The Murder Exchange

by Simon Kernick

  I wasn’t sure how much use it was finding out that Jean Tanner, ex or current prostitute, had visited the flat of a known drug dealer on more than one occasion, even if he had supplied her with coffee, but at least it was something. However, our good fortune, if good fortune it could be called, didn’t last very long. On the way to Jean’s place there was an accident on the Caledonian Road that held us up for getting close to half an hour in steadily increasing heat. Then Berrin, who was in charge of navigation on the basis that I didn’t trust him behind the wheel in the state he was in, got us lost in the backstreets of East Finchley. By the time we finally tracked down the address – a flat in an ultra-modern, heavily alarmed four-storey block that sat like an eyesore between the Georgian town-houses on either side of it – it was almost half eleven. And, after all that, she wasn’t in.

  We had six more addresses to visit that day, all of them doormen who had worked at one time or another in the past six months at Arcadia. The list had been supplied by the proprietor of Elite A, a Mr Warren Case, himself a one-time doorman. We’d interviewed Case, who could fairly be described as a man of many sovereign rings, the previous afternoon at his home, an untidy third-floor flat in Barnsbury which also doubled as Elite A’s offices. Case had shown us Elite A’s certificate of incorporation and VAT registration, both with his name on it, and had provided us with a list containing nine names. Two of them had already been interviewed during the course of the investigation, and another had left the country for Australia more than a month before the murder and was, as far as Case knew, still there. He’d given us the addresses of everyone else and then we’d been on our way. As we’d left, I’d asked him how well he’d known Roy Fowler. ‘Well enough to know that he was a slimy cunt,’ he’d replied evenly. Which was probably a fair enough description, but made me think that if you’ve got a man like Case saying that about you, then you’ve really got problems. Although, of course, at that time I didn’t know the half of it.

  We hadn’t phoned ahead to warn any of the interviewees we were coming, which was not untypical practice in a murder inquiry. It was unlikely that any of them would know anything of real help, but if they did and they didn’t want to talk, a surprise visit would help to prevent them making up a convenient story. However, it also meant that, like Jean Tanner, they might not be there when we called, particularly on a hot summer’s day like this one, and not surprisingly the first two on the list weren’t, while the third was just going out as we arrived. He’d only worked with Matthews on a handful of occasions, and claimed he couldn’t really recall too much about him. ‘He was a bit of a wanker, I remember that much,’ he told us, which wasn’t exactly news. Him and Fowler must have been a right pair of cards.

  By the time we left him it was gone one o’clock and food called. We stopped at a Greek-owned sandwich place off the Finchley Road, and ate in relative silence, both feeling worn down by the drudgery of detective work.

  ‘You know, don’t get me wrong, Sarge,’ said Berrin between mouthfuls of turkey, salad and mayo baguette, ‘but I thought that there’d be more excitement to murder investigations. I don’t mean that it should be fun or anything, but it just seems to be the same sort of monotony that you always get.’

  I chewed thoughtfully on my ham and pickle sandwich. It was quite tasty except for the fact there was too much fat on the ham. ‘Dave, if it was really like it was on The Sweeney, no one would ever leave, would they?’

  ‘I know. I just wish it felt like we were getting somewhere, that’s all.’

  He had a point, and at that moment I felt the same way. It would have been a good day to sit out in the garden with a decent book, catching a bit of sun and letting the world drift idly by. Or maybe even to take my daughter out somewhere, making the most of the fact that she was still young enough not to look at me with a teenager’s wincing embarrassment. But I’d learnt long ago that you don’t do policework for the laughs or the job satisfaction. You do it for the desire to put away criminals, which basically is an end in itself. I could see, though, that Berrin, who was still new enough to think there was a lot more to it than that, was flagging and needed a bit of an interest injection.

  ‘This Jean Tanner’s got herself a nice pad,’ I said, taking a sip from my mineral water and wishing it was beer. ‘How much do you reckon it’s worth?’

  ‘Just the location’s got to be worth a fair bit. The thing is, we don’t know what her actual place is like.’

  ‘Well, say it’s a one-bedroom flat. It’s a nice area of Finchley, it’s still got to be worth – shit, I’m no estate agent, help me out here.’

  ‘Two hundred grand. Maybe more.’

  ‘And it’s probably bigger than one bedroom. I don’t reckon we’d be looking much short of two fifty. That’s a lot of money for a prostitute, the type who hangs about with a lowlife like Shaun Matthews. Particularly if she’s got a drugs habit.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  And this was where the interest went out of the injection. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It just seems odd.’

  The fourth address was on a residential road of run-down whitebrick terraces, less than half a mile away from Highbury stadium. The traffic was appalling on the way there, mainly due to the fact that Arsenal were playing at home, and it was half two and about ninety degrees when we finally parked up almost directly outside the lower ground-floor flat of Craig McBride. According to Case, McBride had worked for Elite A for the best part of a year in a freelance capacity and was still used by them at fairly regular intervals. He was twenty-seven years old and had prior convictions for ABH, threatening behaviour, theft, and possession of Class A and B drugs, a fact that had been discovered when we’d run his name through the computer. It wasn’t strictly legal any more for someone with his record to be employed as a door-man, unless he’d somehow convinced the council that he was a reformed character, which I doubted. But I knew it happened, and for the moment it wasn’t worth taking the matter up with Warren Case.

