by Jeff Gulvin
Jessica was at the front door, head down still and then she had her key and was fitting it into the lock. The woman moved out of the shadows crossing before the window in soft-soled shoes that made no sound on the paving.
Jessica pushed open the front door, feeling for the light. And then something hard in her back and she stumbled into the hall.
In the house, door closed, the woman leaning on it and Jessica half on her knees, her bag tipped up on the floor. The woman sucked breath, arm straight out she fired. Once. Twice. A third time. Jessica fell forward. Her head thumped off the carpet and settled.
One moment, two; enough time to listen and then bend forward and smell spent blood and the stillness of the body about to go cold. The woman stepped over her in the darkness and was down the hall and into the moonlit space of the kitchen. Key in the back door, she turned it, felt a nail give on her finger and then the door was open and she was out and the door closed behind her. A short sprint to the back gate. Lights going on in the house next door. Fumbling now with the clasp of the gate. Something caught, her coat flapping open and for a second she panicked. Then she was through, leaving the gate to swing on rusty hinges and along the line of garages to the low wall of the church.
One foot up, her hands scrabbling briefly in the dirt and the gun slopping heavy in her pocket. She moved to the church wall, breathing hard. Then composing herself, stopping up her breath, she moved round to the other street and her car. Inside she started the engine and drove off up the road.
In the hall of her house Jessica lay very still, her eyes open and a line of spittle clinging in red to her teeth.
Three
RYAN HEARD THE PHONE, opened his eyes and blinked in the darkness. Next to him his wife groaned and kicked her heel against his shin.
He sat up, flicked on the lamp and looked at the face of his watch. One o’clock almost. He lifted the phone from its housing.
‘Hello?’
‘Frank Weir, Sid. Get your clothes on and meet me at Hendon.’
Ryan sighed heavily. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Somebody got shot in Ealing.’
He put down the phone and rubbed his eyes with the heels of both palms. He sat for a moment collecting his thoughts and then threw off the bedclothes. The room was chilly, they always slept with the window open, even in midwinter. He reached for his clothes and sat down on the edge of the bed to button his shirt.
‘What is it?’ His wife sat up, pulling the duvet up to her neck. Ryan buckled his trousers and reached for his socks.
‘Shooting in Ealing.’
His wife sighed, shook her head and lay down again. ‘When will you be back?’
‘Whenever.’ He picked up his jacket from the chair and moved to the door.
‘Sid.’
‘What?’
‘Put Jenny on the loo before you go.’
Outside the sharpness of the night air took his breath. A fine frost lay across the windscreen of his Cavalier. Ryan turned the engine over and switched the heater on full; gradually it dissipated the mist from the windscreen. He lit a cigarette and reversed onto the road. Then he headed north for Hendon.
Frank Weir stood in his office chewing gum, smart suit even at this time of the morning, his camel-hair coat draped over his forearm. Fat-Bob Davies was collecting 101 forms from the cabinet as Ryan went in.
‘Hello, Skinny.’
‘Hello, Fatty.’ Ryan went through to Weir’s office.
‘What we got, Guv’nor?’
Weir smoothed a hand over his all but bald head, what hair was left, black and shaved to his skull. ‘Shooting, Sid. Close quarters. Upmarket address in Ealing.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘Neighbours.’
‘When?’
‘Midnightish. They heard the shots.’
The three of them took Weir’s car and drove down the North Circular with the magnetic light flashing. Nearly two in the morning and still London did not sleep. Davies sat in the back.
‘Fat-Bob Exhibits officer then, Guv’nor?’ Ryan said.
Weir nodded.
‘Make sure you write it all down, Bob. Not like the last time eh.’
Weir grinned at the pained expression that spread like a rash over Davies’ features. Like Ryan he had little time for the man, thirty years in and just seeing out time. A dinosaur from the past.
‘Make it a good one, Bob,’ he said. ‘Go out on a high.’
‘Whatever you say, Guv’nor.’
They drove through red lights at Hanger Lane and Ryan rested the sole of his left foot on the dashboard. He had transferred to AMIP from the Drug Squad just after Christmas. This was the third major incident since then.
‘SOCO on the move, Guv?’
