Good Bait

by John Harvey

  ‘Get you something?’ Karen asked. ‘Juice? Tea?’

  ‘Juice would be great. Thanks. And then tea.’

  ‘Peppermint? Builder’s?’

  ‘Peppermint.’

  Karen brought it all to the bed on a tray and climbed back in.

  ‘Thank you.’ Dipping her head, Alex kissed her on the shoulder.

  ‘What for?’

  A grin on Alex’s face. ‘The tea, of course. What did you think?’

  It felt strange, the two of them, sitting there like that after what had gone before. Strange, Karen thought, but somehow natural. Natural yet strange.

  ‘You make a habit of this?’ Karen asked.

  ‘With you? I’d have remembered.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘I know. And, no, not exactly.’

  ‘But you knew, when you came round. Waited.’

  ‘What I wanted, yes. At least, I thought I did.’ She stroked Karen’s arm. ‘I wasn’t at all sure about you.’

  Karen covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Regrets?’ Alex said.

  ‘No. Yes. Yes, a million of them, probably. But no. Not really. Not at all.’

  ‘Come out together after breakfast then, shall we? You know, an announcement. Facebook. Twitter.’

  Karen had to look at her carefully to be sure she was joking.

  ‘Can you imagine …?’

  ‘All too easily.’

  It was still dark outside and would be for a good couple of hours.

  ‘Roger,’ Karen said. ‘What if …’

  ‘Roger’s in Whitby, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but does he …?’

  ‘Know sometimes I swing the other way?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  Alex smiled. ‘What he doesn’t know, can’t hurt him.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘Maybe I have to.’ She lifted her tea. ‘When I’ve finished this, I’ll go. Maybe a quick shower.’

  ‘Breakfast? There’d be time.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Toast? There’s toast. Could be.’

  ‘Okay, toast it is.’

  Toast with marmalade; with the last few scrapings of Marmite; with raspberry jam. Uncertain in the kitchen, doing her best to ignore the alcohol ache in her head, Karen made coffee as she listened to the throw of water in the shower.

  Alex emerged looking fresh, still towelling her hair. Karen pulled back the curtain and they sat at the table in the shallow bay, looking out across the empty street.

  ‘Burcher,’ Alex said suddenly. ‘Has he ever said anything to you about a Paul Milescu?’

  ‘You mean Ion’s father? Ion, the friend of the Andronic boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘That last meeting. You remember Burcher asked me to stay behind? A private word.’

  Karen nodded.

  ‘It’s Milescu he was asking about. Were we investigating him? If so, at what level? What reason? Did we think there was any link with Kosach? Anton Kosach. Anyone else we’d been discussing?’

  ‘He give a reason?’

  ‘Not really. Name had cropped up, something vague like that.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Karen said, leaning forward. ‘Quite early on in all this, way back before Camden or Stansted, when it was just an investigation into the Andronic murder, I’d been out to talk to Ion Milescu and Burcher came looking for me — no two ways about it — stopped me on the way home. Quizzed me about the boy’s involvement. Claimed his father had been making waves, calling in favours. Friends in high places, that’s what he said. After that, I did a little checking, spoke to Tom Brewer in Economic and Specialist Crime. Worst he could come up with, Milescu had maybe sailed close to the wind a few times, but no more no less than anyone else.’

  Alex took a quick glance at her watch. ‘Well, Burcher, Milescu, something’s going on somewhere.’ She took a last swig of coffee and got to her feet.

  ‘That morning in December. When you were called out to the ponds, early. How long did it take Burcher to arrive?’

  Karen thought, shrugged. ‘No time at all. In the area that night, he said, staying with friends.’

  ‘Paul Milescu’s address,’ Alex said. ‘New End Square, Hampstead. Might be nothing to it, but maybe the friends in high places include Burcher himself.’

  54

  Cordon’s first instinct after seeing Letitia had been to retreat back down to Cornwall and put as much distance between them as he could. Finito. An end to it, as he’d said. Case closed. Except there had never been a case, not in any orthodox sense of the word. And who was he to investigate it if there were?

