by Ian Mayfield
‘Possibly,’ the DCI frowned. ‘Must be one or two headbangers in this nick who might know.’
Kim couldn’t think of any off the top of her head. Police haircuts were a great leveller. She said, ‘Brian knows a bit about music.’
He was at his desk. Sophia called his name and beckoned. As he ambled over with his customary half smile, she asked him, ‘Ever heard of a metal band called Ladywell?’
‘Sounds a bit seventies.’ He went blank for a moment, searching his memory. ‘Rings a vague bell. Not really my sort of thing.’
‘You’ve heard of them, though?’
‘Somewhere, yeah.’
‘We’re just trying to find names of band members,’ Kim said.
Brian chuckled indulgently, as though she were asking for the Holy Grail. ‘Have you looked them up on Facebook, MySpace?’
‘Yeah. No lineup listings that I could see.’
‘You’re a bit buggered then,’ Brian commented. Then he brightened. ‘Tell you what. You could try ringing Kerrang.’
‘The hard rock magazine?’ Kim said.
‘Yeah. See if they’ve heard of them. They might be able to tell you.’
‘Good thinking.’ Sophia flashed him an approving glance. To Kim she said, ‘Get onto it.’
She was in luck. The journalist she was put through to had not only reviewed a Ladywell gig at the Mean Fiddler two issues ago, but also had a list of dates for a forthcoming tour of Germany. If Quaife and/or Porter were in need of a low profile way out of the country, this could be it. The journalist was able to provide a lineup that was complete except for the drummer, whose identity had eluded him in a haze of lager. Grabbing the London residential phone book, Kim looked them up one by one. Beaded plaits are too heavy to stand on end, but she still had a crawly feeling on her scalp when she came to Malcolm Kavanagh, the group’s bassist, and discovered a Kavanagh, M. listed at 289A Ladywell Road, SE13.
Her rational mind was still telling her what a stretch this all was when Marie Kirtland walked into the office at half past four, several hours later than she’d been expected back from a court appearance, and headed straight for her, a writeable DVD in her hand. Marie explained that on her way out of court she’d had a phone call from DC Scott Cooper, the Lewisham CID officer who’d taken the complaint from Grace Carmichael. Spurred by the connection to a major investigation of a case that had seemed the epitome of the mundane, he’d been combing through CCTV footage and had found what appeared to be a dreadlocked white man talking to another white male in Ladywell Road at about the same time that Grace had reported being threatened by Quaife there two Fridays hence. After about three minutes, the dreadlocked man had suddenly half spun around as if startled and then sprinted out of shot. Marie had driven over to Lewisham to view the footage. She hadn’t needed more than a brief look to identify the sprinter as Philip Meredith. She’d needed a bit more time than that to recognise the other individual, and would need to run the tape past Kim to be definite, but she was pretty sure it was the man who’d been parking at Grace Carmichael’s house the other week just as they had been leaving.
So much of the time passed in long periods of shallow sleep that Nina had given up trying to keep track. She woke now and opened her eyes, and there was low early evening sunshine slanting in through the window, and Paul sitting at her bedside, his body turned away from the light so it didn’t dazzle the pages of his magazine. She exhaled deeply to let him know she was conscious.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘What time is it?’ she wheezed, furious that it was taking so long to get her voice working properly.
‘Half sevenish. Lucia should be here soon.’
A dark thing slithered over her mind, clinging for a moment like oil, and then was gone. ‘I had a dream.’
‘Mmm?’
‘A nightmare. I woke up. Somebody... Was that you?’
‘Last night.’
‘When?’
‘Midnight, bit after.’ He yawned.
‘How come?’
‘I sat in for Lucia. She had a date.’
‘A date?’
She’d mustered a croak, but it couldn’t convey expression and he misinterpreted her reaction. ‘Long standing,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘What for?’
She didn’t answer him, but smiled fleetingly and turned a hand palm upwards. He drew his chair nearer and took it, his free arm resting lightly on the bed.
Nina said, ‘You looked after me.’
‘You’re my wife.’
