by Paul Finch
‘Okay, so we’re not dealing with a bunch of daft kids,’ Heck said, refusing to give voice to the sudden excitement he felt.
A duo of suspects in the Harold Lansing case; a duo of suspects here.
Clearly the two interlopers knew exactly what they were going to do, because they didn’t hang around to scope out the territory. They went quickly to the back of the van, opened it, and lifted out the pile of chain and the wooden signpost, then lurched round to the other side and briefly were out of sight while they stretched the metal links across the entrance. Very soon afterwards they scampered back into view, jumped into the vehicle, and it wallowed away from the kerb.
Heck shouted and Thornton hit ‘pause’.
The van froze with its number plate vaguely visible.
‘Can you enlarge that registration number?’ Heck asked.
Thornton’s fingers rattled over the keyboard and the image was cut down to a quarter of its size before expanding to fill the screen. It worked – the registration mark was much larger, but still clear enough to be readable.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a paper and pen?’ Heck said.
Thornton rummaged in a drawer, and handed him an empty notebook and a biro.
Quickly Heck jotted the VRM down – GD14 FED.
‘I take it that’ll help you catch them?’ Thornton asked.
Heck nodded. ‘That has helped me catch them.’
Mrs Thornton did her best to dry Heck’s clothes for him, but they were still damp an hour and a half later, and they reeked of the riverbed. Instead, she packaged them in brown paper and told him he could hang on to the clothes he’d borrowed. Charles had plenty of tracksuits.
‘I’ll try and arrange for someone to come and get your car out of the river,’ Thornton said while Heck waited for a taxi. ‘Not sure how we’ll go about that, to be honest. Think we’ll need a crane.’
It was now early evening, but it was still daylight outside. Even so, Heck was impatient to get back to Reigate. ‘Thanks for everything you’ve done,’ he replied. ‘Obviously any expense you’re put to, I’ll cover it.’
‘It isn’t a problem.’ Thornton stood by the fire with his hands in his shorts pockets. ‘I’m just glad you’re alive.’
‘Me too.’ Heck glanced from the farmhouse window and saw a vehicle approaching from the direction of the south entrance. He turned back to his hosts. ‘Listen … I’d like to tell you more, but to be honest I don’t know enough even to put two and two together at this stage. I’ll freely admit this case – if it is a case – is as weird as they come.’
‘The main question is are we in danger?’ Thornton asked. ‘Do we need to move into town maybe?’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that either.’
And it was true – Heck couldn’t. Had someone set their stall out to murder Mervin Thornton? And if so, as part of some personal vendetta or as part of the series perpetrated by Gail’s ‘psycho pranksters’? If it was the former, were the rest of the Thorntons also in danger? He didn’t know. If it was the latter, did that mean they were safe? He didn’t know that either. Likewise, the incident with the derelict bridge – was that another blow against the Thornton family or, as he increasingly suspected, had that been aimed at him? There were way too many questions and not nearly enough answers.
‘All I can say is this,’ he added. ‘Whoever these people are, on the very off-chance they’re still interested in you, I don’t think they’re going to come knocking at your door with a gun. Their style is more complex, dare I say more sophisticated, than that. However, I do think it would make sense if you were to stay alert … at least until I’m able to get a full team onto this.’
Thornton nodded. ‘If that’s what you think.’
Heck assessed them carefully. Charles Thornton worked outdoors all day and was strong, handy, and quite clearly brave. From his manner and conversation, he was also intelligent and educated. He looked a little pressurised by the situation, as any person would be, but on the whole was cool and relaxed. Mrs Thornton was seated on the sofa, hands clasped tightly together; a sure sign of tension. She nodded at Heck as he spoke, without smiling, watching him in that intense way of hers. It was almost defiant; as if she understood that he was here to help, but had decided not to take advantage of it. She certainly wasn’t the ghost he’d encountered when he’d first arrived. Again he put this down to her being part of that tough, postwar generation who were always at their best when danger threatened. Whatever it was, neither of the duo struck Heck as vulnerable, especially not when they were together.
