Hunting for Crows

by Iain Cameron

  ‘I guessed as much.’

  ‘I assume he bought it on his travels when he was still playing with the band, or from one of the dodgy characters who used to hang around with them.’

  ‘Maybe he bought it a few months back without your knowledge.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I think he’s had it for a long time. See, the only period in his life when he had any money was when he was in the band and just after, and even then, he seemed to spend it just as fast as he was making it.’

  ‘The bullion raid at Gatwick airport was carried out by seven armed men who fired shots into the ceiling as they helped themselves to the goodies being loaded on to a conveyer belt. All seven were captured and since then, served lengthy prison sentences, but the gold has never been recovered. We assumed it was melted down and sold to dodgy bullion dealers. Most of the gang were released in the last couple of years, so you can see why the sudden appearance of one of the bars from the raid interests me.’

  ‘If the men are now out of prison, you would expect to see a few more of them popping up, I would think.’

  ‘You could be right, and maybe I can look forward to more chats like this one in the future, although something tells me they will not be as pretty as you.’

  He gathered his papers together and stood. ‘Thank you for coming in Mrs Hannah. I do hope we haven’t spoiled your day.’

  ‘What? You’re not going to charge me?’

  ‘As you said at the start of this interview, you haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘I can go?’

  ‘Yes, you can, but we might need to talk with you again.’

  ‘Can I keep the gold bar?’

  He shook his head; cheeky mare. ‘Unfortunately, no. We’ll keep this one and send someone over to collect the other one you have in your possession, so do not try to sell it. They don’t belong to you or your late husband, but the insurance company covering the security raid loss.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Hannah. DC Huntington will see you out.’

  Jenkinson strode back to his desk, whistling a merry tune, but stopped when he realised it was Rihanna, a song playing every hour on Capital Radio. He was forty-five, for God’s sake, and any interest in her was only from the waist down and nothing to do with her singing.

  He was happy nonetheless, as there was nothing coppers hated more than unfinished business, and who knows, maybe the finder of the missing AeroSwiss gold would get his name in the papers. If that couldn’t please him, nothing would.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  DI Henderson was seated at the small table in his office with DS Carol Walters facing him. He felt full of enthusiasm to go out and do something, kick in some doors or haul in some witnesses for questioning, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could expend his energies on.

  They were discussing the interviews with Derek Crow and other associates of the band, the post-mortem results of the three victims and the research done on police computers and the web. Now, forty minutes later, he believed it was time to draw some conclusions.

  ‘I think we have three motives for the murder of the guys in the Crazy Crows,’ he said.

  ‘I think so too.’

  ‘Motive One. Somebody, and it might be Mat Street as he might be his uncle or something, is exacting revenge because he blames the Crows for the death of Danny Winter.’

  ‘He might have some justification,’ she said, ‘because we know Danny and Eric Hannah didn’t get on, and the whole purpose of the boat trip in Dorset could have been a ploy for Eric to get rid of Danny.’

  ‘Could be, because at the inquest Barry said he was flat out on the bottom of the boat and so drunk he didn’t see or hear what went on. The police and the coroner could only take Eric’s word for what happened.’

  ‘Eric said they started larking about and Danny fell in, and Eric wasn’t a good enough swimmer to pull him out, even if he could see him, but he couldn’t as it was pitch black.’

  ‘Now,’ Henderson said, ‘if a relative of Danny is doing the killings, why would he hold a grudge for so long? Why do something now and not ten or twenty years ago?’

  ‘I don’t know. You would think if this person was hell bent on revenge, he would start killing them after the inquest returned a verdict of accidental death, or after the CPS decided not to look at the case again following a request by Danny’s mother.’

  ‘Something must have prevented him taking action sooner. Maybe he was posted abroad with the Army, was under long-term medical care, or he was in jail.’

  ‘Or after some new information came to light.’

  ‘Good point, but we’ll explore the jail angle first. Let’s take a look at Street’s record again.’

  She rummaged through a large spread of papers and reports scattered over the table and the floor, but soon found what she was looking for.

  ‘So,’ Henderson said, ‘he went to jail for a post office robbery in 1989, not long after the Crows split up.’

  ‘It keeps him away from the band after the inquest as he was on remand awaiting trial.’

  ‘Right. He received a twelve-year sentence for the robbery and while in jail, he received another fifteen for the AeroSwiss robbery at Gatwick Airport and only saw the light of day six months ago.’

  ‘So if it is him,’ Walters said, ‘the only window of opportunity open to him was in the last six months.’

  ‘Moving on, Motive Two. We know the band imported drugs hidden inside speaker cases, as Emily Grant told us, and this piece of private enterprise we think provided them with the capital to start their various businesses. Now, in the course of drug smuggling, is it possible they fell out with one of the sellers in Holland or Germany, or maybe one of the buyers here in the UK?’

  ‘If so,’ she said, ‘we’re back to the old chestnut. Why wait so long to kill them?’

  ‘Maybe they were locked up or hiding out abroad to avoid arrest, plenty do. Although I do agree with you, it’s a long time to wait.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Motive Three,’ Henderson said, ‘something happened to give Mat Street the additional 15-year stretch. What caused it and what if he blames the Crows?’

