by Jeff Gulvin
‘Not yet.’ Weir shrugged off his jacket. ‘We know she was away from the Friday night until Sunday. She got back at about midnight and the killer was waiting for her.’
‘Where was she over the weekend?’
‘New Forest,’ Ryan said. ‘OTS, Guv’nor.’
Westbrook looked closely at him. ‘You know that?’
Ryan nodded. ‘We haven’t got the other body though. Made an appeal for witnesses. One came forward but not the bloke she was shagging.’
Weir told them about Michael Case and the dummy in the road, the story about somebody getting in the back of the car.
‘And you’ve only got his word for that?’ Westbrook said when he had finished.
Weir nodded. ‘No other witnesses, nothing to suggest anyone in the back of the car and no dummy.’
Westbrook scratched his head. ‘Hell of a story to make up.’
‘Case has got a shotgun licence,’ Ryan told him. ‘He lives with his mother. Fixes photocopiers for a living.’
‘Is he telling the truth?’
Ryan shrugged. ‘Seems plausible enough but we’re digging.’
Webb stretched his arms above his head. ‘Those two things could be totally unconnected. PIRA don’t do that kind of stuff. The shooting—’ He made a face. ‘Toky. In and out very quickly. What’ve you got from the Lab team?’
Weir squinted at him then. ‘False finger nail, two strands of black hair from an ICI female and a bit of pink angora wool.’
‘A woman?’ Webb looked from Westbrook to Finch and back again.
Morrison cleared his throat and spoke to Finch. ‘How do you want to play this, Sir?’
‘We’ll look into the Ulster shooting, Andrew, and get back to you.’
‘We’ll carry on with our investigation then. Try to locate the lover.’
‘Fine.’ Finch stood up. ‘I’ll get you an accounts manager. Webby?’
Webb nodded and looked at Ryan. ‘I’ll come down in the morning and take a look at the crime scene.’
Downstairs, Ryan thrust his hands into his jacket as they walked outside. ‘If PIRA had shot Jessica Turner they’d have said so,’ he stated.
Weir took gum from his pocket and looked at him. ‘Not necessarily. I want you to give your man Webb all the help he needs, Sid.’
‘Team are going to love having him on the plot.’
‘Got to be done all the same.’
Back on the fifteenth floor Webb and Westbrook drank coffee in the squad room. ‘A woman?’ Webb said. ‘That’d be a first for PIRA.’
Westbrook stroked his chin. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Box, George. I’ll leave this to you.’
Webb went back to his desk in the Exhibits office. Tania Briggs was there with Jack Swann.
‘Ealing?’ Swann said.
Webb nodded. ‘Weapon was a 7.62 — Tokarev. Personal protection weapon.’
‘PIRA wouldn’t use that for a hit.’
‘I know.’
‘They looking at anyone?’
Webb shook his head. ‘Initial forensics suggest it might’ve been a bird.’
Briggs looked round then. ‘PIRA don’t have any close-quarter shootists who’re women.’
Webb grinned then. ‘Makes it interesting doesn’t it.’
He sat down at his desk and lifted the telephone. He called the local RUC station where the murder of David Quigley had been investigated. They confirmed the ballistics report that had been sent over to Lambeth. They also told him that nobody claimed the murder and they never got a body for it. He put the phone down and drummed his fingernails on the desk. Nobody had claimed the shooting in Ealing either. If it was PIRA they would’ve issued a statement—unless of course they hit the wrong target—and if that was the case, who was the right target?
Young Young parked his Rover outside Carmel’s ground-floor flat and locked the door. He could see his brother’s Golf parked further along the road. Darkness clung to the street, only meagre light from the lamps spilling onto the pavement. He shook himself against the cold and looked for a moment at the two-storey houses shouldered into each other.
Somebody moved behind him. He heard the sound, distinct, a foot scraping the kerb. He stood still, then drew himself up to his full height and turned. A figure stood by his car, just outside the fall of yellowed light from the street lamp. Young Young could not see his face, shorter than he was but broader. Then he heard another footstep, the other side of him this time. A second man stepped across the road towards him. And then he felt the adrenaline began to pump and for an instant he was visited by an unseen image of his father, in the yard at the back of the pub where he stacked barrels as a cellarman. Young Young flared his nostrils and felt for the blade in his pocket.
