‘I’ll have to try that. It’s ages since I tasted jerk.’
‘He said that’s next. Maybe we could do something together.’
Then, having prepared the ground, she said, ‘How about you? Have you heard from Suzanne? I got a postcard from her from the Great Barrier Reef. Looked beautiful.’
He saw it coming, of course—but even so, the probe, gentle as it was, made him wince unexpectedly, like the slightest touch to an infected wound that doesn’t want to heal. The trouble was that he hadn’t been talking to anyone, so he hadn’t developed the protective form of words. And there was the other thing, too, which made it worse. In telling Kathy about 1981 he’d omitted the part about going home to the deserted house, but here he was back in Cockpit Lane again in much the same situation, twenty-four years later, locked into the same old patterns, as if nothing had progressed. He hadn’t got a postcard from the Great Barrier Reef, but he had received a Christmas card from Suzanne’s grandchildren in Hastings, back with their mother now, which had shaken him for a time.
‘No, no. We haven’t been in touch.’
‘It’s over then?’ It sounded too abrupt and she sensed Brock flinch, but she was suddenly irritated by this cocoon of silence on the subject of Suzanne; Bren whispering, his wife phoning up to casually inquire about the boss’s Christmas arrangements. She was also fairly certain that the old man wasn’t talking to anyone else.
‘I’m not sure, Kathy.’
‘I mean, I’d be very sorry because I like her so much and I think she’s great for you, but sometimes these things aren’t meant to be . . . as I’ve discovered on numerous occasions.’ She grinned and the sombre look on his face melted a little.
‘Several times I’ve got as far as the travel agent’s door,’ he confessed, ‘but I never made it inside.’
‘Do you need a push? I’ll take care of everything if you want.’
‘Thanks. I know you would. We’ll see. Now . . .’ He addressed himself to the discouraging lump of pastry on his plate. ‘. . . what have we got here?’
‘Are you going to tell me about the Roaches? You reacted to what Winnie said as if you’d been expecting it all along.’
He shot her a sideways glance as he chewed. ‘You’re annoyed I haven’t been open with you?’
‘Well . . . I’ve been getting the feeling that you’ve had these ideas from the start that you’re not telling us about.’
‘Mm, rubbish. This pie, I mean. No, you’re right. From the beginning I’ve felt as if I were reliving the past with this one, which certainly suggested several possibilities, but I’ve been reluctant to . . .’ the image that came to his mind was of stepping back into a tangled thicket, ‘. . . to jump to conclusions until I had a date for the murder, the race of the victims, and that comment from Winnie about who the two white men might have been.
‘So, Spider Roach. Spider was one of the most vicious and most successful crooks in South London. He started out as a very smart operator in long firm fraud—setting up wholesale companies to buy goods on credit, then selling them fast and going bust or disappearing without paying their debts. He found he could double his profits by combining long firm fraud with arson and insurance scams, burning down the companies’ premises and claiming for the goods, which had already been sold. Then, when he began to find it hard to get credit for his bogus companies, he discovered violence. He realised that he could persuade genuine companies, small family businesses usually, to act as the front for the fraud if only he could terrify their owners enough. The businesses were destroyed in the process, of course, and the owners usually ruined, but with sufficient violence—the threat of a brutal attack on the wife, perhaps, or on an elderly parent—they would keep quiet. He was a ruthless predator, and before long his violence escalated into murder. Spider was believed to be behind a number of particularly ugly unsolved killings in the seventies, but he was never arrested on any serious charge until 1980, when the supergrass Maxie Piggot named him for two murders. But by then juries and courts were getting wary of the evidence of supergrasses, and defence lawyers had had plenty of practice at discrediting them. The case against Spider collapsed.’
Brock pushed his plate away with a grimace of distaste and took a quick pull of his beer. ‘Cockpit Lane was the heart of Spider’s web. He and his family lived just behind the Lane. The shop next door to us here was a pawnshop he owned. What’s now the cash and carry next to it was his funeral parlour.’
‘Funerals? Adonia and her father?’
