by Mick Scully
Weren’t you looking the other way when they took the kid?
Crawford’s words from last night were back in Carrow’s head. He had fallen asleep after the gym and dreamed of Magnus. A dream he had had many times before.
But the general impression – over here anyway – was that you were on the payroll somewhere.
It was where the Dutch police had started from of course. Hours and hours of questioning. Techniques he knew. Sympathetic. Comforting. Then hostile. Downright aggressive. Direct accusations that he was involved.
He knew what they were doing and he knew that they had to do it. He was clean: he had nothing to do with the kidnap. But was he guilty in another way?
He had relived every second of the attack, time and again, but couldn’t see how he could have done anything more to protect Magnus. He was sure he couldn’t have reacted more quickly – they were armed. A little braver then? But that was stupid – he could have done nothing dead.
The thing was, the subject of them being armed had come up in discussion during one of Martin Okker’s regular meetings with his security team. Marjie’s cousin who had firearms experience from his army days was in favour. Train all the team and apply for a civil licence as armed guards. Carrow had argued against it. It just wasn’t necessary; it was over the top. There had never been any threat made against the Okker family and, if they should suddenly find themselves confronted by someone armed, the last thing they needed was to be in the middle of a gunfight. And the police knew all about the discussion. Why had he not wanted the team armed, they asked. So he repeated to them the view he had expressed. And repeated. And repeated.
He knew that the police believed him a long time before he was officially cleared from the investigation. He knew Martin Okker was sincere when he told him he didn’t hold him responsible, that he hoped they would remain friends, that he was welcome to pay a visit any time.
Carrow rose from the settee. He needed a shave. He was having a drink with Jack Stevens tonight and didn’t want to turn up looking like a criminal. But the thoughts were still with him as he stared at his lathered face in the bathroom mirror, as he dragged the razor across it.
He had never answered Martin Okker’s letter. He had wanted to but hadn’t known what to say. He had thought of sending a Christmas card from Jamaica but hadn’t. He had watched his mother die in Jamaica and wondered if all the worry of his troubles in Holland had played a part in her poor health. Can disappointment give you cancer?
Back in Birmingham he told himself that this was where he belonged. Rub everything out. Start again. But he could not shake the feeling that there was no way left to redeem himself.
40
Carrow hadn’t told his dream to anyone before but he told it to Jack Stevens.
‘I’m in some bushes, hiding from someone. I never know who. I’m watching boots wading through a marsh. Squelching through. Muddy water. Reeds. I’m just watching. Getting more and more scared. Then I see a hand. Gloved. And I know it’s a copper’s glove. Then the other hand. The hands start to part the reeds and I know what’s coming: there’s the kid, curled up in the dirty water. But I only see him for a second. Just get a glimpse. Then it’s his mother, Marjie. She’s screaming her head off and she’s so close to me I can see inside her mouth. Course, that’s when I wake up. Sweating. Like I’ve done a run. That scream. It always wakes me up. Bang awake.’
Carrow lifted his pint and took a gulp. The Country Girl, next to Selly Oak Hospital, wasn’t as busy tonight as Carrow remembered it. When he and Jack had shared a flat together they came here a lot. It had always seemed to be packed with nurses just off shift from the hospital. ‘No uniforms in for you tonight,’ Jack had said, when Carrow arrived earlier.
This had started them off on an hour of reminiscences about working together on the force and sharing a flat together. Jack’s career had traced a steadier trajectory than Carrow’s. Inevitably the story of the time Carrow got his squad car nicked on the Mendy came up. ‘It still gets told, that story,’ Jack told him. ‘It’s a legend. If you came back on the force, you’d have to change your name. Or as soon as you said it, it’d be, Carra? You’re not the bloke got his car nicked?’
Carrow changed the subject. ‘So, where are you with the case? The Norway.’ Up until now everything had been personal – catching up, remembering old times. Funny stories. Carrow had laughed more than he had in a long time.
‘Everything points to a gangland killing.’
‘Turf war.’
‘In a way. But it may not be quite as straightforward as that. There are two witnesses, daytime colleagues of yours from the club who saw enough of the gunman to be a hundred per cent certain that he was Chinese. We don’t think that happened by accident. Nowhere near CCTV and just enough to show ethnicity. Nothing else in their descriptions is particularly helpful.’
‘Could be a decoy.’
‘Sure. Someone wants us to believe that it’s the Dragons who are responsible – they’re the only Chinese outfit of any importance operating in the city now. The gunman is yellow so we go after the Dragons. But equally, it may in fact be the Dragons. And rumour has it there was a security team in —’ Jack looked at Carrow.
