Darke

by Matt Hilton

  ‘Got a good look at him, yeah? You know Erick Swain, don’t you?’ Funky snorted. ‘Yeah, ’course you do.’

  She did. Jermaine Robson’s patch included Nine Elms Lane, and the adjacent Patmore Estate all the way from Battersea Park as far north as the Kia Oval. Erick Swain was Robson’s nearest rival, his gang controlling territory in Vauxhall and Lambeth, and was responsible for most of the drug trade through Newington, north towards the Thames.

  ‘It was one of Swain’s gang?’

  ‘No, Darke, you ain’t listenin’ to me. I’m sayin’ the shooter was Erick-fuckin’-Swain.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Kerry abruptly turned away. ‘Don’t waste my bloody time, Funky.’

  ‘Where the hell you goin’? You ain’t ignorin’ me like I’m a piece of shit.’

  ‘I’m ignoring an obvious lie,’ Kerry retorted. ‘You’re only saying it was Swain to stitch him up. I bet it’d suit Jermaine Robson to see his biggest rival behind bars.’

  ‘Are you bent or somethin’?’ Funky countered. ‘Is that it? You takin’ green from Swain to keep him outta jail, yeah?’

  ‘Are you taking payment from Robson for setting Swain up?’

  Funky snapped a long arm at the forensic tent. ‘I’m tellin’ you that Erick Swain killed them. And he tried to kill me. You’re the detective. If you don’t believe me, do your job and you’ll see I’m tellin’ the truth.’

  ‘Can I count on you giving evidence in court?’

  He rolled his neck. ‘You know I can’t go to court. I’d be puttin’ a target on my back. This is off the record, yeah? That Subaru; ask anybody, I bet they’ve seen Swain toolin’ around in it for years.’

  ‘Did you get a look at the driver?’

  Funky shook his head. ‘I was too busy facin’ down the bastard tryin’ to kill me.’

  ‘That was brave of you.’ Her lips pulled into a tight line. ‘You left innocent victims dying in the street next to a screaming baby while you hid in that shop. Yeah…very brave of you, Funky.’

  ‘How’d I know that Swain wasn’t gonna come back for another try?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She strode away ignoring a string of curses, satisfied that she’d shamed him.

  She approached the forensic tent again, but stood a respectful distance from the entrance. Investigators worked around the bodies. Nearest to her lay Bilan. She thought of another murdered girl — her sister Sally. Her chest hitched, and it was a struggle to breathe. News crews had begun gathering beyond the cordon. Cameras trained on her as she clenched her fists at her sides. Police officers weren’t supposed to be prone to public displays of emotion, but who could criticise her for being distressed by the senseless death of a child?

  Funky sloped off in the opposite direction towards Larkhall Park. A barrier of blue and white tape was strung across the park’s entrance. A girl stood just beyond the cordon, in the shadow of a nearby building. She stared directly at Kerry from beneath a mop of tousled hair, and her guts clenched in response.

  Funky was suddenly between them, and Kerry sidestepped to keep the girl in sight. Except the girl crabbed sideways too. When Funky swiped his way under the barrier tape she had disappeared.

  ‘Girl?’ She took a faltering step.

  ‘Kerry? Detective Inspector!’

  The sharp voice brought her to a halt. She blinked her confusion at DS Korba.

  ‘Something wrong, boss?’

  She glanced towards the park’s entrance. It was as if the girl had never been there. ‘Uh, no, just thought I spotted…’ She waved away an explanation. ‘Never mind. It was nothing.’

  He thumbed towards the forensic tent. ‘Socco’s ready for us.’

  Kerry nodded, but couldn’t resist another glance to where the dripping barrier tape swung in the breeze. Korba moved close, rested a hand on her forearm. ‘Seriously, boss, you sure you’re alright? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’m…I’m fine.’

  Korba wasn’t perturbed by her heterochromia. He held her gaze, seeking a lie.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated. ‘Stop mithering, will you?’

  ‘As long as you’re sure,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘You look as if you’ve just seen a friggin’ ghost.’

  ‘A ghost, Danny?’ She coughed out a laugh. ‘You don’t believe that sort of rubbish, do you?’

  2

  A tubular steel battering ram smashed the door open. Armed officers swarmed into the house on a residential street in the Vauxhall area of Lambeth, shouting and stamping, causing shock and confusion. A woman’s shrieks and the barking of a dog elevated the racket, a man cursed savagely. Kerry and DS Korba waited on the front garden for Erick Swain to be cornered and forced to sit his arse down in the front room.