  A set of greasy steps led down to McBride’s abode. The front door was shabby, the once-white paint peeling off in strips to reveal dull-coloured wood beneath, while an ancient-looking hanging basket containing nothing but dry earth and a cluster of weeds hung limply from one of the outside walls. There was a small dirty window to the right of the door. I wondered briefly whether it had ever been cleaned. It didn’t look like it. Straightening my tie, I peered through it and immediately my spirits lifted. Eureka. Just what we needed.

  Within a Western country’s somewhat limited means of coercion, there’s no surer way of getting someone to talk than to give them the alternative of criminal charges, and it looked like Craig McBride was indulging in an activity that left him very much exposed to the latter. Even through the stains on the window, I could clearly make him out sitting on a sofa in his front room behind a coffee table on which a plate piled with white powder was sat. Next to the plate was a large tub of baking soda, and next to that were small transparent plastic wraps, each containing more of the powder. Sherlock that I was, I hazarded a guess that the contents of each one weighed pretty much exactly a gram. McBride himself, dressed only in a pair of shorts, was leaning forward, head down, fiddling with what looked like a small electronic weighing machine. As if confirmation of what he was doing was needed. Criminal mastermind young Craig was not. He might as well have put up a sign on the road saying ‘Drugs this way’, such was his total and utter recklessness. Never underestimate the stupidity of criminals. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps a lot of us going.

  I turned to Berrin, put a finger to my lips, and motioned for him to have a look. Berrin peered in, then stepped back, smiling. ‘It seems a shame to disturb him,’ he whispered. ‘He looks so busy. Do you think it’s worth knocking on the window?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, he might make a dash for it, or put up some resistance. Let’s spring it on him once we’re inside.’ I stepped forward and knocked hard on the door.

  Ther
e was no immediate answer, which was to be expected. He would now be desperately trying to hide the stuff before someone spotted him through the window. I gave him a few seconds, then knocked again. This time, I motioned for Berrin to take a look through the window, knowing that we had to play this right. I wanted McBride to see Berrin but not me (I looked too much like a copper), but I also wanted him to see him after he’d got rid of the stuff. That way he’d probably open the door.

  As it turned out, we timed it perfectly. I stood back and watched while Berrin gave him a friendly wave and a smile through the window, like a particularly enthusiastic door-to-door salesman, before receiving a muffled ‘Who the fuck are you?’ in return. Berrin just kept smiling and moved away from the window.

  By the time the front door opened a few seconds later and McBride’s head appeared round it, already mouthing abuse, we’d removed our warrant cards and were lifting them for him to see. His eyes widened momentarily and I spoke quickly before he thought about making a dash for it. ‘Mr McBride? We’re here to ask you a few questions regarding the murder of Shaun Matthews.’

  He looked nervous, which was to be expected. ‘Who?’

  ‘Shaun Matthews. I believe you worked with him on a number of occasions on the door of the Arcadia nightclub.’

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah, Shaun. That’s right.’

  ‘Can we come in?’ I said, pushing the door open and stepping confidently over the threshold like I owned the place.

  McBride tried to stand his ground, but without a great deal of success. ‘Look, it’s not a good time right now.’

  ‘It won’t take more than a few minutes,’ said Berrin, pushing his way in behind me.

  ‘Oi, you can’t come barging in like this. Don’t you need a warrant?’

  I smiled and looked him directly in the eye, an easy feat since we were only inches apart. ‘Why? Have you got something to hide, Mr McBride?’

  ‘No, course not.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m just going out. Can’t you come back later?’

  But he spoke this last sentence with defeat on his breath, and I knew we had him.

  ‘We’ll be very unhappy if we have to come back later, Mr McBride,’ I said, ‘and we’ll be asking ourselves why you wouldn’t let us in, and that might mean we have to investigate you further.’

  ‘All right, all right, you win.’ He moved away from the door and led us through the cramped hallway and into the kitchen, well away from the room where he’d been dividing the drugs.

  The kitchen was a mess with a big pile of empty plates and cups in the sink. The tops were dirty and there was a vague smell of grease in the stale air. He leant back against one of the tops while we stood in the middle of the floor facing him. ‘Ask away,’ he said, seemingly a little more confident now. Probably thinking what he was going to tell his friends about this near miss and how stupid the coppers were for not having a clue what he’d been up to when they arrived. I decided to put a pin in his balloon and establish control immediately.

  ‘We’ll level with you, Mr McBride. This is a murder investigation, so it’s information relating to the murder that we’re interested in, nothing else. The fact that you’ve got a load of white powder hidden somewhere in your sitting room, and that that white powder’s very likely a Class A substance, and that possession of such powder with intent to supply is an offence which always ends in a substantial custodial sentence, particularly for someone who already has a lengthy criminal record’ – the blood was draining from McBride’s face and his body had tensed – ‘is not our primary concern. However, if you don’t answer our questions truthfully, then we may suddenly become very interested in that white powder and what it represents. Do we make ourselves clear?’