Weir nodded.
‘You calling the old man?’
‘Have done.’
‘Coming down is he?’
‘I think we can handle things till the morning.’
‘That’s what I need to do then,’ Ryan said, shaking his head.
‘What?’
‘Make Divisional Super — then I can get my beauty sleep.’
‘And fuck knows you need it,’ Davies muttered from the back.
Ryan reached in his pocket for a cigarette then remembered that Weir did not allow smoking in his car. He put his hands between his legs instead.
Grove Lane was taped off at the corner. Weir parked and they moved past the Ealing uniforms towards the lighted house with the church rising behind.
‘Decent area, Guv’nor,’ Ryan said.
Weir looked at the three-storeyed houses and grunted an acknowledgement. He walked with his hands in his pockets, the collar of his long coat turned up to the neck. A uniformed PC stood at the gate and next to him a WPC stepped onto the pavement. Weir took out his warrant card, flashed it at the uniforms and put it back in his pocket. Ryan flapped his open and slotted it into the breast pocket of his jacket. His tie was undone. He wore no overcoat.
The hall light was on. Two white-suited Scenes of Crime men were stooped over the body of a woman who lay away from them. Tendrils of blood spattered the walls in fine patterns like the ruined web of a spider. Ryan looked down at her, head half-gone, blood and mucus stretching from the top of her scalp to her collar. The pathologist was kneeling beside her. He looked up as Weir got to him.
‘DI Weir. AMIP,’ Weir said.
The doctor nodded and stripped off red-stained rubber gloves.
‘What we got?’
‘Three holes. Side of the face, neck and one shattering the collar-bone.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Don’t know yet. A guess, I’d say a couple of hours ago.’
Weir turned to the uniformed WPC who hovered behind them. ‘Who is she?’
‘Name’s Jessica Turner, Guv. Mrs.’
‘Where’s the husband?’
‘Away. The neighbours found her.’ She pointed over the gate to the lighted bay window of the house immediately adjacent.
‘Somebody with them is there?’
She nodded again. Weir turned to Davies who was mopping reddened features with his handkerchief.
‘Take a look around, Bob. Then go and get some statements.’
Weir and Ryan stepped over the body, keeping close to the wall. Already Ryan could smell death in the air. It had its own distinctive odour, worse when it was old dead but it was always there, the sort of smell that clings to your clothes for days afterwards. Her hair was matted with blood, sticking to the carpet where the thick pool was darkening as it dried. Her hands were outstretched, the fingers of one scraping at the wall. Her eyes were open, one of them half-popped out of its socket where the bullet had shattered the bone. Ryan bent closer and looked at her.
‘Clothes are expensive, Guv.’ He nodded to the label sticking out of the top of her blouse at the back.
‘Like you said outside, Slips. Good area.’
Ryan moved through the house to the kitchen, being careful
to walk to the left of the hall; patches of blood were smeared on the floor. One of the Lab men moved past him and started taking photographs of the body. Another was in the kitchen studying the back door very carefully.
‘What?’ Ryan said to him.
‘Unlocked, Slips.’ He nodded to the key sticking half-out of the lock.
‘Exit route.’ Ryan looked about him.
The SOCO showed him a small transparent evidence bag. ‘Found this.’
Ryan took the bag from him and looked at it. A painted false fingernail. He looked over his shoulder to where Weir was still looking at the body.
‘Guv’nor.’
Weir turned and came through to the kitchen. Ryan handed him the bag. Weir looked at it, frowned and glanced at the SOCO. ‘Where was it?’
‘On the floor by the door.’
Ryan looked back at the body. ‘Stepped over her. In the front door—bang bang bang—and out through here.’ He glanced back at the mess in the hallway. ‘Got sprayed everywhere didn’t she.’
Weir went out into the garden and Ryan followed him. ‘Got a torch, Sid?’
Ryan fished in his pocket for the flashlight he had collected from his desk in Hendon. He switched it on and handed it to Weir. Weir played the beam over the garden and picked up the gate, standing open in the stillness of the night.