  She rummaged through her fire-hazard of a paper mess once again. A moment or two later she said, ‘The police report at the time, said…ah yes, here we are. Superintendent Davis of the Met Police said and I quote, ‘as a result of a tip-off from a member of the public, we raided a number of addresses and arrested seven individuals in connection with the AeroSwiss robbery at Gatwick Airport in 1989. None of the gold, cash or securities has yet been recovered.’’

  ‘You’re right. Somebody tipped them off.’

  ‘Now if it was one of the Crows, what did Street do to them to make them so vindictive?’

  Henderson scratched his chin, thinking, ‘We don’t know and Street isn’t likely to tell us, but no matter how we cut it, he’s still our best and only candidate. Talking of Mat Street, how’s the surveillance going?’

  She picked up her phone from the desk. ‘Shall I call and get an update?’

  ‘Might as well.’

  Henderson had requested three two-man teams, the minimum size for any surveillance operation, to watch Street, but then they were dealing with a pensioner suffering from a heart complaint, and not a keep-fit fanatic who would drag them all over town. To his surprise, DCI Edwards signed off his request for manpower without a demand for further justification, perhaps feeling guilty for previously booting him off the case. Just as well, as putting tabs on their only suspect, one who made an unlikely candidate for carrying out three cleverly executed murders, wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny.

  He made the call as he believed whoever was behind the killings, either as paymaster or perpetrator, needed to make their move on Derek Crow soon. Derek was edgy and considering moving from an accessible town house in St. John’s Wood to a gated community in Surrey or Essex, according to som
e newspaper reports. In addition, the Prime Minister was facing some awkward questions in the House about what was being done to protect his favourite businessman, and it wouldn’t be long before he instructed the Secret Service to watch over him.

  Walters placed her phone down on the table. ‘Nothing much to report. Today’s sum total is one trip outside to put on a bet, drink a pint and buy a newspaper. Oh, life is so boring when you’re old.’

  ‘It’ll happen to you one day.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ll be kicking up fine Caribbean sand as I walk along the beach to a bar for my morning piña colada, not freezing my chilblains off in windy Eastbourne.’

  ‘On a police pension? Dream on, sister. In essence, we’ve got three motives and only one suspect,’ Henderson said. ‘Where do we go from there if Street turns out to be a dead end?’

  ‘Well, for sure we can’t wait for whoever it is to kill Derek Crow, if we don’t want to lose our jobs and be vilified in all the papers.’

  ‘I think we got everything out of Emily Grant we could,’ he said, ‘and Sam Schweinsteiger and Frannie Copeland were too much on the periphery to know in detail what was going on. This leaves us Derek Crow and Mat Street.’

  ‘What about the road crew?’ Walters asked. ‘Emily said a couple of them were involved in the drug shipments.’

  ‘We’ll target them if Street draws a blank, but I think they’ll know a lot about drug shipments but not much about anything else.’

  ‘It might be enough if our perp is amongst them.’

  ‘Could be, in that case, we’ll need to talk to Emily and Derek again and expand our list of suspects and witnesses.’ He looked at his watch. It was after six. ‘That can be tomorrow’s job. You wanted to get off early didn’t you? Something about a hot date or was it a hot bath?’

  ‘I do go out on dates now and again, you know,’ she said, gathering her papers together, not an easy job. ‘It’s keeping them that’s my problem.’

  ‘I’m sure George could find you a spare holding cell if you really want to make sure they don’t run away.’

  ‘I might take him up on it.’ She stood, a thick wad of papers clutched to her chest. ‘See you tomorrow, boss.’

  ‘It’s Saturday, so don’t expect to see me in here until ten. Goodnight, Carol.’

  Henderson walked back to his desk and for the next half hour worked his way through thirty-odd emails, leaving another forty unread. His penalty for spending so much time out of the office this week.

  In addition, he was not sure what to do about Rachel. She was making noises about the cost of running two houses and how she didn’t see him for days on end when he worked on a big case. If that wasn’t a prelude to, ‘let’s move in together’ he didn’t know anything about women.

  What she didn’t realise, was his flat was his oasis of calm during intensive work periods and the last thing he needed at ten-thirty at night, when he was tired and in dire need of a shower, was her standing at the door asking where the hell he’d been.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Henderson.’

  ‘Evening sir, Phil Bentley here.’

  ‘How’s our Mr Street getting on? I suppose the lack of activity is allowing you to catch up on gossip and create some of your own.’

  ‘We are sir, but I thought I should let you know, our target’s on the move.’

  Henderson sat up, pen poised over a note pad.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A large blacked-out Mercedes van turned up, one with a big yellow lightning slash down one side. A guy got out and went into Street’s house and few minutes later they both came out.’

  ‘Are you following them?’

  ‘Yes sir, Sally Graham’s at the wheel.’

  ‘You won’t lose them, then.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It was a statement, Phil, not a question. I know how fast Sally drives.’

