by Jake Cross
A damn lucky break. He drove on.
The BMW remained still, waiting for its prey to arrive.
Fifty-Two
Mick
Despite his rush, Mick took a moment to put the TV on, to kill the silence of the house and to try to inject some calm into his system. There was a tightness in his chest: he had no loose change for Tim’s money box.
With some bullshit morning TV show filling the house with noise instead, Mick threw a few extra items into the large satchel he was taking to Berlin. It would go in the car, along with his son’s bag, and the ninety grand liberated from Grafton’s house.
A rising urge cut the job in half. From a drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe, he pulled out a bag. From the bag, a pressed linen suit on a hanger, wrapped in cellophane. Grafton’s suit. His torso punchbag had no legs, so the trousers wouldn’t work, but it could wear the jacket. A decent fit around the chest. From the wardrobe drawer, another bag. Photos this time. He selected a portrait of Grafton with a beaming smile that he would glue to the punchbag’s head.
The double was almost complete.
Fifty-Three
Mac
A mobile number he didn’t know flashed on the caller ID. A female voice he recognised, though. The girl who had messed up his head with the Volvo printout late last night. Tennant was her name. He had meant to apologise to her for his outburst.
Apparently, his warning had sunk deep because she had found out something new and was calling to let him know. He put on a sweet tone, which was easy because of his good mood despite knowing that he probably wasn’t going to like what she told him.
‘Thanks, DC Tennant. Julie. What or who have you found?’
The second man on the CCTV video from Karl Seabury’s phone, that was who. A member of their support staff had popped in to drop off mail for DC Downey and had recognised him. A quick look at the files, and now they knew he was Nikos Avramidis, thirty-one, Greek-born, who did eight months four years ago for assault, and was a known friend of Aleksy Kozaczuk, aka Król. But what they didn’t know was where he was. No address registered to his name as of last year.
‘Well done,’ Mac told her. ‘Why don’t you get out of the office and go find him? Don’t approach on your own, mind. Call it in.’ A nice little proactive outside job to make her feel like a real detective. Then he thought of something. ‘Hang on. This support staff saw the photo? Where?’
She paused. Just a second. But long enough.
‘On the board?’ he yelled. ‘What the hell did I tell you? When did you learn this about Nikos?’
‘Half an hour or so ago. I pinned it up, yes. But I tried—’
He cut her off with an insult, and harshly reminded her that he wanted to know everything within one minute. She hung up an unhappy girl.
Fifty-Four
Mick
Bad about Nikos, but no big deal, really. This Nikos, as a friend of Król’s, would be similarly of low moral fibre. He wouldn’t tell the cops anything. But, just in case, Mick should send someone to remind the guy what happened to snitches in his world.
Then he remembered the Loyalty Box.
He wouldn’t need it now, of course, but that didn’t mean he could just leave it to be found. It also went into the car, destined for a faraway trash bin. A shame, really, because with its death two dozen nasty bastards who deserved to rot in jail would be protected for ever. The folded suit belonging to Grafton was also tucked beside it, although that item was going to remain with him for a while. It still had a purpose.
In the kitchen, he stood before Tim’s filled money boxes. He decided to take only one. Money was easy to replace.
He did a final sweep of the house, just to make sure nothing incriminating was on show. It might be weeks before anyone forced open his door to find out why he was absent from work, but that didn’t mean he wanted them to discover the truth immediately. Nothing incriminating, but Tim’s cornflakes were still on the kitchen table. He emptied the bowl into the bin. That made him think of the food in the freezer, so he filled a plastic bag with frozen items for the old guy across the road, who he liked.
‘See you later, Tim,’ he called out, then locked up. He put the bag of frozen goodies on the guy’s doorstep and returned to his car. He checked his watch. Good timing. He could get to St Dunstan’s in plenty of time to brief his men and scout the area. After Seabury and the bitch were toast, he’d get the fuck out of here early tomorrow morning.