  A woman whose life had ended beneath a train — by accident or design he still didn’t know and likely never would. Another who had disappeared. Except not really, other than by her own choice. Put herself in harm’s way. And here he had come, clumsy, slow witted, shielding his eyes when they should have been open. Floundering without jurisdiction; without direction. Whatever he had allowed himself — driven himself — to be drawn into involving Letitia was something he had never properly understood. Some private battle between herself and her husband, if that’s what he truly was, in which he’d been little more than a pawn.

  What, after all, had he done? Achieved? Beyond rescuing someone who, in the end, only wanted to be found?

  Still he didn’t go.

  Sat morosely around Jack Kiley’s flat, talking very little or not at all. Spent a few long, slow afternoons in sad boozers in the back streets of Kentish Town, awash with self-pity and bad beer.

  ‘Come on,’ Kiley said, one early evening as the light was fading. ‘I’ve got just the thing.’

  They took the overground from Gospel Oak to Leyton Midland Road and joined the crowd on its way along the high street to the floodlights of Brisbane Road. Orient versus Dagenham and Redbridge, a local derby of a kind. Raucous shouts and laughter. Stalls selling burgers, sausage and bacon rolls: the sweet scent of frying onions rising up into the evening mist.

  They took their seats high in the main stand just as the teams were announced, prior to running out on to the pitch. Years since Kiley had stood in the tunnel waiting, nights like this, his stomach still knotted with the anticipation, sweat, cold, seeping into the palms of his hands.

  Then, there they were, the crowd on its feet, both sets of supporters chanting, applauding; the players jumping, stretching, easing tight muscles, moving into position, eager for the whistle that would break the tension.

  At least, Kiley could watch now without kicking every ball, feeling every tackle, rising up to meet every cross with his head. Alongside him, Cordon was being drawn more and more into the action, putting in his share of oohing and aahing as the play moved swiftly from end to end, shots missed, shots saved, the referee coming in for the usual amount of stick, offsides wrongly signalled, penalties not given.

  At half-time it was one apiece, the home team shading it but not by much. Still level then, and not through want of trying, less than quarter of an hour to go.

  ‘They’ll do it,’ Kiley said, ‘you see if they don’t.’

  On the eighty-seventh minute, Charlie Daniels ran on to a punt upfield, turned the defender and raced towards the line; swung his foot and sent the ball hard and low across the face of goal and the striker, diving forward, headed it past the sprawling goalie into the net.

  Pandemonium.

  Game over.

  They were waiting for them when they returned. Two men parked back along the road, between the burned-out supermarket and the school. The man from SOCA in his insurance-agent threads who’d quizzed Kiley before, together with a second, burly in leather jacket and jeans, his minder perhaps, in case things got out of hand.

  ‘Not a coincidence,’ Kiley said, ‘meeting again like this.’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘And I suppose you’ll want to talk inside?’

  ‘If that
’s acceptable to you.’

  Acceptable, Kiley thought, would be if they went their merry way; if he had never let Cordon talk him into getting involved.

  He could sense the big man watching Cordon on the stairs, as if he might be about to make a break for it, take to his heels.

  ‘Charlie Frost,’ the man from SOCA said, once they were in the room. His companion remained unnamed.

  There were enough chairs, just, for them all to sit. Kiley’s hospitality began and ended there.

  ‘When we spoke before about your interest in Anton Kosach,’ Frost said, addressing Kiley, ‘what you told me, not to put too fine a point on it, was a pack of lies.’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly say lies.’

  ‘A name you’d come up with while looking into something else, I think you said? No more than that.’

  ‘Things moved on.’

  ‘So it appears.’

  Bending, Frost reached into the briefcase he’d been carrying; perhaps, Kiley thought, he was about to sell them insurance after all. What he took out was an iPad, which he switched on, opened a file, and swivelled in their direction.

  ‘There. You might take a look at these.’

