Death Trap

by Mitchell, Dreda Say

  ‘Nope. And judging by the look on Terry’s face, we won’t be finding anything either. No sign here of where his kid’s gone . . .’

  ‘Keep looking.’

  When she’d finished her call Rio went to check on Gary. The main room had the imprints of a female touch – a girly gossip mag on a sofa, family photos framed on the wall and a small, battery-operated massager on the floor near the armchair Gary sat on. A flashy fish tank with three fish swimming happily in their home was behind him. His face was lit with a smug smile. He raised his hand sarcastically. ‘Please Miss, can I go to the toilet?’

  ‘Officer Blake will have to go with you.’

  ‘Oh, come on—’

  ‘You know the drill, Gary.’

  Gary was outraged. ‘What’s your fucking problem? I’m entitled to some privacy here. What do you think I’m going to do? Leg it out of the window? We’re on the top floor. Frightened I might have a dead body in the bath panel? You’re wasting your time here, Wray. If I had anything hot in this flat, I’d have turned tail and run. Timewasters . . .’

  Rio thought carefully before saying, ‘OK. But leave the door unlocked.’

  When Larkin was gone a colleague whispered, ‘He’s right, he’d have run for it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rio said, not happy at one of her team saying out loud what was staring her in the face. ‘I know . . .’

  When Gary came back he said, ‘Maybe you want to check my underpants?’ He smiled as he made a lewd gesture towards his crotch.

  But he wasn’t smiling when one of the team said a few minutes into the search, ‘Boss, come and have a look at this.’

  Alarmed, Gary got out of his seat with a shout of ‘Planting something on me now are you? I thought you were supposed to have given all that up.’

  Rio and Larkin went over to the fish tank under which one of the team had found a small plastic bag with a sticky brown substance inside it. Rio took it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a few grams of cannabis resin for my personal use – I like a smoke – you can put the cuffs on me if you want, but I thought you were supposed to be hunting for a bunch of gun-slinging desperados?’

  The officer started to slip the resin into an evidence bag, but Rio ordered him to put it back. Larkin could have his smoke. ‘Although you shouldn’t be smoking anyway with asthma.’

  ‘What are you, my flipping mum now?

  Gary resumed his seat while the search continued. Rio could tell from the look of satisfaction on his face that they were going to find nothing. When they were finished, Rio looked around the flat and then ordered her team, to their obvious dissatisfaction, to do it all again from the beginning. Gary said nothing. When Rio called Strong she discovered that the search at Terry Larkin’s had revealed nothing that could be considered as having any connection at all to the Greenbelt murders. They’d reached a dead end.

  Forty-five minutes later, a second and then a third search were over. Despite having his flat turned upside down, Gary seemed to enjoy escorting the police from his premises. Before closing the front door on them, he sneered, ‘Greenbelt Gang? You people couldn’t catch a bus.’

  When they were gone, Gary hurried over to his kitchen window and pulled back the curtain slightly in anticipation of watching Bitch Cop and Co. drive away. Instead he saw them move up the street, in a horizontal line formation, searching in gardens and bushes on the route that he’d taken when he’d got back from ringing Terry.

  He let the kitchen curtain go and rushed off to the bathroom, leaving the light off and opening the frosted window a fraction to see what was going on below. He could hear the voices of the cops as they went backwards and forwards. Lungs wheezing again, Gary went back to the kitchen and watched the cops group together around one of their cars having another one of their conferences. His lungs tightened. Although he was desperate to continue, he was forced to go back to the living room to get his asthma pump. He looked everywhere, but he couldn’t find it. He clenched his fists in despair and, taking deep breaths, went back to the kitchen to see what was going on outside. The conference had broken up, but there was no sign they were leaving. Instead the filth were leaning against cars and chatting. He heard some laughter. He let the curtain fall once again and whispered, ‘What the fuck are they up to . . .?’

  The silence in the flat was broken by a hammering on his front door and Bitch Cop’s shout of, ‘Open up.’