  McBride looked like he was weighing his options. The tension in his muscles did not bode well. Even the tattoos on his arms were rippling.

  ‘Now, you could try and make a break for it. You’re a big man, you might even make it. But then we’ll have the drugs and we’ll put out a warrant for your arrest, and you’ll get caught, and then you’re in a position one hell of a lot worse than if you simply stay here and answer our questions. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘How do I know you won’t charge me anyway, whatever I say?’

  ‘I’ve just told you why. Now let’s do this interview somewhere a bit more comfortable. Your drugs den’ll do.’ McBride started to say something but I wasn’t listening. I turned and walked back towards the front room, with Berrin in tow.

  We both sat down on the sofa and motioned for McBride to sit on a chair opposite. He did as he was told, his expression that of a man gutted to have been caught out in such a stupid way.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘How well did you know Shaun Matthews?’

  He didn’t answer us for a couple of moments as he continued to weigh his options. I looked casually down over the side of the sofa to where the tin of gear, the individual wraps, the baking soda and the scales had been hastily stashed. It seemed to do the trick. ‘OK, I suppose.’

  Berrin consulted his trusty notebook. ‘You worked the door at the Arcadia on sixteen separate occasions in the three months prior to Mr Matthews’s death. I expect it’s fair to say that he was there on most of those occasions, as he was the chief doorman.’

  ‘Yeah, I knew him quite well. He was all right. Fancied himself a bit, but all right.’

  ‘He was the main dealer in the place, wasn’t he?’ I said.

  ‘Look, I don’t want any of this getting back to me …’

  Once again, I looked over the side of the sofa at the incriminating evidence. ‘I don’t really think you’ve got a lot of choice, Mr McBride. Not unless you don’t mind spending the next couple of years behind bars, wondering why you’re the only person left who still believes in that outdated concept of honour among thieves.’

  ‘OK, OK, yeah. He was the main dealer in the place. He ran it all on the floor.’

  ‘How did it work?’ asked Berrin.

  ‘Basically, all the doormen were dealers. Not big time, mind. But we were allowed to supply.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The management.’

  ‘Roy Fowler, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, him.’

  ‘Carry on,’ I told him.

  ‘We had the monopoly on the place. If anyone else was caught dealing in there, they got a serious kicking. What happened was that it was common knowledge among all the punters that the doormen were the people to go to when you wanted something. You couldn’t just keep going up to the entrance and asking for stuff, so if someone wanted to buy something they asked the doormen inside the building, you know, who were patrolling the dance floor and that. They didn’t usually carry anything on them, just in case it was undercover coppers, but if they were happy with the buyer, they’d give their order to Fowler or Matthews, or one of the other staff, and they’d go off and get the gear. The doorman doing the selling would pocket the cash and then, at the end of the night, everything would get divvied up. Fowler got eighty per cent of everything you sold, that was the going rate, you got the rest.’

  ‘And was business good?’ asked Berrin.

  McBride nodded. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘How much would you make in a night?’

  ‘A couple of hundred on a good one.’

  Berrin whistled through his lips. ‘That’s a lot of money, especially for the bloke taking the eighty per cent.’

  ‘Did all the doormen get an opportunity to make that much money?’

  ‘Yeah, we took it in turns to walk the club.’

  I thought about this for a moment. If McBride was to be believed the club was turning over some serious drugs cash every night. I did the sums in my head. It was more than enough to kill for.

  ‘The Holtzes own the Arcadia, don’t they?’

  McBride’s face experienced a passing shadow of fear. Quick, but noticeable. ‘It’s Roy Fowler, as far as I know.’

  ‘Who o
wns Elite A?’

  ‘Warren Case.’

  I sighed. ‘You’re not really helping us very much, Mr McBride. I know that it’s Warren Case’s name on the company’s certificate of incorporation, but I want to know who really owns it. Who takes the profits.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I just work for them.’

  Once again, my eyes drifted towards the drugs. ‘What is this stuff? Speed or coke?’

  ‘It’s speed.’

  ‘Looks like a fair amount of it.’

  ‘Drugs Squad’ll be interested,’ mused Berrin.

  ‘Very.’

  McBride was sweating. It might have been a hot day but his nerves were unmistakable. He knew he had to talk but the prospect was scaring him. ‘Listen, I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know who owns it. A couple of times this geezer would turn up at Elite A and come in and talk to Case, and once I saw him leaving with this big holdall. I heard him say something to Case, you know just joking, saying that he must have done well that week.’

  ‘So it’s fair to assume that the holdall contained money?’ McBride nodded. ‘But I’m a bit confused here. You said Fowler made eighty per cent of the takings and the individual doormen made the other twenty per cent. So where did all these holdalls of cash at Elite come from?’

  ‘From what I’ve been told, Fowler took the money and checked it, but he didn’t keep it all. Most of it went back to Elite.’

  ‘Which means that Elite and Arcadia were very closely linked, wouldn’t you say?’ McBride gave a very reluctant nod. ‘This man you saw at Elite’s offices, who was he?’