Spider Trap

by Barry Maitland

  George gave a moan and let her in. ‘Carole’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Won’t take long. Just need a bit of help. Nothing heavy. How did you enjoy the concert on Saturday?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I was watching you. You seemed really taken with it.’

  He shrugged, scuffed his shoe on the worn carpet tile. ‘It was cool.’

  ‘They were raising money for people like you, George, for scholarships—music scholarships, for example. You could apply.’

  ‘Nah. I don’t do classical stuff.’

  ‘Not just classical, any kind of music. I know Michael Grant, the bloke who organised it. Would you like me to ask him for you?’

  George met her eye with a kind of pained anxiety, as if he knew this was a trap but couldn’t help responding. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘All right, I will. I passed the JOS last night and saw your posters. Were you playing?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Teddy Vexx and Jay Crocker were there too, yes? I saw their car.’

  Another nod, more wary.

  ‘Do you know a girl called Magdalen, friend of theirs?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  Something about the way he said it made Kathy ask, ‘Fancy her, do you?’

  ‘Nah.’ He looked down at the floor again, embarrassed.

  ‘She is very pretty though, isn’t she? You’d have to notice her. Was she with Teddy and Jay at the club last night?’

  ‘Nah, some other bloke.’

  ‘Ah. Has she split up with Teddy then?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Didn’t Teddy mind her being with this other bloke?’

  George suddenly recognised danger. ‘Did something happen to him? Look, I didn’t see nothing. There wasn’t no trouble at the club. Magdalen and the bloke left about midnight, but Teddy and Jay stayed on till three or four— I swear, I saw them.’

  ‘That’s okay, George. There was no trouble. Look, between ourselves, Magdalen’s family are worried about her drugs and the company she keeps, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked relieved. ‘The other bloke looked okay. White guy. I’ve seen him around. I was surprised, though, that Teddy didn’t seem bothered.’

  ‘Did he know Teddy?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I didn’t see them speak.’

  ‘All right, that’s all I wanted, George, thanks. And I will look into that other thing for you . . .’

  At that moment they heard the clatter of feet on the deck outside and the impatient rattle of a key in the door.

  ‘Oh fuck.’ George panicked. ‘She’ll see you here. She’ll tell Teddy . . .’

  ‘What’s her name?’ Kathy said quickly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s Carole’s other name?’

  ‘Marshall, why . . .?’

  The door swung open and Carole marched in. ‘Those bleedin’—’ She glared in surprise at Kathy.

  ‘Ms Marshall?’ Kathy said. ‘Hello, I’m from the clinic. There’s been a mix-up over medications. They asked me to come down in person to check you’ve got the right ones. Sorry about this. Can I just see your bottles?’

  ‘Eh? Clinic?’

  ‘GUM, dear,’ Kathy murmured tactfully and shot a coy smile at George, who looked blank. ‘Are they in the bathroom?’

  ‘Oh . . . no, they’re here.’ Carole, flustered by Kathy’s imitation of a caring health professional, rummaged in her bag and produced a plastic bottle of pills.

  Kathy examined the label. ‘Oh, that’s fine. Not you then. Marvellous. I’ll be on my way. Bye.’

  She walked out.

  Brock was called to his second meeting with Commander Sharpe the following morning. The first briefing, to acquaint his boss with Tom’s report, had been met with a frosty bewilderment, as if Sharpe really didn’t want to know what had possessed Brock to ignore his earlier advice, and was embarrassed at having to do something about it. By the second meeting, he had regained his usual confidence and precision, and was unambiguous in his instructions.

  ‘We drop it.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s evidence of a serious crime?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m advised that it’s flawed, unattributable and potentially scandalous. You will not pursue this, Brock, and you will make sure that your errant team member doesn’t either.’

  ‘Hm. May I ask if you’re aware of any other ongoing investigation into the affairs of the Roach family, sir?’

  ‘There is no such thing.’

  ‘Are you sure? Not even at OCLG level? Five, perhaps?’

