‘One and a half acres,’ Bren said as they emerged onto the waste ground. ‘Biggest crime scene I’ve ever been involved with. They’re trying to get more people.’
The area that Kathy and McCulloch had reached from the other direction was now unrecognisable, scraped clear of snow and bracken and gridded with tapes. Two tents had been erected, and across the rest of the site figures were bent shovelling snow and working with survey instruments.
Bren, a big, soft-spoken Cornishman who had been a part of Brock’s team from the beginning, led them towards one of the tents. ‘They found it around lunchtime, about five yards from the first. Similar situation, shallow grave formed in a natural hollow. We’re calling them Alpha and Bravo for the time being.’
He lifted the flap and they stepped inside. Two people were working beneath lights in a pit in the ground, a third watching from the edge. This man came over and Bren introduced him as the Crime Scene Manager from Forensic Services.
‘This one’s in very much the same condition as the first,’ he said. ‘The remains have been disturbed, possibly by animals, and we weren’t sure initially if this was part of the same corpse, until we found the skull.’
Brock raised an eyebrow and the man nodded, pointing a finger at his own forehead. ‘Yes, exactly the same, like an execution. Back of the skull fractured by the exit. No bullets found as yet. Most of the clothing has rotted away, but we’re finding bits—a belt buckle, buttons, remains of a shoe.’ He squinted out through the door of the tent. ‘It’ll be dark soon, and more snow is forecast, but we’ll keep going as long as we can. The press have been sniffing around, of course.’
‘No more indication of age, gender, race?’
The man shook his head. ‘You’ll have to talk to the pathologist. We certainly haven’t found any kind of identification.’
Brock thanked him and they returned to the warehouse, where material brought in from the site was being processed through wire-mesh sieve trays set up on trestle legs, then recorded and stored in labelled plastic boxes. A large map of the site was pinned to the wall, with a numbered grid drawn over it.
‘Sundeep’s going to have his work cut out,’ Bren said. ‘He was here earlier, with two of his assistants.’
‘What do we know about the schoolboy?’
‘Adam Nightingale? Only child, lives with his mother, no father. A bit of a nerd, we’re told. Chess and computer geek, hopeless at sports, just one friend we could find.’
Brock said, ‘Weren’t you supposed to be taking your girls somewhere today, Bren?’
‘Tobogganing. We did a bit this morning, then I got the call about the second body. It’s okay.’
‘Well, go back to them now. I’d better see if I can arrange a press conference here for noon tomorrow. Meanwhile, you can put your feet up. You too, Kathy.’
Bren offered Kathy a lift to the tube station, and along the way she told him about the raid on Teddy Vexx and his interview. Bren swore softly. ‘There’s got to be some forensic evidence to put Vexx in the building with the girls, surely?’
‘That’s what we’re banking on now,’ she said. Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly tired. Bren’s car was warm, and there was an indefinable smell of something she associated with childhood. What was it? Some kind of soap? Shampoo? With a sigh she closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine, for just one self-indulgent moment, that she was a little girl again, like one of Bren’s, in a warm safe world free of guns, drugs, oral rapists and Mr Teddy Vexx.
She woke with a start and saw a familiar row of shops rush past the window. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘This is Finchley.’
‘You were out for the count,’ Bren said. ‘Couldn’t very well turf you out in the snow. You’ll be home soon.’
‘You didn’t need to do that.’
‘You looked all-in.’
‘Christ, Bren, I’m not one of your little girls.’
He smiled. ‘No, but we all need a ride home from time to time, Kathy. Even you.’
He pulled into the forecourt of her block. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, thanks. Give the girls my love. Tell them they’re lucky to have such a nice dad.’
Bren waved her away, embarrassed, and put the car into gear.
Everyone at the station seemed fraught, Brock thought. He desperately wanted to soak in a bath with a big glass of whisky, but there were things to do first. Keith Savage was at his desk, and he didn’t need to say anything for Brock to see that it had gone badly. ‘No luck?’ he asked.
