by Jane Casey
On this occasion, there was no aggression to respond to, it seemed. In a surprisingly short space of time, the commander came to lean over the edge of the balcony and gave us the thumbs-up before getting back on his radio. He was requesting paramedic assistance and my stomach twisted as I thought about why. Maybe this time the killer had left his victim to die alone. Maybe I should have tried to break into the flat myself instead of calling for back-up. I didn’t get long to consider the maybes; Derwent was out from behind the car before I had even straightened up, and disappeared through the main door at a sprint. Lancaster and I followed, running up the stairs as sirens whooped in the distance. We caught up with him at the door of the flat, where the commander was explaining what had happened.
‘We’ve got four males in the flat, three in custody and one awaiting paramedic assistance.’
‘Three?’ Derwent’s voice was sharp.
The commander nodded. ‘No names yet, but I’ll leave that up to you. No ID on any of them. Two older blokes, one young. They were in the kitchen at the back of the flat when we went in.’
‘Were they armed?’
‘We found a handgun on the floor by the cooker – a Beretta nine millimetre. Looks like one of them dropped it when they heard us coming. Better than being caught in possession, I suppose. They didn’t offer much in the way of resistance. We had officers blocking the fire escape at the back and enough of us at the front to give them a fair idea there was no point in trying to fight their way out. Don’t know who they are or why you want them, but I’d say they were pros from the way they reacted.’
I was desperate to find out if William Forgrave was okay. ‘You said there was one awaiting a paramedic?’
‘He’s going to need treatment for burns, by the looks of things. Nasty stuff. They used a steam iron.’
‘He was being tortured?’ Lancaster sounded shocked, and I recalled that he would have no idea why we had been at the address.
‘Looks like it. I don’t think he was having much fun, put it that way.’
Derwent moved restlessly. ‘Is the flat clear? Are we okay to go in?’
‘It’s all yours.’
I followed Derwent inside, past the shattered door that had been propped up against the wall. The living room on the right – the one I had peered into – was full of men: four of the armed officers and three suspects who were sitting down, hands cuffed in front of them. Two of them were sitting on the sofa while the third, a thin middle-aged man with a deep tan, was leaning back in an armchair with his eyes closed. Derwent barely paused and I only had time for a quick glance before we moved on past the flat’s one bedroom to the kitchen at the back. A couple of officers were in there, giving fairly rudimentary first aid to a man who lay on the floor, his limbs vibrating as if he was wired to the mains. William Forgrave, I presumed. He was short and paunchy, as if he rarely took any exercise beyond climbing the stairs to his flat. He was wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else, all the better to show off the angry triangular burns that patched his torso. The soles of his feet were dotted with tiny blisters. It would be a long time before he could walk without pain, and a long time before he looked into the mirror and recognised what he saw, because his face was a mess behind his heavy black beard. It had swollen badly already, but I could tell that his nose was broken. His front teeth were chipped and his mouth hung open as if his jaw might have been damaged too. The kitchen floor was spotted here and there with droplets of blood. A steam iron stood on the table, turned away from me. It was still plugged in, I noticed. The air in the kitchen was warm and humid, close to stifling when you thought about why that might be, and the windows had misted up.
Derwent had determined with a glance that the victim was in no state to talk to us, and had turned his attention to the kitchen counter.
‘Where did these come from?’
One of the officers stood up. ‘Personal effects from the gentlemen in the living room, sir. We thought we’d let you have a look. That was everything they had on them. Obviously, some of it is evidence.’
They had been arranged in three separate piles, one for each of them. My attention was caught by a brass knuckleduster, a wicked-looking thing with blood spattered across it. That would explain Forgrave’s facial injuries. Derwent sorted through the piles with the end of a pen, examining each item without touching them. There was one mobile phone between the three of them, a small, cheap Samsung model. I was willing to bet it was a pay-as-you-go one, probably bought that morning. It had taken a while to filter through to the criminal world that carrying a personal phone was as good as having a permanent location beacon – the phone companies could and would supply the police with information about where they had been and when, and who they had been calling. The professionals took steps to avoid it by using phones they could dump after each job. I was starting to see why the commander had thought he was dealing with proper criminals.
