Cold Kill

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Cold Kill Page 11

by David Lawrence


  ‘This isn’t just a bit of a smack. This is… I’m dead.’

  ‘Robbery isn’t an AMIP event, Mickey. If they look for anyone, it’ll be a chis who talks to uniform.’

  ‘Everyone talks to everyone,’ Mickey said, ‘that’s the fucking trouble.’ Stella nodded but said nothing. Mickey was getting set: he was almost there. ‘They operate off Harefield. Kids, all of them, but there’s a management team. The guys that run them set targets and a work-rate.’

  ‘Why five crews?’

  ‘Five gangs on the estate. The kids won’t work with people from a different gang.’

  ‘The guys who run the crews: who are they?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Please...’

  ‘There are people I deal with off Harefield, but they’re not these people. I could take a guess, but, unless it really matters, don’t make me.’

  ‘Okay. We might talk again on that.’ Mickey looked unhappy. ‘What happens to the gear?’

  ‘It goes to a warehouse, then it gets knocked out to weekend street-markets.’

  ‘This stuff was stolen five days ago.’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Yes. So it might still be in the warehouse, is that right?’

  ‘Could be. They tend to leave it for a while, let it go off, you know?’

  ‘Go off?’

  ‘Like food past its use-by. Fresh gear is top of the crime lists.’

  ‘Where’s the warehouse?’

  ‘Please move that fucking car, Mrs Mooney, it sticks out like a dog’s bollocks.’

  ‘I’m going, Mickey. I’m on my way.’ Stella took her car keys out of her pocket. ‘Where’s the warehouse?’

  He gave her a location off the North End Road. It was two streets away from where Stella had lived with George. From where she still lived.

  She trickled up to Shepherd’s Bush Green at little better than walking pace. It was four o’clock and office parties were turning out on to the streets from restaurants and pubs. Indiscretion was in the air: the manager unfairly passed over for promotion with something on the tip of his tongue; the PA busy with the tip of her tongue as she whispers in her boss’s ear.

  A girl in fuck-me shoes got nudged off her heels and into the road as she danced with a drunken colleague. The rest of the crowd laughed and cheered. When Stella braked heavily, the girl palmed herself off the passenger door and her partner caught her, swept her back to the pavement and kissed her open-mouthed: season’s greetings.

  She drove down to the North End Road and found the warehouse – a tall, red-brick building – then parked across the street among a row of cars on a metered stretch. She got out and walked the perimeter of the warehouse, which ran for a short distance along the two streets on either side, and ended with a high wall and delivery yard at the back.

  Harriman picked up her call. She said, ‘We’re going to toss a warehouse off North End Road. Possibility of finding whatever was robbed from Valerie Blake’s flat.’

  ‘Do we need it?’

  ‘We’ll know when we find it.’

  ‘You’re thinking DNA database.’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘We’d have found it, wouldn’t we – when Andy Greegan went in with the search team?’

  ‘The burglars took clothes and shoes. Who knows where she might have gone in them, or who she might have met?’

  ‘Are we calling uniform in?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘They won’t be happy.’

  ‘You’re right. On the other hand…’

  On the other hand, Harriman thought, the more people who know the greater the risk. One bent copper is all it takes.

  He said, ‘How many of us do you want?’

  ‘Four. You, me, Maxine Hewitt, Frank Silano.’

  ‘Silano?’

  ‘He looks handy, don’t you think?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘We’ll do it tonight.’

  ‘You mean after they’ve closed.’

  ‘I’m looking at the place. It’s big. Basically, it’s a hardware and white goods storage, so obviously semi-legit. They’ll have several exits, a dozen or so people in there pulling orders. It’s possible that they’ll also have clients from the markets. I don’t want to go in mob-handed and stir everyone up. And I don’t want issues of territory fucking things up. Uniform can have them after we’re through.’

  ‘Is it alarmed?’ Harriman asked.