  Brock noticed a small flush of colour tinge Sharpe’s cheeks as he leaned forward to say, in a lower but even more insistent voice, ‘I am sure, Brock, because your half-baked fantasy went all the way up to JIC, where it was treated with the contempt it deserved. Get Roach out of your head and get on with something else. Do I make myself absolutely plain?’

  Tom and Kathy reported to Brock’s room in the early afternoon. The old files had been stacked neatly in a corner, they noticed, as if ready to be returned, and the pin board facing Brock’s desk was bare. Brock himself was eating a sandwich. He popped the last bit into his mouth, smacked his hands together, wiped them on a paper napkin and threw it into the bin.

  ‘Come in. Sit down.’

  There was no sign of their report on his desk.

  ‘Your little operation has gone through channels,’ he said. ‘There will be no further action.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Tom said, ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘The evidence had no provenance, Tom, no search warrant, no witnesses, no credible means of access. CPS won’t touch it. And the story it told was suggestive at best, open to interpretation. You know that’s true.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It was taken seriously, it went well up the chain, but the decision was no. We’re bound by that. I expect you to be bound by that. No further action. Sorry. I appreciate your initiative, but that’s it.’

  ‘I can’t accept that.’ Tom rose to his feet, holding himself rigid, face pale with anger. ‘I put myself on the line to gather legitimate, damning evidence—evidence that couldn’t be obtained in any other way. It provides conclusive information about a crime of massive proportions. So what is this? A cover-up or a cop-out? Are you all too bloody weak—’

  ‘That’s enough, Tom,’ Brock growled.

  Kathy couldn’t quite make Brock out. His words were his, but he sounded as if he had something stuck in his gullet. It was hurting him to do this to Tom, and she wished Tom would stop, but he couldn’t.

  ‘Do you realise what two tonnes of crack on the streets means?’ he yelled, his voice incredulous. ‘Do you have any idea what devastation—’

  ‘There’s another way of looking at this, Tom.’ Brock’s voice was suddenly hard. ‘If you’d come to me before you went in last night, if we’d set it up another way, things could have turned out differently. As it is, the whole case is closed down. Whatever leeway we had has been taken from us.’ He gestured as if to take in the whole office, the empty pin board, the stacked files.

  Tom glared at the faded files in disbelief and shook his head, unable to find the words. Then he turned and stormed out of the room.

  Brock put his head in his hands for a moment, then looked across at Kathy. ‘Couldn’t you have stopped him, Kathy? Couldn’t you have let me know?’

  twenty-four

  Tom wasn’t at his desk when Kathy returned downstairs. Bren was standing nearby, and he gave her an odd look.

  ‘Hi, Kathy. Everything okay? Tom—’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He just charged in here, grabbed his stuff and ran. Didn’t say a word.’

  Kathy hurried to the front lobby, but Tom had apparently left. There was no sign of him outside in the street. She returned to the office and told Bren what had happened. When she finished he shook his head and said, ‘The old man wouldn’t be happy about that.’

  ‘He w
asn’t.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll go up and have a word.’

  While she waited for him to return, Kathy tried Tom’s mobile number and got his answering service. She didn’t leave a message, deciding it would be best to let him cool off.

  When Bren reappeared he gave Kathy a wink. ‘He’ll come round. How do you fancy a spot of rape? Sad Simon’s made another hit.’

  She groaned. ‘Oh, not again.’

  ‘Yeah. All hands to the pumps. Brock wants you to work with me. Keep you out of mischief. Come on, there’s a briefing out in Barnet in half an hour.’

  Kathy grabbed her coat and bag and followed Bren out to the car. It was the best thing, of course, a new case, a fresh start.

  Over the following days she tried a number of times to make contact with Tom, but without success. He wasn’t answering his phones and there was no sign of him at his flat. She rang Nicole and asked if Lloyd had heard from him, but he hadn’t. As time passed without contact she was more and more haunted by an image that George had conjured up, of Tom at the JOS with Magdalen, flirting, dancing, drinking, and of Teddy Vexx watching them, apparently unmoved.

