by Matt Hilton
Korba forced a sad smile. ‘See. That’s exactly what I mean. Any other time you’d have made a joke of that, not got pissed off. You ain’t acting yerself, Kerry. You’re, whatchamacallit, off-kilter?’
‘Nuts?’
‘No. Not crazy, but acting out of character.’
‘It’s hardly surprising.’
‘No. It ain’t.’ Korba took a furtive glance around to ensure they were still unobserved. ‘But it is noticeable.’
‘I’m just tired. I haven’t slept well and…’
He sighed. ‘The reasons ain’t what’s important, Kerry, the symptoms are. You know earlier, when we were comin’ back from Hettie’s place? If I didn’t know better I’d swear you were high on speed. Your eyes were jumping all over the shop, and you were flinching at everything. Not just flinching either, it was as if you were expecting to be slapped or something. When I think about it, it started when we first got there and you thought you spotted Swain at the bedroom window.’
‘Yeah, well, I told you then it was just the shadows on the glass.’
‘And we both know you were lying, boss.’ He held up a palm to placate her. ‘Sorry, lying is a poor choice of word. I mean you were sparing me the truth, till you admitted you saw Swain at the window.’
‘Spare me the semantics,’ she said, attempting to make it sound like a quip.
He didn’t respond with humour. He peered at her, his pupils darting from her amber iris to her green iris and back again before he came to a decision. ‘What you thought you saw then is still troubling you. Did you see him again just now?’
‘Danny, you’re forgetting…I didn’t really see him. I told you, it was just the reflection of the clouds.’
‘Boss, you can call me all the names under the Sun, but don’t call me cabbage-coloured. You’re a tough girl, and brave as a lion, but what I saw…’
‘What exactly did you see?’
‘You were spooked, Kerry. Something put the willies up you, and we both know what. And I think it’s still putting the willies up you now.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, then. It’s you that’s seeing things, Danny, not me.’ She touched her pocket where she’d secreted her mobile. ‘I’d just got off the phone with Adam. We were having a barney, and I was embarrassed that the others might’ve heard.’
‘If you say so,’ Korba said, unconvinced. ‘But if that’s true, you should still take my original advice. Go home. Speak with Adam, get your head sorted.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my head. Now, I appreciate your concern. You’re a good friend. But shut the fuck up, OK?’ She gave him a friendly shove on his shoulder. He regarded her stonily, but two could play at that game. ‘I’m not going home. I’m going to rattle Funky’s cage. You can come with me or stay here and play Uri Geller with somebody who actually needs their spoons bending.’
20
There was never any question about the choice DS Korba made. He’d said his piece, been listened to, and Kerry had chosen to ignore his advice. Fair do. He’d let things rest at that. He wasn’t the type to beat any friend into submission, and was also astute enough to know he’d be adding to her troubles if he did. As long as she understood he had her back, and was there to support her if she needed him, he was satisfied.
He liked Kerry Darke a great deal.
She fascinated him, and his opinion wasn’t based entirely on her looks. She wasn’t a classical beauty, or a fake like Hettie Winters who reminded him of biting into a fresh, crisp apple only to find a rotten core. To some people, those with heterochromia could appear odd, and maybe even a little creepy, but on Kerry the condition added to her allure. He could spend hours lost in her gaze, but was afraid she’d misconstrue his attention. Actually, who was he kidding? He was in love with her, but was terrified she found out, in case she laughed in his face. He wasn’t a bad-looking bloke, but he wasn’t tall and broad-shouldered like hunky ex-soldier Adam Gill, who was obviously her type. Besides, she was his boss, and he couldn’t see how a relationship could work if he made his affections known and they were reciprocated. For starters, they wouldn’t be allowed to work together, and it was unlikely Kerry would get the transfer she’d requested; he’d be the one kicked out of GaOC and shipped out to another station — the last thing he wanted. He wanted to be with Kerry, and if that meant keeping his feelings secret, so be it. He hated watching her go through this current turmoil, be it due to her fiancé or the aftermath of watching a man plummet to his death.