‘Went that way.’ They walked to the gate, again being careful to avoid the obvious route. At the gate they paused and Weir shone the torch up and down its length. Then they stepped outside. A small patch of waste ground and a row of garages. Beyond the garages the church rose against the spread of the sky. Weir switched off the torch and turned back to the kitchen. ‘We need to get floodlights set up.’
They made their way back through the hall and stepped over the body. The pathologist was organising two ambulancemen with the body. Weir went next door to find Davies. Ryan went upstairs.
The front bedroom was the master, very big, very neat with a reproduction iron bedstead in black with copper-coloured knobs on the four corners. The bed linen was white and two white dressing gowns hung on the back of the door. He opened the wardrobe doors and found an array of business suits, his and hers. The en suite smelled of perfume and the ceramic ware was white and scrubbed to a shine. He went through the rest of the house. Two more bedrooms on the first floor and a spacious attic study on the top. He looked out of the window at the flashing lights of the two-tones parked in the street outside. Across the road lights were lit in half a dozen houses, various people were looking out of their windows or standing in doorways. He hoped Weir would leave the house-to-house till the morning.
Downstairs the body was gone, only the darkly marked carpet and the smell to say she had been there. Nothing was disturbed anywhere. Her handbag was intact though spilled, purse unopened with over fifty pounds in cash and a fistful of credit cards.
Next door he found Weir drinking tea with an elderly couple who sat hand in hand looking pale and shrivelled on the settee. A WPC sat with them and Fat-Bob took notes from the other armchair. Weir introduced him and looked back at the old man.
‘You say she’d been away, Mr Roberts?’
The old man nodded, kneading the hanging flesh of his neck between agitated fingers. ‘All weekend. She’d only just got back.’
‘You saw her?’
He shook his head. ‘Heard. The car. I wasn’t asleep. I have trouble sleeping.’
‘You take tablets don’t you, dear,’ his wife added.
He nodded and looked again at Weir. ‘We heard the shots, Inspector. I was in the army. I know the sound. There were three in quick succession.’
‘What then?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I got up, looked out the front window.’
‘Not the back?’ Ryan said.
‘No.’ Roberts glanced at him. ‘Our room’s at the back but the shots came from the front. I know the difference.’
‘What did you do then?’ Weir asked him.
Roberts cleared his throat. ‘I went downstairs and outside. I could see Jessica’s car parked in her space. I looked over the fence but there were no lights. I was worried so I went round.’
‘And?’
‘Banged on the door. No answer so I looked through the letterbox. I could see her lying on the floor. Then I phoned you.’
Weir sat back. ‘Have you any idea where she’d been?’
‘No.’ Roberts looked at his wife. ‘We knew Alec was away. But not her.’
‘Who’s Alec?’
‘Her husband. He’s in Ireland playing rugby.’
‘And Jessica?’ Ryan asked him. ‘She went away when — on Friday?’
‘Five thirty. I saw her go.’ Roberts smiled then. ‘It’s not that we’re nosy or anything, just careful. It’s a quiet neighbourhood,’ he added.
Weir stood up. ‘We’ll let you get some sleep,’ he said. ‘We can talk again in the morning. Constable Davies here will write up your statements.’
Davies nodded and smiled. Outside Ryan said: ‘Nothing moved next door, Guv’nor. She wasn’t robbed.’
Weir scratched his chin. ‘Close quarter. In — bang — and out.’ He made a face. ‘Doesn’t make much sense does it.’ They walked back to the car.
Sitting in his office at Campbell Row Vanner looked at the fresh Western Union slips Jimmy Crack had got from The Mixer.
‘Friday night?’
On my way home, Guv. The post codes match two addresses I’ve flagged.’
Vanner pushed the slips away from him and Jimmy picked them up. ‘I’ll make copies and get them back to him. He gets paranoid when I hold them too long.’ He folded the papers up again and stuffed them back in his pocket. ‘Something else, Guv.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I clocked Pretty Boy’s M3 on my way home.’
‘You follow him?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘An address in Acton. I’ve run it through the PNC. It’s four flats. I don’t know which one he went into, but the occupant of the top one is a spade with form for dealing. Delbert Harris. Twenty-three. Did a stretch in Brixton for supplying Amphees.’ He sat down in the vacant chair in Vanner’s tiny office. Campbell Row was getting too small for them. Vanner was hoping the move to Hendon and formalisation of the Operational Crime Unit would come sooner rather than later.