  By Friday she was sufficiently worried to talk to Bren about raising the alarm. He was inclined to let it lie for a while. ‘It’s only been a couple of days. He’s got you in enough trouble, Kathy. Raising a false alarm will just make things worse. He’s probably gone away for a while till the dust settles. Did you check with personnel if he’s asked for leave?’

  ‘Would they tell me?’

  ‘Hm. I’ll get Dot to give them a ring. And admin over at Special Branch, too, see if he’s contacted them.’

  She thanked him. Bren’s calm, imperturbable solidity reassured her a little, and she waited while he went upstairs to speak to Brock’s secretary. As she sat there, staring at the blank screen on her desk, her phone rang and she was surprised to recognise the voice of Andrea, Michael Grant’s research officer.

  ‘Kathy? So glad I caught you. How are you? I hear you’ve been getting into trouble.’ She chuckled.

  ‘Andrea? Have you seen Tom?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s standing here beside me as a matter of fact. That’s why I’m calling.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘We’re waiting outside a committee room.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Parliament. Michael’s Home Affairs Committee has just reconvened. They’re in private session at the moment, and we’re waiting for them to open the meeting up so we can go in and watch. Tom thought I should tell you. He thinks you and your boss will be interested in the proceedings this morning. Michael’s planning to cause a bit of a stir. You can watch on live webcast on your computer—www.parliamentlive.tv.’

  ‘Oh no . . .’ Kathy groaned softly to herself. ‘Andrea, will you put Tom on, please?’

  ‘Sorry, they’re opening the doors. I’ll have to turn my phone off now. Tom sends his love and apologises for the short notice.’

  The line went dead.

  Kathy immediately dialled Brock’s number. Dot answered, telling her that Brock was in a meeting.

  ‘You’d better put me through, Dot. He needs to hear this now.’

  She did so, and a couple of minutes later Brock came into the office to join Kathy in front of her computer. Kathy had warned Bren, the word had spread and the other detectives were also clustered in front of screens around the room.

  The picture showed a horseshoe-shaped table with the chair, Margaret Hart, in the centre. Michael Grant, further round to her left, was conspicuous as the only black member, and Kathy also recognised Nigel Hadden-Vane facing him across the central space. Margaret Hart was deep in conversation with an aide at her shoulder, querying something, nodding, and then speaking briskly into her microphone.

  ‘That’s confirmed then, all of next week’s meetings will be held in this room. The schedule of witnesses has been confirmed. Now, let’s get down to business. Mr Grant, you have something you want to raise?’

  ‘Yes, Madam Chair. I have a matter of such great relevance and urgency that I would beg your and the committee’s indulgence and request that I be allowed to introduce it immediately.’

  ‘How long will this take, Michael?’

  ‘No more than an hour.’

  Hart looked around the table. ‘How does the committee feel? Can we suspend our agenda for an hour for Mr Grant?’

  There was a murmur of conversation and several heads on the Chair’s right turned to Hadden-Vane for a lead. He drew himself up and said, ‘We’ve become quite used to the distractions offered by the Honourable Member for Lambeth North. I’m sure we can spare the time to be entertained by him once again.’

  Several people chuckled. Margaret Hart nodded at Grant. ‘Very well. As quick as you can, please. You know I like to stick to our timetable.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Grant opened the file in front of him and paused for a moment, as if the contents were so significant that he had difficulty finding words to begin. Then, into the expectant silence he said, ‘I am indebted to my colleague for his invitation to entertain the committee, but I can assure you that what I have to say will only shock and horrify you. As you know, the subject of our current inquiry is the involvement of organised crime in legitimate commercial activity in the UK. Well I have here evidence of a carefully planned and implemented conspiracy between apparently legitimate British businesses— household names on our high streets—and organised criminal gangs both here and abroad, to carry out criminal activity on an industrial scale and for enormous profit.’

  There was a ripple of interest around the committee, but it was clear from some of their expressions—amused, sceptical—that they were used to hyperbole from Michael Grant and were waiting for something tangible. He proceeded to give it to them.

