Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  ‘Well I am. Old enough. I am,’ Tom said, trying not to sound angry and pathetic, but failing.

  ‘Yeah. How old are you then?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  Brad blinked. Then grinned. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘But I’m not a rookie,’ Tom told his colleague brusquely. ‘This is my second year in the Metropolitan Police Service. I did a year in crime analysis, six months in the Policy Branch. Three months in the collator’s office in Willesden. And I should inform you, Bradley, I’ve just been accepted on to the Fast-Track CID programme. One of only three fast-trackers this year.’ Bradley’s grin faded.

  ‘Fast track, eh?’ he said, abrasively.

  ‘It’s a new initiative.’

  ‘There’s lads in this division have been trying to get into CID for years,’ Brad taunted.

  ‘I’m considered to have an aptitude.’

  ‘Jesus and Lucifer! You need to serve your time, lad. On the fucking street.’

  ‘The street,’ said Tom, furious, ‘is over-rated as a pedagogic tool.’

  Brad’s face said it all.

  The radio crackled. ‘Tango Four from Tango Delta, robbery and aggravated assault, 74 Kilmartin Road, can you assist?’

  ‘No problem, sweetheart,’ said Brad.

  Brad threw his chips on the back seat and started up the Fiesta.

  74 Kilmartin Road was locked and silent. So Brad and Tom went to the house next door to speak to the neighbour, Mrs Carter, who was the MOP who had called this in.

  Mrs Carter proved to be a posh yummy mummy type in her early 40s with a booming voice. She regaled them with a story of how the old lady, Mrs Gaveston, hadn’t answered the door, and yet she had to be in, because the poor old dear never went out, because of all the terrible hell creatures and vicious benefit-defrauding hoodies who walked the streets these days. And so on and so forth: a witness statement/rant delivered in raging and rambling sentences that Tom found irksomely repetitive.

  ‘She’s a quiet one,’ Mrs Joanna Carter concluded, ‘but good as gold, really. I always see her Thursday mornings, almost without fail. She makes me coffee and tells me stories I’ve heard a million times before, but I never tell her that.’ She smiled, so smugly it was almost a simper. ‘Well I do, but she never listens, I think she’s actually a bit not there, if you know what I mean, but she reminds me of my own Nana, so there you go. Love her. A dark horse, you should see the antiques she’s got there, and they say she’s got money hidden away somewhere in that dingy old house of hers, oh I do so hope nothing’s happened to her.’

  Mrs Carter spent ten minutes sifting through her kitchen drawers for the spare key that she was sure the old lady had given her. But when success seemed uncertain, Brad suggested they try the back door of the Gaveston drum. So he and Tom nipped out into the Carter back garden, hopped over the garden fence onto the Gaveston premises, and tried the door. It was open.

  Inside, the kitchen was a mess. The cupboards had been opened, and a saucepan of baked beans was on the stove, with one of the rings still turned on, blazing red. The flour jars had been tipped open, turning the room into a snow scene. Brad took photographs, then they proceeded into the living room.

  There they saw Mrs Gaveston lying on the floor, face down, arms spread out. Her grey hair had spilled upon a broad pool of stale dry blood. Tom took her neck pulse: no signs of life.

  Brad took out his radio. ‘Tango Delta from Tango Four, request an ambulance to attend 74 Kilmartin Road. The householder is unconscious presumed dead, we’ll keep you posted on suspects. Out.’

  Tom turned the body over and commenced resuscitation techniques. It felt creepy, putting his mouth against the wrinkled mouth of a dead old lady. But he persevered and breathed into her mouth: once, twice, thrice. Then he pounded her chest with his two hands. Then he did mouth to mouth again. After ten minutes Brad told him to stop.

  Outside they could hear an ambulance. Brad took some more photographs of the scene. Blood was spattered on the walls. The old lady had been beaten badly before death.

  ‘Some kid,’ said Brad. ‘That’s what I reckon. Heard she had money hidden, tried to beat it out of her.’

  ‘Why some kid? Why not a professional burglar?’