  ‘We’re secure.’ Bob Grier, a uniformed sergeant, waved them inside. On the street a dog handler readied his spaniel to join the search.

  The strength of Ikemba Adefunke’s “off the record” tip-off hadn’t been enough to secure a search warrant, but in the past hours three telephone callers to Crimestoppers, and one to an official police hotline, all insisted that Erick Swain was their murderer, and pinpointed where they’d find the murder weapon. The Subaru Impreza had also been found burnt out on waste ground alongside the Thames. The registration plates were missing, but the VIN on the chassis showed the Subaru had once been registered to Swain. Enough evidence to bring him in for questioning. If they didn’t conduct a full search of the property before moving to the outlying garden Swain would possibly figure out his betrayer, and have him punished. If she had her way, Swain would never harm anyone again.

  Clutching the warrant, Kerry squeezed past two constables in the hallway and entered the living room. The shrieking woman was on a sofa, dressed casually in pyjamas and slippers, in direct contrast to her styled hair, fudge-coloured tan and proliferation of gold jewellery: her large sapphire engagement ring could double as a knuckle duster. Both her knees were drawn up, protecting her surgically enhanced breasts. Two officers loomed over her, while she swore blue murder at them. As soon as Kerry entered, her rage switched target. She launched off the sofa, but was grappled by the officers. Kerry looked instead at Erick Swain who was seated in a matching easy chair on the other side of the room. He’d quietened down, but his calm rage was more worrying than his girlfriend’s noisy tirade. Another two officers guarded him, thickset in their stab-proof vests.

  Erick Swain wasn’t physically imposing. He wasn’t a squashed-nosed thug, bulging with muscles etched with tattoos. He was in his mid-thirties, a bit scruffy in faded bootleg jeans, Nike trainers and baggy tie-dyed shirt…an ordinary guy. Except in his case, first impressions were deceiving. Unconfirmed rumours fingered Swain for a litany of violent offences. There were victims walking around still carrying the wounds he’d inflicted on their flesh, but fear of further torture stilled their tongues. Kerry studied him for a second longer, taking in his shaggy blond hair, goatee beard, and single silver earring. He resembled a bohemian artist more than the aggressive leader of one of London’s most notorious criminal gangs. She checked out the long, slim fingers digging into the arms of the easy chair. They were an artist’s fingers…no; his were the fingers of a murderer. It didn’t take a powerful hand to point and pull the trigger of a gun.

  She approached within a few feet.

  ‘Are you the one who’s going to explain what the fuck’s going on?’ Swain sneered from between his guards.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Darke.’ She waved the slim stack of papers. ‘I’ve a warrant to search these premises and adjoining property under section one four six of the Firearms Act nineteen-ninety-six.’

  ‘Firearms? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’ Swain glanced over at his girlfriend. She spat curses like a wildcat. ‘Hettie! For fuck’s sake, will you shut up? I need to hear what the hell this bitch is going on about.’

  Hettie’s eyes bulged. ‘They’ve smashed down the fuckin’ door, Erick! And trampled dog shit all over my carpets!’


  Kerry had weathered similar accusations during the execution of other search warrants. She allowed Hettie to continue for a few more seconds, until she’d had enough.

  ‘Get her out of here,’ she said, and Hettie’s guards led her to the kitchen, harangued the entire way.

  ‘Hettie’s a bit worked up,’ Swain said. ‘She’s got a good right, though. If you’d knocked, I’d’ve let you in without you battering down the door. I’ve got nothing to hide.’ He smirked, confident she’d find nothing incriminating.

  ‘If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to worry about. But if you—’

  Before she could finish, Swain butted in. ‘Listen. If you’re talking about drugs, I’ve a bit of weed in my baccy tin, but it’s for personal use. It’s on the fireplace. Take a look.’

  Kerry couldn’t give a shit about a wad of cannabis resin. But for appearances sake she nodded at Korba to check it out.

  ‘Like I said,’ Swain went on, ‘that weed’s for personal use. What does that get me these days, a slap on the wrist?’

  The searching officers ensured no stone – or bedside cabinet – were left unturned. In the adjoining kitchen Hettie swore at the family dog to stop it barking. Swain shrugged. ‘What can I say? She’s a passionate woman.’