  ‘Are you kidding? This is Harefield-run. I should think every villain in west London knows to stay clear. Anyway, even if some joker did try to do the place, I don’t think the owners would want the local cops turning up and asking them for their inventory.’

  ‘Shall I warn the armourer?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll talk to Sorley.’

  ‘Come on, Boss, you’re never alone with a Glock.’

  ‘Brief the others. Tell them when but don’t tell them where or what.’

  ‘Just get one for me, then. I’ll have the gun.’

  ‘Tell DI Sorley I’m on my way and need a word.’

  ‘Someone ought to have a gun.’

  23

  Robert Kimber was counting a wad of banknotes like a teller: they crackled as he peeled them off. Delaney was investing. If you’re freelance, you back your own hunches.

  Up in 16/31 he had a view of gulls drifting down a leaden sky. The walls looked as if they’d been freshly stripped, ready for new wallpaper. New trophies. The place was under-furnished and very tidy. Over by the window, a small workstation with a laptop computer. Kimber stowed the money in his pocket and smiled invitingly. Narrow face, grey-green eyes, blond hair with a flop to it. The pouty mouth spoiled things, Delaney decided.

  He handed Kimber his business card. ‘Use the mobile number.’

  Kimber dropped the card on to a small table that stood between them, without bothering to look at it. Mister Cool. ‘Do you want something? Coffee or a beer?’

  ‘No.’ Delaney put a cassette-recorder down on the table. ‘You okay with this?’

  ‘Used to it. The police record you.’

  Delaney switched on but let the silence ride a minute. Then, ‘I suppose the first thing to ask is why you did what you did.’

  Kimber was holding the smile. ‘Kill her?’

  ‘Confess to it.’

  ‘Because I killed her.’

  ‘The police don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s why I’m sitting here talking to you.’

  ‘They’re sure of it.’

  ‘I know, they told me.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go from a different angle. You killed her, then you walked into a police station and told them so. Why do that?’

  ‘To see what would happen next.’

  ‘What did happen next?’

  ‘We had a little game. When will this be out?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I have to sell it first.’

  ‘You said it would be in the paper.’

  ‘It will be. You’re too good to pass up, don’t worry.’

  Kimber’s laptop played a five-note tune. He ignored it. Delaney went on asking questions, but he wasn’t interested in getting a Q & A interview – he just wanted Kimber to talk. His article would take it for granted that Kimber was a liar, a victim of the Judas Syndrome; what he was after was detail, personal stuff, self-betrayal.

  You’re too good to pass up. Kimber liked the idea. He talked seamlessly, all the time with a bright little smile on his face. After twenty minutes Delaney said, ‘You know, I wouldn’t mind that coffee.’

  Kimber went to the kitchen. Delaney got up and walked to the window. The city was dim under a low drift of cadmium and carbon monoxide. The laptop was showing Kimber’s email window and announcing one unread message. Delaney left that message alone. He went to ‘Inbox’ and glanced at the recent list: some spam, the rest from ‘Angel’. He opened one and a name caught his eye.

  I expect you enjoyed leading them a dance. DS Mooney, was that
the name the papers gave? Did you enjoy your sessions with her?

  They always hold something back, don’t they? What did you do about that? I expect you stayed vague. I expect you did some ducking and diving. You must have been pretty good because it took them a while to work you out, didn’t it? I expect you went in prepared. You must have known something. What did you know?

  Delaney glanced towards the kitchen. He scrolled down.

  The thing I really want to ask – how did it feel pretending it was you – pretending you had killed Valerie? I expect it was thrilling. It was thrilling, wasn’t it? Did you run through it in your mind? I expect you did. I wonder how close you got to the real thing. I could tell you how close. We could compare notes.

  I would love to run through it with you. I would love to take you through it, step by step.

  The kitchen door had swung to and Kimber kicked it open, coming down the hallway with two cups of coffee. He found Delaney where he’d left him. Kimber’s smile was no less eager.

  He said, ‘What else do you want to know?’

