‘Lucozade?’
‘The best I can do is water.’
‘Fine. Drop some sugar in it though, can’t you?’
‘You can.’
I leave the room as Benson enters, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of water and a few miniature packets of sugar.
‘Here.’ I chuck them onto the table.
‘Thanks,’ he says, ripping the ends off two packets and letting the granules glide down his throat. He unscrews the lid from the bottle and takes two large gulps before pouring the final two packets into it to shake before slurping.
Benson looks amused. He tilts his head and gives me a we’re-not-getting-anywhere look to which I blink in acknowledgement.
I go back to placing same coloured gemstones in lines of three in the game on my phone that’s boring the hell out of me but appears to be irritating Callahan more which is why I continue doing it.
A further ten minutes pass, before Benson breaks the silence. ‘Alloy wheel production’s a big drop from Superintendent.’
Callahan sighs and shakes his head. ‘You’re not getting another word from me.’
‘Fair enough. I’m just sharing my observations.’ After a pause Benson continues rambling. ‘I bet it’s strange being on the other side of this table.’ Then, ‘You like your cars. Got some decent ones on your driveway, I’ll give you that.’ He frowns. ‘How much was that classic Chevy? No, don’t tell me, let me guess. Uh, forty? No, fifty grand?’
Callahan sighs.
‘Collecting American cars is something you have in common with Mr Newell,’ I say, not bothering to look away from the screen of my phone while I thumb my way up to the next level.
‘You were in the best position to negotiate routes and designate resources,’ says Benson. ‘I reckon it hit your associates hard when you were expelled from the force. But you can’t beat the crisp notes of success, can you? It’s far more rewarding doing something you enjoy. And I’m guessing your love of cars would have outcast your career anyway?’ He stops, looks directly into Callahan’s eyes and he smiles in reply.
I put my phone down. ‘You got a girlfriend?’ He shakes his head.
‘That’s good. Women and kids don’t appreciate enforced separation,’ says Benson.
He huffs and crosses his arms. Now I know we have traction I must maintain the momentum.
‘No one likes to lose their home either.’ His assets have all been seized.
‘But his business is legit, isn’t it?’ says Benson with a wink.
‘Oh yes. It’s worth a few quid too. Except there’s no paper trail for the purchase of that building either.’
‘The house is worth about seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds!’
‘Oh, easily. The alloy shop’s probably worth a quarter of a million so he stands to lose at least a million pounds, not including his annual turnover.’
‘Which is?’
‘He profits around two million pounds a year after tax, expenses, business rates, fees, and PAYE.’
Benson wolf-whistles. ‘That’s a substantial sum.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Have you got something to say, Mr Callahan?’
He glares at me and his face turns pink while his hand reaches down to scratch the back of his knee.
‘No? Well, I guess we can wrap things up here.’
‘Yeah, it’s almost handover,’ says Benson.
‘We’ve got him on a Section 45. He’s looking at a five-year stretch.’
Part 3 of the Serious Crime Act 2015 allows us to charge Callahan for participating in the criminal activities of a serious crime group.
We both stand and Callahan, solicitor-less through choice, has no option but to follow suit.
‘Back to the holding cell it is, Mr Callahan.’ I escort him out of the room, ensuring Benson remains at his other side by keeping my footfall in line with his. ‘What do you want to eat? You’ve missed the dinner round so I’ll have to fetch you something from the canteen.’
‘A sandwich will do.’
‘Any preferences? You haven’t got any allergies.’
‘Anything. Just, can I… I’ve got this rash,’ he says, lifting his shirt to reveal a couple of bite marks on the back of his shoulder which he drags his barely-there nails through, leaving red score-lines across his flesh. ‘It’s driving me mental. They’re on my ankles too.’
‘Those red bumps look like flea bites to me. They won’t kill you. And you didn’t get them from here.’