  The dog handler entered. His springer spaniel sped around like a battery operated toy, sniffing and discarding items as uninteresting. When it hopped up on the sofa, its demeanour changed. The handler commanded it to the ground, and while he praised the dog a uniformed constable moved in, dismantling the sofa cushions, and then feeding his gloved hands down the back. ‘Are there any sharps down here, mate?’ he asked Swain, concerned about jabbing a finger on a used needle.

  ‘No. But if you find any cash down there, it’s fucking mine.’

  There was nothing down the sofa, but the constable turned it on its front to check underneath. The upholstery was factory fresh, all the original staples in place. Kerry shook her head. The dog must have given a false alert. The dog handler headed off to search rooms elsewhere in the house, and his assistant followed suit. Swain eyed Kerry with mild curiosity. ‘You’re wasting your time, there’s no gun here.’

  ‘So tell me where it is.’

  ‘How should I know? I don’t even know what gun you’re on about.’

  ‘Let’s not play games, eh?’

  His eyes abruptly clouded. ‘If this is about those niggers getting shot, it had nothing to do with me.’

  Kerry’s features tightened. Not so much at his deliberate racism as his total lack of empathy towards the victims. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Like hell we will! I’m telling you, Inspector Darke, you’re not going to find a gun here.’ He craned forward, and his guards jolted to readiness. ‘I had nothing to do with that shooting, it’s not—’

  He halted, considering his next words.

  ‘What? It’s not your style? So help me out here, Swain. What exactly is your style?’

  This wasn’t Swain’s first time around the block. ‘That’s Mister Swain to you. I was respectful with your rank and name; you should return the favour.’

  ‘You also called me a bitch, what do I get to call you in return?’

  ‘Touché, Inspector!’ He rolled his tongue against his lower teeth while he decided. In the next instant his face morphed into something wolfish. ‘Call me whatever you want, just not your fucking patsy.’

  ‘Ma’am? A word please?’

  In the doorway, Sergeant Grier jerked his head, indicating he’d prefer to speak in private.

  ‘DS Korba,’ she said, ‘take over here for a minute.’

  ‘Alright, boss.’ He’d seized Swain’s stash of cannabis, and was in the process of bagging it as evidence. He sidled over, nodded down at Swain as if they were old pals.

  Swain sneered. ‘So you’re the famous Zorba the Greek I’ve heard about?’

  ‘That’d be Korba, mate, and I’m Greek-Cypriot.’ He’d been the butt of that joke for too many years for it to bother him now.

  ‘Didn’t I see you on Britain’s Got Talent once?’ Swain goaded. ‘Stavros Flatulence, isn’t it? You were quite nimble on your feet for a plod.’

  ‘Mate,’ Korba countered, and patted his tight abdomen, ‘I didn’t get this shape from dancin’ towards the buffet table.’

  Swain laughed, settled back in his chair. ‘You’re alright, mate,’ he said with a wink. ‘For a pig, I mean.’

  Kerry left them to it. They were laughing, better that than trying to kill each other.

  3

  In the hallway, out of sight of Swain, Sergeant Grier jiggled the contents of an evidence bag. ‘Thought you might want to check these out before speakin’ to Swain.’

  ‘What are they?’ Before Grier could state the obvious, Kerry clarified: ‘I can see they’re bullets, Bob; I mean cartridge and calibre.’

  Grier had served in the Army prior to joining the police and knew a thing or two about the subject of armament. He explained that specifically they were .38 Revolver Mk IIz cartridges. ‘If you’re too young to remember pounds and ounces, that equates to nine millimetres these days.’

  ‘Same as the expended shells at the scene. Where were they found?’

  ‘In the master bedroom. They were scattered on the floor under the bed.’ He studied the bag’s contents. ‘You know somethin’? These are old cartridges, not readily available in the UK. If they’re matched to the ones at the scene…’

  ‘Aye. I’m confident they will be.’

  ‘Yeah, well good luck with that,’ he said enigmatically.

  ‘I’d rather match the ones from the scene to the murder weapon. How’re we getting on with finding it?’