He was driving again, taking them across the Thames towards the Patmore Estate, a stomping ground of the Nine Elms Crew. Respecting Kerry’s silence he kept schtum, but couldn’t resist an occasional glance to check on her. She was aware of his scrutiny, but refused to look directly at him. She struggled to keep a neutral expression though. Her fingers were constantly at play, even though she’d folded her hands in her lap. Twice he caught her flinching, as if in automatic response to a perceived danger, and catching herself in the act she’d coughed and exaggerated an itch on her face by scratching vigorously. Her bruised forehead was dotted with perspiration. He didn’t comment. Waited her out instead.
They were on Thessaly Road, passing a huge fruit and vegetables market complex, when she finally spoke. It was only to confirm Ikemba Adefunke’s last known address, a couple of streets over in the midst of the housing estate. As the crow flew they were less than four hundred metres from where Nala and Bilan Ghedi were gunned down on Wandsworth Road. He didn’t need GPS to guide him in: he was familiar with the area. Funky lived in a decent neighbourhood, but as was the case with many estates it only took a notorious minority to bring it down. Jermaine Robson’s crew numbered as many as Erick Swain’s rival gang, and ruled their territory with an iron fist.
Funky’s home was situated on the uppermost floor in a row of apartment blocks, part of a complex encircling a central garden. They found Funky standing out on the pavement, conversing with a couple of friends. They slapped palms and knuckles in flambouyant handshakes. Criminals had an inherent skill for spotting cops, and before either of them was out of the vehicle, Funky’s pals sloped away, averting their faces. Funky pushed his hands in his tracksuit trouser pockets, and bunched them to hitch them up. He rolled his tongue behind his bottom lip as they approached, then dribbled saliva between his feet in greeting.
‘Inspector Darke.’ Once again her name sounded as if it was something to be reviled. ‘What d’you want? The other day was a one time only deal.’ He glanced around, checking he was unobserved. ‘You’re endangerin’ me and my family by showin’ up here.’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ Kerry asked. ‘You don’t have to worry about Erick Swain coming after you again.’
‘I heard. You did us all a service when you threw the bastard off that roof.’
Korba expected Kerry to correct Funky, but she didn’t.
‘Is there somewhere more private we can speak?’ she said.
Funky shook his head. ‘I don’t speak with the pigs.’
‘Only when it suits you, mate?’ Korba said.
Funky strutted forward a few paces; Korba held his ground. He wasn’t intimidated, even if Funky stood a head taller. The gangster bent his vulture neck to set his face a few inches from his.
‘It would suit me better if you fucked off somewhere else, mate.’
‘I’ve a better idea,’ said Korba. ‘How’s about you turn out your pockets for me? I’d be interested in seeing what it was you were handing out to your bros when we got here. What do you say, Funky? Turn out your pockets or you’ll be down to the nick for a full strip search.’
‘You want to see what I’ve got?’ He sneered, made a show of pulling out the empty lining of his pockets. ‘Oh, would you look at what I just found!’ He raised his balled fists, both middle fingers extended. ‘Got one for each of you.’
Beside Korba, Kerry exhaled. He glanced at her, fully expecting her to order Funky’s arrest, except she wasn’t going down that route. She dab
bed her fingertips across her forehead, mopping cold sweat from her brow. ‘I haven’t the time or patience for this, Funky,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ve a couple of questions for you, that’s all. Then you can get back to whatever the hell you waste your life on. I don’t have to remind you that we could be investigating your murder instead, and I’m pretty sure you’d want us to get to the bottom of it.’
‘Swain was a shit aim,’ he reminded her. ‘Not sure you’d be investigating anyone’s murder if that woman and kid hadn’t got in the way.’
‘Let’s not argue semantics,’ Kerry said — her word for the day.
Korba doubted Funky knew the meaning of the term, but who knew? You didn’t get to be an inner echelon player in the Nine Elms Crew by being dumb, unless you were muscle, and Funky hadn’t earned a rep as a fighting man.
