Spider Trap bak-9

by Barry Maitiland

  ‘And Ferguson?’

  ‘Solid.’

  ‘So the first step is identification parades, yes? Conducted by uniformed branch, of course.’ Sharpe took a breath, as if relieved that at least that would be out of his hands.‘Who do you suggest? Eltham?’

  ‘The offences took place in Lambeth.’

  ‘Of course, yes.You’ve heard of KCG Resources? They have mines, Canada and South America. Their shares are hot at the moment. Resources boom. The DCC told me to buy some. Safe bet, he said. The Roaches are major shareholders.Where do you buy your wine? Paramounts? They’ll have an off-licence down your way. One of the Roaches’ companies.’

  ‘I know it won’t be easy.’

  ‘And you seriously think that they were physically involved in the murder of those two kids recently? Wealthy, respectable men like they now are? It beggars belief.’

  ‘I think when faced with something personal they reverted to type. But I can only connect them to those murders through the gun that was used.We have to go for the old cases.’

  ‘But something else worries me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You, Brock.You’re not happy, are you?’

  ‘I know I’m right about the Roaches.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I know how slippery they are in a corner. I’m reluctant to show our hand until we’ve got a watertight case.The trouble is,we’re not going to get one without getting close to them and stirring them up. It’s all just too long ago. The evidence isn’t out there any more.’

  ‘Let’s get the question of identification sewn up, then we’ll talk again.’

  Three days later Brock was summoned back to his boss’s office. This time Sharpe had a third person on hand, Virginia Ashe, prosecutor from the Crown Prosecution Service. She grinned and barked a greeting.

  ‘Brock! Good to see you again. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Fine, Virginia. Congratulations, I saw you on the news last week.’

  ‘Oh, that. But you’ve been beating me on airtime lately. Everybody loves a grizzly corpse; three old skeletons and two young girls is unbeatable. Absolutely royal flush.’

  Sharpe broke in.‘Sit down,please.I’ve asked Virginia to assist us with our discussion, Brock.You’ve heard the results of the lineups? Three clear identifications. Fine, so we consider the next steps. Interview Mark and Ivor, I take it, warrants if necessary, and a warrant for the arrest of Ricky? You’ve read the summaries, Virginia.You agree?’

  ‘Ye-es, but we are on thin ice with the first two, don’t you think? I mean Brock has done brilliantly constructing a chain of evidence of their movements on that night, twenty-four years ago. Amazing really, but it doesn’t actually prove anything, does it? If they don’t want to cooperate, there’s not enough for a case to be brought for murder. Unless you could prove they still have the gun, say.Where is the gun, by the way? Does anybody know?’

  ‘No,’ Brock said.‘I think we have to assume that it’s well and truly disposed of by now. But we certainly need to search their compound at Shooters Hill. Virginia’s right. Let’s concentrate on Ricky.We have a witness who saw him use that gun in 1986. He’s the one to start with.’

  ‘Mm.’ Sharpe stared at the ceiling.‘The way my thoughts are going is this. Given the publicity surrounding the case, it would make sense for criminal proceedings to be instituted by the DPP, would it not?’

  ‘By us?’ Virginia looked sharply at him. ‘Rather than the police? By laying an information?’

  ‘Yes.With our full resources behind you,of course.’

  Brock saw that Sharpe had been doing some homework and probably taking advice. If ‘an information’, as the case for an arrest warrant was called, was laid by the police, it would be done not in the name of the police force as a body, but in the name of an individual officer, a chief constable or someone designated by him. Commander Sharpe didn’t want his name on that document.

  ‘Well,’ Virginia said. ‘I’ll take it to the boss, shall I?’ She shot Brock a deadpan look as vivid as a wink.

  ‘Yes, why don’t you do that, Virginia,’ Sharpe said, getting to his feet.‘Excellent idea.’

  Ricky Roach sat facing Bren Gurney and another detective across the table. He was much plumper and sleeker than in the old photographs, with more scalp showing through the well-groomed hair, but with the same contemptuous curl to his mouth. Beside him sat Martin Connell.