A horn tooted outside.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go,’ Heck said. ‘Now my mobile’s out of order, I haven’t even got a direct number I can leave with you. But I’m based at Reigate Hall Police Station. And I know where you are, so I can get in touch easily enough.’
The Thorntons nodded again and saw him to the front door.
It was now after seven in the evening and there was very little traffic on the roads, but the journey back to Reigate still wasn’t quick enough for Heck. When he finally returned to the station, he paid the cabbie and dashed inside through the personnel door. The first friendly face he saw was Sally Bullock, who had briefcase in hand and was walking towards the exit. She looked startled to see his shabby old tracksuit and mussed hair, not to mention the small nick on his face caused by a tooth of glass when he’d attempted to vacate the sinking car.
‘Is Will Royton in?’ he asked, breathless.
‘He’s gone home now. What happened?’
‘It’s a long story. But I’m minus a car and a phone, so I’m going to need to borrow both for tomorrow.’
‘You’ve had an RTA?’
‘Nothing that simple. Is Gail Honeyford around?’
Sally shook her head. ‘She hasn’t been in all afternoon. She went to look into that dirigible accident over in Tilford.’
‘She did?’ Heck couldn’t help his surprise.
‘Aren’t you working on that together?’ Sally asked.
‘Yeah, by the sounds of it.’
He headed into the CID office, pleased to know that Gail was at least partly onside, though secretly glad that she wasn’t here at present, because a question-and-answer session was something he didn’t need. There were no other detectives in the office, just an elderly woman working her way along the aisles with a vacuum cleaner. Heck slid behind his desk, grabbed up the phone, and called Reigate Comms, asking for the PNC. It took only seconds to get a response on the registration number he’d spotted by the Thornton farm entrance. It came back as a grey Bedford van reported stolen not two days ago from the Skelton Wood estate, which if he remembered rightly lay somewhere between Brixton and Herne Hill in south London.
Heck sat back and tapped his teeth with his pen. Then picked up the phone again and bashed in the number of the CID office at Brixton Police Station.
‘CID at Brixton, DS Powers,’ came a gruff but efficient female voice.
‘Angie, it’s Heck.’
There was brief silence, followed by a low chuckle. ‘Well, well …’
‘Glad I caught you.’
‘You know me. I’m always here.’ Angie Powers was a personable and athletic young black lady whom Heck had worked with on the Robbery Squad in Tower Hamlets. ‘Long time no speak,’ she said. ‘How you doing?’
‘Well, I’ve got a belly full of river water, a cut on my face that’s probably already festering with tetanus or hepatitis, or something equally horrible …’
‘Normal day in SCU.’
‘Yeah. Aside from all that, I’m cool. Listen, Ange: Skelton Wood.’
‘Uh-oh …’
‘Things as bad there as ever?’
‘If by that question do you mean does ninety per cent of the crime in Lambeth ward originate on the Skelton, is it a powder keg just waiting to blow, does every druggie scrote, gang-banger, and wannabe blagger between here and Wapping seek to emulate its residents, then the answer’s yes.
’
‘And who’s running it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m tailing a van that’s done a job. Maybe more than one job – it was swiped on the Skelton two days ago. Does that sort of thing happen randomly down there, or does someone need paying off first?’
‘Good question. To my knowledge, nothing moves on the Skelton without the say-so of the Snake Eye Crew.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘New kids on the block. In some ways they’re relatively small time. Still operating as low-profile racketeers. But there’s a lot of them and their star’s rising.’
‘Are Trident on the case?’
‘No interest for Trident. The Snake Eyes are multi-ethnic. They’re controlled by a kid called Julius Manko. He’s a nutter, not to put too fine a point on it. He’d kill you as soon as look at you. His preferred weapon is a razor-edged machete.’
‘And this works, does it?’ Heck asked. ‘I mean he intimidates all the local tea leaves?’