  When he did so, he found her and two officers standing there. Without saying a word she raised an evidence bag, which had a battered pistol inside it.

  Bollocks. Terry said stay calm.

  ‘Never seen that before in my life. Did you get it out of the boot of your car?’

  ‘No, we found it outside on the grass where you threw it when you were in the bathroom earlier. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Wrong again, Wray. As you’ll discover when you fingerprint test it. And by the look of it, that gun hasn’t been fired in years.’

  But she was having none of it. ‘You’re under arrest for possession of a firearm.’ The bitch turned to one of the other coppers. ‘Mr Larkin seems to be looking unwell again. Make sure we’ve got a doctor on hand back at The Fort this time.’

  twenty-nine

  3:30 p.m.

  Rio, Strong and their person of interest were in Interview Room Number Two this time. No smoke or dust clogging up the atmosphere, just clean and clear for Rio to see the truth. Rio and Strong sat on one side of the table, Gary Larkin on the other. Rio had deliberately placed a closed file in front of her on the table. Closed files were always a good prop in an interview: kept suspects nervous, on the edge of their seat wondering what was inside.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a solicitor, Gary?’ Strong asked.

  Larkin had refused to see a doctor and now he didn’t want legal representation as well. If he was happy to play this two against one Rio didn’t care, but she did not want a legal technicality to mess up the case if she had her man.

  Gary was all bluster. ‘You can’t connect that gun to me. And as for this Greenbelt thing – do me a favour. You can call me a cab, Wray, I’ll be out of here in time to pick up my kids from school.’

  ‘The pistol was found under your window, Gary. Are you saying someone else put it there?’ Rio placed the pad of a finger on the file knowing his eyes couldn’t help but follow her movement.

  Gary shrugged, eyes remaining on the file. ‘So you say – but personally, I reckon you put it there. You’re not putting me on trial for that gun; a decent brief would have you for breakfast. But then you’re not really interested in that old banger of a pistol are you? You want to talk about Greenbelt. So go ahead – fire away. I’ve got rock solid alibis. You’ve got nothing.’

  There was a knock on the door. An admin officer came in and passed Rio a piece of paper on which were the results of the forensics on Gary’s gun. No match to the Greenbelt killings or any other crime. No fingerprints either. Indeed, it was in such a bad condition that it was possible that it wouldn’t fire at all - or if it did, it was more likely to injure the person pulling the trigger. Rio put the paper down without showing it to Strong. Instead she made a big drama of slowly opening the file and placing the forensic report inside. Rio closed it and pushed it slightly further in Gary’s direction. His eyes watched her every step of the way. Rio wasn’t surprised to see him fold his arms across his chest; she’d seen that reflex action from suspects, the need to keep their hands pinned down in fear of lunging across the table to grab the file and find out what was inside.

  ‘Why did you get so upset when we talked about the murders of the Bell family?’

  He sneered, ‘How about I didn’t have anything to do with it.’

  ‘But your explanation for where you were was a bit confused.’

  ‘I was tucked up in bed.’

  Rio placed her palms flat against the file. ‘Come on, Gary, you can do better than that.’

  There was impatience in his voice
when he answered. ‘If I’d been out shooting people, I’d have a story for you wouldn’t I? Are we about done here?’

  Rio drew the file towards her. ‘How well do you know your nephew?’

  Gary blinked in a way that Rio now recognised as a nervous tick. ‘Which nephew? I’ve got several.’

  ‘Your brother Terry’s boy – Samson.’

  ‘I’ve seen him around, at family functions and what have you. But my brother’s family and I aren’t close.’

  Rio picked up the file and leaned back in her chair. ‘Bit of a psycho isn’t he?’

  A film of sweat appeared on Larkin’s forehead. ‘Is he? I wouldn’t know.’

  Rio finally did what Gary Larkin was desperate for her to do – opened the file. She didn’t speak, just took her time running her gaze over the information and then turning the page. Rio flicked her gaze up at her interviewee. Yes, the sweat was spreading, giving his face a sickly, glossy skin. She’d read somewhere that sweat was said to purify the body, well she hoped that Larkin was ready to cleanse the deadly secrets of his soul.