  Brock, not wanting at this point to disclose that they had made the link of Brown Bread between the Cockpit Lane murders and the shooting of Mr Singh, had decided not to carry out the interview himself and was sitting at Kathy’s side. Virginia Ashe was also there, keenly watching the screen.

  Bren opened the proceedings with the standard preliminaries, then said, ‘We’re investigating a series of thefts of luxury cars during the 1980s.’

  Roach looked at him in disbelief.‘Oh yeah? The 1980s? Are you serious?’

  ‘Perfectly.You were in the car business at that time, I believe. You had a sales yard and workshop in Lewisham, yes?’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ Roach turned to look at his lawyer. ‘The 1980s?’

  ‘I thought the charge was attempted murder,’ Connell said.

  ‘We’ll come to that. The matters are related. We want to examine your business records for the period 1979 to the present.’

  Roach laughed.‘No way.’

  ‘They don’t seem very worried, do they?’ Virginia said.

  Bren was laying three documents on the table in front of Roach and Connell.‘These are copies of warrants to search your business premises at Eltham, your accountant’s offices in the City, and your home at Shooters Hill. Officers are executing these warrants as we speak.’

  Roach picked up one of the sheets. ‘You’re searching Ivor’s office? He won’t like that.’ He smirked.

  Connell had picked up another of the warrants and had turned away from the camera, pulling out his mobile phone. After a short conversation he snapped it shut and turned back to face Bren.

  ‘My client’s wife is asleep.’

  Bren looked mystified.‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you know the rules? “In determining when to make a search, the officer in charge must always give regard to the time of day at which the occupier is likely to be present, and should not search at a time when the occupier or any other person on the premises is likely to be asleep.” I quote. My client’s wife is recuperating from recent surgery and is currently at home asleep. I have advised her sister,who is with her,not to permit entry to her home. Then there is Mrs Adonia Roach, my client’s sister-in-law, also resident at The Glebe, who is recovering from a street robbery in which she was seriously hurt. I suggest you advise your officers to withdraw.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Kathy said flatly, ‘They knew. They were expecting this.’

  Brock’s phone rang. He listened, then turned to the others. ‘The team at Shooters Hill. They’re being refused entry to The Glebe. It seems the construction of the perimeter gates and wall is more problematic than they anticipated. They’re going to have to bring in heavier gear.’

  Virginia Ashe stared at him.‘He’s right,you can’t break in.It’s our warrant, Brock. Tell them to back off.’

  For a moment it looked as if Brock wouldn’t agree.

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  Brock nodded and spoke into his phone.

  On the screen Bren was questioning Roach about his movements and operations in the mid-eighties. To every question Ricky replied,‘Don’t remember.’This went on for some time,the same reply given again and again until Bren’s exasperation began to show. Then Connell broke in.

  ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere. Can we cut to the quick? These warrants mention the evidence of a witness as grounds for a search.Who is this witness?’

  ‘We’re not prepared to disclose their identity at this stage.’

  Connell sat back, fingers laced across his belly. ‘I think we’re wasting
our time here, don’t you?’

  Brock had persuaded Mr Singh and his wife to take a holiday with cousins in Birmingham. The witness had become increasingly anxious after his first conversation with Bren, and was on a variety of medications against panic attacks and hypertension. Brock had noticed the way he unconsciously fingered his side where Roach’s bullet had hit. When the couple finally agreed to leave London, Brock made arrangements with the police in Birmingham to keep watch on the cousins’ home.

  On the day of Ricky Roach’s arrest,the patrol car parked across the road watched a white Volvo registered to Mr Singh’s father draw up outside the cousins’house.This was expected,as the police had monitored a phone call that morning from the older man to his son saying that they would drive up from London to pay him a visit.The elderly couple got out of the car and entered the house. An hour later a second patrol saw two people return to their car and drive off.

  When Brock phoned later that day to speak to Mr Singh, his cousin answered and said that wouldn’t be possible, as he was lying down with a severe migraine.When Brock asked to speak to his wife, that also was refused on the grounds that she was in the bath. There was something about the conversation that made Brock uneasy and he called the Birmingham police.When officers called at the house they found the cousins and the elderly parents, but no sign of the Singhs.