‘No, they’re probably from that bit—’
‘Language.’ I glance at him and note some of his bolster has disappeared. ‘Are you a dog or a cat person, Mr Callahan?’
‘Neither. I hate them both equally.’
‘Hate’s a strong word.’
‘You’re not getting anything more out of me, Detective Sergeant Maguire.’
‘I’m not expecting to, Mr Callahan.’
Once I’ve redelivered Callahan to his holding cell, Hodges pops his head round the incident room door and motions for me to follow him into the interview room where Jerome is resting his head on his arm, his shoulders are shuddering, and the table is wet with tears. I glance at the social worker seated beside him whose offer of a tissue is gratefully accepted.
Jerome is clearly in a state of distress. Maternal instinct threatens to kick in and I have got to remind myself why he’s here. He bought a gun from Atkinson. A gun that resembles the one used to kill his sister, Natalie. His schoolmate, Leighton’s, fingerprints were found on a knife wearing Steven’s blood.
‘Could you repeat to Detective Sergeant Maguire what you just said to me?’ says Hodges, reseating himself.
Jerome looks up at me, wipes his nose with the tissue and his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.
‘Honour begged me for the gun.’
What he’s said is enough to constitute entrapment. The CPS could refuse the case if they agree that Honour coerced Jerome into collecting the gun for her to borrow.
‘Did she tell you why she wanted the gun?’
‘She said Marcus came to the door, put a knife to her throat, and forced her inside. Then he made her look everywhere for the money.’
‘What money?’ I look to Hodges for further insight, but he looks as clueless as me.
‘I don’t know. She said she’s scared of him. I asked if she wanted to protect herself and she said she wanted the gun for reassurance.’
‘Who gave you the gun to loan out?’
I can see the strain on his face. His fear is palpable. ‘We already know, Jerome. We just need you to confirm it so we can all leave here and get some rest.’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘I appreciate how difficult it must be for you to speak to us. Especially after what happened to your sister. But I promise you we’ll do everything we can to ensure you and your mum remain safe.’
‘You couldn’t protect Natalie.’
I stare him out. It’s all I can do. I can’t discuss Natalie’s murder. Not even with her own brother. And certainly not during an interview I haven’t been formally assigned to sit in on.
‘We’ve got the individual responsible for loaning you the gun in custody, Jerome. Anything you say to us will remain within these four walls.’
‘Until it goes to court.’ He glances at the camera on the ceiling then to the set-up aimed at the table, recording the interview with an automatic zoom lens.
If it goes to court.
I watch Jerome watching us. He looks withdrawn. I can’t imagine my own son being here, seated across the table, faced with being torn from me and locked up in a six by nine feet wide concrete cell.
I wait for Jerome to speak. Two minutes pass. Five. Seven. And just when I think I can wait no more, Jerome says the words I’ve been longing to hear. A witness statement tangible enough to credit at least one of the top men with. ‘Reg. The man who owns the chicken restaurant. He gave me the gun.’
I feel the tension in the r
oom dissipate, like a tightly woven cord loosening.
‘Surname?’
‘Atkinson.’
‘How do you know Reg Atkinson?’
‘He’s friends with my uncle. Keenan.’
‘We found some of Keenan’s things in someone’s house, but he’d left before we got there. Have you any idea where he could be?’
‘No.’ He looks down.
‘We’re very concerned for his whereabouts, Jerome.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
*
I’m hungry and thirsty by the time I leave the interview room, having discharged Jerome to the care of the duty social worker.
Carmen hasn’t rung me back. I’d expected her to cadge a lift off Honour and turn up at the custody suite demanding to see her son. Yelling and arguing with everyone. I wouldn’t blame her. Two of her children have been killed in four years, and she’s likely going to lose another to a prison sentence for the possession of a dangerous weapon. I’m also growing increasingly anxious to find her brother. The fact she’s not here, in hysterics, is worrying.
Benson accosts me as I’m about to leave the department. Although I should be heading straight home to my husband and our two boys, I’ve a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that I must visit Carmen first.
