by Adam Creed
‘You really think Greta Kashell could have something to do with Colquhoun or Montefiore? It’s her husband that’s supposed to be Lotte Stensson’s killer, not her.’
‘There’s no SOC evidence for Colquhoun or Montefiore,’ says Staffe. ‘Just like the Lotte Stensson case. Clean as a whistle. We’d have got nothing if Nico Kashell hadn’t walked in and sung up his confession. I went to see Jessop earlier on.’
‘Jessop!’
‘He took Nico Kashell’s confession.’
‘They reckon that’s what finally did for the poor sod – sending down a father for looking after his little girl when the police stood by and did nothing.’
‘He wasn’t looking after Nicoletta, Smet. He was looking after himself. He couldn’t live with himself so he murdered someone.’
‘And I suppose it’s a crime to take revenge on someone who rapes your child.’
‘Which side of the law are you on?’ He shouts up another round and listens to Smethurst sing the song of sad Bob Jessop with the strains of a soaring sax and a fast-bop rhythm section coming up from the room below. It’s a melancholic take on ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ and Staffe tries to get his head around Cole Porter being hooked on heroin, in spite of that warning voice in the night. Staffe thinks of Johnson; repeating and repeating in his ear.
Smethurst continues, ‘Poor bloody Jessop was on the edge from the first damn day he walked back into the Met. His heart and soul was in Leadengate and he knew we didn’t want him. Didn’t get his pension, you know. No enhancements and he’s got to wait till sixty now.’
Each mention of Jessop takes him back three years. He thinks of Sylvie, too, curled up in his phone, waiting to be called. He tries to forget that and takes a drink. ‘I wonder how he gets by, financially?’
‘Bit of security work here and there? I don’t know.’ Smethurst raises his glass to the barmaid, wiggles it.
‘Delores left him.’
‘Shouldn’t marry, too good for you.’ He leans towards Staffe breathing ethanol, says, ‘Did you ever …?’
‘No I didn’t. He’s a friend.’
‘He’s a friend, but …’ Smethurst goes serious, looks Staffe in the eye, ‘… but you’re snooping on him. You’re snooping on him in the middle of a murder inquiry. Makes me glad to be a friend of yours, Will. Truly, it does.’
He waits for Smethurst to laugh, to make a joke of it, and eventually he does. He slaps Staffe on the shoulder and says, ‘Gotcha.’ But the truth remains, long after the next few drinks have come and gone; long after Stan Tracey’s lad has said ‘Thank you’ for the last time in the room below.
Staffe settles the tab and punches in his PIN, takes the credit card back, leaving a healthy tip. He refuses a contribution from Smethurst who says, ‘Why d’you do it, Staffe? If I didn’t need the money – if I had your money – I’d be out of here.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘Believe me, I would.’ Smethurst downs the last mouthful and stands down from his bar stool, hitches his trousers up on to his low-slung beer belly. ‘Come on, Staffe. What’s it all about? What kind of kick do you get out of doing this?’
‘Kicks? Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all.’
‘You what?’
‘Cole Porter, Smet. I just get the same as we all do.’
Smethurst shakes his head. ‘Say what you like, but it’s different for you, Staffe.’
‘Can you imagine not doing this?’
Smethurst suddenly looks serious, as if a joke is inappropriate. They make their way downstairs and Smethurst pauses by the entrance. ‘You don’t do it just because there’s nothing else to do. You’ve got a fire in the belly.’ He makes a playful swipe at Staffe’s midriff and Staffe pretends to double up, as if he’s hit.
They push open the door and make their way out of the club. It is coming a pale, pale light and even in the City’s dirty eastern crannies, you can hear the birdsong. Walking down towards Moorgate, the Limekiln tower looms, dark. Smethurst flags down a newspaper van and shows his warrant card. The driver looks daggers at him but lobs a paper to Smethurst anyway. Staffe wonders how much like Smethurst he may become, and whether one day he’ll be in Jessop’s boat.
‘Fuck me!’ shouts Smethurst.
Staffe says nothing, just feels his heart plummet as he reads the front page that Smethurst holds out in front of him.