‘Finally he realises it.’ She smiled again, the only method she could be sure of to try and show him there was no malice intended. Her arm ached from the IVs and she was hungry. Nil by mouth was getting to be a pain somewhere else.
‘Give me the chance,’ he said, strained, ‘and I’ll always - ’
‘I’m not getting at you.’
‘I was off my head,’ Paul rambled. ‘She’s... Anyway, I made a vow to take care of you. Wouldn’t blame you if you never forgave me.’
She sighed and squeezed his hand, exhilarated to feel a trace of real power returning to her grip. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
He waited.
‘Had a lot of time to think, lying here.’
‘You’ve been asleep.’
‘You reckon.’ She grinned and closed her eyes. ‘Nothing profound; all I’ve figured out is I’ve got a lot more thinking still to do.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at the floor.
‘It can wait till I get out of here.’ She squeezed again. ‘But I need time. It’s not just us I’ve got to sort out. Don’t forget, there’s...’
She broke off and tried to swallow. Feeling her shiver, he began to stroke her, soothingly, with his hand on the bed.
‘There’s Porter,’ she said, another surge of triumph as she pronounced the name of her nemesis. ‘Still got to decide what to do about him.’
Paul frowned. She didn’t know what he thought she meant by the remark. She wasn’t sure herself.
She went on, ‘There’s this Job rehab place. Sophia spent a week there once after she got knocked down by a stolen car. She’s going to talk to Welfare Services about getting me in there. You know, convalesce. I think we need some time apart.’
‘We’ve spent enough time apart lately.’
‘I mean apart, not separate. Not together-apart. Just some breathing space.’
He nodded glumly. ‘Where?’
‘Reading.’ She saw his expression and added quickly, ‘M25 to the M4, hour and a half. You can come and visit me at weekends.’
‘Only weekends?’
‘Yeah,’ she smiled, ‘’cause during the week you’re going to be camped out in the Job Centre till they’re so fucking sick of the sight of you they have to find you some work.’
He held her gaze, stern. ‘Don’t.’
‘What?’
‘Say “fucking”,’ he mumbled.
‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’ Her awareness shifted down her battered body, feeling a firm pressure: Paul’s clenched fist. ‘Mind where you’ve got your hand.’
He looked at it. ‘What, here?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Sorry,’ he said anxiously. ‘Does it hurt?’
Surprised, she realised it didn’t. Lucia had looked up the weapon, the Bowie knife, tactlessly told her the damage it could do, its extent beneath the entry wound. She’d cried tears of panic, begging to be told her precious ovaries hadn’t been harmed. On the consultant’s next ward round, he’d assured her they were intact, deep and safe within her body. Suddenly she felt indestructible.
‘Now?’
‘Eh?’ She could feel a soft, back and forth movement, a light pressure. ‘Oh.’
‘Doesn’t hurt?’
‘Not much.’
She tried to lift her head to confirm that Paul really was doing what she thought he was doing, but it was still too painful. Far better just to lie there, to concentrate on the
nicer feelings, to let... to let...
‘You mad bastard,’ she gasped. ‘If I come, I’ll burst my stitches.’
Aghast, she felt him stop. Her arm weighed a ton as she heaved it across herself and pressed it on top of his, the searing spots along the length of her body marking where the injuries were. But not for any amount of pain, now, would she deny them this moment. She was going away, but they both understood that she could not have gone knowing her husband’s last sex had been adulterous.
Nina’s mute cry of delicious agony was laced with triumph. For the first time in months, she and Paul were on the same wavelength.
Thursday
No sooner had Sophia got her team in position in Ladywell Road than Michael Quaife put in an appearance.
‘We’re not ready.’ The terse male voice came over the radio from the green BMW with tinted windows parked in front of Sophia’s Saab. It contained Sergeant Rodney Gough and three heavily armed PCs from SCO19. Helplessly, Sophia and Kim watched Quaife, in camouflage jacket and jeans, close the gate of number 289 and head towards them. They ducked down in their seats. He walked by without stopping.
‘Shit,’ Kim breathed.