‘Forensics haven’t come up with anything. I had to let him go.’ Savage cupped his hands to his face and rubbed. ‘Maybe the bastard’s telling the truth.’
‘I don’t think so. He murdered those girls, all right.’
‘Maybe. You think I pushed for the raids too soon?’
Brock shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t have made any difference. It could have been a brilliant success.’
‘But it wasn’t. I let our glamour Member of Parliament push me into it. We should have staked out Vexx and found out everything about him before we moved.’
‘There’s still plenty we can do—his associates, phone records, financial dealings . . .’
‘Yeah, but you know, I think I was right the first time. I think the girls were killed because of something that happened back in Harlesden. Vexx may have lent a hand, some local muscle. And you know what? I think he knew we were coming for him last night.’
‘You think so?’
‘Sure of it. I think he and his poncy lawyer put on a performance for us. They had it all worked out between them beforehand.’
‘Any idea how?’
‘This place . . .’ Savage spread his hands. ‘No security. Anyway, what’s this I hear about another old corpse on the railway land?’
Brock told him about the discovery of the second body. Savage eased back in his chair and said, ‘McCulloch told me you were interested in that, but I don’t understand why. I mean, Mr Teddy Vexx would have been in nappies when those bodies were buried, yes?’
‘Probably. I’m just curious. Anyway, I thought it would be better if we handled it ourselves rather than have another crew tripping over us.’
Savage studied him thoughtfully. ‘McCulloch also told me you were in CID here some time ago. These wouldn’t be skeletons in your closet, would they?’
Brock gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘You never know. I thought I’d arrange a press conference on the site at noon tomorrow.’
‘To be honest, I’m not interested. Last year we investigated over fifty shooting murders. The discovery of a couple of ancient skeletons with holes in their heads doesn’t rate. But you go ahead. I’m going home for a drink and a hot meal. You want a lift anywhere?’
Brock thanked him but declined the offer. Instead, he phoned for a cab to take him across the river to his office in the Scotland Yard annexe in Queen Anne’s Gate. The place was deserted and in darkness as he tapped in his security code at the door and made his way up to his room. He settled at his desk and switched on his computer, checked his emails, sent several of his own, then keyed in access to the Police National Computer database.
He’d had one of McCulloch’s detectives checking incidents reported in Lambeth Borough during the previous three weeks for any that might have involved the two girls. He’d come up with a couple of housebreakings and a bag-snatch that were possibles, but they didn’t suggest a motive for murder. He went through the Lambeth listings once again, finding nothing else. Then it occurred to him that Cockpit Lane wasn’t far from the boundary with the neighbouring Borough of Southwark, and he tried that. It wasn’t long before a name leapt off the screen at him. He stared at it, feeling a tightness in his chest, then tapped a key and read the report.
On the previous Monday, January the thirty-first, just four days before the girls died, a woman had had her car hijacked by a pair of black youths outside a house she was visiting in Camberwell. She had been thrown to the ground in the struggle and her inj
uries were sufficient for her to be taken to Maudsley Hospital, from which she was discharged later the same day. The woman’s name was Adonia Roach.
Brock reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of Scotch, from which he poured himself a sizeable measure, and read the entry again. Adonia, he thought, placing her: wife of Ivor Roach, accountant and Spider’s second son.
He returned to the menu and entered the name Roach, selecting four names in turn: Edward, nickname ‘Spider’, now aged seventy-eight, and his three sons: Mark, fifty-four; Ivor, fifty-two; and Richard, fifty.
‘So old,’ he murmured to himself, remembering their youthful selves. Their criminal convictions were almost all familiar to him, petering out sixteen years ago with a substantial fine for tax fraud. Their old addresses near Cockpit Lane were listed, as well as new ones. They were still living close together it seemed, some eight miles to the east, in the suburb of Shooters Hill.
five
The following morning, Kathy picked up the constable she’d contacted at Peckham. Brock had been very specific in his instructions when he’d briefed her. This was to be an innocuous follow-up visit, the PC was to take the lead, and, above all, Brock’s name was not to be mentioned.