  ‘I realise that now from personal experience, but when the van accelerated away from the lights in Eastbourne, the engine roared as if there was something big under the bonnet, so if he did put his foot down, even Sally couldn’t catch him. This time, we’re in luck, as he’s on the A27 heading west towards Brighton and there’s a lot of evening traffic, so he couldn’t get away from us even if he wanted to.’

  Henderson knew the road well, he drove it only last week when he and Walters were in Eastbourne talking to Mathew Street. For the most part, it was single carriageway, but when it moved closer to Brighton, it turned dual. Even then it was still easy to follow a car without losing them as the road was often so busy with traffic there was no room to overtake.

  ‘Phil, call me when he gets closer to Brighton for an update, or if he turns off the A27. Am I clear?’

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  Henderson shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket and ran down the corridor, but before heading downstairs to the car park, he returned to his desk. Street was travelling towards Brighton, although equally, he could also be heading for Worthing, Southampton or Penzance, but Brighton stuck in his mind as he remembered Street telling him of a son who lived there. In truth, he’d only told him he had a son, a researcher in Sussex House had found out his name and address. Now where did he put that piece of paper?

  A couple of minutes later, he strode towards his car, the address of Neil Street’s house implanted in his brain. He started the car, retuned the radio to Southern FM as Walters had been fiddling with it again, and edged out of the Sussex House car park.

  The phone rang: Phil Bentley.

  ‘We’re coming into Brighton now, sir. We’re just passing Falmer Railway Station and the Amex Stadium.’

  ‘Ok. Do the same again Phil, call me in five minutes or earlier if he turns off.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Clear of the car park, Henderson headed for Centurion Road. He didn’t need the sat-nav as it was in the same part of the city as his apartment in Seven Dials. Even though Neil Street’s property was half a dozen streets away and probably worth as much as his flat, it was in the posher-sounding Clifton Hill district.

  He didn’t often elbow his way into a surveillance operation, unless what they were doing put the team in mortal danger or they needed additional bodies to help arrest a dangerous criminal, but this change in Mathew Street’s behaviour intrigued him. It seemed uncharacteristic for an elderly man who didn’t go out much to associate with the owner of a souped-up van and travel with him to Brighton, or wherever he was going, and he wanted to see where they ended up for himself.

  He couldn’t park on Centurion Road as there wasn’t a space, and ended up in the street parallel to it. The last phone call from Phil Bentley told him the van had turned up Trafalgar Street, and as he suspected, it was coming towards him. A few minutes later he spotted it. The van drove past his car and far from searching for a parking space as he had done, it reversed into what he realised was the back garden of Neil Street’s house in Centurion Road.

  He watched as Street and his slightly taller but stockier companion made their way to the house, unlocked the door and walked in. A few minutes later Phil and Sally’s unmarked car drew alongside his. He wound down the window.

  ‘Evening sir. I take my hat off to you, you were right. They were heading to his son’s house.’

  ‘Well done to you two for keeping tabs on them and not losing them; it was only a hunch. The two men have gone inside the house.’

  ‘Parking around this area is a total nightmare. I think we’ll try further up the hill towards the Dials and keep our eye on the house on foot.’

  ‘Don’t bother, Phil. You and Sally are off shift at ten, are you not?’

  ‘Yes sir, we are.’

  ‘It’s almost eight now. I’ll do the next couple of hours until Terry and Dave come on.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Go, Phil, before I change my mind.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I do hope you’ve brought a good book with you, you’ll need it with this guy.’


  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Derek Crow yawned and stretched. At least he could stretch out here in the front seat, because in the rear, the car didn’t offer any leg room at all. In the wake of the Jaguar crash and his rapid escape, his insurance company had given him this poxy Vauxhall until his own car was fixed, but at least it wouldn’t be his transport for much longer.

  ‘Did you speak to the police?’ Don Levinson, his driver and all-round protector, asked.

  ‘What about? Leaving the scene of an accident and being in charge of a car while being useless at driving?’

  ‘No, because I know you sorted that out with the police and they’ve decided not to take it further. About this meeting Paterson set up with your old mate, Mat Street, a known criminal.’

  ‘No, Street was precise. No police or the meeting’s off, and I need this meeting.’

  ‘Yeah, but if this guy’s cosha, he knows the identity of someone out there who’s gone and killed three of your buddies. You’re gonna need to involve the police.’

  ‘Don, you don’t know him. He’s a wily old fox and will only tell me something if it’s on his terms. If not, he’ll shut up and tell me nothing, even if he was being tortured.’

  ‘He would if I was in charge of doing it.’

  ‘I’ll wait and hear what he’s got to say. If he’s only got a name, it’s not enough. I’m going to need a lot more evidence before I take it to the police. Don’t forget, the cops were the ones who said the guys died in accidents, and they’re going to be embarrassed, not to mention mighty pissed-off, if I tell them something different. So I need to be sure of my ground.’

  ‘I guess you do,’ Levinson said. ‘In some ways, I can understand why Street is so wary of cops. He’s been in and out of nick so much he must be shit-scared of doing something wrong that might send him back.’

  ‘It isn’t his only worry.’

  ‘No? What else?’

  ‘Did you see the article in the paper the other day about one of the gold bars from a robbery at Gatwick twenty-odd years ago turning up?’