The knuckleduster’s owner was a smoker: a silver Zippo lighter stood beside it, along with a pack of Benson & Hedges cigarettes. He had also been carrying a sheaf of cable-ties held together with a rubber band.
‘That looks promising. Ivan Tremlett was restrained with ties like those.’
Derwent made a noise in his throat that was probably agreement. He was looking at the third pile, at a money-clip in the shape of a bear. It was in silvery metal with shiny clear stones for the eyes and claws, and its paws were clamped down on something approaching a thousand pounds from the thickness of the roll.
‘Are those diamonds?’
I was being flippant, but Derwent nodded. ‘Set in platinum. What would that set you back?’
‘More than I’ve got in my savings.’ Not that I would have wanted it anyway. ‘Flash, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes. Like the man who owns it.’
My interest sharpened. ‘Do you know who that is?’
‘I have a fair idea.’
‘Tell me.’
‘You’ll find out.’ He took out his own phone and dialled a number.
I shook my head, frustrated. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. Why would three professional criminals be engaged in a campaign of torture and murder? None of the victims had a connection with organised crime.’
‘Weird, isn’t it?’ Whoever Derwent was calling picked up then. I worked out it was Godley from listening to the DI’s end of the conversation. When he hung up, he said, ‘The boss’ll be here in a couple of minutes.’
‘By helicopter, presumably?’
‘He was out and about. At a meeting. He’s not far away and he was in the car already when I rang.’
‘Is he pleased?’
‘What do you think? Course he is.’
And are you? I almost added, but didn’t quite dare. There was something I couldn’t read in Derwent’s manner, something he was suppressing that seemed to me to be excitement.
He had moved on to the second pile and was examining a small folding knife, dull black in colour, with a blade that couldn’t have been longer than three inches. It was wickedly sharp.
‘That’s one for forensics.’ He looked up and grinned at me. ‘Not bad. And I was going to let you walk away.’
‘You were out on the street. We almost missed it completely. We would have if I hadn’t gone back to drop in my card.’
‘Yeah, well, everyone gets lucky now and then.’
Including William Forgrave, though he probably didn’t see it like that. A couple of paramedics had arrived, competent in green overalls, and had taken over from the officers. They were preparing to transfer him to a stretcher and I nudged Derwent.
‘We should get out of the way. Besides, don’t you want to meet the three suspects?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’ He sounded as if he was trying not to laugh. ‘Wait until the boss gets here. He’s not going to believe this.’
I followed him down the hall feeling increasingly out of my depth. The DI stopped in the doorway of the living room and I almost collided with him. The
three suspects looked up with varying degrees of interest. The two on the sofa were muscle, pure and simple: one was young with close-cropped fair hair and a sprinkling of spots on his chin and neck, while the other could have been his dad. He was twice the width and what remained of his hair was grey. He had the battered nose and cauliflower ears of the habitual fighter. He was wearing the uniform of a BT engineer, down to the ID swinging from a chain around his neck. The young lad had a purplish scar running up one arm that looked like a souvenir from a knife fight. Not the sort you want to tangle with. Neither looked particularly worried about their situation, as if being arrested was all in a day’s work.
I turned my attention to the man in the armchair just as Derwent said, ‘Well, look who we have here. Hello, John. Nice to see you again. What brings you back to these parts?’
‘None of your business.’ His heavy eyelids didn’t even flicker; he didn’t look surprised to be addressed by name. I stared at him, at the tan that spoke of life in a hot country, at the thick ash-coloured hair that curled over his collar, at the heavy ring he wore on one hand and the Rolex watch that didn’t quite go with the steel handcuffs he was sporting. He had a long nose, full lips and a square jaw, and his skin was so smooth that I found myself wondering if he’d had Botox. His white shirt had a smear of blood on the shoulder, drying to brown. The overall impression I got was of a coolness that bordered on the psychopathic, and I knew I had seen his face before, but I couldn’t place it.