  Finally she stopped reading and looked up at Larkin. ‘Do you know what I’ve just been reading?’ Her suspect remained stubbornly silent. ‘Samson’s life of crime: battery; assault; GBH. The medical report on the young woman he attacked in a bar doesn’t make pretty reading. Stitches, bruises, fractures – she has flashbacks, nightmares, undoubtedly permanent psychological scars.’ Rio flipped a page. Looked up again. ‘The psychiatrist’s report paints a picture of a young man who no self-respecting father would let near their daughter. And if you don’t believe me, you can read it for yourself.’

  Rio placed the single page summary report on the table and flipped it so that Gary could see. He unfolded his arms and picked it up, squinted his eyes and read. Rio gave him a full minute before speaking.

  ‘You didn’t know about any of that, did you, Gary?’ Her voice was soft, quiet.

  He looked stunned, his hand trembling as he lay the report back on the table. ‘No’.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Samson?’

  ‘Dunno. Christmas maybe?’

  Rio shook her head, so Larkin admitted it might have been more recently.

  ‘Is that why the killing started on the fifth raid? Samson lost his cool and decided to flex his out-of-control muscles?’

  Gary didn’t answer.

  ‘Is he on the run then?’

  No response.

  ‘If he was a pro – like you – he wouldn’t say anything and would have alibis all lined up. But he isn’t a pro; he’s a disturbed eighteen year old. And you know what they’re like in interviews, Gary. They lose their temper; they say all kinds of stuff, trip themselves up, point the finger at other people – that’s of course if they don’t break down and make a full confession.’ Rio carried on with a lie. ‘We know where Samson is and when we pick him up how long do you think he will last before spilling his guts?’

  Gary closed his eyes, but not before Rio saw the despair in them.

  ‘Don’t let yourself be dragged down by something your nephew did and maybe you couldn’t control. You’re no killer, are you, Gary? You help us and maybe we can help you.’

  Gary reopened his eyes as he took a deep breath. ‘OK. There is something I’d like to say . . .’

  But he never finished his sentence; the admin assistant came in accompanied by a well-dressed man.

  ‘Not another word, Mr Larkin,’ said Stephen Foster.

  Furious, Rio stood up. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Foster walked over to Gary and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Larkin, we’ll sort this out in a jiffy.’ He sat down next to his client, forcing Rio to reluctantly retake her seat as well. ‘Can you tell me what on earth you think you’re doing, Detective Inspector? Interviewing my client without myself being present? That’s an extremely serious matter.’

  Rio’s voice was leaden, ‘Mr Larkin waived his rights to legal representation. Isn’t his solicitor Ben Catley?’

  Foster ignored her question and turned to his client. ‘Would you like to confirm that I’m your solicitor?’

  Gary looked as shocked as anyone to see Foster, but he nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good enough for you, Detective Inspector Wray?’

  Rio, who looked like a child whose Christmas present had just been stolen, insisted, ‘Gary said he didn’t want a solicitor present for this interview.’

  ‘Yes, of course he did. He’s a sick man who you bullied into it. But we’ll deal with that later. The more immediate question is this firearm offence. Have you got any evidence that this gun belongs to Mr Larkin?’

  ‘It was discovered under Mr Larkin’s window where he threw it during a search of his home.’

  Foster raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t care if it was found on his front-door step. I’m asking if you have any evidence that it belongs to my client?’ There was silence followed by another question. ‘And you’re using this bogus possession to blackmail my client into admitting that he had something to do with these Greenbelt raids despite the fact you’ve got no evidence for that either?’

  After another silence, which he milked for all it was worth, a triumphant Stephen Foster got to his feet. ‘Come on, Mr Larkin; let’s go back to my office for a chat. We’ll decide what legal cases we want to bring against the Metropolitan Police Service.’

  With that he swept towards the door with his beaming client. Calmly he opened the door and said to his client, ‘If you’d just wait outside a moment.’