  ‘Because this is amateur night. Trust me, some kid.’

  Tom was irked at Brad’s surmise: largely because it felt correct. He realised that he himself had failed to do any preliminary psychological profiling of the killer or killers. He’d been so panicked at the sight of the dead old lady that all coherent thoughts had rushed out of his head.

  On reflection, Tom decided, this did look like a frenzied and probably unpremeditated assault. No attempt had been made to bind the old lady, or to torture her for information about her valuables. The robber or robbers had simply beaten her till she died.

  The door bell rang and Brad let the paramedics in. A middle aged white guy and a younger Asian woman, both in green scrubs. They were calm, unfussed, matter of fact. Tom admired their professionalism. For the sake of their log, they checked the old lady’s pulse and temperature and declared a time of death. They’d brought a portable defibrillator but didn’t bother using it; she was too far gone. Duty done, the paramedics left and the undertaker was called.

  Tom joined Brad upstairs and found more chaos. The wardrobe and bedside cabinet and chest of drawers had been tipped open. Clothes were strewn on the floor. The mattress had been ripped open with a knife.

  ‘I’ll check the back,’ said Tom.

  Tom went down the stairs and out into the back garden. It dawned on him suddenly that the back door had been unlocked when he and Brad had first attended the scene. Which was the most obvious of clues. No old lady would leave her door unlocked. So that suggested the killer or killers had run out the back way.

  Tom retraced the likely trail. Out of the back door, down to the bottom of the garden. No way out there, Tom observed – there was wooden fencing with vicious looking barbed wire all round the back end of the garden. But Tom walked closer and saw that in fact the fence had a gap in it. He looked closer still and saw a tiny piece of cloth, left behind on the barbed wire. He bagged it.

  Then he climbed through the gap, carefully. The house backed on to the railway and there was a sheer slope leading down to the railway track, cluttered with litter and garden rubbish that had clearly been tipped here over decades. Tom picked his way through the Coke bottles and empty beer cans and past abandoned kitchen units and desiccated tree branches, through the shrubs and rough bracken and the tall trunks of the leafy sycamore trees that extravagantly aisled this stretch of South London railway track.

  He lost his footing and slipped. He rolled with flailing arms and bounced on his arse down the cluttered slope, and only managed to stop himself by grabbing every bush he fell through until he lost momentum. He stood up. He was covered in crumbly wood and leaves now, his face was scratched, and his hands were bleeding. He brushed himself down.

  This would without doubt have been a crazy route for an escape. But, Tom reasoned, stupid kids are famous for being stupid.

  Tom radioed Brad. ‘Tango Four from Tango Three, I think I may know the killer’s escape route.’

  ‘He’s long gone, man,’ said Brad.

  ‘Even so, I’m tracking the trail.’

  He continued on. He saw a flash of blue and picked it up. An old five pound note. Very old: not legal currency any more. A few paces on, another fiver. Some tenners. The killer had stolen the old woman’s money and was shedding his stash as he fled.

  Tom clambered over a fallen tree branch and slid down on his backside towards the railway track. He was at the bottom of a deep valley, with the train line sweeping away east into a tunnel, and sweeping away west to a vanishing point that, he reckoned, was less than a hundred yards away from the railway station. Around and above him, stretching as far as his eyes could see, the brown brick canyon walls of the South London streets that backed up against this sunken track.

  He saw a stain
on the metal rail and bent low to inspect it. He dabbed a sample of the gunk on to a swab, and bagged it. It looked like blood. Tom surmised that the killer had rolled down the slope and hit his head on one of the non-electrified rails.

  Tom began to get a good feeling about this. He looked east, then he looked west. He wondered which way the killer would go.

  East led to the tunnel. He began to walk.

  The embankment was tricky to negotiate, so he walked on the sleepers. He kept his ears attuned for the sound of distant trains. From memory he was sure that the London train wasn’t due till twenty-two minutes past the hour, and it was only twelve minutes past now. Conscious of the need for haste, he began to jog, leaping from sleeper to sleeper with easy grace. It didn’t occur to him to call for backup.