  Mike Sorley’s office was a litter of store bags. New life, new responsibilities. He held up a kidskin handbag with a tag on it that read ‘Echt Leder’. Stella nodded. ‘She’ll like it.’

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘Love it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  Sorley looked pleased. He said, ‘I never used to do this. Make the choice. She used to tell me what to get and where to go for it.’ ‘She’ was the wife Sorley had left. ‘I didn’t know I had taste. I spoke to DC Harriman. He said you’d made a firearms request.’

  ‘And you said –’

  ‘Nothing yet. What’s the risk factor, one to ten?’

  ‘Somewhere between two and nine,’ Stella told him.

  ‘You expect to find people in there?’

  ‘Not really.’ She paused. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘I’ll authorize it. Someone ought to tell uniform.’

  ‘I thought I’d leave that to you.’

  ‘I’ll try to get round to it,’ Sorley said, ‘sooner or later.’

  Stella put in a call to John Delaney. She said, ‘I don’t know what time I’d be home. I could go to the flat: it might be simpler.’

  Home, the flat, your place, my place… What do you say when you don’t quite belong anywhere?

  He said, ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘I’m going to be over there. Over by the flat.’

  ‘Sure. Okay.’

  ‘Just don’t put the chain on. Don’t lock me out.’

  He laughed. ‘Never.’ He knew that she had to be given a long rope. All women.

  24

  A Yale can be tricked with a credit card, a barrel lock will give up to a pincer-pick, you can take a gib-saw to a brass lever lock. All these work. So does a Hatton gun, which is the mechanical version of a flat-footed kick from Robocop. It makes a lot of noise, but Frank Silano wasn’t worried about waking the neighbours.

  Stella had the list of items supplied by DS Harris. They worked in two teams, Maxine and Silano going to the third floor and working down, Stella and Pete Harriman going to the basement and working up. There were neon strips in every room. It wasn’t complicated. One floor was white goods, one floor was electrical goods, one floor was any hardware that wasn’t in those categories and one floor was clothes. Everything was racked according to type: dresses, coats, shoes. Stella speed-dialled Maxine.

  She said, ‘We’re on the ground floor. There’s a lot to look at.’

  In the end, though, Valerie Blake’s things weren’t difficult to find: the descriptions she’d given had been accurate. They had put on latex gloves and were packing the clothes into evidence bags when Harriman touched Stella’s arm. Maxine and Silano saw the gesture and paused. All four of them fell silent.

  Stella simply nodded: Yes. I heard it.

  They listened. They took out their guns. They waited. The sound came again, but it was difficult to interpret. A sleeper harried by a nightmare… something in pain. Silano pointed to the far end of the room. Beyond the racks of clothes was a rubble of boxes and garments thrown down anyhow: rejects, perhaps, or items yet to be sorted. The noise came again, high and broken, almost musical.

  Stella motioned to Harriman, who went left as she went right, each circling in order to get to the space between the boxes and the wall. Harriman walked through, but Stella had to kick down a stack of boxes. It sounded like a landslide. She stepped through, bringing her gun to bear at about head-height, then adjusting when she saw the figures on the floor. Harriman was already in position but holding his weapon at his side.

  There were six. Four adults and two children. One of the children was a baby. The mother had the child to her breast and she was weeping; that was the strange, muted sound Stella had heard. The woman’s husband still had his hand clamped across her mouth. Some of her pain he could cram back, but some was unstoppable. At first, Stella thought the woman’s distress must come from fear and, like Harriman, she lowered her gun. Then she saw that the child was dead.

  They looked at Stella, wide-eyed and fearful, all except the mother. She was looking down at her baby and making those terrible noises and offering the child her breast and all the time her tears were falling on to its lifeless head like rain.

  It was a mixed convoy: an ambulance, a police security vehicle, two patrol cars, a pair of immigration officers in a standard-issue Land Rover. The mother went alone into the ambulance. Alone, save for her dead child. Her husband called to her as he was put into the security van. He reached out, as if his arm could span the distance between him and his wife, as if he might touch her, and he howled, his mouth wide, his eyes fixed on her. She was holding the child tightly, its head still lifted to her nipple. A smudge of milk lay on its partly open lips.