  ‘I’ve a couple of the lads out in the garden lookin’ where—’

  Kerry’s palm shot up, stalling him. Swain was bantering with Korba, but she’d bet he had an ear on what she was up to. She nudged Grier towards the kitchen. Hettie was still there, now in control of a Border collie on its lead. Kerry glanced at the dog, and it peered dolefully back at her with eyes not unlike her own. It too had heterochromia, although its colouring was more vivid, one eye brown, one pale blue. She raised her gaze to Swain’s girlfriend, expecting another outburst, but Hettie had eyes for something else. She sneered at the cartridges Grier carried. ‘I see you’ve found my granddad’s old bullets. He brought them back from Korea donkey’s years ago.’

  ‘Really?’ Kerry said. ‘Do you have a firearms certificate allowing you to keep live ammunition?’

  ‘They’re fuckin’ antiques. And besides, I don’t have a fuckin’ gun.’

  ‘You don’t need one with a gob like that,’ Grier pointed out.

  Hettie snarled at him, but reconsidered his words: he might actually have been paying her a compliment. She turned her scrutiny on Kerry, lips pinched. ‘Stupid cow, don’t you know you’ve lost a contact lens?’

  Nodding down at the collie, Kerry said, ‘I’d have thought you’d have known better.’

  ‘Eh?’

  It was pointless explaining. A female constable bustled inside from the garden, a fixed grin on her face. She held up another evidence bag. ‘We’ve got it, ma’am.’

  ‘What you got there?’ Hettie marched between them for a closer look. Grier jostled her aside as Kerry accepted the bag. Inside was an ancient looking revolver, clogged with freshly turned soil. Yes, we’ve got him!

  Grier bent to inspect it, looked up slowly. ‘It’s a Webley mark four. It’s an old school six-shot service revolver. Point three-eight calibre, just like those cartridges.’

  ‘I think we also found your granddad’s gun,’ Kerry said to Hettie. ‘Or maybe it belongs to Erick these days?’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Grier said sotto voce, ‘I need to talk with you about this before—’

  But Hettie piled in. ‘Bollocks! This is some sorta stitch up! You bastards planted that!’ She flew at Kerry, and Grier and the constable wrestled her aside, now fending off the nipping of the collie – the dog was t
errified and its teeth didn’t discriminate between the police and its owner. It was pandemonium. Another uniformed constable rushed in to help, and Kerry swerved past him for the living room. Time to go and get her man.

  Hearing the commotion, Swain jumped to his feet. His guards barred him from rushing to Hettie’s aid: all three pushed and shoved. Korba snapped a glance at Kerry, who held up the bagged revolver. A smile jumped briefly on his lips.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ Swain demanded.

  Kerry took satisfaction in holding up the evidence bags. ‘Erick Swain, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Nala Dahir Ghedi and Bilan Ghedi.’

  ‘What? No fucking way!’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything but it may harm your defence—’ As Kerry cautioned him, one of the constables reached for his cuffs, ordering Swain to turn around.

  ‘You’re not stitching me up!’ Swain hollered directly at Kerry. ‘You’re having a fucking laugh, aren’t you?’

  Practically every criminal Kerry had ever arrested pleaded their innocence, and it didn’t matter how stunned he looked, she didn’t buy his lies. She continued cautioning him, while the two uniformed constables jostled him around. She was tempted to give them a nod, to cuff him extra tight, so he was in pain all the way to the nick — the least the murderous bastard deserved. She passed the evidence bags to Korba, freeing her hands so she could radio in the arrest.

  Somebody roared in agony.

  It wasn’t Swain.

  The constable on the left collapsed, clutching his knee where Swain had just back-kicked him. He rolled over, knocking into her and Kerry stumbled. Swain writhed out of the other constable’s grasp — only one of his wrists was cuffed — and then snapped his head forward. Clutching his broken nose the constable reeled away, tripped over his fallen colleague and dropped to his knees. Swain barged into him, kneeing him solidly between the shoulder blades. He went down, under Swain, who stamped over the top of him.

  Korba jerked into action, dropping the evidence bags on the sofa, and grabbing at Swain. Swain was nimbler, and determined to evade Korba’s grasp. A minute earlier they’d been joking with each other but all pretense at friendliness had evaporated. Swain swept his arm at Korba’s face, and the rigid cuff locked around his wrist gashed his forehead. Blood ran into Korba’s eyes. Still, he clambered after Swain, grabbing for his shirt, his hair. Swain stayed a few inches beyond his grasp though, and only Kerry barred his freedom. She lunged, trying to snatch hold of the rigid cuff, to lock his wrist and take him down.