‘One other thing,’ Jimmy said.
‘What’s that?
‘Pretty Boy’s motor. It’s for sale. Got a notice pasted up in it.’
‘So?’
‘Mobile phone number, Guv.’
Vanner grinned. ‘Nice one, Jimmy’
‘I’ve requested the subscriber information but it’ll take a day or two.’
Vanner thought for a moment. ‘We can use it anyway, Jim.’
‘How?’
‘Bell him. Get him to think we want to buy the car. Set up a meet then get surveillance to follow him. If he’s as clever as we think he is the phone will be listed to some business address, the arcades or the barbers’ shop or something. Pretty Boy’s a player isn’t he.’
‘Wants the top slot, Guv. Word is that Stepper’s losing his grip. It’s only Young Young that keeps him where he is.’
‘The body armour?’
‘Six feet six and an Uzi.’
Vanner lit a cigarette and shook his head. ‘I want that one off the street before he kills somebody.’
Jimmy smiled then. ‘Every fucker wants him off the street, Guv’nor. Harlesden nick are getting daily calls from smalltime runners and dealers who want rid of him. He’s messing up their plots big-time.’
‘Then why doesn’t somebody give him up?’
Jimmy made an open-handed gesture.
Vanner stood up then. ‘Let me know when you get the subscriber info, Jimmy. I’ll organise an IC3 undercover for the car deal.’
He went through into the other office where Sammy McCleod was typing up a report.
‘What you got, Ginge?’
Sammy looked up at him. ‘Bit
of smack, Guv. Nothing to write home about. Friday night, the undercover buy.’
‘Went well did it?’
Sammy nodded. ‘Clockwork. The information was sound.’ He took out a cigarette and lit it from the one Vanner was smoking. ‘How’s your old man?’
Vanner paused. ‘He’s okay I guess. Old though, Sam.’ He looked beyond him then, out of the window and stared at the grey of the buildings the other side of the High Road.
‘I hear Jimmy got Target 2’s phone number. Result that, Guv.’
‘That’s the beauty of Jimmy,’ Vanner said. ‘If you’re out there you see things. He’s always out there.’
He went back to his office and flicked through pages. Jimmy had brought the crack team to his attention just before Christmas. He had been looking at them off and on for over a year, gradually piecing information together. Stepper-Nap, the Daddy, had been given to him by a snout last year, small-time information, but a Jamaican connection. Jimmy was the best crack man in London and by the time he brought the file to Vanner it was fifty pages thick.
The team were British blacks running in cocaine from Jamaica and washing it into crack to sell on. Stepper-Nap was the Don, the top man, the Daddy. He was protected by a six-feet-six hooligan called Young Young. So called because, surprise surprise, he looked young. He was a nasty bastard though.
The first time he was arrested it was because he had a penchant for stamping on Chinamen’s heads. His father, also six feet six, had been a player in the seventies. Did time for various crimes of violence and finally got himself killed in a knife fight. It was Young Young’s claim to fame and he milked it for all he was worth. The posse worked out of Harlesden primarily, but Jimmy had accumulated addresses and phone numbers in Neasden and Willesden as well as Wembley and Sudbury. The team were well organised, bossed by Stepper-Nap but Pretty Boy was his General. There were others, a whole stack of them, going from Stepper all the way down to the runners on the street.
The mobile number was a bonus. They had addresses for Stepper and a couple of the others, but Pretty Boy was a power broker who had connections with Tottenham Yardies and they desperately needed to house him.
Crack was not the problem that once they had thought it would be. The crack squad had been disbanded and a Crack Intelligence Officer had been assigned to the five Area Intelligence Units in London. Jimmy was the best there was. There was nothing he could not tell you about it. This team were bringing in kilos of coke at a time and somewhere there was a wash house where they were turning it into crack at twenty pounds a smoke. There were ten rocks to a gramme and twenty-eight grammes to an ounce. That meant there were 280 smokes to an ounce at twenty pounds a time. They were making a lot of money.
