Say nuffin’…
The worst thing anybody could ever do was be a grass. Snitches died. Everyone knew that. They bled out in dark alleyways, with a home-made knife sticking out of their femoral artery. It was the quickest way to kill and if you were associated with a gang, you knew it. Man, it was going crazy at the minute, with sometimes fifteen stabbings reported up and down the country every weekend, from Manchester to London. There’d even been shootings. The newspapers were creaming themselves over the headlines, the stories making it to the front page every day, overshadowing even Brexit negotiations.
Fucking Brexit: who cared, man?
What the newspapers didn’t report was that knife crime was just as bad out of London as it was in it. And by concentrating on the capital, they gave breathing space to those intent on controlling their gang members in the provinces. In Penrith, they had visitors from Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow and Aberdeen all the time. A gang was a transient being, like a locomotive: it picked up at every stop. As long as everyone knew the rules, they all co-existed side by side. It was a loose term for a way of life that gave allegiance to those who were hard and mean enough to take control. As such, it was precarious at best. There were no membership contracts or fees; the ultimate price was your life. For the past couple of years, the Cotton brothers had managed the estates in and around Penrith, from where they ran county-lines drug operations and kept rivals in check. The most important thing on the streets was to avoid aggro with the brothers, who thought nothing of ordering a hit or doing it themselves. They were both mean motherfuckers.
Jackson stayed independent by the skin of his teeth. He was in charge of his own yard, and he came and went when he pleased; he earned his own money and he never messed with girls who were owned by gang members. There was one sure way of getting sliced, and that was fucking a gang girl. He played the game and knew how to work all sides expertly. He was a gold mine of information and made it his business to gather it, in all its forms, for insurance. Crucially, he gave no one a reason to come after him. He did his work and kept his mouth shut, and everyone was happy. So far. He kept out of trouble by making himself necessary. Twenty years old was senior in terms of the street, and he knew a lot of shit.
Sure, he saw people hunted down and taken out, but that was their deal, not his. He’d survived this far, and had no intention of changing anything. Not one thing. Say nuffin’.
Man, he was tired. He’d been up all night watching dirty girls rub themselves up and down on boys’ knees, doin’ their ting, trying to impress and score. The music had been dope, though. And there’d been no blue lights disturbing the peace, though that was no surprise. On the Beacon Estate, nobody dared call the rozzers on one of their own. For years now, the police had avoided the hottest spots on the estate, and word had it that it was because somebody had done a deal with the law. Jackson said nothing. He’d seen them coming down and stopping and searching anyone looking like they were members – pretty much any male with a hoody – searching for drugs and weapons, but the visits had stopped a few years back and Jackson knew why. The pigs had a network of informers who traded in information. Maybe even the Cotton brothers were involved.
Say nuffin’.
Fresh drill music from London had flooded two flats for most of the night, and his head hurt like it always did after such events. He felt sorry for the other residents, especially the older ones, but that was the way of it and no one interfered. At the moment, he had good rap with the Cotton brothers. For the time being, they were in charge and Jackson intended to do everything in his power to stay onside. All street power was temporary – another thing they never taught in school – and it was only a matter of time before somebody else stepped up to the plate and the Cotton brothers were taken care of.
Members existed in the shadows of the estate, lurking in garages, flats and underground parking lots, their business mainly executed at night. During the day, the estate was fairly quiet and residents breathed a sigh of relief, going about their lives free of harassment. Jackson had once seen the Cotton brothers abusing an old guy, teasing him by taking his shopping away and tearing up his paper. Eventually the man had given them twenty quid and they’d shaken hands. The image stuck. It seemed heartless, but at least the guy had lived. It was nothing new: stamping your authority on a yard. The Cotton brothers were from Lancaster and had to get to know the locals properly. If anyone disagreed, they ended up in hospital.
