by Keith Nixon
“Old dog, old tricks. At least I knocked.”
The interior was remarkably similar after the change in ownership, Hamson retaining Carslake’s minimalist decor with just a few alterations. The window behind Hamson’s desk overlooked the North Sea. A lamp on her desk cast a soft hue. The walls were painted a muted blue, which Gray thought lent the room a cold feeling, though the taint of the solvent fumes had finally eased.
“Just wanted to give you a quick update on the Union Row murder, Von.”
“Okay.” Hamson stood, crossed to the round table pushed into one corner of the office. She took a chair for herself. The table was one of the new additions. Usually Hamson preferred to hold discussions there, rather than remain behind her desk, metaphorically closed off. It was less confrontational, apparently. Gray didn’t mind either way, sometimes a bit of conflict was worthwhile.
“A young black male, late teens, early twenties,” said Gray. “No identification on him. He’d been stabbed multiple times and bled out on the street. It appears his phone and a large sum of money was stolen. Could be a simple robbery. He was carrying plenty of cash, which he made visible when buying some stuff from Morrison’s. However, from the CCTV, the victim was alone when he flashed the cash and he’d also purchased laxative.”
“Bloody hell. Maybe he was just constipated?”
“Possibly. But I don’t think so.”
Hamson asked, “Is it County Lines?”
“Too early to say, Von. But it’s possible.”
Recently a new tactic in the ongoing illegal supply of Class A drugs (commonly heroin along with crack cocaine and “legal highs” like Spice) had been coming to light, what was being described in the press and police force as County Lines dealing. It was the movement of drugs from an urban hub into rural towns or countryside locations, developing networks across geographical boundaries to access and exploit existing markets.
Competition for business within the major urban centres – London and Liverpool leading the pack with Birmingham, Manchester too – had become intense over the last couple of years. Prices and profits were down. People had a tendency to look for other prospects if their current venture was under threat. And somebody somewhere had hit upon the idea of spreading their wares beyond their territory. New supply routes were springing up all the time in multiple locations. There were reputed to be 283 County Lines out of London alone, and Gray would bet that what the police knew was just the tip of the iceberg.
Hamson stood and moved over to a map of Thanet she’d pinned on the wall, pins stuck in where County Lines crimes had occurred in the last two months. She tapped Union Row. The space was empty.
“No other offences have occurred there,” she said.
Thanet had suffered a huge spike in drug-related issues in recent months: violence, theft with a deadly weapon, and stabbings. There had been a jump in the number of junkies being admitted to hospital as a result of overdoses, directly due to an increased flow of narcotics, often low quality and spiked.
“Maybe it’s a new gang?” said Gray.
Hamson shrugged. “Hopefully when we find out some more about him we’ll know.”
The typical target was deprived areas, where unemployment was higher and earnings lower than average. The locations tended to be coastal. Margate and Ramsgate, along with Clacton in Essex, were perfect examples, although Gray had heard of issues in other, seemingly wealthier regions, like Brighton in Sussex. Another aspect the press had gleefully reported – the gangs’ targets were where policing was “less robust” than the cities they currently dealt within. Which irritated Gray immensely. No way did he or his colleagues take a softer approach than other forces. And if this incident was indeed County Lines in nature it was the most serious crime to date.
“Okay, worth giving Yarrow the heads up.” Hamson stood. “I’d better get on, Sol. Unless there’s anything else?”
“This is enough, isn’t it?” said Gray.
Five
Now
The Incident Room was a large, open space dedicated for use during major operations, comprising desks with phones and computers atop, two meeting rooms off to one side and, at the front, a large whiteboard with a sizeable TV screen fixed to the wall nearby.
However, the Incident Room was no longer for Gray or CID’s use; it had been commandeered by Detective Chief Inspector Adam Yarrow’s Pivot team. Much more attention was being paid to County Lines because crime statistics were moving in the wrong direction. Hard data was difficult to come by, and only now were the regional forces gathering critical information, though statistical accuracy was problematic. The gangs kept themselves and their dealings small, frequent and low key – more challenging to detect.
