Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “One good thing though,” Jones said. “We got witnesses on tape.”

  A wild-eyed Pakistani waiter lurched into view. “Suicide bomber,” he wailed, “had on bomb belt, blow us all to kingdom come!”

  “Too much information,” the Cat said. “Turn it off, Bobby, and just give it to me straight.”

  Jones closed the laptop and refreshed the DAC’s drink. “Well, we gave all the usuals a tug. Rikeman was favourite, fitted his MO to a tee, he pulled a job just across the pavement one Christmas dressed as Santa and he’s got form as long as your arm.”

  “And . . .”

  “Looked tasty too, if he hadn’t got a cast-iron alibi, playing poker down at the Showdown with a bunch of the borough’s finest.”

  “ID parades?”

  Jones shook his head. “Nobody really got a good look at the bandit; one burka’s much the same as another. One thing though, on his way out the bandit pulled up the hijab and took a big bite out of Hollingsworth’s doner kebab. When we were putting the usuals through the hoops we tried for a regurg order so we could stomach pump ’em, but the CPS wouldn’t wear it, so in the end they all walked.”

  The Cat laughed. “That would’ve been a first.” He took a pull on his drink. “Back in the good old days, Bob, when you and I were rip-roaring young Ds we’d have nicked the lot of ’em and let ’em draw lots to see which one was going on the sheet. All the villains knew the score; if it wasn’t the one you were nicked for it was for the one you were plotting up. What was the old slogan?”

  With a big grin Jones said: “Don’t bother with Burton’s, the robbery squad’ll fit you up.”

  “Happy days.”

  “Long gone, guv’nor. CPS said stomach-pumping a suspect was a definite no-no, would infringe their human rights and we’ll all end up in the dock at Strasbourg.”

  The Cat chuckled at the thought: “So basically, Bobby, you’re still on square one.”

  “Have a heart, guv’nor, it was hardly the crime of the century, and if it hadn’t been for a couple of top-weight string-pullers jerking the Old Man’s chain, we’d just be giving it a crime number and you’d be nice and cosy admiring Charlene’s legs.”

  The Cat thought about it for a moment and then he said: “Look, Bob, no offence and no criticism of your lads, but I’ve got guiding light on this so I’m bringing in the Sweeney, full throttle.”

  Jones blinked, “Jesus, guv, talk about a sledgehammer to crack a nut.”

  “The way it crumbles,” the Cat shrugged. “Look on the bright side, actually I’ll be doing you a favour because you won’t have to take the flak when the heavy mob start treading on toes; your squad can take a back seat while my lot squeeze the local villainy until the pips squeak.” The Cat finished his Scotch in one swallow. “Summon the troops,” he said, popping a mint, “I’ll do the briefing myself. Who’ve you got on intel?”

  “DC Malloy.”

  “Any good?”

  “Crackerjack.”

  The Cat nodded, then he said: “Oh and just to smooth any ruffled feathers, Bob, you can give ’em the good news.”

  “Oh yeah, and what would that be guv’nor?”

  “Brakes are off overtime.” The Cat rubbed his hands. “Could be a nice little earner, like the good old days.”

  When Detective Constable Malloy returned to his partitioned cubbyhole in the CID general office he found a familiar face lounging in his chair puffing on a Bolivar Corona which he had purloined from the cedarwood cigar box “Metal” Mike kept tucked away in his desk drawer.

  “Hey Mike, how’s your luck?” the face, a DC on the Flying Squad, greeted him with easy familiarity. They were old section-house buddies who used to play snooker together back in their single men days, but Malloy considered the interloper helping himself to one of his prized cigars a dead liberty.

  “Not allowed to smoke in here, Dave,” he said pointedly. The cigars had been hand-rolled on the inside of a dusky maiden’s thigh, or so he had been led to believe.

  The Sweeney DC blew a smoke ring. “No problem, matey, I was never here, so I don’t count.” He grinned. “Anyway, my team just got called in on this little tickle of yours so I thought I’d drop in, sort of on the QT as you’re an old buddy, and let you have a goosy at these smudges.” He spread a selection of photographs across the desk.