With the coppers rarely coming to the estate now, the area was essentially independent from the law. The gang leaders were the law, and justice was served as they saw fit. Even if a crime was reported to the cops – which rarely happened – they’d find no evidence. It was in the constabulary’s best interest to leave the place alone. Attempts at interfering in estate matters would result in fucking up police achievement targets, so they stayed away. Patrol cars stuck to the edges and avoided the roads leading into the heart of the territory. There had been an investigation into a stabbing last month, but the victim had refused to press charges. Most events went unreported anyhow. Victims got patched up in bedrooms, away from the traceable computer hard drives in hospital. Some died. They weren’t missed.
As soon as he’d received and offloaded the package, he’d crawl into bed and sleep straight for twelve hours. Tomorrow he had stuff to do.
Chapter 5
Kelly and Ted walked together across the park in the direction of the Beacon Estate. She took the call from Rob and nodded. Then she hung up and turned to Ted.
‘The husband is suitably devastated.’
‘They always are.’
‘Not always. Remember Chris Watts? Colorado? Killed his pregnant wife and two young daughters?’
‘Ah yes, fiddled with his mobile phone and got more animated about the TV remote than the disappearance of his family.’
‘Yep. Sometimes they act too much.’
‘So, in this case?’
‘I sent two officers who are top notch. They read character excellently. Their hunch is that he’s genuine. I’ll know more when we bring him in.’
They walked on, taking their time to look around them.
‘If it was me, I’d come this way rather than risk getting caught at the park entrance. They would have been able to hear the fitness trainer shouting too, so would have needed to go in the opposite direction.’
Ted agreed.
The sky was becoming dark; it was almost four o’clock. DC Hide had also informed Kelly that Thomas Watson had agreed to identify Ella’s body once he’d seen his children. It was a laborious and often frustrating process. The body had to be moved to the mortuary – signed off by Ted – then the next-of-kin had to be transported there and accompanied, and given time to say goodbye. It didn’t always go to plan. Kelly’s gut told her to be there when Thomas Watson went to the hospital. Until that time, Ella would be placed in cold storage. Before her husband went in, he’d also have to be informed that he wouldn’t be allowed to touch her until after the autopsy. This was always the single worst thing – and there were plenty – about a murder inquiry of a loved one.
‘It’s a grim business, Kelly,’ Ted said. ‘Stick to the facts; they always lead you to the right place eventually. This is a sorry-looking place.’
They’d arrived at a gate that opened onto a road at the back of the estate. There were garages and a pavement and that was it: no trees, plants, cars or people, giving it the air of an abandoned other-world. Perfect to hide in.
‘Can you see any cameras?’
‘Nope. I didn’t expect to, but it’s still disappointing. I think we need to do door-to-door starting with those flats. There’s no line of sight to where Ella actually died, but from the upper floors, the park will be clearly visible.’
‘I’ll walk you back to your car,’ Ted said.
They turned around and made their way back. They said goodbye and made plans to meet up soon, as father and daughter rather than investigators of slaughter.
I
t was going to be a long evening. In her head, Kelly set about putting together an investigating team of officers. Before she allocated jobs, she’d need to introduce them to the crime scene. It was fresh in her mind and she’d already begun to prioritise.
When she returned to Eden House, she went straight to the coffee machine and then sat at her desk collating what they had so far, including the disturbing collection of forensic photographs. Death was the most personal and private rite of passage, unless you were murdered, when it became a public display of a person’s life; like some grim documentary. After a few days, they’d all be immune to the blood and gore as they filed past the grisly collage posted carefully on the incident board.
It was six o’clock before she briefed her squad. They had little to go on, but the first day or two was always the calm before the storm. Thomas Watson had provided the names of Ella’s friends and associates as well as a recent photograph to be circulated on the evening news. A fatal stabbing in broad daylight, in a park used by families, should garner a positive response. It was the type of case that tended to horrify local residents, and Kelly expected a flood of phone calls and emails. It was also shocking enough to catch the attention of the national media. It was everyone’s worst nightmare: a random stabbing of somebody in the wrong place at the wrong time. If that was indeed the case.
