by Tony Parsons
‘Why don’t you?’ she said, her face cold, her mouth hard but conceding nothing. She still believed she was going to catch her flight.
‘Ratana’s husband – I don’t think he was a missing person. I think he beat her one time too many and she made some enquiries. I think Ratana’s husband ended up in a mincing machine very similar to the one they were going to feed Lenny into at Smithfield.’ I glanced at the housekeeper standing in the doorway. ‘You certainly didn’t hire her for her cooking, did you, Wendy? She was a Guest Relations Officer at a place in Bangkok – and that’s a bar girl. Being a GRO in Bangkok is not light years away from being an exotic dancer on the Goldhawk Road, is it? I knew there had to be some special bond between you two when I nearly cracked a tooth on that turkey satay. How did you find each other, Wendy? How did you discover the nice little old Thai lady who knew how to make an unwanted husband disappear? I wonder how many missing husbands there are who ended up being served with the mashed potatoes…’
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Wendy Lane, her tongue a small pink snake on her lips. ‘I want my lawyer now.’
Ratana had picked up a medium-sized Buddha and was staring at it thoughtfully, as if she was unconnected to this conversation.
‘Who were they, Ratana?’ I said. ‘Who killed Lenny Lane and planned to turn him into sausages? Certainly not Goran Gvozden. And not even those bottom feeders in Faces. They don’t have the imagination for something like this. And they were too loyal to Lenny. I’m betting you kept it within the Thai community, didn’t you?’
The gardener stood up and turned to look back at the house. I could see the claw marks on his face where Cara Maldini had fought for her life. And I could see the same man who stared into my eyes in the early hours of Boxing Day.
He started towards the house.
And he was limping.
And from the look of murder in his eyes, he still hadn’t quite forgiven me for sticking a broken bottle into his leg.
‘Bah kwai!’ Ratana cried, and she struck me on the back of the head with the medium-sized Buddha.
I went down like I had been hit with a sledgehammer. Both women legged it. Ratana out the back way and Wendy Lane out the front.
The gardener was still limping towards the house. And I saw what was in his hands.
An old-fashioned scythe, the straight handle twice as long as the curved blade, looking like the grim reaper’s gardening tool. The wicked blade gleamed in the weak winter sunlight.
Then I heard Whitestone come through the front door and bang Wendy Lane hard against the wall and I saw a small red-haired young woman and a smooth-looking black man with a shaved head come over the back wall of the garden. Edie Wren and Curtis Gane wrestled Ratana to the ground as she screamed in their faces. A formal arrest will always be accompanied by physically taking control, they used to tell us in training. That’s what my colleagues had done. But I never had the chance.
Because the gardener came straight through the big windows, the glass exploding more than breaking, and he swung the scythe at my head.
I slipped sideways and he buried the blade deep into the coffee table, and as he gripped the handle with both hands to release it I hit him with three stiff left jabs to the side of the jaw, stinging him with the first one, snapping his head back with the second and – saving up my hardest shot for last – turning his lights off with the third.
Fred taught me that.
NEW YEAR’S DAY
London belonged to us.
While the city slept off its New Year’s Eve hangover, Scout, Stan and I drove through the dark, silent streets, with my daughter’s new bike in the back of the BMW X5, heading for the green fields and clean air that were waiting on the roof of our town.
We wheeled Red Arrow through a misty meadow on the south side of Kenwood House as the sun rose above the treeline of Hampstead Heath, spilling ribbons of pink and gold across the sky and lighting up the early morning frost. There was a group of ducks sleeping near the large pond – that was more like a small lake – and Stan contemplated them with interest. I helped Scout climb on Red Arrow.
‘Ready?’ I said.
‘Not really.’ She adjusted her pink crash helmet.
‘I’ve got you,’ I said, gripping Red Arrow’s handlebars and seat as we wobbled off down the gently sloping hill towards the pond and the sleeping ducks. My plan had been that riding Red Arrow downhill would somehow encourage her. It was not my greatest plan.