  Malloy stared at them in stunned silence. They were shots of Donnelly’s scrapyard. “This one in particular,” said the DC, dropping ash as he slid the last picture across the desk. It was a close up of Malloy himself coming out of the office.

  “What’s all this?” “Metal” Mike wanted to know, blinking in surprise, and the detective winked conspiratorially. “Thought I’d just mark your card, amigo; my guv’nor would crucify me if he knew I was telling you this, but it would be a poor state of affairs if we couldn’t help each other out in the job, eh?”

  “That’s me there,” Malloy couldn’t help blurting the obvious. “What’s going on?”

  “Alex Donnelly,” the DC confided, leaning forward.

  “Alex Donnelly?” echoed “Metal” Mike, his voice rising in alarm.

  “Shh, not so loud, this is need to know only.”

  “What about Alex Donnelly?” Molloy asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” said the DC. “He’s a Flying Squad target.”

  “What?”

  “Twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

  “What for?” “Metal” Mike put the question with an edge of desperation.

  “Zatopec,” the DC whispered.

  “Jesus,” Malloy breathed the expletive; it didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Just a word to the wise, old mate,” the DC counselled with a wink as he dropped the cigar into the wastepaper basket, “in case some guv’nor up the line starts wondering how come you’re so pally with a squad target, puts two and two together and comes up with five and you’ve got the rubber heels from Professional Standards breathing down your neck. So like I said, I was never here, okay? If anyone should ask, you haven’t seen me in years.” With a sweep of the hand he spirited the pictures into an inside pocket and was gone before the incredulous “Metal” Mike could question him further.

  With a low moan, Malloy slumped into his chair, his mind reeling. Alex Donnelly, his brother-in-law, a Zatopec target! It wasn’t possible. Had he just dreamed it? Had it been some apparition there in the office? Some quirk of his overheated imagination? “Metal” Mike rubbed his eyes. Yes, that must be it, the adrenalin rush of his contribution to the burka-bandit briefing was playing tricks on him. His wife’s brother a Sweeney target? It wasn’t possible, he must have dreamt it. He wrinkled his nose; what was that acrid smell? Something was burning! His eyes fell on the wastepaper basket from which blue smoke was curling.

  The Sweeney came down like Byron’s wolf on the fold and as any self-respecting villain will testify there is nothing quite like a full-on police dragnet to shake the mice out of the woodwork. No sooner had DAC Tom “The Cat” Parker cranked up the operation, fuelled by the prospect of limitless overtime, than the neighbourhood was crawling with detectives, much to the chagrin of the criminal fraternity who immediately began to batten down the hatches to weather the storm, but not before the sweep had stumbled across a lock-up crammed with stolen TVs, a hydroponic cannabis “farm” bathed in the glare of 600-watt grow-lights in a foil-lined roof void, and a thermic lance plus a full kit of housebreaking implements concealed under a loose floorboard in a spare bedroom. Several of the brotherhood found the frenzied police activity just too much for their blood pressure and took off for a belated holiday in Tenerife. Alex Donnelly declined a seat on the chartered jet. It would, he told his colleagues, take more than the Old Bill busting a gut over a tupenny-ha’penny blagging to crack his nerve. Besides, he was to all intents and purposes a legitimate businessman with interests and a reputation to protect.

  So he was just a mite surprised when a hoodie sidled into his office, long-bille
d baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and announced in an anguished tone: “My God, Alex, you’ve made a right monkey out of me!”

  Donnelly, who was in his customary place behind his desk, sighed, sat back from his computer on which he was assiduously tracking the EU metal market and looked up expecting the usual motley raiding party to materialize behind “Metal” Mike Malloy. But to his surprise, his brother-in-law was alone and his pained expression, odd appearance and injured tone seemed to indicate something was seriously amiss.

  “You don’t look so good, Michael,” he replied mildly. “You’d better take the weight off and tell me all about it.”

  Tugging the hood further over his head in the hope of concealing his true identity from the prying eyes of the Flying Squad’s long toms, Malloy flopped heavily into a chair. After extinguishing the fire in his wastepaper basket he had headed directly for the scrapyard to have it out with Donnelly.