  It did however strike him how very silly this would look to an objective observer - a skinny copper in a baggy uniform leaping from log to log like a child playing a schoolyard game.

  He stopped leaping when he spotted more blood splashes on the sleepers. They weren’t large gobbets of blood, just tiny flecks, but Tom was uncannily good at noticing tiny details like that. That’s why they had called him The Microscope Boy at school: amongst other things.

  He resumed bounding, and entered the tunnel.

  Inside the tunnel, the sound of faint sobs echoed against the old London bricks. Tom stilled his breathing and took out his baton and eased his torch out of its loop. He proceeded forward carefully, in darkness lit by a single torch beam, stepping from sleeper to sleeper with careful strides to avoid the sound of gravel crunching. When he was sure he had located the source of the sobs, he targeted his quarry in a pool of light.

  He saw a boy, no more than eight, squatting on the ground, his trainered feet near the rail. A passing train would almost certainly sideswipe and crush him. Tom marvelled that the kid didn’t have the sense to hug the wall a bit more.

  ‘I never done nothing,’ the boy sobbed.

  Tom eased his way over. ‘I’m Tom.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Ricky.’

  ‘Stand up, Ricky.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Stand up.’

  Ricky stood up. His face was cut and bleeding, he’d obviously fallen among the brambles. There was a dark bruise on his temple, probably from where he’d hit the rail. And blood dripped from his hand. A glass injury?

  ‘It’s now eighteen minutes past,’ Tom said calmly. ‘We need to walk back out of the tunnel.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Over my shoulder.’

  Tom bent down. The boy looked suspicious, then got the idea and reached out with his arms. Tom slung the kid over his left shoulder, fireman’s lift style. Then he turned around, like a crab getting used to a new shell, and walked slowly out of the tunnel.

  At twenty-one minutes past he heard the whistle of the train, but he didn’t hurry, because he knew if he hurried he might trip and die.

  The kid was small, but worryingly heavy. The bricks of the tunnel were dark with age and damp with mould. Tom could see the sunlight ahead of him. He kept his eyes focused ahead. He focused on knowing his centre of gravity. One of the rails was live, he knew which one. He just had to –

  He walked. And walked. The dust in his lungs made him want to cough. When he reached the entrance to the tunnel, he stepped up on to the embankment and threw the kid down among the brambles. Then he threw himself down too, on to his back, and lay staring up at the blue sky.

  The train shot past him five seconds later. Its shrill whistle dopplered as it thundered through the tunnel that cut beneath this stretch of London. When the sound had dimmed, Tom rolled over and got on to his hands and knees.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  The boy, Ricky, glared at him defiantly.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, I know it was the other lads who killed the old woman,’ Tom explained.

  Ricky stared with even greater defiance. Then caved.

  ‘S’right,’ he muttered.

  ‘How old are you Ricky?’

  ‘Eight and a quarter.’

  ‘You’re below the age of criminal consent, Ricky. Whatever you tell me you’ve done, you can’t be punished,’ Tom said. That wasn’t entirely true, but it was near enough.

  ‘Never done nothing.’

  ‘Who hit the old woman, Ricky?’

  ‘Not me.’

  Tom waited. Classic interrogation technique, let the silence work for you. Rick caved again. ‘That was Duke.’

  ‘Duke who?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘This is a privileged communication, Ricky, between you and me. Duke who?’

  ‘Duke Newbury. Jony Newbury’s brother.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Jony Newbury,’ Tom said. He’d memorised the names of most of the serious villains in the manor before starting the Job. Jony was a third echelon thieving scrote, but a player all the same; his brother had no priors, as yet.

  ‘Bastards left me, I couldn’t keep up,’ Ricky grumbled.

  ‘You saw the old woman die.’

  ‘She was a bitch, she deserved to die.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  Ricky hesitated. ‘The boys said so.’

  ‘She was an old woman. She didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘She wouldn’t tell us where the money was!’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The money under the mattress. Six grand. We had to search the house.’

  ‘Six grand’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘What were you doing there, Ricky? A kid like you?’

