by Jeff Gulvin
‘What about you, James. Eilish in?’
James nodded to her. ‘Hi, Mary-Anne. Come in.’
He held the door open for her and she stepped inside. ‘You okay? You look really pissed off.’
‘I’m fine, Mary-Anne.’
Mary-Anne went upstairs and James went back to the kitchen. He stood a moment in front of the sink and stared over the rumpled mess of the garden. He could hear them giggling above his head, just like they had done in the old days. He shook his head and dipped his hands in the sink.
Vanner sat in the passenger seat as Jimmy dialled The Mixer’s number. They were parked in the Neasden circle in Jimmy’s car. Vanner watched two black youths cross into Ska-Cuts Barber’s shop and eyeball them all the way. He shook his head. ‘You’ve got to get another car, Jim. This is so much job you might as well be driving a two-tone.’
Jimmy was talking into the telephone. ‘Mixer, it’s Selly. You phoned me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Parked outside in the Circle.’
‘Come round the back. You can park at the top of the alley.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. It’s fine. I’ve got coffee on.’
‘I’ve got a colleague with me.’
‘It’s all right. I’ve got more than two cups.’
They left the car and crossed to the second-hand electrical goods shop. ‘Selly?’ Vanner said.
Jimmy Crack grinned at him. ‘Pseudonym, Guv. Easier that way. I know who they are when they call. First talked to The Mixer in a cell at Kilburn.’
Vanner glanced back at the car. ‘When’re they going to get you another set of wheels?’
Jimmy frowned. ‘I know. Red bleeding Astra. I thought the furry dice might help some.’
‘Did you,’ Vanner said.
‘Shouldn’t really have a car at all, Guv. I’m not due one. This is a deal I’ve worked out with transport at Kingsbury.’
‘Well tell them to get you a better deal. There must be an old SO11 car knocking about.’
The Mixer was brewing coffee at the back of the shop. He smiled at Jimmy and Jimmy introduced Vanner.
‘You like sugar?’ The Mixer asked him.
Vanner shook his head.
‘Selly?’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘The team been in again, Mix?’
The Indian man nodded and stirred sugar into his own mug. He indicated for Vanner to take one.
‘Who?’ Jimmy asked him.
‘The big fat one.’
‘Bigger Dan,’ Jimmy said, half to himself. ‘Or was it the littler one?’
‘No. Not him. The big one.’ The Mixer passed over the Western Union slips and Jimmy leafed through them. He raised his eyebrows and showed a slip to The Mixer. ‘That the one?’
The Mixer nodded. Jimmy passed it to Vanner. It was made out for four thousand pounds in cash.
Vanner squinted at Jimmy. ‘Tony Jones?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Bigger Dan, Guv. Second Tier, handles a bunch of runners for Pretty Boy. He’s used the name before and I know the address.’
‘This is good then?’ The Mixer said.
‘This is very good.’
The Mixer smiled through his glasses. ‘I’ve got something else for you.’
He went into the back of the shop and came out with a packet of photographs. Vanner stared at him and he grinned. ‘Little service I offer.’
Jimmy had the package open and was leafing through them. He could hardly believe his eyes. Virtually every member of the crack team was photographed. It looked like a party of some kind.
‘They brought them in yesterday,’ the Indian said. ‘The other one, him with the funny hand.’
Vanner frowned.
‘Thin Hand Billy,’ Jimmy said.
‘I made that set specially for you,’ The Mixer said.
Jimmy beamed at him. ‘If you weren’t so ugly I’d kiss you.’
Back at Campbell Row Jimmy spread the photographs on Sammy’s desk in the squad room. China was there and Anne.
‘This the whole team, Jim?’ Sammy asked him.
Jimmy nodded. ‘Brit-Boy Massive. The whole bloody caboodle.’ He looked at Vanner then. ‘This is a result, Guv’nor. We’ve never had anything like this.’
The photographs were taken at night. Vanner could see the sea in the background. They were dated the Sunday before. He leafed through them and showed up one with a white woman in it, long red hair falling over her shoulders. ‘Who’s the BMW?’
Anne cocked an eyebrow and Jimmy grinned at her. ‘Black man’s woman, Anne. Status symbol.’
‘You know her?’ Vanner asked him.