  “You’ve made me look a right mug,” he complained accusingly.

  “Mike . . . Michael,” Donnelly replied patiently, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “And what’s Linda going to say, eh?” Malloy grumbled. “Answer me that?”

  “Look,” Donnelly remained unruffled even at the mention of his sister, “you’ve got the advantage over me, what am I supposed to have done?”

  “All this time and you didn’t even tell me . . . me, your own brother-in-law. You let me keep on coming here without so much as a nod or a wink. It really is too bad, Alex.”

  Donnelly leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and asked gently: “What’s too bad, Michael?”

  “And to think I had to find out for myself.”

  “Find out what?”

  “That you’re a Flying Squad target, that’s what!” Malloy exclaimed hotly. “There’s Ds on rooftops, in TV repair vans and pretending to dig up the road, taking pictures of everything that moves around here, including ME!”

  Alex Donnelly sat up and spent a moment composing his facial muscles. “A Flying Squad target, eh?” he mused, shifting his mind into overdrive to assess the ramifications of this piece of information.

  “Not any old target either, a Zatopec target,” “Metal” Mike scowled miserably from the depth of his cowl, “the one that goes the distance.”

  Careful to avoid betraying a hint of emotion, Donnelly asked: “How did you find out?”

  “From the horse’s mouth,” Malloy replied, “from the squad itself, and how d’you think that made me feel? My own brother-in-law a Zatopec target and I’m the last one to know. I’m telling you, Alex, you’ve made a right monkey out of me and no mistake; what’s Linda going to say?”

  “You haven’t told her then?” Donnelly inquired, merely to keep the conversation going although he really couldn’t have cared less about his sister’s opinion at this juncture. He had enough to worry about on his own account.

  “Of course not, I only just found out myself and I came straight over. You’ve spoiled everything, Alex, you know that. I was going to do a raid today and another tomorrow. I’m on this burka bandit job, you know, on the hand-picked team and we’re pulling out all the stops. It was my big chance to shine, but how can I do it now with those jokers from the Squad perched all around? You’ve queered my pitch good and proper.”

  They talked on in this fashion a while longer: Malloy accusing; Donnelly placating as he extracted more and more information from his brother-in-law. The picture certainly looked gloomy, but he was a resilient and resourceful villain, and now that the first flush of shock had passed he began to examine the problem as a chess player, with a cool analytical approach. There had to be a gambit he could play, the Donnelly defence; all he had to do was figure it out.

  The more Donnelly thought about it, the more he pinpointed the burka bandit bit of nonsense as worthy of consideration. Here was a single event stirring everything up, exciting the forces of law and order, turning a damned great searchlight on the shady areas of the manor. It was of constant amazement to a realist like himself that a nondescript crime could still cause such an uproar. It was all over the TV news and you could hardly move for woodentops prowling the streets. But that quirk of bureaucratic imbroglio could at least give him a starting point in his search for bargaining power, for he had no intention of remaining a Flying Squad target for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary and he was astute enough to understand that, with the right commodity on offer, you could bargain your way out of anything.

  So by flattery and subtle questioning he proceeded to pick DC “Metal” Mike Malloy’s brain clean on the subject of the burka-bandit blagging.

  “All right,” Donnelly said at last, “let’s see if I’ve got it right. This comedian pulls off an armed robbery.” He was always careful never to slip into the criminal vernacular in conversation with Malloy. “And it so happens that a pair of VIPs come a cropper and start yelling blue murder. Your lot get the bit between their teeth and haul in some likely candidates. Is that about the strength of it?”

  “It was down to that toe-rag Ricky Rikeman, pound to a penny, got his MO stamped all over it, only he’d got a cast-iron alibi backed up by a bunch of upright citizens, so he walked.”

  “And now you’re beating the undergrowth looking for some other prospect, eh?”

  “I don’t know why you’re so interested in this case,” Malloy replied morosely, “not now you’re a big deal Flying Squad target who can’t even play fair with his own brother-in-law.”