‘Hey, wait.’ Benson’s eyes dart back to the entryway and then to the street where my car is parked. ‘Has Rawlings got a dog?’
‘No idea. This is important why?’
‘I noticed some hairs: short and dark-coloured on the seat of his car just a moment ago.’
‘I won’t ask what you were doing so close to his car window.’
‘I thought he was acting weird earlier. Leaving the incident room without telling anyone where he was going clinched it for me that he was up to something so when I went for a piss, I followed him out to the car park. He was on the phone, so he didn’t notice me circle his car.’
‘And have a good look inside by the sound of it.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re not curious to know if Rawlings is a cat or dog man.’
Are you a cat or dog person, Mr Callahan?
He catches me gasp. ‘What?’
‘I think I know where Keenan is.’
I don’t give him time to reply because the second the last syllable has left my mouth, I’m already running across the street to Rawlings’ car. I peer through the windscreen at the fur visible on the edges of the light grey seat where the backs of his thighs rest.
I run across the road to my own car. Benson arrives panting behind me, yanks open the passenger door, sits, and slams it shut as soon as he hears the engine roar.
‘No arrest warrant, no arrest team, no one knows where the fuck we’re going…’
‘Shut up. That little gym burst there almost killed you. It’s a good job you’re no longer on the beat.’
I indicate left and put my foot down, the lights green, the road clear.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Rawlings’. That’s why no one knows where we are or where we’re intending to go.’
‘What are we going to do once we get to the DI’s house if we find Keenan there?’ He shakes his head at the lunacy of my idea, and I almost do the same.
‘Speak to him.’
‘You think he’s going to let us in, make us a brew, and tell us why he went on the run? Let me out,’ he says, tugging on the child-locked door. ‘We’re not doing this. I’m not doing this. I’ve only been on the job for—’
‘Quit whining. If we don’t do this, you won’t have a career.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘What? No. I’m trying to help you gain some clarity.’
‘Stop this car and let me out.’
‘No.’ He leans over me and jerks the steering wheel.
‘What are you doing?!’
‘Pull over. Now!’
‘Fine. But if you ever take the wheel from me again, I will claim extenuating circumstances led me to punch you in the fucking face.’
‘Wow, you’re an angry bird.’
As the car crawls to a stop so does the heat between us evaporate.
He flings open the door and jumps out, lights a cigarette, and I get the urge to drive off and leave him there in the dark, on the street corner. But then I think of Steven and how terrified he must have been alone in the night, no one to hear him scream. Except for his best friend’s sister who watched whoever she saw plunge the knife into his chest and stomach over and again. Watched him fall to the floor, covered in blood. Watched it seep through his clothes and glide between the cracks in the pavement.
‘Are you going to tell me what all this is about?’ Benson pulls on his cigarette in long bursts.
‘Give me one of them.’
He flings one at me, and I strain my neck leaning forward to light it from his. I take a long drag and wince. ‘Tastes like shit.’
‘I’ve never tasted shit so I wouldn’t know.’
‘You speak enough of it.’
‘As much as I’m enjoying this banter, can you just explain why we’re doing this so I’m aware of our excuse when we get reprimanded?’
‘Callahan had fleas. He was scratching in the interview room. He said he had a rash.’ I take a deep drag of the cigarette, feeling my lungs tighten in protestation then exhale a coil of smoke. ‘You alerted me to the fact Rawlings’ car seats are covered in hair that could belong to a dog which I’ve just confirmed.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Keenan did a runner from Callahan’s probably less than an hour before we got there to arrest him. He doesn’t appear to have taken any of his belongings which means a) he was in a rush, or b) an insider told him to vacate the property sharpish.’
‘If you’re so certain Keenan’s hiding out at Rawlings’ place, we need to establish if the fur from his car seat matches his dog’s hair. That’s if we can prove he has one.’
‘Exactly, except we can’t request a search warrant from the man whose house we intend to search.’