The outcome was Operation Pivot, a centrally managed and resourced activity by Kent Police, personally endorsed and overseen by the boss himself, Superintendent Bernard Marsh, specifically created to tackle County Lines activity. The Pivot team was assembled under Yarrow, a rising star in the police service.
Margate was chosen as the first port of call for Marsh’s flagship effort. Yarrow’s people had arrived two months ago and been working with members of Gray’s team since to identify the active dealers and as much intelligence about them and their undertakings as possible.
His hand halfway to the door of the Major Incident Room, Gray’s mobile rang. It was Dr Ben Clough, the pathologist. “I’ve just started looking at the corpse from Union Row. There’s something you should see. Can you come over?”
“What is it?”
“Best I show you.” There was no point Gray doing anything other than agreeing, Clough wouldn’t be drawn, and he wouldn’t be calling unless it was important.
“About twenty minutes,” said Gray. “There’s something I’ve got to do first, okay?”
“I’ll be waiting.” Clough rang off and Gray put the mobile back into his pocket.
Gray entered the Incident Room, pausing a moment as he glanced around. He spotted Yarrow leaning over a desk, talking to Detective Sergeant Mike Fowler who’d been seconded from CID to Pivot for the interim. With the exception of Emily Wyatt, another temporary appointment to the team but from the department for Child Exploitation and Online Protections (CEOP), everybody else present had parachuted in with Yarrow. In Fowler, Yarrow had gained local knowledge, and Wyatt possessed previous experience of working in Thanet. She also lived not too far away, in Deal, which kept costs down.
Yarrow was a tall man with a shock of white hair, a large nose and a pockmarked face; acne scars from youth in all likelihood. Yarrow’s older appearance clashed with the colourful friendship bands he wore on his left wrist, the ends frayed. Gray knew, because he’d asked, that the bands had been made by his daughters. Gray liked the matter-of-fact DCI. He was here to do a job and that’s what he was focused upon. There wasn’t any politics to dance around and Yarrow attempted to minimise his impact on the day-to-day running of the station.
Gray headed to the desk; saw some grainy video footage being played on Fowler’s screen. Another undercover operation by the look of it. Fowler had proved a marvel at gathering intelligence and he was highly adept with the video equipment. His standing had never been higher within the echelons of Kent Police. Gray carried on past the desk and put himself in Yarrow’s eyeline.
The DCI glanced up from the monitor. “Morning, Sol.”
“Sir.” Gray nodded at Fowler. “I’m holding a case review on the stabbing victim shortly, could you join us?”
“If my presence warrants it, of course.”
“It may do, sir.”
“What about Mike attending? He seems to know every dodgy bastard around here.”
Fowler laughed. “Fine with me.”
“What time?” asked Yarrow.
“I’m not sure exactly,” said Gray. “I’ve got to head to the mortuary first.”
“Just give me half an hour’s notice.”
“No problem.”
Yarrow returned his attention to Fo
wler’s intelligence. Gray left the room and crossed the corridor to the Detectives’ Office. DC Worthington was just taking off his jacket to hang over the back of his chair. Gray made his way over.
“I’ve got to see Clough; something about the corpse,” said Gray.
“Want me to come with you, sir?” Worthington’s hand moved towards his coat.
“I’ll be okay, thanks. I need you here to get a Murder Board set up.”
All the available information from the investigation would be plugged into HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, now on its second generation. HOLMES was a computer-based investigative tool. A significant enquiry developed a vast number of data points and fast. HOLMES simplified the process of tracking and analysing the information. The system was connected to all the police forces across the UK, so the tools at hand were impressive. But big data was unwieldy data, so the team would centralise on the Murder Board, where the key information such as crime scene photos, an outline of the victim and potential perpetrators was written up.