  ‘I will table evidence that the well-known off-licence chain Paramounts Beers, Wines and Spirits, wholly owned by members of the Roach family in London, has been used, with their knowledge and active participation, to import Class A controlled drugs into the UK under cover of innocent international trade.’

  Now the room erupted in noise. Some members showed outrage or shock—no doubt, like Commander Sharpe, they were regular customers of Paramounts— while others were gesticulating to each other as if to say that Grant had finally gone mad. Only two figures were still—Grant himself, sitting with head bowed while the comments fizzed around him, and Margaret Hart, who was gazing at him with a worried frown. In the background, Kathy heard Bren’s muttered ‘Blimey’.

  Hart allowed the turmoil to continue for a few moments before calling the meeting to order. ‘Mr Grant, you have just made an allegation of the greatest seriousness. I have to warn you of the limits of parliamentary privilege.’

  ‘Hear hear!’ Hadden-Vane rumbled. ‘Madam Chair, may I comment? Some of our committee will recall that this is not the first time that Mr Grant has slandered this family under cover of privilege. They will recall his description of them as “slum landlords” and other scurrilous terms during earlier inquiries. The fact is that Mr Grant has a pathological hatred of this family, who have extensive business interests in his constituency. This committee is no place for a private vendetta of this kind.’

  ‘That is true,’ Hart replied, ‘but I was going to point to another limitation on privilege. If, as you say, you have evidence of specific criminal acts, which presumably could become the subject of a police investigation, then you are bound not to reveal information that might prejudice a later trial.’

  Grant nodded and said, ‘I have consulted with the Clerk of the Committee on this, and understand that I must not comment on matters currently before a court of law or where court proceedings are imminent. But that is not the case here. In fact, this brings us to a crucial issue and the reason why this committee must listen to what I have to say and must act upon it. The fact is that the irrefutable documentary evidence I have here was provided to me by sources close to the Roach family. When confronted by this evidence these sou
rces rightly took it to the police, who declined to act upon it. Only then did they bring it to me, and one of the most serious questions that this committee must ask is why the authorities have refused to investigate. We are the last bastion of the truth, Madam Chair. We must not shirk our duty.’

  More turmoil, Hadden-Vane shaking his gleaming pink head in disgust.

  ‘I think,’ Margaret Hart said loudly, ‘that we will move to private session to discuss the implications of this.’

  ‘Personally,’ Hadden-Vane came in again, ‘I would favour hearing Mr Grant’s so-called evidence in open session. We’ve had enough of his outlandish and irresponsible behaviour. Let him have his say and live by the consequences.’

  ‘All the same, I’m calling a ten-minute recess to consider this. Will all those who are not members of the committee please leave the room.’

  After a moment the image on the screen was replaced by a blank background behind the words COMMITTEE IN PRIVATE SESSION.

  Everyone in the office swivelled round to stare at Brock. He rubbed the side of his chin. ‘Hm. I’d better tell one or two other people to watch this. Are we recording it by the way?’ He got to his feet and ambled out.

  They had armed themselves with mugs of coffee by the time the image flicked back to the live picture from the committee room. They leaned forward together in the attentive way that screens carrying breaking news command. Margaret Hart briskly announced that they would hear Grant’s submission in open session, a decision that provoked a murmur of excitement from the committee room and clicks of disapproval from around the office. Brock watched impassively.

  Grant reached for a bag beside his chair and produced copies of a document for each of the eleven members of the committee. As he began to lead them through it, Kathy realised that they had repackaged Tom’s material as a dramatic narrative, a blockbuster thriller. With the help of photographs, diagrams and maps, the MP introduced them to the route taken by cocaine smugglers from Colombia to Jamaica, showed them the Dragon Stout brewery in Kingston, a bottle of the malty beer, twenty-foot containers stacked at the Kingston Container Terminal, the container ship Merchant Prince, which had brought the first consignment across the Atlantic, a Paramounts store in South London with cases of Dragon Stout on special offer and, finally, a chilling picture of blank-eyed crack-smokers in a derelict squat.