  Brock got a fast patrol car up the motorway with lights and siren going.When he arrived at the suburban house there were already three police cars there, and West Midlands detectives were questioning the four occupants of the house. Brock chose the elder Mr Singh, who had so far refused to say a word.

  ‘Are they safe, Mr Singh? That’s our first priority.You must tell us that.’

  The old man, back straight, very dignified in his black turban, blinked at the clock on the mantelpiece and murmured,‘I believe they are, sir, yes. But I can say no more.’

  At that moment a detective hurried into the room and glared at the Indian.‘They took a flight to Paris, sir, five hours ago.We’ve just heard.We found the Volvo at the airport.’

  It was another hour before it was established that in Paris the Singhs had transferred to an Air India flight to Mumbai.

  ‘It was too much to ask, sir,’ Mr Singh said sadly to Brock.‘You don’t know what it was doing to him. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. He lost eight pounds in a week.’

  ‘He didn’t receive any direct threats though, did he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘What about you? Did they threaten you, Mr Singh?’

  ‘As to that, sir, I cannot say.’

  Brock regarded him carefully. It was as if the man couldn’t bring himself to tell an outright lie.

  ‘I understand. But it would help me to know when this unspoken event took place.We arrested the man who shot your son at nine this morning, and you and your wife must have left for Birmingham at, what, nine-thirty? Not much time for a visitor this morning.’

  ‘There were no visitors this morning.’

  ‘We can trace telephone calls, discover when tickets were purchased . . .’

  ‘There’s no need to trouble yourself, sir. There have been no strange telephone calls. I myself purchased plane tickets for my son and his wife last night, on the internet.’

  ‘So you had a visitor last night.’ ‘As to that, sir, I cannot say.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Singh. How long does your son intend to stay

  in India?’ ‘Hard to say. There are many relatives. It may be a long trip.’

  Later that evening, on the insistence of Virginia Ashe, the charges against Ricky Roach were dropped and he was released from custody.At about the same time,Kathy took a call from the builder, Wayne Ferguson. He just thought he should let her know that, although he was absolutely clear in his identification of the two Roach brothers at the line-up, because of course he had seen them before, he was less sure now about whether it was actually that particular night that he’d seen them in the Cat and Fiddle. It was such a long time ago, and if he were put under cross-examination he couldn’t honestly swear that it couldn’t have been some other night.

  ‘Has somebody been talking to you, Mr Ferguson?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘No!’ He sounded offended. ‘Certainly not, no way,’ he protested, too much.

  She called Brock, on his way back down the motorway. He sounded tired and flat, as they all did.

  When he got back to London,Brock spent a couple of hours in his office dealing with urgent paperwork. A note from Dot told him that a meeting with Commander Sharpe had been scheduled for first thing the following morning. He put a sheaf of signed documents on her desk and left the building. It was a cold but dry night, and he walked the length of Whitehall to Charing Cross station, stopping on the way for a glass of whisky at the Red Lion, a stone’s throw from Big Ben.He caught his train home and walked from his station to the high street, where an archway gave access into the cobbled courtyard that led to the lane in which his house stood. In the far corner, at the beginning of the lane, stood a large horse chestnut tree, its black skeleton silhouetted against the dim clouds. A man was standing motionless beneath its branches, watching him approach.Brock looked around and was able to make out a second figure in the darkness against the wall of the old warehouse.

  Brock walked on. The man under the tree had both hands in the pockets of a long coat, a scarf around his neck, face hidden in the shadow of the brim of a hat, and it wasn’t until he cleared his throat with a spittly grunt that Brock realised, with a surge of heat to his face, who it was.

  ‘Mr Brock.’

  ‘Spider Roach.’

  ‘You remember me, then? Course you do. Thought we should talk.’

  The voice was weaker, hoarser, but still with something of its old menace. And as the man moved Brock recognised, even muffled by the winter clothing, the angular frame, all elbows and knees, with its stealthy stretching and sudden pouncing gestures, that was the source of his nickname.