  One of the immigration officers gave a case number to Stella along with his card. Stefan Bowers. He said, ‘Just make it Steve. There’ll be some forms to fill in.’

  ‘I bet there will.’

  ‘We’re going to call in the cavalry now,’ he told her. ‘The chances are these people were going to be moved on tonight. We might get lucky.’ He looked round at the vehicles, the cops, the roof-bar lights. ‘Maybe not, though.’

  ‘Where do you think they’re from?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Eastern Europe at a guess. Romania, perhaps.’

  ‘The child was dead,’ Stella said.

  Bowers nodded, looking away towards the ambulance as it moved off. ‘We’ll need to check that.’

  ‘Check what?’

  ‘Cause of death – possibility of contagion.’

  Maxine Hewitt was sitting in the passenger seat of her car with the door open and her feet on the pavement. She said, ‘I’m being hard-nosed about it. I’m thinking of it as being all in a day’s work.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Stella said. ‘Me too.’

  Harriman took the back routes to Stella’s flat in Vigo Street. Her sometime home. There were fairy lights in windows and drunks in doorways.

  He said, ‘It happens every day.’

  ‘I know that,’ Stella told him. ‘I don’t see it every day.’

  There was a faint smell of gun-oil in the car.

  She jacked up the heating and looked in the fridge, but she’d been away for too long. Things had died in there; had died and were rendering down. The freezer compartment carried a cook-from-frozen American Hot and a bottle of Stoli. She took them out.

  This is dangerous.

  A shot-glass, a single ice-cube, vodka over the ice to the top of the glass, so a little meniscus formed, thick and clear. She sat on a kitchen stool with the glass on the worktop in front of her and leaned in to take in its scent – just the faintest thing, but Stella could detect the wheat, the rye, the barley malt, the herbs. Or thought she could. The rye, the high, the risk, the rashness, the dreams of dead babies.

  Don’t go there.

  A case where two children had died: St
ella’s case. It wasn’t her fault, but it had felt as if it was. A woman dead, her husband under arrest, and Stella questioning him all night. He had said, ‘Where are the children?’ He had said it again and again. Stella knew they were safe: they were with his sister. When she went to the house next morning, on a routine call, she had found the children hanging from the banister. The sister had said, ‘She’s dead now. She’s dead, that bitch. All dead.’ The social worker had called it a family feud.

  Stella had been okay for a while, then one day she’d got into her car and driven away and kept driving. George had found her after a week. On the way back to London, she had started to miscarry her own child. The dream had started after that, always coming at 3 a.m., always bringing her awake, a dream of dead babies and one of them hers. Vodka and the 3 a.m. dream were indivisible.

  She waited for the pizza, but then ate only one slice. It tasted old. The vodka tasted brand new.

  It was almost possible to hear George’s voice. His workstation still in place, his draughtsman’s board, his portfolio of designs. He was a boat designer. He’d sent her a letter from Seattle saying how buoyant the yacht market was, how it was pretty much plain sailing. That kind of corn had been a private joke and she knew he meant something by using it. By running it up the mast.

  The past is another country. Don’t you know that?

  She remade the bed with fresh linen, but couldn’t lie in it. Instead she went back to the main room and poured herself another vodka and drank it and then poured another and drank that and sat by the window to watch the winter dawn come up, her face against the cold glass, her eye following the first ragged flocks of birds as they crossed the high, clear, pink-and-aquamarine sky.

  She thought of the mother, gagged by her husband’s hand, her full breast drooping to the child’s face, the smear of milk on those motionless lips.

  We’ll need to check that. Cause of death – possibility of contagion.

  Stella wondered what could be more contagious than sorrow.

  25

  Pink and aquamarine shaded to blue ice. There were still a few late stars and the frost on iron made pavement railings sticky.

 

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