‘Hold on!’ Scout said, tentatively beginning to pedal, fighting for her balance, the small red dog capering by her side, his big eyes bulging with excitement.
‘I’ve got you,’ I said.
‘Don’t let go!’
‘I’ve got you, Scout!’
Then suddenly I didn’t have her. And Red Arrow took off with Scout clinging to it and Stan barking by her side, two small figures gathering speed as they hurtled down the hill towards the pond.
Scout held her legs out stiff to the side, forgetting the pedals, letting Red Arrow take her, and the ducks suddenly flew off in what looked like celebration but was probably naked terror. Stan went after them as Red Arrow slowed down and finally gently toppled on its side at the bottom of the hill. Scout crawled out from underneath it, the crash helmet over her eyes, raising a hand to let me know she was okay.
As I ran down the hill, my phone began to vibrate. DCI Flashman calling from New Scotland Yard. He sounded exhausted but happy. Or perhaps it was relief.
‘We’ve been interviewing Wendy Lane, Ratana and the Thai gardener all night,’ he said. ‘The gardener’s quite chatty for a man with his jaw wired up who speaks no English.’
‘And did he give you the names of the men who were with him in Smithfield?’
‘Names, addresses and star signs,’ Flashman said. ‘Once we got the translator in, he couldn’t have been more helpful. We’re looking at two more Thai nationals, fresh from the Land of Smiles. We’re bringing them in now. They’re all related. The gardener turns out to be Ratana’s nephew. The other two are some sort of cousins. And we looked at Ratana’s bank records. Wendy Lane transferred ten grand in two instalments, either side of Christmas. Amazing how cheap it is to have someone killed in this town.’
I helped Scout to her feet then held her bike and crash helmet as she went off to join Stan at the edge of the pond. He was having a paddle and staring at the ducks gliding peacefully across the still dark water. I inhaled deeply, loving the cold clean air that made the city feel like another world.
‘Wendy Lane says this was all Ratana’s idea,’ Flashman said. ‘And Ratana says that Mrs Lane coerced her and the gardener into conspiracy to murder. What do we know about Ratana’s husband?’
‘Only that he was a Brit who she met in some Bangkok bar,’ I said. ‘A violent drunk who went missing. Very permanently missing. My guess is there were some meat pies down Portsmouth way that tasted a bit funny for a while. That was the link between Ratana and Wendy – they both had husbands who they wanted out of the way.’
‘Lenny Lane disappears and though the body is never found the law eventually discover a blood-stained samurai sword that once belonged to Goran Gvozden,’ Flashman said. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
‘None of them ever hear of the precipitin test?’ I said.
Flashman chuckled. ‘Did you ever meet a criminal mastermind? Me neither. There are no criminal masterminds. Only cruel and vicious bastards who are never as smart as they think they are.’
I watched Scout and Stan skirting the pond, and the fallen leaves they kicked through were all the same deep red colour as our dog.
‘How’s Goran Gvozden’s son doing?’ I said.
‘It turns out there’s a grandmother back in Serbia,’ Flashman said. ‘Goran’s mother. I Skyped her. The old lady’s flying over today to collect the boy and take him back to Belgrade. I guess he’ll be all right with his grandmother, right?’
‘Yes,’ I said. �
�Grandmothers are the best. She’ll love him for as long as she lives. Take it from me. Happy New Year, sir.’
‘Happy New Year, Wolfe.’
I walked over to the pond where Scout and Stan were waiting for me.
‘I’m a rubbish bike rider,’ Scout said.
‘You’ll get better every day,’ I said.
My phone vibrated again and I took it out, watching the sun light up the majestic cream-coloured facade of Kenwood House. A few joggers and dog walkers were starting to appear. The sun was up now and the sky was an unbroken blue. The first day of the New Year was going to be beautiful.
I listened for a bit and then handed the phone to Scout.
‘It’s for you,’ I said.
Mrs Murphy and her granddaughter Shavon watched Scout stuffing her overnight gear into her yellow-and-black Dogs Trust backpack. My daughter was at the door before Mrs Murphy quietly called her back.