‘Most of the local tea leaves have joined his crew.’ She mused on the question. ‘It might be possible some idiot could come along who doesn’t know the score, helps himself to a motor and by pure luck gets clean away. It’s just about feasible. But if this van’s been used in a couple of jobs … what’re we talking about, robberies?’
‘Something worse.’
‘Okay, well, if we’re talking serious people with serious intent, they’ll either be connected to the Snake Eyes or they’ll have bought their permission beforehand.’ DS Powers paused. ‘Heck … you’re not thinking about going down there?’
‘No choice, I’m afraid.’
‘You’ll need more than your gumshield.’
‘I will have. I’ve got my wit, my charm …’
‘I’m serious. Look, call into our office first. I can probably arrange you some support.’
‘Much appreciated, Ange. But I’m not even asking questions at the mo. Just gonna try and blend in.’
‘Good luck with that. Everyone on the Skelton’s either a criminal or a victim. Which one are you going to be?’
‘You know me, love – I walk a fine line between both.’
Chapter 19
The Skelton Wood estate comprised six square miles of the grottiest blocks of flats Heck had ever seen, and he’d seen quite a few. Even in the go-ahead twenty-first century, there were blighted corners of Britain’s urban jungle which, in terms of employment, health and general social welfare, seemed to have been forgotten by time, and this was certainly one of them. The entire estate appeared to be made from grey, faceless concrete; not just the buildings, but the underpasses, the walkovers and the occasional rows of caged-off shopfronts. Graffiti ran wild, the usual obscenities intermingling with football slogans, snatches of street poetry, and incomprehensible, cryptic symbols, which almost certainly served as gang tags. There was much dereliction: some entire blocks were closed to access, their doors and windows covered by steel grilles; there were also rows of gutted houses, while stolen and fire-damaged vehicles were regularly dumped here and simply left unclaimed, rotting.
Even on a fine summer’s morning Skelton Wood was a spiritless sprawl; drab, litter-strewn – the monolithic apartment houses didn’t look any less dingy in bright sunlight, the rubbish-clogged wastelands between them still didn’t resemble the restful green spaces they once were intended to be.
Heck had parked his black Mazda, which he’d taken from the CID pool at Reigate Hall, near Brockwell Park, about a mile away. He’d travelled the rest of the distance on foot. It wasn’t eight o’clock in the morning and there were very few people about, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He always brought ‘scruffs’ with him whenever he was working away from the Yard, and so today wore jeans with the knees torn out, a sweat-stained Saxon T-shirt, and an age-old Wrangler jacket thick with motorbike oil. He hadn’t bothered shaving either, and had donned a pair of trainers that had once been white but now were coffee-coloured.
Late the previous night he’d changed his mind about liaising with Brixton, had called Angie Powers again, and had visited her office first thing that morning. He still hadn’t wanted any assistance; this was to be an open-ended recce – infiltration by a single unit who wasn’t well known on this manor – but before going out there he’d mugged Angie and her team for all the info he could. They’d assured him that deadbeats of every sort routinely gathered on the Skelton because the Snake Eyes were always recruiting; anyone could find work with them so long as their background checked out and they didn’t mind getting their hands dirty.
In addition to this, they’d told him about ‘the Roost’.
This was a dilapidated structure at the west end of what had once been an all-weather football pitch. The pitch had originally been constructed by a charitable organisation to give the local youth a focus and outlet that was not concerned with gang violence, but hooligan elements had met there to fight rather than play, an ongoing melee from which the Snake Eyes had eventually risen to prominence. It was still known locally as the ‘Football Field’, even though sport was no longer played there and it was covered with bricks and bottles, some of them dating from that original inaugural battle. The Snake Eyes had taken over the Roost, as they called it, for their official clubhouse, but although they’d now outgrown it, having tentacles all over the estate and even beyond, it still had a role to play in their operation. They held ‘club nights’ there – wild drunken revels which went on all night with music blasting across the estate; their soldiers hung out there during the day, gambling and taking drugs, but basically on call should muscle be required somewhere; and the official Snake Eye tattoo was still given there. This sigil was always worn on the palm of the left hand: affiliates wore it without colour, except for the socket, which was done in reptilian green; regulars – trusted associates – wore it with the retina coloured blood-red, while so-called officers had the whole thing, including a diamond-shaped pupil done in blue. The gang’s top men, of whom there was only a handful, wore the sigil on both palms.