‘Never seen her before.’ Jimmy laid out all the pictures and scrutinised them. ‘Some kind of party,’ he said. ‘The whole posse’s gathered. There’s Stepper-Nap with the nappy hair. Pretty Boy looking serious as usual. This one’s Jig. Stepper’s cousin.’ He pointed out Bigger Dan and then another man, smaller in girth but not much, his hair waxed and flattened, sporting a beard reminiscent of Barry White. ‘Little Bigger,’ he said. ‘He’s Young Young’s half-brother. Same mother, different father.’ He pointed to a picture of Stepper-Nap with Young Young towering over him. Black suit, black shirt, his hair cut short at the neck and flattened into a box on top. ‘Shows doesn’t it.’
‘The sea,’ Vanner said. ‘Must’ve been an away-day’
He moved to the window and looked out, then he turned again. ‘Okay,’ he said and sat down on the edge of a desk, moving aside a sheet of acid squares in a plastic bag. ‘Jimmy clocked Pretty Boy’s BMW the other day. We got his mobile phone number.’ He looked over at Jimmy.
‘I got the subscriber info,’ Jimmy told him. ‘The phone’s registered to the Uxbridge Road amusement arcade.’
‘One of their businesses?’ China asked.
Jimmy nodded. ‘The car was for sale, China. Pretty Boy’s advertising it on the back near-side window. He left his mobile number.’ He looked back at Vanner once more.
‘We’re going to buy it,’ Vanner said. ‘Or rather we’re going to let him think we are. I’ve called in Level 1 Undercover. Black guy to do the number. He’ll give Pretty Boy a bell on the mobile then set up a meet. We’ll get surveillance on the plot and follow him. Our man’ll um and ah about the price. No doubt he wants shitloads for it. It’s a black M3.’
‘Nice wheels for someone who’s registered unemployed,’ Sammy said.
Vanner looked at him. ‘If we’re lucky we’ll house Pretty Boy.’
‘He’s a power broker,’ Jimmy went on. ‘Stepper-Nap is slipping. Getting old. Too many women. Too many kids. He’s still got the Jamaican end sorted though, but Pretty Boy’s young and smart.’ He tapped the photos again. ‘The only thing that stops him making his move is Young Young.’
‘The bodyguard.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘He’s Stepper’s insurance. I don’t know how loyal he is but he likes shooting people. My snout told me that Young Young was responsible for the throat shooting at the dance last month.
‘If we can house Pretty Boy we might get an OP set up nearby,’ he went on. ‘He’s got contacts in other areas. The word is that he’s sick of the way Stepper molly-coddles the Tottenham posse. His attitude is either join together or shoot them.’
Vanner looked at him then. ‘You better explain, Jim.’
Jimmy sat down in Sammy’s seat. ‘Governor General Massive,’ he said. ‘Tottenham crack team. Not in this lot’s league but getting there. Stepper’s got a baby mother called Carmel. Ground-floor flat in Harlesden. The Tottenham team are bringing illegals in from Jamaica and Stepper keeps his manor clean by harbouring them.’ He glanced at their faces. ‘Immigration know about it. I’ve got Carver breathing down my neck to spin the place. But it’s flagged to me and they can’t move without my say so.’
‘Plug?’ Anne said.
‘The same.’
‘Mr Wannabe Copper.’ Sammy shook his head.
‘He’s evil,’ Jimmy sai
d. ‘Worse than some of these. The Jamaicans are scared shitless of him.’
Vanner moved off the desk. ‘We’ll set up the rolling plot,’ he said. ‘See if we can’t find out where Pretty Boy lives.’
Ryan sat in the incident room at Hendon. Paul Fuller sat next to him reading a copy of the Guardian. Ryan stared at him and wondered why he had ever left the Drug Squad. Fuller was thirty-something, overweight with long hair and glasses. On the other side of him Tony Rob sat with his arms folded. Ex Regional Crime Squad. Face did not fit so he came back to AMIP. He was something of a dinosaur, still couldn’t use the computer so he made all his notes by hand. Ryan liked him, his methods straight from the Jack Regan school of policing. Ryan himself had considered the Regional Crime Squad, but had decided against the move when Rob told him how they sat on plots for months on end and never nicked anyone. The problem, as he saw it, was that they always targeted the top man and then spent months trying to follow him. It never seemed to occur to them to chip away at the minor league players until the top man had nothing to stand on.