The incident rooms at Eden House were all on the top floor, which was where Kelly’s office was too. Ranks higher than detective inspector were housed in their ivory tower at HQ, on the outskirts of Penrith, in a grand old gaff hidden behind bushes away from prying eyes. It was the headquarters for the whole Cumbrian constabulary, but Kelly had no desire to work there. Promotion, should it ever come, would have to be elsewhere for her.
She’d begun to create an incident map for the case, with the photo of Ella at the centre. She always did it: seeing the victim’s face every day had the effect of galvanising her team and reminding them what they were fighting for. She entered the incident room and perched on the edge of a desk. Her team waited.
‘Guv, emergency news bulletin sorted for six thirty,’ DS Kate Umshaw announced. DS Umshaw was the mother hen of the team, making sure everybody was happy and supplied with tea and cake. She was also hard as nails.
‘Thanks, Kate,’ Kelly said. The office was warm from the aged radiators, and they needed the lights on. It was beginning to feel like winter. The sky outside was black, and snow was predicted. ‘Perimeter?’ she asked.
DC Rob Shawcross answered. ‘We’ve got uniforms at every entrance to the park, as well as on the main roads in and out of the area; they’re stopping every car, bicycle and pedestrian and taking statements.’ DC Shawcross was her Great Dane, keeping guard over his master, ready to pounce.
‘Excellent. Any sign of the weapon? Or weapons? We won’t know which until the coroner’s done.’
‘Not yet, guv. Ten officers did a shoulder-to-shoulder search for one hundred metres in all directions. They haven’t got the manpower to go further yet.’
‘Appeal for public help and get that coordinated, Will.’
He nodded. DS Will Phillips was her middle-distance champion, her plodder, who never failed to churn out answers and provide solid graft.
‘What about the fitness trainer?’
‘He said he saw her run past at around 1.15 p.m. His class finished at 1.20. It was as he was leaving that he saw her body.’
‘Christ, so a five-minute window. Which direction was she running?’
‘South, judging from where she parked her car, following the figure-of-eight path from the splash park towards the pond.’
‘And he didn’t hear her scream? The speed of the attack and the fact that she didn’t even get her phone out of her running wallet suggests they came from behind, yet the trainer saw no one else? Get a map up,’ Kelly said. ‘Let’s see where they could have come from. I think I have an idea, though.’
DC Shawcross tapped his keyboard, and a map of Potton Park and the surrounding area appeared on the white incident board, covering a four-mile radius. Kelly would be losing him to paternity leave shortly; his girlfriend Mia was due in early December but already ready to pop. It was appalling timing, but no one would feel worse about it than Rob. She’d have to make sure he stayed away should the case not be wrapped up by then, though he’d be sorely missed. He was their computer nerd and loved nothing more than creating logarithms and mapping aids to close down an investigation in its tracks. She had every faith in the rest of her team: young DC Emma Hide, who was all passion; DS Phillips, who lived and breathed protocol, and DS Umshaw, her battle-scarred workhorse.
Someone dimmed the lights, and Kelly picked up a long ruler and approached the board; her body became part of the map and she looked like a swamp dweller, covered in foliage and scarred earth.
‘The training session was here.’ She pointed to the glade in which the trainer had been giving a class to fourteen women. Their names and contact details had all been supplied and Kelly had uniforms tracking them down for statements. ‘Ella Watson was running this way.’ She indicated where Ella had collapsed and the direction from which she’d come. ‘If the trainer didn’t see anyone else, then the killers had to have come from the bushes here, or from this direction.’ She followed the ruler beyond the park. It was a direct line to the outskirts of the Beacon Estate.
‘I walked this route, past the pond, with the coroner this afternoon. It’s the most convincing theory. This area here is totally deserted and isolated. It’s just a few garages, but these flats here are the nearest residences.’