‘You’ll not see your daddy until tomorrow,’ Mrs Murphy said. ‘You’ll want to give him a big kiss.’
Scout came back and kissed me fiercely on the side of the face.
‘Did you like your present, Daddy? Nighthawks by Edward Hopper?’
‘Best Christmas present I ever got,’ I said. ‘Go and have fun with your friend, angel.’
From the window of our loft I watched Mrs Murphy cross Charterhouse Street with Scout and Shavon, heading towards the deserted meat market; you could have taken them for a grandmother spending time with her two granddaughters during the holidays.
And I felt the sharp stab of love that is the constant companion of the single parent.
Scout and I were doing fine. I looked forward to seeing her grow over the coming year. But it ripped at my heart that my ex-wife, busy now with her new family and her new life, would see so little of that precious time, all that time that would never come again. Yet there was something important that I was only just beginning to understand.
It was her loss.
My phone began to vibrate for the third time on New Year’s Day. WHITESTONE CALLING, it said.
At first there was only silence at the other end of the line. Then I heard urgent voices, shouts, and the sound of my skipper catching her breath after running, or possibly diving for cover.
‘We have a situation,’ Whitestone said. ‘There’s a father holding his family hostage and threatening to kill them. He has a firearm. I’m texting you the address now.’
‘I’m on my way,’ I said.
Whitestone sighed.
‘It’s the pressure that comes with this time of year, Max. Families locked up together. Far too much food and drink. All the old grievances coming out. All the old wounds opened up.’
‘I always quite liked this time of year,’ I said.
‘Not me,’ said DCI Whitestone. ‘It’s dead time, Max.’
Then there was a single shot that seemed to last for a long time followed by furious screams and then the line went dead.
I looked at the address Whitestone had sent me as I walked to the fridge.
There was a postcard stuck to the door.
It was a picture of a brightly lit space in a city that was completely dark outside, a downtown diner, the kind of place that never closes even when the rest of the city sleeps, and the bright yellow light inside the diner revealed three men and a woman.
There was a couple at the bar, a tough-looking hawk-faced man in a sharp suit, tie and hat, sitting with a beautiful red-haired woman in a red dress who was examining her nails, and they were talking to the man in white who worked behind the counter as he crouched down to fix something, and none of them were paying any attention to the solitary diner who sat by himself at the counter, his back turned towards us, a man who would always be alone in the night.
It was Scout’s Christmas present to me, a fifty pence postcard from the gift shop of Tate Britain – Nighthawks by Edward Hopper. The best Christmas present I ever got.
I straightened the postcard where it was displayed on the fridge door.
Then I put on my leather jacket and I went down to the street.
THE CRIME MUSEUM
The Crime Museum up in Room 101 of New Scotland Yard is at the heart of the Max Wolfe stories.
Sometimes known by its unofficial handle, the Black Museum, this is where DC Max Wolfe goes for clues, guidance and knowledge. Because it contains nothing less than the secret history of London’s fight against crime for the last 140 years.
From the weapons of the Kray twins, to unpublished revelations about Jack the Ripper; from death masks taken at Newgate prison, to the hangmen’s nooses that executed some of the most notorious murderers of all time; from the personal belongings of the Great Train Robbers, to the stained cooking pot of Dennis Nilsen, the Crime Museum is overflowing with grim artefacts that date all the way back to the late nineteenth century. This is the Mecca of the criminal mind.
In The Murder Bag, Max visits the Crime Museum in the company of DCI Mallory as they attempt to discover the weapon that Bob the Butcher is using to cut the throats of rich and powerful men. And in The Slaughter Man, the hunt for a multiple murderer begins in a dusty corner of the museum devoted to a killer who, thirty years ago, slaughtered his victims with a gun for stunning cattle.
Max Wolfe is a fictional detective, but the Crime Museum is very real, although it has attained mythic status after keeping its doors firmly closed to the general public since the late nineteenth century. Beyond serving police officers and invited guests – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a visitor – very few have ever gazed upon its secrets.