Fifty-Five
Mac
Mac believed there were four types of people in the world, and he met them all in the retirement home that his father, Chris, had called home for nine months. As Mac entered the building, the receptionist gave him a wary look, and the male nurse she was talking to said: ‘Yorkshire Ripper admitted to any more killings yet?’ Shortly afterwards, he passed a woman who virtually sneered at him.
He noticed a missed call from the same number Tennant had called from. Thirty-seven minutes ago. He almost laughed. He called her back and apologised. She hung up a happy girl. Good deed done for the day.
He found Dad in the garden, playing chess by himself at a table under a bamboo canopy. A big guy, like Mac, with the same granite chin, but his powerful coalman’s physique had grown flabby over the years.
‘See the guy by the pond?’ his dad said as Mac stepped onto the patio.
Mac handed over a couple of detective novels. ‘Dad, I have some news,’ he said as he sat down.
‘Did you see that chap at the pond? He’s from Clapham. Here, read this.’
Mac sighed. ‘Dad, listen to me. I don’t have long. I’m going aw—’
Dad was fumbling in a pocket for something. A sheet of folded paper was thrust out, which Mac took and unfolded. It was a printout of a newspaper story from a website. An old murder. A cold case. Mac sighed again.
People who knew he was a detective made up the four types on the planet. Like the receptionist, some blanked him, as if fearful that he could read their minds and arrest them for some traffic crime or ancient barroom fight. Some cops loved that. Like the nurse chatting to the receptionist, there were those who latched onto him to satisfy their thirst for gossip, and what better subject to natter about around the water cooler than murder and rape? The staff who sneered at him made up the third kind: those who treated him like scum because of some brother or uncle who had been targeted by the police. Worst of all, though, the fourth – amateur sleuths. Because of all the fictional detectives clogging up the bookstores and TV channels, detectives had become real-life superheroes. And every amateur thought he needed their help. Because his son was in the game, Dad had started reading Inspector Morse and Kim Stone and all those other famous characters, and he’d caught that same damn disease.
He pointed past Mac, but he didn’t look. ‘This is important, Dad—’
‘That’s John. He’s from Clapham. Read it, read it.’
He gave it a quick scan. Some murder in the 1990s in Clapham. Woman’s body found in the woods one morning by a dog walker. Run-of the-damn-mill.
‘Dad, can we talk? I might not be able to visit for a while.’
‘Clapham, you bloody see that? Last night, Mac, he woke up screaming in the night. Screaming he was sorry. You understand?’
Dad had all his marbles, but could turn as single-minded as a dog in heat when something obsessed him. Mac knew his dad wouldn’t pay any other subject much attention until after he’d slept it off, but today he couldn’t just leave and return after he’d napped.
He knelt on the paving stones so they were eye level. ‘Listen to me, Dad. I’ve got something on. It means I might not be able to visit. Do you understand that?’
‘Sure, son, I do. But you’ll still be by next week?’
The guy who still followed politics and could argue it with the best of them wasn’t understanding. ‘No, Dad. This will be a much longer time. I wanted to tell you that I’ll phone you when I can. If I can.’
Dad jerked his head to one si
de, staring past. ‘Look now, look, you’ll get a face-on view.’
So, Mac looked, just to satisfy his father. Some old guy in a wheelchair, grey stubble, big glasses, a bandage on his nose. Feeding the ducks in the pond.
‘Did you see?’
And that was that, Mac decided. This was no kind of goodbye. But he wanted to leave his dad with a happy smile.
He said: ‘Yes, Dad, I’ve seen him. We’ve been watching this place for a few days now, but we never knew who our killer was. Now, thanks to you, we know it’s the man in the wheelchair. Well done. But I need you to keep quiet about this.’
‘Of course, son. I don’t want to jeopardise your investigation. I know you policemen these days are caught up in all the rules and regulations. I’ll keep quiet. But is there anything I can do?’