  ‘That business today, with Ricky, what was the point of it?’

  ‘Solving crimes is what I’m paid to do.’

  ‘Settling old scores, more like.Your recent visits to Cockpit Lane must have stirred up old memories, eh? Put you in mind of old times. But it’s a mistake to look back, Mr Brock. That way you trip over what’s bang in front of you.’

  ‘You’re bang in front of me, Spider.’

  ‘Times have changed.Me and my sons are respectable businessmen.You’ll find that out if you do your homework properly.You and I are very different people now, older and wiser, I hope. I have ten grandchildren, four great-grandchildren, imagine that. What about yourself? That attractive wife of yours still around?’

  ‘She found someone better a long time ago.’

  ‘Too bad. And no new wife waiting for you at home, no children, no grandchildren . . .’ It wasn’t a question, Brock realised. Spider Roach had always been careful to keep himself well informed about the opposition.‘Pity,they put things in perspective. Without a family to give him a sense of proportion, a man can get obsessive about things that don’t really matter. Still, there must be other attachments, people you care for. Everyone has those.’

  ‘It’s cold out here, Spider. Too cold to listen to the ramblings of an old man.What do you want?’

  ‘What I want …’the voice was suddenly hard,‘…is to never hear of you again. Make an effort to see that happens, eh? Make an old man happy.’

  Spider Roach strode past him towards the archway, the other shadow falling in behind. Brock followed them, watching them get into a black Mercedes four-wheel drive. The interior light showed him the face of Mark Roach, the eldest son, getting in behind the wheel. As they drove away, Brock turned and walked home, thinking over Spider’s words. Inside he went from room to room, but found no signs that they had been there. He poured himself a whisky and sat down. The conversation had brought back two distinctive things about the way Spider used to work. He always took a lot of trouble to gather information about his victims
, so that by the time he pounced he would know all about their family and business networks. Brock had no doubt that Spider had brought himself up to date on his situation. The other distinctive thing about Spider was the way he exerted pressure, by threatening someone close to the target, leaving them no choice. He pondered on that, and the throwaway comment about ‘other attachments, people you care for’, and the more he turned the phrase over in his mind, the more uneasy he became.

  He made a list of people he cared enough about to interest Spider. It was very short, mostly connected with work. He began by phoning Kathy, then continued through the names. No one had heard from the Roaches. Finally, there was just one name left.

  He hesitated, poured another drink, thumbed through his address book and dialled a long number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, is that Doug?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is David Brock, Doug, in London. Suzanne’s friend.’ Was that the best choice of words?

  ‘Oh …well,well.Hello,David.What can I do for you?’

  ‘Is Suzanne there?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid she’s not with us any more.’

  ‘What?’ Brock gripped the phone more tightly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We put her on a plane last night. Ironic, isn’t it? After all this time, and you miss her by a few hours. She’s on her way home.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ He let out his suspended breath.‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine. She’s having a couple of day’s stopover in Tokyo on the way back. Do you want to know when she gets in to Heathrow? I’ve got it here somewhere.’

  Brock waited, feeling his heart rate subside. Doug came back on the line with the information.‘Better make it a big one,mate,’ he added.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bunch of roses.You’re not exactly flavour of the month.’

  ‘No, I can imagine. Thanks.’ He hung up and sipped at the Scotch.

  Even if Roach’s words had been meant as a threat, there was no possibility, surely, that he would have known of Brock’s friendship with Suzanne.Coming upon him like that,the silent figure waiting in the dark, the familiar features, the toneless voice, Brock had been abruptly transported back two decades, and the experience had unsettled him more than he’d have thought possible. He remembered another winter’s night,long ago,when he had gone to see a snout who provided regular low-level gossip and rumour about the gangs. As usual, they were to meet beneath a spreading plane tree on the edge of a local park. As he approached, Brock could see the man standing there, moonlight casting shadow stripes across his pale anorak, but there was something odd about his posture, the tilt of his head. Closer still and he made out the taut vertical of a rope connecting the man’s throat to the heavy branch above.Brock’s foot crunched on gravel and the figure twitched and gave a hoarse cry.