Weir and Morrison were at the front of the room, the rest of the Murder Squad team settled about them in plastic-backed chairs. On the board at the front, photographs of Jessica Turner’s battered remains were pinned. Morrison sat in a chair with his fingers pressed together. Weir stood with one foot resting on a chair. He smoothed a palm over the flat of his skull and chewed gum.
‘Jessica Turner, victim,’ he said. ‘Thirty-six years old. Was married to Alec Turner. He was in Ireland playing rugby when the shooting happened.’ He stood up straight then and put his hands in his trouser pockets. He glanced at the pictures then looked forward at his colleagues once more. ‘The shooting was close quarter, inside the front door, the body a few feet along the hall. He or she, we don’t know which yet, stepped over the body and escaped through the kitchen.’ He paused again and his jaw worked the gum. ‘Pathologist has confirmed the time of death at about eleven thirty on Sunday. Jessica had been away for the weekend, a detail that was big news to her husband. The neighbours, Mr and Mrs Roberts, reckoned she left on Friday at half-five and she had only just got back when the shots were fired.’
‘Good weekend then,’ Fuller said.
Fat-Bob Davies looked over his shoulder at him and grinned through red-flecked cheeks.
‘There was no sign of any break-in,’ Weir went on. ‘The shootist was waiting for her. She got home. He was hiding. Pushed her inside and killed her. Three shots. The casings are with Lambeth now.’ He looked from one face to another. ‘Not a burglary. Her purse and handbag were left exactly where she dropped them. Fifty pounds in cash and all her credit cards intact. Nothing in the house was disturbed. The killer went through to the kitchen and got out the back door. So far SOCO have come up with the cartridges and a false finger nail by the back door. We thought there might be prints but there aren’t any we’ve seen before. Yesterday they checked the garden. We won’t get anything from the grass but there was a snag of pink wool on the catch at the back gate. Angora so they tell me.’
‘A woman?’ Fuller sat forward.
‘Possibly.’
Rob scratched thick grey hair. ‘Anything else from outside, Guv’nor?’
Weir shook his head. ‘Not so far. We’ve got somebody starting a car in Birch Street. That’s the other side of the house, next road on running parallel. Beyond the church as you look from Grove Lane.’ He looked at Morrison then. ‘We also have two black hairs found on the front door. Long black hairs.’
‘A woman,’ Fuller stated again.
‘We don’t know any of that yet, Paul,’ Weir told him. ‘We need to talk to the husband again but he’s in no fit state. All of that could’ve been there. The nail, the hair, the thread.’
‘Jessica’s nails were long, Guv’nor,’ Ryan reminded him.
‘I know, Sid. Lambeth’ll test everything but we’ll have to wait. Hopefully the gun’ll be quicker. You know the form, breech, firing pin, ejection marks. In the meantime we have her movements that weekend. If her husband didn’t know she was away then we have to ask ourselves why.’
‘Lover.’ Pamela Richards spoke for the first time. The only woman on the team. She sat at the front facing Morrison. Ryan watched her from behind, her blonde hair bobbing about her jawline.
‘Possibly. We don’t know.’
‘OTS, Guv,’ Ryan said. ‘Why else would her husband not know?’
Morrison stood up then. ‘I’m going to ask Alec Turner for permission to release her picture to the papers,’ he said. ‘It’s delicate but I think he’ll agree. We can let the story out and see if we get a reaction. If she was seeing someone maybe they’ll come forward. That way we can check her whereabouts for the weekend.’
‘In the meantime we wait for Lambeth,’ Weir said. ‘I want the house-to-house finished. I want the pubs checked, the shops. Anyone noticing a car that shouldn’t be there. This is a cosy neighbourhood and expensive. We’re looking for a woman maybe, pink sweater, red nails, black hair. If her husband can account for the nail, the hairs and the sweater then we’re looking for a man.’ He sighed. ‘Not much to go on but early days. This is a planned and clinical shooting. You all know how it goes—cradle to grave on Jessica Turner. Who was she? Who were her friends? Who would want to kill her?’ He glanced at Sergeant Jones, the office manager. ‘Jonesy’s got your actions sheets so let’s go to work.’