‘What you do is my business, you know that. Must be something big, if you’re here yourself. I thought we’d seen the last of you.’ Derwent had his hands in his pockets and was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He had moved closer to the suspect, looming over the man he was addressing. I slipped into the room and stood beside one of the firearms officers who was cradling his MP5 like a baby.
‘No comment.’ The tanned man was having to lean back with his head at an awkward angle to maintain eye contact with Derwent. It seemed it was too much trouble. He pulled a face and looked away with an air of finality, as if he was bored with the conversation.
‘Come on, John. Talk to me.’ He lowered his voice so I could only just catch what he said. ‘You don’t want me to make you talk, do you? Only I’ve learned quite a bit from you and your lads, over the years. Very inventive, some of the things you come up with.’
‘But not legal.’
‘A couple of minutes is all I’d need, wouldn’t you say? I’m sure I can get a couple of minutes alone with you.’
The man didn’t look remotely impressed. ‘Keep talking, sonny, because I ain’t.’
There was a sound of footsteps outside the flat. Shadows crossed the window, the frosted glass making the silhouettes unidentifiable. I caught a rumble of conversation in the hall and heard Godley’s voice.
Derwent had noticed too. ‘If you won’t talk to me, maybe you’d like to have a word with an old friend.’
The man looked up, suddenly interested, as Godley appeared in the doorway. They locked eyes immediately. I looked from the arrested man back to Godley and flinched at the expression on the superintendent’s face. Never usually easy to read, his demeanour was openly hostile – murderous, I would have said, had it been anyone else. He sounded calm, though, when he spoke.
‘John Skinner. This is a surprise. It’s been a long time.’
I jumped, wondering if I had misheard. I looked at Derwent, who was watching me, waiting for my reaction. I got it now. I understood why he had been so excited, even if I didn’t understand anything else. John Skinner was a notorious murderer, armed robber and kidnapper, a violent thug and career criminal who had fled to the Costa del Sol to fight extradition on a whole collection of outstanding warrants. Now he was sitting in the living room of a convicted paedophile in a back street of Brixton, and I couldn’t begin to imagine why.
Skinner smiled thinly. ‘Inspector Godley. Sorry – it’s Superintendent now, isn’t it? I find it hard to keep up.’
‘Understandable.’ Godley’s eyes were watchful. ‘I never thought you’d leave sunny Spain again.’
‘I had my reasons.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
It was Skinner’s turn to let his mask drop. Strain twitched a muscle in his cheek. ‘You’ve got to let me go, Godley. I’ve got business.’
‘No chance.’
Skinner’s upper lip lifted, showing his canines in what might have been a smile if it hadn’t been so clearly a snarl. ‘You haven’t changed. I’d have thought you’d be sympathetic. You got a daughter, don’t you? Isabel. Lovely girl. Takes after her mother. And how is Serena anyway?’
Godley shook his head. ‘This isn’t about me.’
‘On the contrary. If you stop me from doing what I need to do, it’s all about you.’ Skinner paused a moment, then said: ‘It’s Moorcroft Road, isn’t it? Number forty-seven, Moorcroft Road, NW3—’
He broke off as Godley moved, lunging across the room, completely oblivious to the shouted warning from the armed officer as he crossed in front of him. The room turned to chaos in an instant. The older man pushed off the sofa and grabbed for the machine gun while the young one fought the other officer for control of his Glock, only mildly hampered by the cuffs. I had time to see that Godley had pulled Skinner off his chair and was systematically punching the living daylights out of him before Derwent cannoned into me, pushing me to the ground. I fell awkwardly, whacking my face against the edge of the TV table, and saw stars.