‘What are you going to do, break into Rawlings’ house, pray this dog, we don’t yet know exists, doesn’t attack you before you tug some of its fur off its neck, and then break into Rawlings’ car to retrieve some to compare it to?’
‘Have you got a better idea?’ He seems to consider this for a moment. I add, ‘It’s the only lead we have. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you a steak.
‘It had better be an eight-ounce sirloin.’ He throws his cigarette onto the ground and bolts for the car. He stands with one elbow on the top of the open door. ‘Well, hop in then. Let’s go.’
I shake my head, tug on the cigarette one last time, and toss it into a bush. Benson slams the door behind me, runs around to the other side and lands hard on his seat, causing the suspension to creak. I turn the engine and accelerate with a screech of tyres.
‘Callahan knew we were on our way to arrest him because Rawlings told him?’
‘I suspect that’s why he was on the roof when the arrest team arrived at his property and why Keenan wasn’t.’ I brake hard at the junction as the lights turn red.
‘If we were in a patrol car, we could blast through these.’
‘Yes, well, we’re not.’ I catch him smirking, his eyes cast to the starry sky. ‘What? What’s so funny?’
‘I can’t believe I’ve already gone rogue and we’ve only been working together for what, a month?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Is that all? It feels like a lifetime.’
‘Doesn’t it just.’
I’ve never been to Rawlings’ house before. But Pierce has. I collected them from the street corner once on the way to the pub to celebrate the eventual conviction of a notorious gangster whose charges were like a game of ping-pong; it was hit or miss as to whether the CPS would prosecute.
I exit the car first. But Benson appears beside me in an instant, blocking my path. ‘We do this together or not at all. Any hint of threat and I’m calling it in.
’
I nod, yet I’m inexplicably annoyed about his protective stance. Especially when just a few minutes ago he was concerned what I planned to do was break the law to uphold it.
Benson walks ahead, casting an elongated shadow across the patio. A motion-activated security light is attached to the front of the house. I note that it and our footsteps have no effect on the dog I suspected was inside the property. A camera is fixed to the porch, aimed at us. An alarm blinks a small red warning light every five seconds from the other side of the doorway. The side gate is locked and too high to climb. The rear door is unapproachable from the back due to the huge walls secluding the garden from its neighbours, which I can just about see if I stand on tip-toes on the upended recycling box parked over a drain cover.
I’ve never even tried to break into someone’s house before, but I have used a crow-bar to open the double-glazed UPVC window of a shed, to save a cat that had fallen through a gap in the sand-coated roofing that was in the process of being fitted. The owners had gone to work, and the cat’s cries had convinced a passer-by that a baby had been abducted and kept in there.
The front door to the neighbouring house flies open as I’m returning the box to its original occupancy, and a petite elderly woman storms out demanding to know who I am and what I’m doing.
I show her my ID card and motion for Benson to do the same. She takes a long hard look at our faces then says, ‘You’ve got older.’ Then she turns to Benson and adds, ‘And he’s fatter.’
I ignore her bitchiness. ‘Name?’
‘Ms Flynn, Marie.’
‘Do you know your neighbour, Ms Flynn?’ I tilt my head to the quiet house encased in darkness.
‘Ian, yes. He’s one of your lot.’
‘He is, yes. Does he live alone?’
‘Isn’t that the kind of question a hustler or burglar might ask?’ She doesn’t give me time to reply before adding, ‘And wouldn’t you know, being a detective and all?’ She pouts and puts a hand on one hip. ‘I’ll answer no more of your questions.’
Benson steps forward, forcing her to acknowledge him. ‘Have you seen anyone acting suspiciously around here recently?’
‘You mean like so-called coppers searching for an unorthodox way into my neighbour’s property?’ She raises her chin and gives me a headmistress’s stare: eyes cast down at me even though I’m half a foot taller than her.
I Know You (DI Emma Locke) Page 26