‘Beadle from OP.’ Sandra Jones, coming to the end of her all-night vigil in a flat opposite, sounded tired and irritable. The flat was unoccupied and she’d had just herself and a thermos flask for company, no friendly householder delivering tea and sandwiches at regular intervals.
‘Go ahead, Sandra,’ Sophia said, grabbing the radio as she sat up.
‘That was hairy, guv,’ Sandra remarked. The radios were switched to talk-through and she‘d have heard what had happened. ‘Not to worry too much, though. He didn’t look like a bloke about to up sticks and bugger off into the bush.’
‘Any thoughts on where he might be going?’
‘There’s a corner shop five minutes down the road opens at six,’ Sandra said. ‘Pound to a penny he’s just nipped out for a paper.’
‘Do you copy that, Sarge?’ Sophia asked Gough.
‘Got it, ma’am. If DC Jones is right, we’d much prefer to take him on the way back. With any luck he’ll have at least one hand full.’
‘With luck. Otherwise we’ll have to wait until he comes back from wherever he’s off to.’
‘Who’s paying for the overtime again?’ Gough wondered.
But Sandra was right. Kim was the first to spot him, climbing back up the hill. She pointed to Sophia’s wing mirror. The DCI nodded, checked, and warned everyone by radio.
The next few moments ran like a silent movie. Breath held, they watched Michael Quaife appear in their field of vision and walk past without slowing or showing any other sign he was aware of them. He carried a loaf of bread, a carton of milk and The Sun. Reaching the house, he turned and disappeared through the gate.
Kim watched the BMW’s rear doors swing open and the SCO19 men in their navy blue flak helmets get out, radio earpieces in their ears, Heckler and Koch carbines in hand, holsters on their belts open with Glock handguns at the ready. They ran lightly to the gate, two hanging back, two either side, one covering while the other pivoted inwards, rifle aimed. He nodded, then dipped through, his colleague following him.
For a moment that seemed longer than it was, nothing happened.
Kim sat up and opened her door.
‘Stay,’ Sophia snapped. ‘Wait for the - ’
Out of the corner of her eye, movement. Quaife had just appeared at the top of the wall. How he’d evaded the firearms men, she didn’t know. What she did know was that Kim couldn’t see him from her side. He vaulted the railing, landing right next to the man Gough had positioned there for just that eventuality and surprising him with a rabbit punch. He crossed the pavement and ducked between two parked cars. Gough stepped out to intercept him.
In the empty flat, Sandra was a helpless spectator. She could see what those on the ground couldn’t, the woody old buddleia in the basement garden up whose twisted branches Quaife had swarmed. By the time she’d got on the radio to warn them he was crossing the road, sprinting towards Kim’s half open door.
He saw her face and veered straight for her, oblivious to Gough’s shotgun trained on him, oblivious to the two PCs who’d now assumed firing positions behind him. Kim froze, half out of the car, one foot on the ground. He still had his groceries but now there was something else in his hand, something that glinted. She croaked a warning, hoping Gough could hear her.
‘Armed police!’ the shout came, enunciated clearly and firmly. ‘Stop or we will shoot you.’
Quaife came level with the door, staring with utter hatred into her eyes, and hurled the carton into the gap. It struck the frame and burst with a bang, showering Kim with milk. She screamed. It was an involuntary reaction, but she would regret it all her life.
The morning exploded with noise as the SCO19 men opened fire. Quaife’s back erupted crimson in four places and he was thrown forward, his face striking the tarmac with a clear, sickening smack. The knife skittered and disappeared under a parked car.
How long Kim remained in her foetal crouch she didn’t know, but eventually she uncoiled at the touch of a hand on her shoulder. Sophia frowned down at her.
‘That wasn’t wise.’
‘I didn’t mean to yell out! They wouldn’t’ve fired if I...’ She peered questioningly up at the DCI. ‘Is...?’
‘Yes,’ Sophia said. ‘Quaife’s dead.’
Allowing herself to be helped back up onto the seat, Kim registered the unnatural quiet. Even the birds seemed cowed. The only distinct sound, over the constant London hum, was the approaching wail of an ambulance siren.