The first man moved closer, white, the bouncer from Jimmy Carter’s place. Young Young balled one fist and drew the flick knife from his pocket. And then more footsteps, hurried, the other side of the road. From the corner of his eye Young Young spied two more of them coming straight for him. Spider’s legs moved on his spine and he felt the cold burning his cheeks. The man in front of him brought something short and heavy from his coat, sticklike. Young Young flicked open his knife. The crowbar whistled through the air, missed him and cracked the pavement like a gunshot. And then he was bending and bringing up the blade. A foot in the back of his knee. He buckled and dropped the knife. He heard himself curse as blows rained down on his head. He shuffled away, for a moment free of them, and then someone kicked him hard in the ribs and he rolled onto his side.
He woke up with something cold and hard pressing against his tongue. For a moment his mind wandered and he could not place himself. Darkness, save a dull glow to his left. The street: he realised he was lying on the street. The hardness against his tongue was the grit of the pavement. And then as his senses regained themselves, pain throbbed through every quarter of his body. His right cheek was like ice and he moved his hands so that his palms were under him. He pressed and pain shot through his ribs. He groaned, the noise a pain in itself. A metallic sensation filled his mouth and he spat blood and teeth. Again he tried to get up but his limbs would not work. And then he heard the sound of feet, walking at first and then running towards him along the pavement. Now he forced himself up and pain tore at his chest. He got to a half-sitting position and spat a glob of blood from his mouth.
‘Young Young, baby.’ Little Bigger, his brother.
Young Young let go another groan and blood filled his mouth. He spat and it rolled down his chin. His eyes focused on his brother’s round and bearded face.
‘Jesus, man. What happened?’
‘I walked into the lamp post. What the fuck you think happened?’ He felt the tearing sensation against his ribs once more and he winced.
‘You got to go to a doctor, man.’ Little Bigger was crouching now, one arm about his shoulder, a hand under his chin.
‘Fuck doctors. Get me into Carmel’s.’
Little Bigger half-dragged, half-carried him into Carmel’s front room and she eased him out of his jacket. It was soaked with blood and spittle and the leather was torn at the sleeve. He breathed in scarlet bubbles.
Carmel looked down at him, shock standing out on her face. ‘That his chest or just in his mouth?’
‘I don’t know.’ Panic in Little Bigger’s voice. ‘I want to call a doctor.’
‘No.’ Young Young seized his sleeve with stiff fingers. ‘No doctors.’ He tasted bloodied gums where his teeth should have been. ‘My teeth. They kicked out my teeth.’ Again he gripped his brother’s arm. ‘How many teeth I got?’
‘Your teeth are fine, man. Your chest.’
‘Fuck my chest. How many teeth?’
Little Bigger knelt down then and gripping Young Young’s cheeks between his fingers, he gently prised open his mouth. His eyes bunched in his face.
‘What?’ Young Young mouthed.
‘Three. You lost three.’ Little Bigger counted again. ‘Yeah. You got three gaps.’
> ‘Where?’
‘One in the front. Two on the side.’
Again Young Young touched his gums with his tongue and pain seared to the roof of his mouth. He felt Carmel begin to dab at him with warm water.
‘Who was it?’
‘Only saw one face.’
‘How many?’
‘Four.’
‘Brothers?’ Little Bigger said.
‘White fuckers. One from Jimmy Carter’s.’ Speaking was hard, his lips swelling with every blood-filled word.
Little Bigger stood up then and looked at Carmel. ‘Can we get him through to the bedroom?’
‘What? You think I want blood on my sheets.’
‘Fuck your sheets, Carmel. This is bad.’
She slopped the cloth into the bowl of water, splashing it over the floor. ‘No way. No way, man. The big bastard was asking for it. I ain’t having blood on my sheets.’ She stood with her hands on her hips. ‘You see to him, man. I’m going to bed. Lay him on the couch if you have to. But if he makes a mess he pays for it.’