Until now.
In autumn 2015, the Museum of London’s exhibition The Crime Museum Uncovered opens the door to the most secret room in the capital.
In every corner of the exhibition, as in every corner of the Crime Museum, there is a story from the blackest annals of crime, from the burglars who roamed the foggy streets of Victorian London to a terrorist’s melted laptop.
The Metropolitan Police began collecting criminal relics with the sole purpose of instruction, and the Crime Museum was conceived as a learning resource for serving police officers. And for 140 years, it has taught officers everything they needed to know about the minds of murderers, terrorists, gangsters, robbers and serial killers – and how the Metropolitan Police have hunted them down.
And what is so striking to anyone who visits – and what will no doubt strike the visitors to The Crime Museum Uncovered exhibition – is that while the museum records the deeds of some of the most notorious villains who ever lived, it is also very much about the men and women who have fought against the criminal world for 140 years.
What I remember most about my visit is that I came away with no doubt in my mind that real evil exists in the world. In the presence of countless weapons that have taken lives, the death masks of murderers, and the fading newspaper clippings of robbery, kidnapping, murder and mayhem, you can almost feel evil breathing down the back of your neck. But equally you do not doubt for a second that evil has been fought every step of the way.
After 140 years, The Crime Museum Uncovered at the Museum of London finally spills the long-held secrets of Room 101, New Scotland Yard. Nothing will tell you so much about human nature at its very worst – and very best.
The Crime Museum is one of the key locations in the world of Max Wolfe, as central to his life as 27 Savile Row, West End Central, where he works for Homicide and Serious Crime Command. And amongst all the relics of violent death and in the midst of all the chronicles of evil, he finds it a strangely inspirational place.
When you step inside The Crime Museum Uncovered, so will you.
The Crime Museum Uncovered runs from 9th October 2015 to 10th April 2016. See www.museumoflondon.org.uk/crimemuseum for details.
Tony Parsons
1
New Year’s Day was big and blue and freezing cold. The single shot from the block of flats ripped the day apart.
I threw myself down behind the nearest car, hitting the
ground hard, my palms studding with gravel, my face slick with sweat that had nothing to do with the weather.
Every gunshot is fired in anger. This one was full of murder. It cracked open the cloudless sky and left no space inside me for anything but raw terror. For long moments I lay very still, trying to get my breath back. Then I got up off my knees, pressing my back hard against the bright blue and yellow of an Armed Response Vehicle. My heart was hammering but my breathing was coming back.
I looked around.
SCO19 were already on their feet, staring up at the flats in their PASGT combat helmets, black leather gloves hefting Heckler & Koch assault rifles. Among them there were uniformed officers and plain-clothes detectives like me. All of us keeping our bodies tucked behind the ARVs and the green-and-yellow Rapid Response Vehicles. Glock 9mm pistols were slipped from thigh holsters.
Close by, I heard a woman curse. She was small, blonde, somewhere in her late thirties. Young but not a kid. DCI Pat Whitestone. My boss. She was wearing a sweater with a reindeer on it. A Christmas present. Nobody chooses to own a reindeer jumper. Her son, I thought. The kid’s idea of a joke. She pushed her spectacles further up her nose.
‘Officer down!’ she shouted. ‘Gut wound!’
I looked out from behind the car and I saw the uniformed officer lying on her back in the middle of the street calling for help. Clutching her belly. Crying out to the perfect blue sky.
‘Please God … please Jesus …’
How long since the shot? Thirty seconds? That’s a long time with a bullet in your gut. That’s a lifetime.
There is a reason why most gut-shot wounds are fatal but most gut stab wounds are not. A blade inflicts its damage to one confined area, but a bullet rattles around, destroying everything that gets in its way. If a knife misses an artery and the bowel, and they can get you to an anaesthesiologist and a surgeon fast enough, and if you can avoid infection – even though most villains are not considerate enough to sterilise their knives before they stab you – then you have a good chance of surviving.