  Gary Larkin didn’t need to be asked twice, quickly escaping from the room.

  Stephen Foster partially drew the door back and then looked directly at Rio. ‘Since I’m not able to talk to my other client directly, can you or someone in your team present Nicola at my office at five this evening. She needs to be present for the will reading of her uncle and aunt.’

  Then he left. But Rio wasn’t letting him off that lightly. She stood up to follow him, but Strong grabbed her arm, rising to his feet as well: ‘You might be bringing a wagon-load of trouble to the Met’s door and Tripple isn’t going to like it.’

  Rio shook him off and rushed to catch up with Foster. She found him near his client at the reception desk.

  ‘A word if you please, Mr Foster.’

  With a cynical twist of his lips he joined her.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Rio asked, voice tight.

  ‘I’m doing my job.’

  ‘But how can you represent a suspect who may have been involved in the murder of former clients of yours and hiring a hitman to kill another? Surely that’s a conflict of interest.’

  Foster sighed. ‘There’s no conflict of interest, because currently Mr Larkin, as I understand it, is merely a person helping with your inquiries.’ He let loose with one of those smiles of his that got right on her nerves. ‘But if there is a conflict of interest I’m sure I can resolve it to everyone’s satisfaction.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you could.’

  The smile slipped from his face as he lowered his voice. ‘And let’s be clear about one thing – carry on harassing Mr Larkin and I will make sure he sues the pants off the Met and you personally.’

  thirty

  6:00 p.m. North Cyprus Time

  4:00 p.m. London Time

  Samson Larkin pushed half of his chips onto red number 18: the same number as his birthday. He watched the roulette wheel spin as he held his breath.

  The first week of life on the run was a holiday for the eighteen year old. His father had arranged for him to be flown to France in a light aeroplane, no questions asked. From there, he’d gone on to Italy and caught a ferry to Turkey from where he’d moved on to North Cyprus, all on a cousin’s passport. There was a family resemblance but it didn’t matter, no one was looking very closely anyway. He was expecting it to be a breeze; it was hardly likely Interpol would be looking for a Londoner who was in violation of his probation.

  When he got to the sm
all village up the coast from Kyrenia – the holiday home of an older cousin he didn’t remember but had been told had done a runner from Britain years back – he collected the keys from the estate agent who held on to them on the cousin’s behalf. His cousin was currently sunning himself up in Florida on an extended holiday. Lucky bastard. The estate agent hadn’t asked any questions either, which was just as well; Samson didn’t like being asked questions.

  For seven days, he got up at lunchtime, topped his tan up on the beach, went to bars and tried to pick up a hot-body bitch; but the girls weren’t taking to his chat-up lines.

  Now Samson was fed up; bored. He didn’t like the food or the constant sun and he’d already spent most of the cash his father had given him to tide him over for the next few months. Yesterday he’d rung his father, via his dad’s neighbour, and said he wanted to come home or, failing that, needed another couple of grand sent down.

  His dad went ballistic. ‘You can’t come home; you’re staying put. And you aren’t getting any more dough either. Don’t ring here again – and keep your nose out of trouble.’

  ‘But I’m broke.’

  ‘Get a job then; sell candyfloss on the beach or something.’

  And that’s when he figured out he could make some quick cash gambling at a casino further up the coast. So, an hour earlier, he’d decked himself out in his best suit and shades and got a cab there, with the few hundred pounds worth of local currency he had left stuffed in his pocket. The place was upmarket and Samson resented the way the security on the door seemed to be implying he wasn’t flash enough to come in. After they finally waved him through, he steadied his anger by buying a couple of cocktails and then posing at the bar for a while before going to join a game of Blackjack, which he’d heard was just like Pontoon. He lost a hundred quid in ten minutes. Getting up from the table, hissing that the ‘house was fixed’, he went over to the roulette table.

  Samson had only the haziest idea about how the game was played but he watched how the other punters put on their stakes and then pulled up a chair.