‘Yes,’ Carrow nodded. ‘Mostly at night, but there was usually a bloke around in the day when staff were in.’
‘Armed?’
Carrow smiled at his friend. ‘Rumour has it.’
‘Well rumour has it that the security cleared off half an hour before the gunman arrived. Those we’ve interviewed say that one minute he was there, then, when the action kicked off, nowhere to be seen.’
‘A better offer?’
‘The Dragons want the Norway. That’s established. Stretton won’t play. More than that he fights back. He gets the club tooled up with East Europeans. So, the Dragons can’t have the club. But they can have him. And in so doing stop anyone else having it and—’
‘Send out a powerful message that if you ever receive an offer from the Dragons, it’s best to accept, because they can always top your security budget.’
‘Exactly. The old Corleone message.’
The two men said it together: ‘I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
‘And the decoy theory. Who would set that up?’ asked Carrow.
‘Crawford is the obvious suspect. It’s common knowledge that he was interested in the club. Very different dealing with him though. Just as corrupt, but different tricks. He rang Dowd. First thing this morning. Crawford says he’s heard Dowd’s on the case. That he knows his name will come into the frame because Kingston Trading – that’s the name of what he describes as his development company – has shown an interest in acquiring the Norway. Then he gives Dowd the usual stuff: all strictly legit business practices, how shocked he is at what has happened, abhors that sort of stuff. Would we like to go over and have a chat with him? – and his legal team, of course – he’s happy to grant us access to all records, happy to assist in any way possible.’
‘That sounds like Crawford. Eager to see justice is done.’
‘And obviously everyone we get to talk to will have a rock solid alibi. As will all the Dragons’ men.’
Carrow liked the way this was going. Like the old days, back at the flat when he and Jack would sit at night and chew the fat about cases they were involved in. ‘Too early for the forensics to have come through, I suppose?’
Now Jack hesitated. Then, ‘It was a very clean job. Two shots. One in each target. Just two shots fired. Both bullets retrieved.’
‘Gun at the bottom of a canal by now.’
‘A certainty. There’s no way the bullets will have come from a gun with form, not if either the Dragons or Crawford’s mob are involved. Far too professional.’
Carrow lifted his empty glass, pointed to Jack’s, still a quarter full. ‘Same again?’
‘Go on then. Three. That’s quite a lot for me these days.’
‘It always was, mate.’
; As he waited at the bar Carrow looked back at his friend. Jack was obviously doing well. The immaculate navy blue suit. Quality white shirt. Silk tie. Maroon. Carrow watched him take his phone from his jacket pocket to check his messages. He hadn’t seen Jack since he got the Holland job, but he was enjoying tonight. It was like the old times, talking through a case with him. Except now they were working on different sides of the line. While Jack was climbing the ladder Carrow had fallen off. And he wasn’t sure how he was going to pick himself up again.
Listen boss – his words to Crawford last night. Didn’t they mean he had made his choice? That’s what Crawford had thought.
There was a young woman waiting behind Carrow at the bar. He let her go first. Not out of chivalry, or any attempt to impress – no, he wanted a moment. A moment to consider how far he should go with Jack. Should he come clean? Tell him about his dealings with Crawford? All the bits and pieces he knew about Stretton, the Bulgarians. Could he come up from the murky waters he had been swimming in, take a gulp of clean air and clear out all the filth?
Jack had almost finished his pint of lager while Carrow’s glass was still full. Carrow had talked, Jack had listened.
‘So you see the position I’ve got myself into. On the verge of joining the mob. Or as close as it gets.’
‘So is this why we’re here, me and you? What was it you said in your text? Let’s catch up. We’ve left it too long. Old mates. We should get together again.’
‘You sound pissed with me.’
‘I think I probably am. Yes. All this stuff about the Norway, not that any of it is confidential – it’s all out there for the press. Was that collecting stuff for Crawford, for the boss?’
This was Jack at work. The tone. The way he was sitting now. This was interview room stuff.
‘Do you think I would have gone into all those details if it was? This is about being mates. I’m telling you where I am. As a mate. Trying to make sense of it for myself.’
‘Well it doesn’t make much sense to me. It doesn’t sound like you’re in a good place, Carra. Think about what you are doing. You become part of Crawford’s outfit and where does that take you? You know the story, mate.’
It was good for Carrow to hear that word mate tucked in there; a touch of reassurance.