For a few reasons, Anne White was starting to wonder if transferring to the Film Unit was the worst career move she’d ever made. Of course, she told herself yet again as she pulled off Blackfriars Road and rolled down the ramp into the subterranean car park, it was nothing more than coincidence that Nina had been attacked the moment she’d left the team, nor was what had happened to Lucky her fault. But she couldn’t shake the irrational feeling that she should be back at Croydon, hands on, doing something. The reports she got from Zoltan when he dragged himself home late every evening, too tired to go into much detail, just left her feeling stifled, frustrated, stuck on the outside.
She pushed the button for the lift and a couple of office workers joined her for the wait. They rode up in silence. That was another thing. The Film Unit were the only coppers in the building and she had no idea what her fellow passengers did, not did she have any particular desire to find out. She missed the comradeship, the shared sense of mission and purpose that buzzed through a police station in the early morning and at shift changes. This was the chance to put her acquired skills to new use, from Special Crime to liaising with filmmakers and TV producers, present the Met as a friendly piece of the London scene. As yet, it didn’t seem like enough.
The others worked on floors below hers and she was the only one who got off on the ninth. Almost as soon as she’d swiped her keycard to enter her new team’s offices she ran into the third reason for her regret. Sergeant Lee Chivers was one of those people who are convinced tales of his and his wife’s adventures in re-tiling their fireplace or researching fortnights in Cornwall with the camper van are as riveting to everyone else as to himself. He’d been promoted and transferred in at the same time as Anne, one of the unit’s two previous sergeants having been compelled to resign due to leukaemia, coincidentally three weeks after the other had retired. As such the unit had a backlog, and Lee and Anne were more or less training themselves, operations manuals and contact lists and notebooks spread out across their desks, which they’d pushed together in a corner for the purpose. Mind-numbing as their combined project was, it was made more so by Lee’s apparently limitless fund of banal stories.
That aside, he had the ideal CV for the Film Unit, his previous posting having been with Surrey Police, piloting a BMW traffic car out of Guildford nick. Anne hoped the producers and movie scouts and the resp
ective film officers of the thirty-two London borough councils would be able to handle Lee with the same forbearance she felt she was managing.
‘Morning!’ he said, his pale, round-cheeked southern peasant face blithe and cheerful as always. ‘Early start?’
‘You and me both,’ Anne said and then added, instantly regretting it in case it triggered an anecdote, ‘Couldn’t sleep much.’
‘Cuppa? That’ll get you going.’
‘If you’re having one.’ Say one thing about Lee, he did make a decent brew.
He smiled again and pottered over to the small wheeled cart on which they kept their kettle, tea and coffee supplies. ‘Been meaning to mention,’ he said, and Anne inwardly rolled her eyes in anticipation. ‘Taken me a while to put two and two together, but you were on that special unit down Croydon, weren’t you? The team that investigated the KKK-style arson? DC that got stabbed this past weekend?’
‘Yeah, that’s right, I was,’ Anne said guardedly. ‘Wasn’t involved much with what was going on because I was leaving, but yeah.’
‘Only those two suspects, the neo-Nazi people: had a run-in with them myself not long ago.’
For the first time ever, Anne was finding him interesting.
Interpreting her leaning forward in her chair as a prompt to continue, he said, ‘Before the bulletin went out, of course, or I like to think I would have detained them. Pulled them over near Dorking one afternoon, my last week with Traffic. On the A24, Mickleham bypass. Vauxhall Astra, failure to signal for a lane change, though it turned out their indicator light was broken, so I told the driver – the ex-con, the heavy, odd surname, begins with Q? – told him to get it fixed ASAP and sent them on their merry way. Recognised the descriptions when they were circulated later. No reason to suspect them, both very polite, calm, cooperative.’
‘Your last week?’ Anne said, an unquantifiable, vaguely horrible feeling starting to creep over her. ‘So the week before last?’ Despite herself, his account of de-slugging the garden during his week off had somehow become imprinted on her memory.