Vanner set up the plot for the meeting with Pretty Boy’s car and then he went home. It was six thirty and dark outside, the London rush hour in full swing. He listened to the GLR news on the radio and heard Morrison being interviewed about the Ealing shooting on Sunday. They had nothing yet but their enquiries were progressing. He smiled to himself; at least Morrison would leave him alone for a while.
As he turned into his road he saw the lights in his downstairs windows and thought about all the years he had come home to darkness. Ellie had a flat in Acton Town but whenever he came home these days lights blazed out of every window.
Music greeted him as he unlocked the door. She had brought a CD player over from her flat. Up until then there had only been the radio and he only used that for the news. Ellie called to him from the bathroom upstairs. She had started cooking but not got very far. In the basement kitchen she had peeled potatoes and lamb chops sat under the unlit grill. No vegetables. She took vitamins instead of vegetables, something about being forced to eat them when she was a child. A glass of flat Coca Cola stood on the work surface. He switched on the grill and fetched a cold beer from the fridge. Flipping off the top he drank from the neck of the sweating bottle, then poured salt into water for the potatoes.
Ellie came down in her dressing gown, white towelling with a full collar. Her legs were freshly shaved and she padded around in bare feet. Vanner leaned against the work surface and watched as she inspected the food. He did not say anything, just watched the way she moved, blonde hair pushed back from her face, large green eyes that cast short glances in his direction.
‘What?’ she said at last.
‘What d’you mean—what?’
‘You keep looking at me.’
‘I like looking at you, Elle.’
‘Prat.’ She flicked her fingernails against his chest, took a mouthful of Coke and pulled a face. She poured the remains down the sink. Vanner offered his beer bottle and she grimaced at him.
‘You’ll quit before I’m through,’ she said.
‘And smoking?’
‘Definitely smoking.’
He smiled then and caught her by the sleeve, gently pulling her across the floor towards him. He kissed her full on the mouth, the softness of her face against his. She broke. They looked at one another and then Vanner switched off the stove.
Taking her by the hand he led her up to the bedroom.
Much later he sat in a chair at the window, feet resting on the sill. The curtains were drawn back, moonlight in the glass above the city. Behind him she was still save the soft burr of her breathi
ng. Her clothes lay scattered on the stripped wood of the floor, her uniform left exactly where she had dropped it, dressing gown over the chair behind his head.
He could smell her and it pleased him. He had forgotten to phone Anne and ask about his father. He must remember to do it in the morning. Ellie lay so still, wrapped in the duvet with only her left foot extending beyond it. Vanner looked over his shoulder, only the foot and the breathing to let him know she was there. He sat more upright, drew breath and exhaled into the glass. It misted then faded and he could see himself looking back.
She brought a softness to the room, to the house. Lights on all over the place, music playing. It could almost have been a home. Outside, somebody walked past his parked car and kicked at a drinks can. He heard it rattle and bounce off the pavement. The walker had his hands buried in pockets, collar turned high against the cold. Vanner got up, slipped off his dressing gown and went back to bed. He moved gently so as not to wake her, so petite, elfin almost, curled into a foetal ball right in the middle of the bed. Her face was hidden in the duvet. He kissed the top of her head and stretched out on his back.
Pretty Boy had set up the meet on Pound Lane by the entrance to the Jewish Cemetary with glass set in concrete on the top of the wall. Difficult place to set up any kind of Observation Point. Maybe Pretty Boy was more careful than they thought. The undercover drove up in a Toyota Estate. Vanner did not know him other than he was Level 1 UC. He wore baggy jeans and a Rasta hat, dreadlocks wrapped up like a tea cosy. He had half a beard and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, gold sovereigns on his fingers. Vanner sat with Jimmy Crack in Vanner’s car on the High Road. They saw Pretty Boy drive up with his window down and dance music thumped bass from his speakers. Round the corner by the Cemetary a 4/2 from surveillance was sitting on his motorbike drinking coffee from a polystyrene cup and chewing on a bacon roll. He had panniers on the bike with a bogus courier company’s logo emblazoned on them. He studied the map, spread out on his fuel tank.
The UC saw Pretty Boy arrive and got out of his car. The BMW parked behind him and Pretty Boy slipped out of the seat like a snake. Black rollneck sweater and black jeans. He toyed with a ring of keys on one finger.