“Next task, sir,” said Worthington.
“And CCTV from the local area? I’d like to review any footage as soon as possible.”
“On that too.”
“Great, see you shortly.”
“I’ll valiantly slog away in your absence.” Worthington cast a sloppy salute in Gray’s approximate direction. Gray shook his head but stayed quiet. He’d done it to Hamson enough over the years after all.
***
Gray went through the process of scrubbing up and putting on a gown, cap, gloves and face mask before following Clough into the Mortuary Examination Room. Gray backed in through large double swing doors. He’d rarely been this side of the operation. The space was bright, well-lit by overhead tungsten lights which cast a clean, bright hue. Everywhere was steel on the horizontal; white tile on the vertical. In the centre of the room was a large drain and the floor was on a slight slope to help with sluicing down. It was like a large, grim wet room.
The dead man lay under a white sheet on a trolley. Clough had removed the clothes and placed them, neatly folded, on a nearby bench. Clough drew back the covering, revealing an already-slit torso. The man’s skin had marbled slightly across his chest and shoulders. Gray had seen this effect before; it resulted from the heart stopping. Instead of pumping around the body, the blood was dragged down by gravity to pool along the base of the corpse.
“As usual,” said Clough, “I started with an incision down the front of the body, removed the breastbone and opened the ribcage. I removed and weighed the organs. You can see the puncture marks from the knives.” Clough touched the skin at several locations on the body. “Long, broad blades. Probably a kitchen utensil. Cheap and easy to get hold of. Sixteen wounds by my count.”
“Is this what you brought me here for?”
Clough looked up at Gray. “Of course not, Solomon, but you’ll need to get closer to see.”
Gray didn’t want to, but he stepped forward anyway.
“It was when I reached the stomach that it became interesting,” continued Clough. “I left everything in-situ.” Clough used his hands to part the stomach cavity. The smell was like that of fresh, raw meat – the slight iron tang of blood – but it was quickly whipped away by the extraction vent positioned beside the torso. There, beneath Clough’s fingers, were several plastic bags with a white powder inside. Clough extracted one. He wiped it largely free of fluid and showed it to Gray.
“He’d been packing,” said Gray.
“So it seems.”
The man had swallowed the bags, more than likely drugs, to transport them from wherever he’d come from. Which explained his purchase of the laxative – to flush himself out. It was an extraordinarily dangerous procedure. Should the wrapping have burst, the kid could have easily overdosed, with potentially fatal consequences. However, it was likely he’d been caught by another significant risk in the drug supply industry – the competition. Poor bastard.
“I thought it best you see for yourself,” said Clough. He was right, but Gray never enjoyed the experience. “I’ve taken his fingerprints. I’m hoping the PNC will spit something out soon.” The PNC was the Police National Computer, where crime records were stored. “That’s all for now.”
“Thanks, Ben. You’ve given me something to work on,” said Gray.
“No problem.” Clough picked up the bone saw, a small tool with a circular blade which rotated at very high speed. “I’ll let you go before I put this to use.”
Gray didn’t hang around. He was almost back at his car as his mobile rang. Worthington.
“Sir, we’ve an address for the victim. Just a few doors away from where his body was found.”
“I’m on my way.”
***
When Gray arrived at Union Crescent a quarter of an hour later, both cordons remained in place. He parked in almost the same space as earlier in the morning and walked along the street. Worthington and a PC were waiting outside an innocuous terraced house. The front door of peeling green paint led straight inside from the pavement and stood open.
“Found some CCTV footage which pointed roughly to where he lived,” said Worthington. “Tried a few doors and showed a photo of the vic and we think we’ve got the right place.”
“Think?”
“The house is divided into three flats, one per storey. Nobody recognised the photo but we were told a junkie lives on the top floor. We knocked but seems nobody’s home.”
“What about the landlord?”