‘That’s right. He owned the premises and the Despinides operated the business. What better way to get rid of unwanted bodies? We suspected that’s what they were doing, but we couldn’t catch them. After two unsuccessful exhumations the magistrates became reluctant to go on giving us permission to dig up the Despinides’ customers.’
Kathy thought of Adonia, in her cashmere and gold jewellery. ‘My God.’
‘Anyway, Spider flourished. I should say the Spider clan, because he had three sons who all followed him into the business. He got on well with the West Indians coming into the neighbourhood, and his long firm frauds were aimed at them, offloading the kind of things they wanted and would buy up quickly—cheap booze, bedding, thermal underwear, confectionery, toys, you name it.
‘When the Jamaican bad boys started arriving in ’80 and ’81, with their cocaine and their crack and their fancy guns, some of the established London gangs got a bit shirty, but not Spider. He had discovered drugs years before when he’d pressed a chemist into one of his scams, and he’d developed a local clientele in a small way, but now he saw a huge new opportunity. The drug gangs in Jamaica were making the island a staging post for Colombian cocaine on its way north, and Spider saw the chance to tap into that golden stream. He welcomed the former Garden boys and Spanglers and all the rest, and they became his partners.’
Brock stared morosely at the slimy sausage roll lying untouched on his plate. ‘I’m still hungry. I missed my dinner last night, and breakfast this morning.’ He picked it up and bit it.
Kathy watched, feeling queasy, as if Tom’s rum punch might still lurch up in her throat. She wondered whether she should try to pacify it with a hair of the dog. ‘So you were involved in trying to catch Roach?’
‘Actually it’s not as bad as it looks.’ Brock took another bite. ‘Yes, very much so. This was my patch. We knew each other well. I’d bump into him and his sons in the market, in court, in here. He always had a leery smile for me. Sometimes I even suspected he felt a little sorry for me, getting nowhere. And I knew his victims, or the people they left behind, every one. Spider Roach was my big failure, Kathy. We all have them. He was mine.’ Kathy did feel sick. She got to her feet and said, ‘Can I get you another beer?’
‘Shouldn’t really. Oh, what the hell.’
He handed her his empty glass and she went to the bar and ordered a rum and Coke for herself. When she returned he glanced at it and said, ‘Switched to Coke now? Not much nutrition in that either.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. So, are you ready to share your theory?’
He sipped, wiped his beard and nodded. ‘Whatever Joseph planned to tell me when he first asked to see me, he couldn’t have realised it implicated Spider. If he had, he’d never have suggested meeting here, right on Spider’s doorstep. But then he must have realised. He was no longer safe in the Lane. He headed into the heart of Brixton to be among black folk, as Winnie told me. But Spider’s boys tracked him down.’
Kathy thought. ‘If they were Spider’s boys. Winnie’s first thought was that they were cops. Is that possible?’
‘I’ve wondered about that too. It was the time of the riots, maybe a time of settling old scores . . . But no. I’ve thought back over the people I knew then, and I’m sure there was nobody . . .’
‘Was Bob McCulloch here then?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And Spider’s still alive?’
‘I believe so. He’d be in his late-seve
nties now. The last time our paths crossed was over ten years ago. I was investigating a murder in Epping. The victim turned out to be a drug dealer and the Drugs Desk got involved. Then the trail turned up a drug-smuggling route and Customs and Excise got in on the act, followed by the Fraud Squad and Special Branch. Before long we realised that Spider Roach was at the centre of it all, and a joint operation was mounted. It was a fiasco—too many cooks, all trying to outdo each other. The whole thing was so badly bungled that it led to a major review of joint operations. Several senior officers took early retirement. And once again Spider’s teflon magic had worked. By the end he was better off than ever— nobody wanted to know about him.’
‘I see. This is why you’ve been so cautious?’
Brock nodded. ‘If we pursue him now we’ve got to be very sure of our ground, and we’ve got to keep it very quiet until we’re ready. In the meantime we’ll continue checking every detail of what Dana and Dee-Ann did when they came south of the river and who they met. I’m meeting DS McCulloch later this afternoon to work out how his team will help.’
He checked his watch. ‘Come on, time we met the priest.’
Father Maguire offered them coffee in front of a gas fire in the sitting room of the presbytery.