  The first image was of Taras Kosach, entering the Ukrainian restaurant on the Caledonian Road; then Kiley and Cordon arriving, leaving, Cordon with an upward glance towards a camera he had no idea was there.

  Next, Taras with another man, later that same day — date and time at the foot of the screen — the pair of them standing outside, smoking. Taras and his brother, Anton.

  Then a piece of video: an empty lane, restrained sunlight. Several seconds without movement till a dark saloon comes into view, travelling towards the camera, going past, a face at the rear passenger window in dark outline.

  Freeze-frame.

  Zoom in.

  Cordon staring out.

  ‘You recognise,’ Frost said, ‘where you are? The occasion?’

  Cordon nodded, said nothing.

  A number of images then, taken with a telescopic lens in fairly quick succession. Cordon moving between the car and the house; Kosach’s minions in their black turtlenecks, waiting to greet him. Search him. The front door opening. Anton Kosach, the pale blue of his shirt bleached almost white. Then nothing.

  ‘It’s been difficult,’ Frost said, ‘for us to gain as much access as we might have liked. Without alerting the target, propelling him, possibly, into flight.’ A discreet cough into the back of the hand. ‘But, to be crystal clear, that is you, Mr Cordon, paying Mr Kosach a visit? There’s no room for doubt?’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘Then in what capacity, may I ask?’

  No reply.

  ‘I ask, because, as far as I am aware, the remit of the Devon and Cornwall constabulary does not stretch quite this far.’

  Supercilious bastard, Kiley thought.

  What Cordon was thinking didn’t show, not even in his eyes.

  ‘Mr Cordon …?’

  ‘I was visiting a friend.’ Cordon’s voice flat and ungiving.

  ‘Anton Kosach, he’s a friend? Is that what you’re saying? Anton …’

  He told them. With the dull precision of someone making a report to a superior, which, in a way, was what this was. Letitia. Her mother. Danya. The apparent break she’d made with Kosach and his efforts to get her to return. He said nothing of the work Letitia had carried out on Kosach’s behalf, in his employ — the brothel, the halfway house — other things he might only have guessed at.

  Frost listened with interest, rarely taking his eyes from Cordon’s face. His companion was more distracted, bored even, as if none of this really mattered; wanting to be away.

  Kiley stood, stretched; made an offer of tea or coffee, a little late in the day.

  ‘The investigation into Kosach’s affairs,’ Frost said, ‘it’s near to reaching tipping point, I suppose that’s fair to say, and any new contacts we’ve been monitoring closely.’ A nod towards the iPad. ‘As you can see. And we were a little intrigued at the nature of whatever relationship it was you had. But after the usual checks …’ He smiled. ‘No conspicuous spending, no unexplained large payments into either of your accounts …’

  Cordon blinked; Kiley bristled, but held his tongue.

  ‘… the explanation you’ve given doesn’t diverge too far from what we know. Indeed, adds a little grace note here and there, and I thank you, Mr Cordon, for that. But one thing I would urge you both, where Anton Kosach is concerned, you don’t go near, don’t try to communicate with him in any way.’

  He was on his feet, minder at his side. ‘Apple cart. Upset. You know how it goes.’ He turned back at the door. ‘The game tonight, who won?’

  ‘Orient,’ Kiley said. ‘The odd goal.’

  Frost nodded. ‘Always been something of a Spurs fan myself.’

  Figures, Kiley thought.

  From the window he watched them get into their car and drive away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ Cordon said. ‘Dragging you into all this.’

  Bit late for that, Kiley thought. He fetched two beers from the fridge. ‘Leaving it alone, walking away, you going to be all right with that?’

  Cordon popped the can. ‘Case of having to, wouldn’t you say?’

  He saw Letitia, holding her son tight on the stairs; face betraying little or no emotion, giving nothing away.