“No idea who owns the house. There’s some company called 123 Lettings on the deeds, however the phone number on their website goes straight through to an answer machine.”
“In that case, lead on.”
The interior was a plain hallway, stripped dark floorboards and white walls. Worthington hit a large circular button on the wall and a bare lightbulb burned overhead. Worthington took the stairs, passing a door with a brass letter A on the outside. Gray followed, the PC on his heels. They passed flat B just as the light went off, dipping the space into a half-darkness. The PC found another button and pressed it. The trio resumed their climb. Worthington paused on the top flight outside C.
“Try one more time,” said Gray.
Worthington hammered on the door with the side of his fist, paused, shouted, “Police, open up!” He bashed the door again. The light clicked off. Gray listened, thought he heard shuffling within. He nodded at Worthington who repeated his banging a third time.
“All right, all right!” A man’s voice, Northern Irish accent. After half a minute the door opened an inch and an eye appeared in the gap.
Gray held up his warrant card. “DI Gray, we’ve some questions about a person who may have been staying with you.”
“Nobody here now.” The man sounded out of it, his voice slurred and slow.
Worthington put the victim’s photograph up to the door. “This man, do you know him?”
“No,” he said then pushed the door closed. Worthington, ready for the manoeuvre, dropped his shoulder and stopped the movement in its tracks. “Nobody here now. Go away!”
“This man,” said Worthington leaning into the door, “he’s been murdered.”
The pressure was suddenly released and Worthington spilled forwards a-pace into the flat. A short and stocky man wearing a dressing gown and slippers, his legs bare, stood there. “Dead?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Gray. “Just outside.”
“Jesus, Mother, Mary and Christ.”
“Can we come in?”
The man retreated, turning into the first doorway. Gray followed, entering a living room which smelt of unwashed bodies, decaying food and cat piss. The man dropped into an armchair. Around him were wrappers from fast food outlets, pizza boxes prevalent. A ginger tom immediately leapt into his lap. The man absently stroked the pet.
“What’s your name, sir?” asked Gray.
“O’Rourke.”
“Who is your friend?”
“What was he doing here then?”
“Gave me some drugs, wouldn’t leave.”
Gray understood. It meant the flat had been cuckooed.
It was common for dealers to exploit the young or vulnerable to move cash, to store or sell drugs out of a cuckooed property. Typically victims were already users themselves, which O’Rourke appeared to be. Once gang members took over, it tended to be an ongoing cycle of abuse and violence. Which explained O’Rourke’s initial reticence to let them enter, but now he knew his unwelcome lodger was dead, the rules of the game had temporarily changed. There was nobody present to manipulate him.
“When did he arrive?” asked Gray.
O’Rourke shrugged, his eyes bleary. “Yesterday maybe?” If O’Rourke had been out of it, the normal passage of time wouldn’t have meant much to him.
“Have there been others staying here?”
“On and off.”
“How many?”
“I’m not sure. All these black fellas look the same to me.” O’Rourke shrugged. “They took my room, the feckers.”
“Where is it?”
“Down the way.” O’Rourke pointed back out the door but made no move to show them.
“Stay here with him,” Gray told the PC.
Worthington followed Gray along the dingy corridor. They passed a bathroom; reached a bedroom. Gray slipped on a pair of gloves before pushing open the door. Inside was a single bed, a wardrobe, a wooden dining chair and drawers. It was relatively neat and tidy.
Gray entered. He pulled open the wardrobe, giving it a hard yank because the door stuck at first. A rucksack was inside. A tug at the drawstring revealed some clothes.
“Sir,” said Worthington. He pointed at the drawers. On top was a scrunched-up train ticket, a rectangle of orange and white with black text printed on it.
Gray smoothed out the paper. An off-peak single from London St Pancras, dated yesterday. Which gave Gray a window to evaluate, but the number of people heading through one of the capital’s busiest stations in a day would be huge, even midweek. Still, it was something.