  Ricky’s face crumpled: a naughty kid caught ripping his sister’s doll to bits.

  ‘Dunno,’ Ricky muttered. ‘He said they had to blood me. My initiation, like. They made me watch, see, when they beat the old bitch up. Then they scarpered and I couldn’t keep up.’

  ‘Who said they had to blood you?’

  ‘Him. Like, Him. The Man.’

  ‘Who?’

  Ricky hesitated. But he’d gone too far by now.

  ‘Jagger of course.’

  Jagger.

  It was the first time Tom had heard the name. And there and then, he decided Jagger would be the subject of his first major arrest.

  Tom switched on his radio. ‘Tango Delta from Tango Three, request assistance and an ambulance. I have an eight year old boy suffering from contusions and a cut hand. Oh and tell the DI I want to register a confidential informant. Out.’

  Tom switched the radio off.

  ‘Are you going to nick me now?’ asked Ricky, his face pale.

  Tom looked at him. Then he smiled. ‘Oh no. No, no. But I am going to milk you dry,’ said Tom, with cruel relish.

  Chapter 9

  Julia Penhall looked out of the window and saw the car pull up.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I’m sure. I’m fine. I’m good.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Gabriel suggested again.

  ‘No need, but thank you, Gabe.’

  She saw relief flood through Gabriel’s scarlet features. And she felt a familiar pang of fondness for her sweet-natured but cowardly friend.

  Julia put on her jacket, then picked up her handbag. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she reassured the two boys. And they nodded, not very reassured, but exuding moral support.

  She noticed in passing, as she picked it up, how shabby her handbag was, and wondered if she should buy a new one. Then she felt like a shit for thinking of something so banal in such terrible circumstances.

  In penance she brushed her hair with one hand, and messed it horribly out of shape so at least she wouldn’t be looking in any way, like, good. Then she took a deep breath and walked out of the room, out of the house, and towards the CID car.

  The Welsh one was in the driving seat. She could recognise him from his profile view. Fat, balding, r
osy cheeked and red-nosed, cheery. The tall lean black-haired one with the mournful expression was standing on the pavement by the car. He projected an air of deep impatience. Julia instantly found him annoying, even though he hadn’t spoken yet.

  ‘DC Tindale,’ said the skinny one, though she’d met him twice already and he’d introduced himself both times.

  ‘I know. I’m Julia.’

  He stared at her, as if she were deranged. ‘Yes yes I know. You’re the victim’s – whatever.’

  Julia marvelled at this man’s rudeness; it was almost refreshing.

  ‘Get in, love,’ said the Welsh one, from the driver’s seat. Julia remembered his name was Davies, and that everyone called him ‘Taff’. Julia got in the back of the car. Tindale got into the passenger seat.

  The CID car shot off with a jerk and a screech of tyres.

  Taff was a fast driver: scarily fast. He accelerated wildly towards every junction, paused briefly, then hared across, seemingly oblivious to the panicky manoeuvres of oncoming cars who had to brake or jump a lane to avoid him. And yet he got away with it.

  ‘Steady, Taff,’ said DC Tindale from the passenger seat.

  ‘Don’t want to be late.’

  ‘Better late than dead.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Want me to put the red light on?’

  ‘Nah, gives me tinnitus.’

  ‘Mind the cyclist, you Welsh twat.’

  The car weaved, there was a screech of tyres, and the cyclist survived, alarmed.

  They drove on, leaving behind the cyclist’s screams of rage and repetitive obscenities. A few minutes later the police car cut into two lanes of traffic, created a third lane briefly, then veered off on an illegal right turn. Julia shut her eyes, then opened them again. The journey was so hair-raising it was almost funny: but not quite.

  ‘You should be aware, madam, that you don’t actually need to do this,’ said DC Tindale, leaning his head back from the passenger seat so Julia knew he was talking to her.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘We have DNA. We have –’

  ‘I know that. I just want to see her.’

  ‘Leave the girl alone,’ said Taff, brusquely.

  ‘Twins, weren’t you?’ Tindale asked.