‘You said you recognised Erick Swain as the shooter…’
Funky rolled his neck in silent agreement.
‘But you didn’t notice the driver of the car,’ Kerry went on. ‘Do you recall how many shots were fired?’
‘Three. Like I said. Shit aim. Or maybe the kiddie in the pram would have been dead as well.’ He spoke as if Taban would have been a bonus prize. Korba had to hold his tongue, wondering at Kerry’s approach.
She didn’t rise to the taunt. ‘You said you stared at Swain, challenging him to shoot.’
‘That’s right. It’s how I got a good look at him and none of the driver.’
‘You said the driver was white.’
‘I got the impression he was white. He was in the corner of my eye.’
‘That’s funny, when I see something out the corner of my eye, they’re only vague shadows.’ Korba caught a brief glance from her, as if she was checking he hadn’t read anything from her words. But before he could give it much thought, she continued. ‘I can rarely define colour or shade in my periphery. How can you be certain the driver was white?’
‘What are the chances that Swain was ridin’ with a black man?’ He had a point. Swain’s gang was exclusively white. ‘So maybe I glanced at him. Can’t recall any features or anything else, but I saw a white face.’
‘What else might you have glanced at?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘OK. So let me clarify. You stared at Swain, counted the shots he fired at you — three of them — so what happened next?’
‘They took off down Wandsworth Road like stink off shit.’
‘Immediately?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And then you took cover in the shop in case they came back?’
‘I took cover in the shop ’cause it was bucketing down, not ’cause I was afraid.’
‘So you only went inside after the car was driven away?’
Funky threw up his hands. ‘Am I fuckin’ speaking Klingon here? How many times—’
‘That’s enough times for now.’ Kerry turned away and strode to the car, wrong-footing Korba by her abrupt abandonment.
Funky gawped at him. ‘Is she right in the head or what?’
‘No, mate, she just can’t abide being near arseholes for long.’
‘I pity her then,’ Funky sneered, ‘seein’ as you’ll be getting back in that car with her.’
Korba winked. ‘Takes one to know one.’
Funky raised an index finger again, and backpedalled away. Korba watched him retreat until he disappeared inside the apartment block. He headed for the car. Kerry was already inside, deep in thought. He slid into the driver’s seat, frowning.
‘I thought you wanted to press Funky for more?’
‘We got what we wanted from him.’
‘We did?’ If they had, he’d missed the subtext of the conversation. ‘Care to elucidate, boss?’
‘Funky’s a liar.’
‘Goes without saying. But on what exactly was he lying?’
‘Everything. Three shots fired, three brass shells at the scene.’
Korba’s eyebrows knitted. ‘Sorry, Kerry, you’re gonna have to help me out here.’
‘You heard what Funky said. He stood there like the big man challenging Swain to shoot. Swain fired three times then took off like quote-unquote stink off shit.’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘So when was Swain supposed to have unloaded the spent rounds, thrown them out of the window, and loaded a fresh bullet into the revolver?’
He’d overheard her telephone discussion with Bob Grier regarding the workings of a Webley Mk IV, and wasn’t thick. He understood now: Funky was lying about the sequence of events, or had manipulated them to suit his narrative. ‘He probably barely got a look at Swain, or what the hell really happened ’cause he was too busy running for his life. All of that stuff about staring down Swain, it’s a load of macho bollocks.’
‘I have to admit, there was one point he made that rang true. Swain’s driver should have been white.’
‘That doesn’t help us. It was already a given, seeing as Swain was a racist.’
‘Aye, right enough,’ Kerry wheezed, her northern vernacular slipping through. ‘But not what I mean.’
She lapsed into silence.
‘You don’t feel like sharing, eh?’ Korba asked.
‘Not yet. There’s something I need to check first.’
‘There’s no harm in saying…’ he pressed.
‘Not yet.’
Korba started the engine. But they didn’t move.