‘The warmest room in the house,’ he said. ‘It’s far too large this place, impossible to heat, but there you are. I bumped into Winnie on the way back just now, and she told me something of what you’re after.’
A vigorous elderly Irishman with rosy cheeks and given to explosive gestures with his hands to punctuate his words, he wasn’t much taller than Winnie. Kathy could picture the two of them together, a formidable pair.
‘Those poor souls. So you’re still trying to identify them?’
‘We think they may have been buried in April 1981,’ Brock explained. ‘You were here then, is that right?’
‘Yes, I arrived in ’76. Winnie mentioned the name Joseph. I couldn’t immediately remember.’ He tapped his head. ‘Getting to the stage where if a new name comes in an old one drops out to make room. Ha! Anyway, fortunately I keep a diary of parish matters.’ He went to a bookcase behind his desk and ran his fingers across the spines. ‘Yes, here we go, 1981.’
‘We might need 1980 as well, if he arrived that year.’
‘True.’ The priest brought both volumes.
‘Winnie thought some time before Christmas.’
They waited while he thumbed back through the 1980 diary, clicking his tongue, until finally his finger shot into the air. ‘Got you! Thursday September eighteenth, “08.55 Gatwick, BA 2262, Joseph Kidd 19 & Michael Grant 15. JK to WW, MG to AL”. Well, well, he came over with young Michael then. I do remember that morning. A fine pair of likely lads.’
Kathy was making notes. ‘What does that last bit mean?’
‘“JK to WW” means Joseph went to stay with Winnie Wellington, as you know, and young Michael was taken in by Abigail Lavender, just down the street here.’
‘Is that Michael Grant the MP?’
‘Oh indeed! The star of Father Guzowski’s boys, you could say.’
‘Father Guzowski?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well. Father Guzowski is a saint, or at least he will be, I’ve no doubt of it. He was an American priest, from New York, and he went down to Jamaica to run a mission in the slums of Kingston, with the poorest and most desperate. He worked miracles in the worst of circumstances. He saved lives and brought hope to thousands. And one of the things he did was to help lift young people out of the pit and offer them a new start, a new life, overseas. They were Father Guzowski’s boys, and in New York, in Toronto, and elsewhere in London, there are people like me who met them off the planes and helped to get them a job and a place to stay.
‘It didn’t always work out, of course. They came from violent backgrounds, some of them, and found it difficult to shake that off.’
He stared at the diary entry again. ‘You know, I’d forgotten that they came over together. I suppose you could say they represent both ends of the spectrum of Father Guzowski’s boys. We worked hard on Joseph, as I recall, especially Winnie, but he was only interested in fast money and girls. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been dealing drugs. And now, it seems he died a violent death. Michael, on the other hand, was younger and more malleable, receptive to Abigail’s encouragement, and very bright. From the most rudimentary education in one of Father Guzowski’s schools, he developed remarkably fast. By his early twenties he was studying at university, and a few years later he was a union official with UCATT, back here in our area. Soon he came to the attention of the local politicians, and was adopted as our parliamentary candidate. Michael Grant MP is now the member for Lambeth North.’
He said the final words with a flourish of his arm, as if proudly presenting not only Michael’s but his own triumph over life’s many obstacles, the draughty old presbytery, the recalcitrant youths, the shortage of funds. ‘You might talk to Michael about Joseph, you know.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ Brock said.
‘His constituency office is in the shop next door to the Ship.’
‘Where Spider Roach had his pawnshop? You’ll remember Spider Roach, of course.’
‘Oh indeed.’ Father Maguire seemed suddenly wary.
‘He must have been a thorn in your side. He certainly was in mine.’
‘He was a powerful figure around these parts, all right, and a baleful influence on many lives. But I hear he’s a changed man now, a great giver of charity. In point of fact . . .’ Kathy thought she detected some embarrassment here, ‘. . . he paid for the repairs to the church spire last year, and donated computers to the school. A sinner’s repentance is a wonderful thing.’
He met Brock’s stony gaze.
‘Does he still come down here then?’
‘No. I haven’t seen him in years.’
‘What about his sons?’