A photo of Leanne Colquhoun dolled up in bra and panties, takes up half the front page of the News. Above the picture is the headline COVER UP. Below the picture is a strapline, WHO IS THE VENGEANCE MAN?
Leanne Colquhoun is quoted as having told Nick Absolom that not only was she wrongly held as a suspect for her husband’s killing, but she was denied her rights as a grieving victim. The pouting Leanne had gone on to say how her sister’s house was broken into by a plain-clothes officer without a warrant and she continued to be held in custody after another man, Guy Montefiore, was attacked as part of a serial vengeance wave while she was held.
Then Nick Absolom takes up the reins, postulating that Montefiore’s attack was hushed up by the police because they were worried about the consequences of a vigilante superhero doing their job for them.
Staffe feels sick to the pit of his guts as he reads on. He gets a personal mention from Leanne who refers to him as … a bit of a hunk but he’s got no clue what he’s doing. None of them have got any idea who did for my Karl or this other bloke.
Smethurst says, ‘Pennington’s going to have your bollocks for wallets this time. Why didn’t you keep her from talking to the press?’
‘Give me a cigarette.’
‘You’re going to need a suspect and quick. This will catch and I reckon London’s just about ready for some home-cooked justice.’
Staffe lights the cigarette and drags on it long and hard, goes light-headed. He waits for the nicotine wooze to pass and thinks about the messages he’s been sent. ‘There will be another, too.’
‘What?’ says Smethurst.
‘Trouble is, they’ve hit the nail on the head. It is a vengeance thing.’
‘One murder and one assault, does not a superhero make.’
‘I’ll see you, Smet. Thanks for the paper.’
‘You won’t hold on to this one now, Will. Let it go. She’s going to blow – up in your face if you don’t watch it.’
*******
The man watches Smethurst stagger off down Moorgate and follows Staffe as he makes his way towards Finsbury Circus, sitting down on one of the many empty benches by the bowling green. The odd stripe of early sun makes it through the office canyons and licks the bowling surface a golden green. Staffe sits forward with his head in his hands for five, ten, fifteen minutes. Then he stands, throws the News into the bin next to the bench. He claps his hands together and says something aloud, striding off, chin up. He looks as though he might be late for an appointment.
The man reaches inside his lightweight cream raincoat and takes out the reinforced 10 × 8 envelope. On it, he has written STRICTLY PRIVATE, FAO NEWS EDITOR.
Saturday Morning
Staffe has called Tony Ford in. All morning he has been searching for a connection between Ford and Debra Bowker or Leanne Colquhoun, or Nico Kashell, or the Watkinses. Tony has a couple of minor charges from his teens but nothing since Tanya was born. He’s not in any political organisations and there’s no way of finding out if he has any link with VABBA. Why would he? There has never been any report of Tanya being attacked before. The electoral records come through online and he gets a call that Tony Ford is here and is saying he doesn’t want a brief, that he has nothing to defend. Staffe tells them he’ll be straight down and runs the filter on the register.
Tony Ford’s housing DNA flickers up and shows everywhere he has ever been officially resident. A cursory glance shows he has hauled himself up the chain. From one estate to the next, until he presumably bought one, made a killing and moved into a flat in the Elephant, then made the leap west to his townhouse.
But Staffe sees a glitch. For six months, before he moved to the Elephant, Tony Ford, his wife and a young Tanya lived on the Limekiln estate.
‘You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve, you lot.’ Tony Ford sits back with his arms folded across his chest and his legs stretched out. Even though he has been trawling the data since early morning, even though he is desperate for a break, Staffe doesn’t really want Tony to bite. He wants whoever is doing this to be somebody else – not Greta Kashell or Linda Watkins or Tony Ford.
‘You haven’t said whether you know them.’
‘I don’t remember everyone I’ve ever met.’
‘Run me through where you’ve lived before.’
‘Then can I go?’
‘Then you can go.’
‘Stratford. Dalston. Elephant. Fulham.’
‘Moving up in the world, Tony,’ says Staffe. ‘Moving west.’
‘It’s what my wife wanted. What’s best for Tanya.’