‘Okay,’ Jack continued. ‘There’s the money. Some good times, no doubt. A buzz. Plenty of women if you’re around the clubs. But not many come out with a pension plan. A few years down the line you end up doing a long stretch, or like Stretton with a bullet in your brain, or just a sad old has-been hanging around the gangs doing the jobs no one else wants.’ There was a stridency to Jack’s tone now that didn’t seem too far away from anger. ‘I suppose it’s possible that you might end up in Jamaica running legit businesses for Crawford but – No, even as I say that, I can’t believe it. It doesn’t work like that with those blokes. They made their choice about which side of the line they’re on a long time ago, and they stay there. You join him and that’s where you’ll be.’
He paused as if waiting for Carrow to argue with him, deny what he said. ‘You had the makings of a good copper. You were decent, probably still are. You put the business of the nicked patrol car behind you. It’s more a funny story now than anything. You did good work after that. You left for another job, one a lot of people envied. It turned into a tragedy. But you came out of that clean. I reckon you could come back if you wanted. Dowd would put a word in, so would I.
‘Look Carra, you know this already, but I’ll say it anyway. The other side of the line is attractive. Good fun, easy money. But in the end it’s always about corruption, hurting people, taking things away from people. And being the sort of person who can do that.’
He stopped abruptly. Took a breath. Lifted his glass. Finished his lager. ‘I’ve got to get back. I want to see the Ten O’Clock News. Dowd did a piece to camera. It might not make the national, but it’ll be a definite for the Midlands News.’
Carrow finished as much of his pint as he wanted and pushed the glass away. ‘It’s been good tonight, Jack. The things you’ve said—’
‘Why don’t you come back? Watch it with me.’
‘The old flat?’
‘Much the same, cleaner and tidier though than when you were there. There may even be a couple of lagers in the fridge.’
‘They’re probably mine.’
‘Could well be.’
They went back together. It made the national bulletin but only as a small item. The angle was simple – local police investigating a double shooting in Birmingham’s clubland. The interview with Dowd wasn’t used. A glimpse of the staff waiting outside Pinks the previous evening, but Carrow couldn’t spot himself. Then there was footage taken this morning: Jack and Dowd in Essex Street, some of Mrs Stretton and her daughters laying flowers on the steps of the Norway.
‘Dowd wants her to do a press conference,’ Jack said, ‘but she’s not up for it. He says he’ll give it a couple of days to see how things go, then try her again if necessary.’
The local Midlands news that followed led with the story and used the interview with Dowd. ‘The brutal shooting of Keith Stretton and Trudy Loop in their place of work is a truly terrible act,’ he started. ‘Cold. Calculated. Shocking in the extreme. It strikes at the heart of our community.’
‘He didn’t waste any time,’ Jack continued. ‘Every PR directive that comes in now states: stress community; refer to community values.’
‘I want to assure the people of Birmingham, however, that West Midlands Police are pursuing our investigation of this brutal crime with all the urgency, vigour and professionalism that they have come to expect from us.’
‘Nice one, Sean. They’ll like that upstairs.’
The interviewer asked about the possibility of links with organised crime in the city. As Dowd explained that organised crime was a problem in all big cities, Birmingham no exception, and that all possibilities were being investigated, the screen was filled with a close-up of the blue lamp above the Norway Room before the camera pulled back to show the whole of Essex Street. As the reporter explained that Mr Stretton had left a wife and two daughters, the screen showed them outside the club, placing their flowers on the steps. The shot went into close-up and Carrow knew immediately that he recognised Mrs Stretton from somewhere, grey hair pulled back, into a bun, he was sure he knew that face, had seen her before. A second later he got it – the coat.
41
It was nearly one o’clock when Carrow drove out of the Mendy, three hours since his last drink. He might still be over the limit. But he had to drive. A cab was no good for this.
He cut through Selly Oak. His finger caught the wiper rod and he jumped as the wipers sprang into action. There was a police car outside the hospital. Carrow held his breath as he drove past.
Across the Bristol Road into Harborne and then into Bearwood’s dark and silent streets. He was surprised to see a light on in Ruthie’s flat. He had expected it to be dark, her in bed now, if she was there at all.
There were half a dozen flats in the old house. Ruthie’s was number three, on the first floor. He pressed the buzzer. Held it. He had imagined he would have to ring several times to rouse her from sleep. But the intercom came to life immediately. ‘Yes? Who is it?’
And with that the situation seemed completely absurd. He was acting on a hunch – at one in the morning. Pretending to be a copper again. DI Carrow.
‘It’s Carra,’ he said.
‘Carra? From the Norway Room?’
‘There’s only one.’
‘Well, he can fuck off.’
‘Ruthie! Ruthie?’ But she was gone. He back-stepped to see her window. The curtains didn’t move. Just panels of yellow light. This was the moment to go. Jack should be doing this, not him. He could call him in the morning – tell him what he knew. But he rang again. Nothing. And again, holding the button for longer this time.
‘I told you to go away.’