A sleek white Mercedes Benz pulled up alongside them. Korba met the studious gaze of a black man seated in its driving seat. He had a statuesque face, with strong high-cheekbones and deeply set grey-blue eyes, his hair in woven cornrows. A smile played across his full lips. Korba held his attention a second longer before he craned forward to peer past him at Kerry. He held her gaze for a few seconds too, before he offered the briefest nod of displaced gratitude and drove away.
‘Jermaine Robson,’ Korba stated.
‘One and the same.’
Funky hadn’t had the opportunity to alert his boss about their presence, but the two younger black guys who’d skedaddled earlier had. Robson had announced his presence rather than driving past, but for what reason? ‘The smug bastard,’ Korba said. ‘He didn’t come over to check on Funky. It was to see who he owed thanks to for doing away with Swain.’
Kerry clucked her tongue. ‘Now you sound like Adam.’
‘You know what I mean, boss.’
‘I do,’ she admitted. ‘And you’re probably right. With Swain out of the picture we’ve opened a void in the power structure. If we’re not careful, Robson will fill it.’
21
During the return drive to their station north of the Thames, Kerry received a summons to DCI Porter’s office. The going was slow, and it was half an hour before Korba parked their vehicle in the station’s secure parking basement. As they entered the station, Korba’s phone rang. Mel Scanlon updated them with where their investigation was. Good news: the ballistics report confirmed the murder weapon and Swain’s Webley was a match. Kerry had never been in doubt, but the confirmation needled her.
‘What about forensics?’
Korba relayed Mel’s words. ‘Fingerprints matched to Erick Swain were found on a bullet in the revolver, and also on the rounds seized from his bedroom. The shells at the scene were clean, and the gun had been wiped clean before it was buried.’
‘I’d best go and give His Nibs the news,’ she said with little enthusiasm.
‘D’you want me to come with you, boss?’ Korba shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. For a second she waited for him to pull Funky’s trick, draw out his fists and flip her off. But his offer was genuine.
‘No. It’s best I see Porter alone.’
She sounded defensive, and she was. He’d earlier raised the subject of her acting out of character, and her behaviour in the past couple of hours wouldn’t have allayed his concern. He’d been aware of her flaky mood, and the way she flinched at shadows, and couldn’t hide the fact he found her sudd
en curtailment of the talk with Funky odd, to say the least. Was his reason for volunteering his support about keeping a close eye on her, to ensure she didn’t do or say anything crazier in front of the DCI? No, she was doing him a disservice. Danny was a colleague, but more than that he was a friend, and he cared for her more than he openly admitted. Paranoia was getting the better of her.
‘Can you give Glenn and Tony a shout and see if they’ve anything new for us?’ She made her request sound like a concession to fobbing him off. ‘And see if Mel needs an extra set of eyes going through the video evidence. If there’s anything, and I mean anything, useful, I don’t need to wait until the end of the meeting to hear about it, OK?’
‘Got ya.’ Korba flicked a salute and headed for the GaOC office.
A funeral dirge would have made a fitting soundtrack to her walk to DCI Porter’s office. Irrational as it were, she wasn’t afraid of seeing Porter, but who else might be waiting in his office. It was there, after all, that Erick Swain’s incorporeal spirit had first made its presence known to her. So what are you going to do, Kerry? Avoid the GaOC office too, because that’s where he finally spoke to you? If what she’d witnessed was more than a hallucination, then nowhere was safe. Ghosts weren’t constrained by the place of their death. And if the sightings were figments of her imagination, then there was no escape from something dwelling inside her head.
For a second she hoped Swain’s ghost had visited her. The alternative was far scarier than being haunted by a restless spirit.
She laughed aloud.
Instantly she wished she could retract it, because it was a cackle, and it didn’t go unnoticed. Porter’s office door swung open, and the DCI was in the act of showing somebody out with a hearty handshake. Both faces turned at the sound of lunacy, then they regarded each other. Porter offered an “I told you so” grimace as they released their handshake. The other man, as severe and grey in his demeanour as in his choice of suit, was a stranger to Kerry, but she knew what he was.