‘You wouldn’t want to stay on a rough old estate, not with a young child. A young child you’d do anything to protect. Or avenge.’
‘The fuck you talkin’ about? I never lived nowhere rough. Just ’cause they’re out east or …’
‘I’d say the Limekiln was pretty rough.’
‘The Limekiln?’
‘Just before you bought your place in the Elephant. You don’t remember everything, do you, Tony?’
‘It was years ago.’
‘You ashamed, Tony?’
He stands up, says, ‘You said I could go.’
‘I’ll ask you once again. Have you ever heard of or met Leanne and Karl Colquhoun, Debra Bowker, Ross Denness …’
‘No!’
‘Then you can go.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got what I wanted, Tony. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To have dragged you away from your family.’
Tony Ford gives Staffe a quizzical sideways glance as he leaves, thinking Staffe might be taking the mick. But he sees straight off that he’s not.
‘I’m going to find the bastard who did that to your Tanya, Tony. But let us do it. Don’t do it yourself. There’s enough lives ruined in all this.’
Tony Ford nods at him, looks as if he might be thinking something through.
*******
Gibbets Lane is a mid-nineteenth-century terrace in the shadow of the Limekiln tower. At six o’clock Errol Regis puts his head out of the front door of number eighteen. He looks left and right down the empty street and ventures out, pulls the door gently behind him. He looks up at the clear, milky-blue sky and walks down towards the petrol station on Old Street. Errol looks older than he is with flecks of grey in the temples of his growing-out prison cut. Even though his father was born in Nigeria and met his mother in Jamaica, three years inside has made Errol’s skin go pale. He doesn’t even look black any more – to himself. As Theresa said when he came home. ‘Ell, you look like you seen a ghost.’
He plays with the keys in his pocket, unaccustomed to the simple privilege of being able to secure the opening of his own door. After three years in Belmarsh, Errol prefers the early mornings, shying away from the tumult of cars and lorries and people whirring through his corner of the city. It’s what cons find hardest: the lightning speed of life on the out.
Regis makes his way, nervously, across the forecourt of the petrol station and picks a copy of the News from the plastic shelves outside the kiosk. He looks over each shoulder as he scans the story of a London in the grip of vigilantes. Regis is afraid, skulks into the kiosk to pay.
Three years ago, Errol was convicted of raping Martha Spears, a twelve-year-old girl, in Victoria Park. The girl identified Errol and his DNA was found at the scene. He was already on licence for supplying ecstasy and coke to teenagers in the park. It was a conviction that everybody but Regis wanted and the judge gave him six years. Even though Errol has always maintained his innocence, he knows there are plenty of people who think he’d be better off dead.
*******
‘We have to be prepared for another attack.’ Staffe is addressing his team. The incident room is packed. ‘They’ve threatened to come back and finish Montefiore off, so we know their appetite’s not sated.’
It’s ten o’clock on Saturday morning and half the team have families. Most people in the room wouldn’t want to be in, ordinarily. But this isn’t ordinary. This is front page and hotting up.
‘Two attacks, sir?’ says Johnson, looking like death warmed up. ‘It’s hardly a serial killing spree.’
Staffe wants to tell Johnson to ‘shut up’ but he knows it is time to disclose the Stensson case. He’s got an appointment with Pennington in half an hour, when he’ll tell the DCI about the Kashell connection.
He takes a deep breath, scans the room as he says, ‘There was another case three years ago. It was handled by the Met and a woman called Lotte Stensson allegedly abused a ten-year-old girl called Nicoletta Kashell. The CPS didn’t push it and Nico Kashell, the girl’s father, got hold of Lotte Stensson in her own home. He broke her fingers, one by one, then her forearms and her shins. The pain killed her.’ Everybody in the room has shifted forward in their seats. Some whisper to each other. There is something special in the air.
‘Some victim,’ says Johnson.
‘Call Lotte Stensson what you like. She was attacked, just like Colquhoun and Montefiore. We’re here to catch up with the perpetrator, stop them from doing it again.’
‘It’s kicking off already, sir,’ says Johnson. ‘We’ve had a couple of attacks on sex offenders out east. Whoever’s doing this is going to be a hero to some people.’