‘Boss, you said killers, plural? Is that now confirmed?’ DC Hide asked.
‘Not a hundred per cent. As you know, the coroner detected that the stab wounds were inflicted from two different directions. In his opinion – and I agree – it’s highly unusual for one perp to change position, especially during such a flash attack. He’ll confirm after the autopsy.’ Kelly paused. ‘What’s life on the Beacon Estate like these days?’
She watched as people shifted in their seats.
‘That bad? Will? You’ve got buddies in patrol units – you know, the ones you left behind to lord it about up here with us?’ It got a laugh and Will took it well. It was true, he had close ties to bobbies on the beat.
‘It’s not good, boss. It’s like shovelling shit while the horse is still having a dump, if you don’t mind the expression.’
‘Not at all, I rather like it,’ Kelly said. ‘Any more than usual? What are the stats that we don’t know about?’ She was referring to crime that didn’t get picked up by an investigative team – such as complaints and disturbances not likely to be charged – or non-serious crime dealt with by uniforms. Non-serious crime could mean anything from burglary to buggery, all depending on if it was reported, and by whom.
‘Very little goes beyond the initial responder. There are plenty of burglaries, domestics, sexual assaults, actual assaults and general shit like drug abuse and kids pissing around, but that’s as far as it goes; no one wants to press charges or give evidence. It’s frustrating. It makes it difficult to gain a clear picture at all.’
‘And demoralising, I expect?’ Kelly asked.
‘Exactly,’ Will agreed.
‘Has lethargy set in? Do squad cars even go there much?’ It was a serious question.
Will didn’t answer. It said everything.
‘So who’s in charge?’ she asked.
Will looked uncomfortable. Kelly waited.
‘There’s a few main players who are what you might term untouchable,’ he said eventually.
‘Untouchable? Jesus. Is it the Wild West?’ Kelly got up and went to a swivel chair, sitting down hard in it and spinning around, looking at the map. She was hungry and tired. Her holiday had lulled her into a false sense of life being easy. It wasn’t that long until Christmas, and a year since her mother had died.
‘Foot patrols?’ she asked.
‘Cutbacks. The odd patrol drives through. I believe
there is a network of informants.’
Kelly made a note to ask around at HQ about registered confidential informants relating to the Beacon Estate. Snouts and narks were usually paid handsomely, but they were becoming rarer, due to the dangers associated with being a rat. The whole system had also become heavily regulated, rendering it somewhat ineffectual since the days of The Sweeney. But if Will said it went on, then she trusted him.
‘Has anyone else anything to add?’ she asked.
No one answered.
‘Right, let’s be clear. Here’s my crime-scene assessment.’ She stood up and went to her laptop. The lights went back on. She’d mentally prepared for what she wanted out of her team, and this was where the investigation began. She brought up the CSA, the document that every detective in charge of a crime scene had to process. It was seventy pages long. She wasn’t about to bore them with vehicle interiors, entomology or the absence of fire damage, which everyone knew to be irrelevant for Ella; however, there were some pertinent points to be noted.
The first involved her rough sketch of the scene. In essence it was just a pencil drawing, but Kelly liked to make hers as detailed as possible; it might have to stand up in court one day. She’d drawn Ella Watson’s body where it fell, on the road through the park, and added the treeline, the training class and the pond and splash pool. Now she electronically added the direction Ella was running in, and the Beacon Estate.
‘We need to search this pond. No evidence of sexual assault; the timeline indicates there wouldn’t have been time, and her clothes didn’t appear tampered with. So motive seems to be pure and simple: murder. Estimated time of death, agreed on scene by the coroner and given by the witness testimony of the trainer, is 1.15 to 1.20 p.m. Blood flow was consistent with bleeding out, spatter consistent with high-velocity pressure spurting.’ She turned to her team. ‘So what does this mean?’
Little Doubt Page 3