Frank Weir addressed the briefing the following morning. Ryan sat on the edge of his desk next to Pamela. Webb and Westbrook from the Anti-Terrorist Branch stood by the door to Weir’s office. Morrison was speaking to Westbrook. He broke off and made his way to the front of the room. The chatter dissipated until there was silence save the hum of computers from the Holmes suite.
‘Okay,’ Morrison said brusquely. ‘Let’s get on with it. In case it’s escaped anyone’s attention we’ve been joined by DCI Westbrook and DS Webb from SO13. The Tokarev used to kill Jessica Turner was also used to kill an RUC officer in the province just before the ceasefire.’
‘I’ve spoken to the husband, Sir,’ Ryan said. ‘And neither of them had any connection with Northern Ireland. He’s been there once. Jessica never as far as he knows.’
‘What about family members?’ Westbrook asked him. ‘Anyone in the services?’
Ryan looked at him and shook his head.
‘We don’t have any answers to the why questions yet,’ Morrison went on. ‘But the weapon link indicates some kind of terrorist involvement.’
‘Nobody’s claimed the killing,’ Ryan said.
Morrison looked squarely at him, then Westbrook stepped forward. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we appreciate this is difficult for you. You’re midway through an investigation but—’ he lifted a finger and looked at Ryan—‘we’re on the same side. This is still an AMIP investigation. DS Webb and I are here merely to assist you.’
Ryan folded his arms. ‘If it was PIRA they would claim it though right?’
Webb stepped forward then and grinned. ‘Not necessarily, Slips. There hasn’t been a shooting like this on the mainland in years. The ceasefire only ended last month. We can expect the unexpected.’
Ryan made a face. ‘But they normally claim their killings. They claimed South Quay didn’t they.’
Webb nodded. ‘It’s unusual, but not that unusual.’ He looked at Morrison.
‘DCI Westbrook is right,’ Morrison said, ‘I want this thing sorted as quickly as possible. If it is terrorist then it’s an SO13 bag. That’s the deal. We assist them in everything.’ He smiled then as if to break the air of suspicion that clouded the room. ‘There are advantages. It makes this a category 1 murder. That means priority with Lambeth, with forensics, with everything. DCI Westbrook and DS Webb have access to everything.’
‘Yeah,’ Ryan muttered, ‘and give us nothing.’
Webb shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Hey, Sid,’ he said. ‘You ever had a job blow out on you?’
‘Course.’
‘We haven’t.’
‘Exactly’ Weir flattened Ryan with a stare. He looked at Westbrook and Webb.
‘Where’d you want to start?’
‘The files so far,’ Westbrook said. ‘I’ll take copies back to the Yard. George’ll want a look at the crime scene.’
Ryan drove Webb to Ealing with Pamela sitting in the back. Webb sat sideways in the seat and hummed to himself. Ryan shook his head at him. ‘Don’t give us any shit, Webby. Play it straight.’
Webb grinned at him. ‘You know your trouble, Sid. You’re paranoid.’
They went a long way back. Uniformed PC’s together in Paddington from years before. They used to patrol at night in a van, eat Kentucky fried chicken and drink red wine out of glasses they rested on the dashboard. They chased women together. But Ryan had a thing about secrecy and the needs of the Anti-Terrorist Branch. Pamela sat in the back and sensed the suspicious friendship between them.
‘I take it you two know each other.’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Yeah,’ Ryan said. ‘For me.’
They parked outside the house and Webb got out. The wind had died and the air was clean and cold. Turner was not at home but Ryan got the key from the Roberts’ house next door.
He walked up the path with Webb alongside him and Pamela just behind. ‘We reckon she was hiding there,’ he said, pointing to the gate on the other side of the bay window.
‘She?’
Ryan nodded. ‘Female black hairs, false nail and pink wool, Webby’
Webb smoothed fingers over his moustache and moved towards the gate. He stood in front of it and scanned every inch in turn. The bottom was chipped and the unpainted wood was rotting. Bending, he scoured the concrete at the base. Then he turned and looked at the path. ‘The woman came up the path?’
Ryan nodded. ‘Killer must’ve gone in after her.’