The threatened bad weather hadn’t materialised and sunlight glittered off the snow on Blackheath as they took the Dover road east. The constable was a cheerful young Asian woman called Mahreen, who chatted about her family and friends and seemed delighted by the change of routine. She had attended the original incident and thought Mrs Roach would remember her, although she’d been very shaken up. At least she’d sounded cooperative over the phone.
They turned off the main road at the sign for Shooters Hill and Mahreen map-read them through quiet suburban streets until they came to the entrance to a golf club. Beyond this the street became a private lane leading only to a set of tall wrought-iron gates and a sign announcing The Glebe.
Kathy drew to a stop. She took in the camera mounted on the high perimeter brick wall and the security panel on the buttress beside the gate.
‘I’ll have fries with mine,’ Mahreen said with a laugh. Kathy pressed one of four buttons labelled ‘Roach’, selecting ‘I. Roach’, and said who they were. A tinny voice told them to drive to the second house on the left and the gates swung open.
The houses, in their mellow brick and dark timber, looked old at first glance, but only one, the first on the right, really was, Kathy guessed. It would originally have been the glebe house or parsonage belonging to the church whose spire they could see beyond the trees. The others, with their diamond-pane windows and classically columned porches, had the air of overblown reproductions. They sat around a large garden, brooding over the tennis court and tarpaulin-covered swimming pool laid out in the centre. Kathy followed the encircling drive, tyres crunching on the icy gravel, towards the woman who stood in the doorway of the far house, watching them approach.
‘That’s not her,’ Mahreen said, and Kathy saw that it was a much younger woman waiting for them, in her twenties. She had large attractive dark eyes, thick black hair and a golden complexion, as if she’d just stepped off a hot Mediterranean beach.
She shook their hands, unsmiling. ‘I’m Magdalen Roach.’ She spoke rapidly. ‘My mother’s waiting for you inside. She tries to pretend that she’s all right, but she isn’t. The doctor’s still very worried about her head and she’s taking a lot of painkillers. It would be better if you didn’t bother her.’
‘Oh, we do understand, Magdalen,’ Mahreen said, all calm concern. ‘Don’t you worry, we won’t distress your mum. This is Kathy, she’s a detective. A couple of minutes and we’ll be on our way.’
Magdalen reluctantly led them into an expansive living room, dominated by an oversized gold and crystal chandelier, beneath which a fuller, middle-aged version of the daughter sat in a huge leather sofa. Adonia Roach had the thick black hair and dark good looks of her Greek family, and still carried the slightest trace of accent in her voice. She was carefully groomed, dressed in the finest cashmere, against which the heavy bruising on one side of her face and the bandage strapping her left hand and arm struck a discordant note.
‘Please excuse me not getting up to welcome you,’ she said. ‘My hip is still quite painful. Will you have coffee?’ She looked up at her daughter, who nodded and left. ‘You really didn’t need to come all this way just to see how I was.’
‘It’s part of our community outreach policy, Mrs Roach,’ Mahreen explained enthusiastically. ‘Support for victims of crime. And of course, there’s always a chance that you might have remembered something else now that you’ve had a little time to recover from the initial shock.’
‘Oh, I’ve done my best to put it out of my mind. Being thrown to the ground like that . . .’ She gave a little start at the sound of a jarring crack of crockery from another room.
‘Terrible.’
‘Yes, the shock . . . It all happened so fast. I suppose they must have been waiting for me to come out to the car, but I didn’t see them until they snatched the keys out of my hand. Then the other one grabbed my bag and it caught on my arm and they just swung me around and I fell . . . Well, you know.’
‘You were visiting your mother, you said?’
‘Yes, she’s a widow, lived in Camberwell for years.’
‘And do you visit her regularly?’
‘Every week.’
‘At the same time?’