‘No, thank you, Dad. This is all thanks to you. You’ve done your bit already.’
His father smiled as Mac’s phone rang. DS Gondal.
‘Hey, Gondal. What’s up?’
‘Good and bad news,’ Gondal said, then relayed the bad: DC Shaun Downey, the fool, had just been caught red-handed calling a female journalist with details of Operation Nook, the investigation into the triple murders.
‘Christ. And the good?’
‘We’ve found the Volvo.’
Sweet tone: ‘Excellent.’
According to Gondal, it was found in a lock-up garage near Danson Park. A local guy, who’d recently set-up CCTV on the abandoned garages because of ongoing vandalism, saw the superintendent’s morning press conference and thought he might have spotted the Volvo. Responding uniforms opened a garage up, and there it was. Confirmed. Gondal was en route.
‘Touch nothing till I get there,’ Mac said. ‘I’m coming now.’
He hung up.
‘Is that about the case?’ his father asked.
Mac shook his head, grabbing the books he’d brought. ‘A different case, Dad. I’ll pop these in your room.’
* * *
He moved quickly. Into the building, through the dining area and up the stairs. Two staff stopped him to say his father was outside, and he explained the books. Sixty seconds later he was in his dad’s cramped but neat room. At the window, staring down East Lane towards Park View Road. Just across the junction, 500 feet away, he could see the lock-up garages.
And two police cars.
A couple of weeks ago, he’d stood here and stared at the same location, intrigued, before heading over there for a better appraisal. A nice spot, quiet, somewhat remote and accessible from two directions. And no CCTV. Not a place he’d ever imagined would be crawling with cops. His jaw started to throb. His busted ear, too, because the injury might just be his undoing.
As he popped another mint into his mouth, he noticed a drop of Król’s blood on the matchbox. One little speck. Enough to send him to prison for the rest of his life, of course, but he’d been lucky.
No, not luck, he corrected himself. None of this had been luck. Luck hadn’t put this evidence back in his hands. Luck wasn’t going to see him walk right out of this whole mess untouched. Skill, ingenuity and grit would determine the winner, and he had more of each than anyone else.
The guy called Nikos should have already been warned not to talk to the police, and the Volvo should have been completely destroyed, or at least transported out of the area. A pair of fuck-ups, and in the game of murder you didn’t get away with that shit. Now he was going to have to go over there for damage limitation. From now on, clear thinking, and no more fucking mistakes.
His mobile pinged. A reply from Alize to the message he’d sent her from the shop that morning.
HI, SWEETCAKE. ALL WELL? DID U GO 2 THE CEMETERY 2DAY?
He replied:
I go every Thursday, babe, but I know I shouldn’t. Still on for seeing you later this week. Can’t wait. XXX
He felt better now that he’d heard from Alize.
He got as far as the stairs, then cursed so loudly that a resident in a nearby room came to her door. He found an alcove and called Gondal back.
Sweet tone: ‘I forgot in the heat of the moment. Where’s the lock-up garage?’
Maybe Gondal would have assumed he’d got the address elsewhere. Not the point. Still a fucking daft error.
* * *
‘Hey, what, you think I’m blind? If they’d been here, we would have seen them. They’re not coming, okay?’
‘Fair enough,’ he replied on the phone on his way down the stairs. ‘Calm down, Brad. Remember that legendary tepid demeanour of yours. It wasn’t an accusation. I never believed he’d try to go home, anyway. So now we’ll concentrate on the Dunstan thing. Get over there and get ready. Where’s Dave?’
‘Three feet from me, and just as pissed off that we wasted time sitting here. Listen, have you thought about a plan to get the cops off my back yet? It’s gotta happen quick. If Ian finds—’
‘Later, Brad. I’m up to my neck. But I’ll get a plan. A mother of a plan, just you wait and see. But I’ve got a job for Dave before we do the Dunstan thing. Put him on. And then I’ve got to go save all our asses. The damn Volvo’s been found. Hundreds of vehicles to check, and it’s been found in a day. I knew we should have hung, drawn and quartered that thing. And there’s CCTV at the garages now. I’m headed there, maybe into waiting handcuffs. You sure you sterilised it properly?’