‘Nor them. I heard they all moved out to Shooters Hill.’
‘Do you have anything else that might help us then, Father? Any particular friends of Joseph? Or any recollections of that night, Saturday the eleventh of April 1981? It was the time of the riots in Brixton.’
The priest thumbed through the second diary but found nothing. He couldn’t remember the surname of Joseph’s friend Walter, or anything about a third member of the group. Abigail Lavender’s husband had died and she’d moved away, but he wasn’t sure where to.
‘Maybe you could ponder on it and let us know if anything comes to mind. Would you have a photograph of Joseph?’
‘Well now, that is possible. I used to make a habit of taking a picture of the boys when they arrived, to send back to Father Guzowski. Let’s see, let’s see. We’ve been making an effort to get my papers in order.’
He bustled across to a couple of old wooden filing cabinets in a corner of the room and began searching through the drawers. ‘Here we are. It would be with these, if it’s anywhere.’
He laid a sheaf of photos on his desk and turned them over until one caught his eye. ‘This would be them, I think. Yes.’ He showed a picture of two young men grinning at the camera, one tall and skinny and bowlegged with his arm around the shoulders of the other, more guarded and boyishly handsome.
‘Thank you, Father.’ Brock took the picture. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
‘I’d like it back, if that’s all right. I’ve had it in my mind for some time to write a little memoir of Father Guzowski’s boys. Somebody should.’
The path from the front door of the presbytery to the street wound around an ancient black yew tree, and as they emerged from its shelter they noticed a blue Peugeot convertible parked at the opposite kerb, emitting the usual heavy thumping bass. The side windows were tinted dark so they couldn’t see who was inside. Just then, with perfect timing, a police patrol car swung around the corner and pulled in behind the Peugeot. Two young uniformed cops got out, a man and a woman, and approached it. The woman tapped on the dri
ver’s window and the door swung open, filling the quiet street with booming hip hop, and Mr Teddy Vexx heaved himself out. The policewoman said something to him and he reached back inside the car and turned the music off, then straightened again. She stood close in front of him, a good foot shorter, and delivered a short lecture, pointing to the no-parking sign, the double yellow line and the distance to the corner. All the time he stood there impassively, huge arms folded across the gold chains draped over his chest, staring across the road at Kathy and Brock. He was wearing a black bandana around his head and dark glasses. The constable asked for something and he reached to his hip pocket and produced a wallet, handing her his driver’s licence. While she walked away, talking into her radio, her partner was peering into the car. The rules prevented him from searching it without due cause, something suspicious he could actually see or smell, and he looked slightly comic bent to the opening, nose twitching, straining for an excuse. Vexx said something and the cop straightened sharply and said, ‘What’s that, sir? Speak English, please.’
Kathy and Brock walked away.
eleven
‘I owe you a fiver.’
He chuckled. ‘You’ve established a date?’
‘April 1981.’
‘Interesting. How about buying me a pizza tonight? You can tell me all about it.’
‘Suits me.’
‘Can I pick you up at seven?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’
‘And I may have something interesting for you.’
‘Great, as long as it’s not rum punch.’
‘Aw, I thought you liked my rum punch.’
‘I did, but it refuses to let go.’
‘I know what you mean. I’ve got this strange limp today.’
‘Strange limp what?’
‘Now, now.’
That afternoon Bren had returned to Queen Anne’s Gate to set up the case room for a new phase of the investigation, while Kathy got to work on Joseph Kidd. She established that he had entered the country on the eighteenth of September 1980, but there were no further records of him either leaving or returning. He had been allocated a National Insurance number the following month, but there were no records of any social security, national health or income tax transactions on that number. He had had no driver’s licence, bank accounts, police record or traffic offences. As far as the record was concerned, sometime during 1981 Joseph Kidd had simply ceased to exist, although no one had ever reported him missing. Kathy looked at the copy of Father Maguire’s photo of the two boys pinned to the wall, feeling the poignancy of that brief moment of elation at the arrivals gate at Gatwick. One boy had gone on to success in his new country, the other had disappeared into the void. She began to assemble the material that would be sent to the JCF in Kingston and to Interpol.
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