‘Stay down!’ Derwent ordered, going past the armed officers to try to separate Godley from Skinner. Dazed, I wondered why he didn’t bother with the others, but then again, Skinner was the important one. And then one of the armed officers stepped back onto my hand and I was too busy trying not to pass out to pay much attention to anything else. I was only dimly aware of reinforcements arriving, of the younger man being hit with a Taser just as he got hold of the handgun and turned to wave it at the officers who were coming in. The big man got a dose of CS spray that put him on the floor, rolling from side to side. He had an unexpectedly high-pitched voice and he bleated, ‘My eyes! My eyes!’ until someone took pity on him and led him outside. Skinner went too, with blood dripping from his mouth and nose, attended by a paramedic on one side and an escort of armed officers.
Hands took hold of my arms and dragged me to standing. I put up as much resistance as a rag doll; I was feeling about as robust.
‘Are you okay?’ Derwent’s voice. I nodded, speechless. ‘Better get your head looked at. It’s bleeding.’
It was the least of my worries. I looked past him to where Godley was sitting, head bent, his phone jammed against his ear. He was leaning his head on one hand and his knuckles were red-raw from the fight. He looked defeated, as if he and not Skinner was the one who had been beaten. His voice sounded unlike I’d ever heard it before, close to panic, and what he was saying over and over again explained why.
‘He knew my address, Bill. How did he know my address? How the hell did he know my address?’
Chapter Ten
As was becoming depressingly normal after a big arrest, I ended up in hospital. The only thing to be said for this particular occasion was that I was walking wounded rather than flat-out unconscious, and I was only there for a check-up. One of the paramedics had taken a look at me at the scene and declared that I probably wasn’t concussed, probably didn’t need stitches and probably hadn’t broken any bones in my hand, but all Godley heard was ‘probably’ and ordered me to do as I was told and go to A&E. Which was fine, except that it drew attention to the non-heroic role I’d played in John Skinner’s escape attempt and meant I missed out on celebrating Skinner’s arrest with the rest of the team. The really annoying part was the three-hour wait nursing my bruises, watching more seriously damaged people jump the queue. My only distraction was a magazine someone had left behind. It was the kind that featured lurid true-life stories so they could use eye-catching headlines on the cover. Mostly, the headlines tur
ned out to be bollocks when you got down to it. Nonetheless, I spun it out, reading every word of ‘I Gave Birth to My Grandfather’s BABY’ and ‘I Lost FIFTEEN Stone by Eating BURGERS’. The alternative was a poster about malaria. Needs must.
I got as far as the horoscopes and was so annoyed by mine – ‘You don’t like taking advice, but it’s time to listen to someone close to you. On this occasion, they’re right and you’re wrong!’ – that I couldn’t stand to read another word. I tossed it onto the chair beside me and looked up to see Godley standing in the doorway scanning the room, tall and grave, his iron-clad composure back in a big way. Surprised, I put my hand up and waved until he spotted me. His face lightened. He half-turned and said something over his shoulder and I felt even more unsettled as Derwent appeared beside him. As they made their way across the crowded waiting room I forced a smile. I didn’t like being seen at a disadvantage, by either of them. I wanted Godley to see me as a reliable member of his team, not a liability, and I wanted Derwent to see me as little as possible. Whatever weakness he noticed, he would use against me, and I was on my guard at once.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ I asked as soon as they were within earshot. ‘Don’t you have somewhere better to be?’
‘We’re at the end of a long queue of people who want to talk to John Skinner. The earliest we’re going to get to talk to him is tomorrow morning. And we wanted to make sure you were all right.’ Derwent was doing his sincere face, his forehead crinkling with concern. ‘Has anyone seen you yet?’
‘Just a nurse to see if I needed urgent attention. And I don’t,’ I added quickly. ‘In fact, I could probably go home.’
‘Stay where you are.’ Godley sat down on the chair opposite me with a blink-and-you’d-miss-it wince.
‘Are you okay?’
‘A few bruises from earlier. Nothing serious,’ he said shortly, and I instantly regretted drawing attention to it. After a couple of seconds, he cleared his throat, as close to awkward as I had ever seen him. ‘About what happened. I wanted to apologise.’