Webb went back to the road and looked up at the street lamp that stood above the wall at the front. He looked back at the house and gauged in his mind how far the light would have fallen. Then he went back to the gate and looked more closely at it.
‘Lab team?’
‘Serious Crimes Unit.’
Webb looked back at the gate. He noticed that the paint was soft and peeling at shoulder height. ‘What did they do here?’
‘I don’t know. The usual.’
Webb nodded. ‘I’ll want this gate off, Slippery. I’ll need it back at the Yard.’
‘The gate?’ Pamela stared at him.
‘Yeah.’ Webb looked back at Ryan. ‘Was it locked or unlocked?’
‘Unlocked.’
‘Straight through to the garden?’
Ryan nodded.
‘Why d’you want the gate off?’ Pamela asked him.
Webb looked at her then and grinned. ‘It’s peeling,’ he said. ‘The paint here at shoulder height. The light from the lamp out there would reach almost to here. If the body was standing here for a while, which presumably she was—she would’ve leaned against it.’ He smiled again, showing the white of his teeth. ‘There’s things I can do to it.’
‘Then you’ll want the front door as well,’ Ryan said. ‘We found the hairs on that.’
Webb stroked his moustache. ‘Is there a back gate to the garden?’
Ryan nodded. ‘Patch of ground beyond it and a few garages.’
Webb took a few paces backwards and looked up at the church spire which lifted above the trees. ‘Church is right beyond the garages, yeah?’
‘Right. It fronts the road directly parallel to this one.’
Webb walked back to the gate and bent down, inspecting the surface once more, his hands upon his knees. ‘Did you find any fibres here?’
Ryan shook his head. ‘The pink wool was caught on the back gate.’
‘I’ll take a look in a minute.’
They traced the killer’s steps to the front door and Webb stopped again. ‘Killer hiding by the gate. The body walks up and opens the front door?’
‘Yeah. Then she gets pushed inside and the door is slammed.’ Ryan fitted his key into the lock and twisted. Webb saw the brown stain on the carpet. ‘Did you know only thirty per cent of head shots are ever fatal,’ he said.
Ryan cocked one eyebrow. ‘When they’re this close they are.’
‘Generally yes. Who got here first?’
‘Neighbour. Saw her through the letterbox. He’s ex-army and recognised the sound of the shots.’
‘Three.’
‘Yes.’
‘Powder burns?’
Ryan nodded. ‘Cheek and neck.’
Webb looked back at the carpet once more and measured the distance from the doorstep to the bloodstains in his head. He spoke as if to himself. ‘Up behind her, shoved inside and door slammed.’ Again he looked at Ryan. ‘The body’s on the deck?’
‘Hands and knees.’
‘Three shots.’
‘One after the other.’
Webb pursed his lips. ‘In—bang—and out.’ He scanned the length of the carpet to the open kitchen doorway. ‘Who got here first—after the neighbours I mean?’
‘Uniforms from Ealing. Broke open the door.’
‘Where did they tread?’
Ryan grinned then. ‘The side. They were careful, Webby’
‘That’s a first for uniform.’ He stepped over the stain to the side of the carpet and squinted. ‘They kept well out of the way of the main tread?’
Ryan nodded.
‘Did the Lab team do an ESLA lift?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘I want one.’
Pamela folded her arms across her chest. ‘Why? The Lab team were very thorough. SOCO and the SCU have been right through the place.’
Webb grinned then and looked at her. ‘I still want an ESLA lift. With the best will in the world, Pam, SOCO are minimalists. They’re good but they’re still minimalists. When you’re used to looking for things that go bang you learn to be a maximilist. If the ESLA lift shows up anything I’ll want the carpet up.’
Ryan cocked an eyebrow. ‘Maximilist. That’s a technical term is it—like bollocks.’
Webb laughed and went out to the garden.
He traced the killer’s movements across the grass, the most direct route to the garden gate. Here he stopped and again scrutinised every inch of it. Ryan watched him and rolled a licorice-papered cigarette. Webb opened the gate then and stepped outside. The waste ground was about twenty feet long, running from the side road to the garages, with a low wall separating them from the church yard. The bulk of the church itself ran behind the garages and the path was shaded with trees. He nodded to the path. ‘That way’