They were a committed crew; that much was obvious. Heck didn’t like to think what the hygiene conditions were like inside the Roost’s tattoo parlour, or if the tattooists had the first idea what they were actually doing, or even whether they used clean needles or safe ink. But that was not his concern; at present, he had to find a way to contact them. That morning at Brixton he’d gone through a list of their known personnel and though he was familiar with a few faces, there was no one with whom he had any kind of understanding. But that couldn’t be the whole story. Snake Eye numbers fluctuated, and local plod wouldn’t necessarily know everyone existing on the gang’s fringes. There was still a chance there’d be someone here he could work with.
He didn’t walk the streets of the Skelton openly, but he didn’t try to hide either. There could be no scurrying from lamppost to lamppost, or ducking into doorways; that would be guaranteed to attract attention. But on the whole he stayed in the back alleys, side streets, and subways, and he kept his ears and eyes open. Even then he was taking a risk, though at least Brixton had provided him with a radio in the event that he really got into trouble. Angie Powers had told him about an excellent vantage point for spying on the Roost. It was the upper back room at number fifteen, Cooper’s Row; a line of terraced properties long empty and under a demolition order which, thanks to the Met, would not be enacted for some considerable time yet. It stood about two hundred yards from the Football Field, but on raised ground. The actual houses on Cooper’s Row were closed off by a fence of corrugated iron, but police surveillance teams had ensured there was a detachable panel in this fence to one side of the house.
Heck found everything as Angie had told him. He ascended to Cooper’s Row by a flight of stone steps, at the top of which, rather menacingly, the Snake Eye symbol had been spray-painted onto a gatepost, but beyond that lay an ordinary cobbled street reminiscent of that old traditional London of full employment and working-class values, whi
ch might or might not have been real but which so many yearned to see again. The panel in the fence at number fifteen was exactly where Angie had said it would be. It was a little unnerving lifting it out of place, but Cooper’s Row was overlooked on its other side by the wall of an abandoned warehouse in which there were no windows or apertures, so there was no one to see him enter. On the other side of the fence he replaced the panel as he’d been instructed, and entered the building through its front door, a key having been left under the loose paving stone in front of the step. Internally, there was nothing left but boards and bricks, and occasional patches of decayed plaster. It stank of stale urine, but there were no real nasties in there: no syringes or crack pipes, no used condoms, which suggested that its easy accessibility was a secret known only to the cops.
Heck ascended the stairs and entered the rear bedroom. As he’d been told, the main window in there contained only half a sheet of jagged glass, but gave a near-panoramic view of the Football Field and the Roost. He stood to one side and took a pair of brass-plated binoculars from under his jacket.
The Roost was a low, ramshackle structure made of wood and tarpaper; some parts of it were blackened as if attempts had been made to burn it, and it was covered top to bottom with gang tags. Though it was still early in the day for London’s criminal elements, a couple of cars were parked on the open ground in front of it, and a few individuals were hanging around. Heck spotted a burly Jamaican-looking guy with dreads, and a white guy in a vest and shades, slouched on deckchairs, enjoying the sun and smoking joints. Another white guy stood close by; he wore a pink hooded running top and black shorts; his thin, bare legs were covered with tattoos. He was talking to a Chinese girl in a black minidress. It was certainly true about the Snake Eyes operating a non-racist agenda; in which case they clearly weren’t dumb. Heck had often thought it crazy that so many inner-city gangs continued to fight each other on ethnic grounds, rather than pooling their resources and assembling an A-team from the best of the best.