  55

  The warrants were issued: Michael John Carter and Leslie Arthurs for the murder of Valentyn Horak and two others, identities as yet unknown; Carter also on three counts of inflicting grievous bodily harm with intent and for conspiracy to supply cocaine and cannabis; Kevin Martin, Douglas Freeman and Jason Richards for conspiracy to murder and inflicting grievous bodily harm. Gordon Dooley for the importation, repackaging and distribution of cocaine and cannabis and for conspiracy to inflict grievous bodily harm. Anton Kosach for money laundering, conspiracy to traffic human beings into the UK for the purposes of forced labour and conspiracy to traffic women for the purposes of sexual exploitation.

  Officers from Serious and Organised Crime Command, Homicide and Serious Crime Command and SOCA were involved, along with others from SO 19, Armed Response, and Operation Support. Close on four hundred, all told.

  An hour before sunrise.

  Synchronised raids.

  Two Metropolitan Police helicopters were on standby, their initial use denied by the noise involved, the necessity of surprise.

  At the briefing, in a primary school just south of the river, Burcher had emphasised the importance of coordination, keeping all phone traffic and radio contact to a minimum, nothing that might constitute a warning.

  ‘And if I see some scumball reporter from the Sun or Sky News within spitting distance of any part of this before we’re through, I’ll track back the leak and when I find who was responsible, personally hang them by the balls off the middle of Westminster Bridge, am I clear?’

  He was clear.

  Warren Cormack went over the details a final time: timing, location. Six addresses in South London, two within a couple of streets of one another, which raised potential difficulties due to the number of officers necessarily present in a relatively small area. The most recent information had all targets in situ. Thanks to Google Earth, every targeted address had been theirs in glorious full colour; every side passage, back entry, dormer window, every crack in the masonry.

  Charlie Frost put in a few words about SOCA’s involvement and made a case for Kosach being the most important single target, with Gordon Dooley a close second. Karen stood a little to one side, not called upon to address the troops and not minding; her place at the top table clear and reserved, her team crucially involved.

  ‘Not wetting your feet on this one?’ Ramsden said to her with a grin, the briefing over, personnel moving away.

  ‘Too senior. Leave the heroics to others. Sit back and garner praise.’

  There was a brightness in Ramsden’s eyes, the expectation, the testosterone dripping
off him like sweat. All geed up to go over the top, in with the milk, what he was born for or so it seemed.

  Karen looked around the now almost empty hall. In what? An hour, two at most, they would know how successful they had been.

  Les Arthurs was tucked up in bed, sleeping like a baby.

  Dougie Freeman, alerted by sounds below, bolted up the stairs to the attic, thence through a narrow window and out on to the roof, bollock naked, his efforts loudly applauded by the officers who had taken up positions on the rooftops to either side.

  Kevin Martin, reactions dulled by a considerable amount of wine and spirits the night before, to say nothing of some quite energetic sex with his half-brother’s wife, had barely time to swing his feet round towards the floor before two pairs of hands seized hold of him and pushed him the rest of the way, face squashed sideways against the carpet. Fay Martin, leaning back against the headboard as she reached for her cigarettes, seemed as much concerned that she had snagged one of her nails as anything else.

  Jason Richards had been on his way back from the bathroom, woken as usual by the need to pee, when the first police vehicles arrived; minicab for the woman who lived opposite, he thought, early shift at the hospital, but then when he glanced out through the blinds he knew it was something else.

  Trousers, shirt, jacket, shoes: Walther PPK from the wardrobe shelf.

  ‘Here,’ he said, tossing his mobile to the startled Italian waiter with whom he’d spent the night. ‘Gordon Dooley, the number’s in there. Dooley. Tell him to scarper.’

  And he was gone.

  Out through the side door of the kitchen into the adjoining garage, out again from there into the rear garden, two shapes ahead of him crouching, waiting; one foot up on the dustbin and he was over the side wall and running; only a weak trellis between the next pair of gardens and he crashed through it, vaulting a low brick wall to the rear and then past a garden shed and a greenhouse into a narrow passage between the backs of two houses and out on to the adjacent street.

  Empty.

  Cars parked close at either side.

  There was a children’s playground at the far end and beyond that a high-rise that was a warren of stairwells and walkways, a good quarter of the places squatted or empty.