  “Just humour me,” said Donnelly easily. “Did I get it about right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “This alibi,” Donnelly mused, “can you get me a look at the statements?”

  “Well I don’t know about that,” Malloy bridled, “that’s official police business and besides . . .”

  “Michael, look at me, this is a family thing. Would I ask you otherwise? Besides, you’re an important bloke, the crime intelligence analyst. So don’t go selling yourself short. Besides, you wouldn’t want to let those glory boys from the Yard put your nose out of joint now would you?”

  “What if I could get ’em?” Malloy scowled miserably and Donnelly eased himself back in his chair, a gambit beginning to take shape.

  “Wouldn’t you like things to get back the way they were, like the good times,” he waved a hand, “when you had the run of the place and no hassle from snoopers taking liberties with “Metal” Mike Malloy?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Trust me, Michael, get me those statements and I’ll see what I can do to put this little mix-up to bed.” Donnelly rose and walked over to the cocktail cabinet. “Now how about a drink to calm the old nerves?”

  Malloy heaved himself to his feet. “No thanks,” he turned the offer down emphatically, “I’ve been here too long already. Associating with a Zatopec target! Jesus, they could boil me in oil for that.”

  Donnelly shrugged; mentally the chess pieces were already in motion. “It’ll be all right, Mike, you’ll see,” he said persuasively. “Just get me a shufti at those statements, okay?”

  “I can’t bring ’em here.” Malloy shrank deeper into his hood and Donnelly laughed at his pained expression.

  “Why not? You’re always down here. Break the pattern and you’ll be the next under surveillance.”

  An involuntary groan escaped “Metal” Mike Malloy’s lips as he imagined the Squad staking out the Greenwich mews town house, which was his wife’s pride and joy. Linda would crucify him.

  “Just get the statements,” Donnelly urged, reaching into his desk drawer to fish out a thumbnail-sized flash drive. “Use this, and trust me Michael, it’ll be okay.”

  * * *

  It was, Malloy discovered, surprisingly easy. As the local intel analyst on the case, his password gave him total access to the need-to-know database. The cranked-up investigation was now running on Holmes, the acronym for the Home Office (Large) Major Enquiry System, which churned out the ac
tions and crunched all the input into something the SIO could get his head around. As any old-time detective would bemoan, before computers came along, it was vital to get a job by the scruff of its neck within the first forty-eight hours or drown under an avalanche of paper, as the card index grew like Topsy. It took the debacle of the Yorkshire Ripper to concentrate the minds and come up with something that doyen of Baker Street would have described as elementary.

  When he was confident he was unobserved by the incident room support team, “Metal” Mike pulled up the alibi statements on his terminal, slipped the key into the USB port and in the blink of an eye downloaded the file and exited the system before the gaggle of inputters could spot an interloper and start asking awkward questions.

  The following day he was back at his brother-in-law’s yard sitting across the desk, gnawing his knuckles anxiously as Donnelly read through the statements on his laptop, hoping for a change of expression which would indicate a ray of hope. He had slept badly the night before, plagued by nightmares of vultures circling as he staggered, exhausted, across an endless desert. Donnelly read in silence, absorbing the stilted prose, taking particular interest in the details of the alibi which he reread several times.

  “These people,” he broke the deep silence finally, “they’ve got damned good memories.”

  “Unshakable,” the detective replied gloomily. “All-day poker at the Showdown, he couldn’t have planned it better if he wanted to. They all tell the same story and if you’re thinking collusion, forget it, they’ve been checked out.”

  Donnelly smiled. “But that means if one cracks, they all go out the window?”

  “They won’t,” Malloy replied. “There’s enough witnesses there to sink a battleship, people at the tables, people at the bar, statements all tally and the CCTV is time-coded. That’s the best alibi I ever saw, it’s fireproof.”

  “This one,” Donnelly said, alighting on one of the names, “Oliver Bodkin, what d’you know about him?”

  “Metal” Mike frowned, dredging his memory. “He’s the garage owner with the Bentley, big wheel at the golf club, likes to play a little daytime poker with his cronies.”