‘Usually Monday. It doesn’t clash with her other activities. She keeps herself very busy.’
‘And you said the two who attacked you were slightly built?’
‘Yes, thin. One was a bit taller than me, the other about my height, but that was only an impression . . . I could be wrong, with the scarves over their faces and their hoods and baggy jeans, I don’t know.’
‘But definitely West Indian?’
‘Yes, yes. Not . . .’ she glanced cautiously at Mahreen, ‘. . . Asian.’
‘We’ve got some photos for you to look at, Mrs Roach,’ Mahreen purred, and Kathy handed her the sheaf of pictures she’d brought.
‘Too thick-set . . . too . . . oh, I don’t know.’
‘Try covering the lower part of their faces.’
‘Yes, but . . . This one’s a girl, and this one. It wasn’t a girl.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Well, I assumed . . .’ She put her hand over the lower part of Dee-Ann’s face. ‘I just don’t know. It could have been any of them.’
Magdalen came in with the coffee tray, which she placed on the table at her mother’s side. While Adonia poured, her daughter picked up the photos and thumbed through them. She paused over the two girls, Kathy noticed. ‘You recognise any of them, Magdalen?’ she asked.
‘Me? Why should I?’
‘Maybe visiting your grandmother? If they come from around there.’
‘No.’ She tossed the photos back and took a pack of cigarettes from the mantelpiece.
‘Not in here, darling. You know your father . . .’
Magdalen bit her lip and put them back. ‘Yes, sorry.’
‘It was the violence that really upset me. I mean they found the car the next day, undamaged. The other detective said that’s often the case with joy-riders. And I didn’t care about the money and credit cards. So why did they have to be so violent?’
Her daughter sat down beside her and put a protective arm around her shoulders.
‘Oh . . .’ Adonia put a tissue to her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve gone soft in my old age.’
‘I think you’ve been incredibly brave, Mrs Roach,’ Mahreen said, and glanced at Kathy, who added, ‘Yes. That sort of thing is always very hard to come to terms with, for you, and for your family. Your husband must have been very upset.’
‘Yes . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Yes, of course.’
Kathy noticed that she was fingering a gold chain with a golden heart pendant at her throat. ‘You said that they pulled the pendant from yo
ur throat. That must have been frightening too.’
‘Oh yes!’ Adonia looked wide-eyed, and her fingers froze.
‘But you got it back?’
‘Thank goodness. It was very personal—my husband gave it to me when Magdalen was born. I found it later under the floor mat in the car. They must have dropped it when they drove away.’ Adonia took her daughter’s hand. ‘And the doctors say I’ll make a full recovery. So really, I was lucky. But suppose it had been my mother instead of me. It could so easily have been. She wouldn’t have survived.’
The press liked Brock, Kathy could see that. They liked the slightly rumpled look, the way he scratched his white cropped beard meditatively as he considered a question, and the edge of dry humour that was never far away, even on such a case as this. It made a change from the close-shaved, close-mouthed men who usually briefed them.
With growing interest in the mysterious finds on the waste ground, Brock had invited them and their telephoto lenses down from their helicopters and their observation posts on the footbridge and the far embankment, down to the crime scene itself, now almost entirely stripped of snow and vegetation, gridded with bright pink tapes and dotted with three large tents.
‘A third area was located this morning by Marlowe,’ Brock said, and a black labrador was led forward by its handler. ‘Marlowe is a cadaver dog, with specialist training in HHRD—Historical Human Remains Detection.’ Brock waited while they wrote it down. ‘He works with archaeologists as well as us. You could say he’s got a PhD in old bones. He detected this morning’s finds through two feet of frozen ground.’
The photographers formed a scrum around the dog, lights flashing. Marlowe accepted their interest with philosophical detachment, live humans apparently exciting him far less than dead ones.
‘So far we’ve recovered a human fibula, a tibia, a pelvic bone and a bone from either a hand or a foot from that site.’
Spider Trap Page 5