‘CCTV? Since when?’
‘Some old guy must have put it up in the last week, after I scoped the place out.’
‘Okay, but it shouldn’t even be a problem, should it? We had masks.’
He snorted in derision. ‘Masks won’t matter if they see the end of that video, Brad.’
Brad cast his mind back, remembered, and said: ‘Shit. But you’re the damn murder squad leader, you could derail this whole thing.’
‘Bullshit, Brad, bullshit. I overlook things, I make a mistake, they pull me off the case and analyse every decision I’ve made. I’ve got to be careful. I can’t just lie down after the opening bell to throw this fight. I’ve got to smack my opponent around a bit, go the distance and win on points. I’ll deal with the CCTV, but I need to know if you’re certain you sterilised the fucking car properly.’
‘We’ll soon find out, I guess.’
* * *
On his way out, he kissed his dad’s cheek and said he had to rush.
‘Go make the world a safe place, Mick.’
As Mick walked past wheelchair John, he pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then the guy’s glasses, and told him they were a fine pair of spectacles. Quietly, of course, so his watching Dad didn’t hear.
Fifty-Six
Karl
Just 1,500 feet east of Karl’s home, they parked under a railway bridge near Bow Common Gasworks. Four mechanics in overalls stained with petrol and oil were risking their lives smoking outside the gates of an auto garage on the far side, and other pedestrians were around, but nobody paid them any heed. They could see ahead and behind 500 feet, so would have ample warning if the red BMW found them. Karl called home on the phone he’d found in Anderson’s van, but got no answer. Liz waited patiently. If it could be called waiting: since their near-miss back at Karl’s street, Liz had been distant, deep in thought. Twiddling her hair, scratching at her knees, staring into space.
When he hung up with no joy from Katie’s mobile, either, Liz said: ‘She’ll be with the cops, so don’t worry. If they’re going to bring her to the meeting, she’ll be in a police station, being questioned, while next door a team of big men prepare for you with a big fishing net.’
He glared at her. The sort of joke he might have made, but it pissed him off to be on the receiving end. At least her spirits had been revived – for the last few minutes he’d felt alone, and hadn’t enjoyed it.
‘Then we’ve got no other choice,’ he said. ‘We have to meet that detective. I’ll see Katie that way.’
‘Not we,’ Liz said. ‘I have to do this another way.’
‘What way?’
‘That’s daft. This detective isn’t one of the enemy.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But I’m not just going to hand myself over all alone.’
‘So what can you do?’ He couldn’t hide the anxiety in his voice. He didn’t want her to leave him. Not now, during the endgame.
‘Use our solicitor. Bartholomew Gold. He’s a good man. He’ll know how to help us. All of us.’
If he had a client like Ronald Grafton, Karl doubted he was a good man. He didn’t say as much, though.
‘You should come with me,’ she continued. ‘I don’t like why this detective wants to meet you outside, away from a police station. And don’t say it’s so he can take your statement without people around making noise. That’s the daft part. He’ll want to trick you into saying something incriminating without legal representation.’
Karl had already considered this. But he could watch what he said. What he couldn’t do was guarantee that he’d get to see Katie and their unborn child any time soon if he just walked into a cop shop and put his hands up. He told Liz as much. She shrugged in response.
‘So what will you do?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to my friend Danny’s house. He’ll help me. He’ll take me to see Mr Gold. I’ll walk into a police station with the finest defence lawyer in the country.’
‘You’ll need a defence lawyer, will you?’
‘We both will. We have no idea what’s going on. They might think I’m a suspect. And you have no proof that you didn’t kill that man in the shop. I’ll offer again that you stay with me.’