strapped her son down and set a wild dog on his balls.’