‘That’s why I want you to get on to every case of sexual abuse the CPS has dropped in the last three years. I want you to get in touch with the defendants and tell them to exercise caution. And I want you to contact all sex abuse cons who’ve been released on to our patch in the last three months.’
‘And what about getting on to the CPS, telling them to reopen some of the cases?’ says Johnson.
‘We’re here to uphold the law, Johnson, not practise it. Chancellor is checking out why the Stensson, Colquhoun and Montefiore cases weren’t pursued.’
‘The CPS want it on a plate,’ says Johnson. ‘We bust our bollocks and …’
‘Thanks, Johnson. We’ll just have to keep busting our bollocks, I’m afraid. That’s why this job is so bloody rewarding.’
Everyone laughs but they know it’s time to knuckle down. For some, this will be the biggest case of their careers. Staffe points them to the coded charts that indicate individual and group tasks.
The team disperses and Staffe waits for the call from Pennington. He reads the potted biographies of Karl and Leanne Colquhoun in the newspaper, so hurriedly woven into a jumbled tale of lost love and heavy-handed policing. Buried in the text is the news that Karl Colquhoun’s funeral is on Monday. He makes a note to attend and sees a smeared reflection of himself in his window. He should have shaved, should have a comb to run through his hair.
The buzzer goes and Staffe takes a swig from the Listermint in his drawer and sprays Right Guard inside his jacket. He slaps himself on each cheek, harder than you’d think you could. It makes his eyes water.
He strides up to the fifth floor, knocks on Pennington’s door and turns the handle before he gets a response. Pennington is caught unawares and closes a file quickly. A copy of the News is on his desk, covered in lime-green highlighter pen. Staffe takes a seat without being asked and says, ‘We’ve had a breakthrough, sir. Do you remember Lotte Stensson?’ And as he says ‘Stensson’ he fixes a look on Pennington.
More slowly, he continues, ‘There’s a connection between Greta Kashell, the wife of the man who killed Lotte Stensson, and Tyrone Watkins. And there’s a connection between the same woman and Debra Bowker. I need a warrant to search the houses of Greta Kashell and Tyrone Watkins and I want to pull Debra Bowker in for questioning. We need to fly her over from Tenerife.’ He tries
a smile but Pennington doesn’t let it work.
Pennington picks up the newspaper and shakes it in the air. ‘How in God’s name did you allow this to happen? We’re already a laughing stock and what you’re telling me now points to there actually being a vigilante killer out there. We’ve already had attacks on registered offenders. I want to be quashing these rumours, not confirming them.’
‘I’m getting close, sir. They’re going to do it again, I know they are.’
‘Jesus, Staffe. Is that supposed to be a good thing?’
‘The victim will be someone the CPS has failed to convict for a sex offence, and the avenger will be someone from a group called VABBA, Victims Against Being Buried Alive.’
‘What!’
‘I need a warrant to search their premises.’
‘We have one murder and one assault. As far as I know, they’re not connected. The second one might be a copycat of the first. That’s it! The Stensson case was years ago.’
‘Greta Kashell, the mother of the girl that Stensson attacked, is a member of VABBA. Debra Bowker is in her damned address book.’
‘Because they’ve got something in common. Their children were the victims of sexual abuse.’
‘Victims the CPS failed to protect.’
‘The CPS don’t follow through on more than half of their cases, you know that.’
‘And Tyrone Watkins was in VABBA too.’
‘It’s a support group, Staffe. Of course people in similar situations are going to know each other. How do you know about her address book? You’ve already been into the Kashell house, haven’t you?’
‘The Kashells are at the heart of all this. I know it. Nico Kashell is doing life for killing Lotte Stensson and there’s not a shred of evidence, just the confession he coughed up to Jessop.’
‘Jessop! Jesus, man. I thought we’d seen the back of him.’ Pennington twiddles with a pen, swivels on his seat and looks out of the window. ‘This is a mess, Staffe. A right bloody mess. I thought you’d have learned after the way you brought Leanne Colquhoun in. You’re making us look like idiots. You’re making me look like an idiot.’