Darke

by Matt Hilton

Korba leaned in. ‘Before you do that, Mel, can you run back that image? If they used a particular route to avoid known camera placements, they might’ve approached Wandsworth Road the same way.’

  Without answering, Mel got to it with a few deft strokes on the keypad. The tape counter began a high-speed reverse, as did the onscreen images. Various other vehicles zipped in and out of shot, travelling backwards. After eighteen minutes had counted down a familiar car appeared.

  ‘There,’ said Korba.

  Mel halted the recording, and began shunting the images forward in slow motion. When it appeared on screen this time the Subaru was being driven the opposite direction — towards the shooting — so there was no clear image through the windscreen. There was a decent view through the side windows, and subsequently through the back windscreen, at a third person riding in the backseat. In a court, the images wouldn’t convict the backseat passenger, but both Kerry and Korba had had personal contact with the gangling figure, Kerry on two occasions now. There was no doubt in her mind about who the vulture-necked individual was.

  Not only was Ikemba Adefunke a liar, he was also complicit in the murders!

  ‘Who is that?’ Porter demanded.

  ‘Funky,’ Korba said, his voice hoarse.

  ‘Ikemba Adefunke,’ Kerry clarified for the DCI, ‘the alleged target of the drive-by shooting. Known as Funky to other members of the Nine Elms Crew.’

  Porter was familiar with the name, and also the gang he belonged to. ‘Adefunke was driven to the scene at Wandsworth Road, and chose that family to stand alongside while his friends shot them in cold blood. The bastard…’

  In his opinion on Funky they were all in agreement.

  ‘I want him brought in,’ he said.

  Korba nodded in agreement, but Kerry stood her ground.

  ‘Sir, I don’t think that’s the best thing to do.’

  ‘Get him arrested,’ Porter stated. ‘Work on him. I don’t care how you do it, threats or promises. Do whatever it takes, but get the names of his conspirators and arrest them too.’

  ‘If we do that, fine. We might get those responsible for carrying out the shooting, but not the ones that set it up. If we grab Funky the others will go to ground, and he’ll clam up for fear of his life. All we’ll have is another scapegoat.’

  ‘Another scapegoat?’

  ‘Erick Swain,’ she said.

  ‘He must have still had a hand in this,’ Porter said, but there was doubt in his mind too. Who in their right mind set himself up to take the fall for a murder he didn’t commit? He shook his head. ‘We’re under pressure to get results. Bring in Funky and let the dominoes fall where they will. In the meantime, I’m going to have to spin the reason why an innocent man died during what now might be seen as a false arrest.’

  ‘Swain wasn’t an innocent man, he was a murderer.’ Kerry was adamant. Perhaps he hadn’t been involved in the shooting of the Ghedis, but he was a killer.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Porter straightened up. ‘One second you’re calling him a scapegoat, the next he’s a murderer. On what evidence are you basing the latter?’

  ‘I’ve done wrong, Inspector. Worse shit than any copper knows about.’ Swain had told her to her face. ‘I’m a murderer, am I? Well, yeah, I can’t deny it; I’ve killed more than once.’

  ‘He admitted it to me.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  ‘Told you when? When you were on that bloody rooftop fighting with him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied.

  ‘You never mentioned this in your statement.’

  ‘He was dead by then. Besides, he didn’t give me any specifics, only that he’d killed a number of times. Mentioning his confession in my statement wouldn’t have helped us solve any of those cases.’

  ‘No, Inspector Darke, but it would’ve put a completely different spin on the way we subsequently handled his death.’

  She was unconvinced. Porter would still have thrown her under a bus to save his own arse. She didn’t argue, she’d no grounds. Swain’s confession had come to her after the fact, and she wasn’t even sure it was real, only her intuition given voice. It certainly wasn’t something she wanted to go into now. ‘Sir, if you only give me some time, I’ll get to the bottom of this. Funky’s a footsoldier; he takes orders. He—’

  Porter’s palm snapped up. ‘He obviously understands the concept of orders better than you do. I want him arrested, do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  ‘Sir, with respect I’d—’

  Porter stiffened. Then ignoring her, he directed his next words at Korba and Mel. ‘May we please have the room?’

  As usual the GaOC office was as stuffy as a tomb, but it was as if the temperature had dropped below freezing, and this time it wasn’t due to a supernatural manifestation. Embarrassed for Kerry, the two detectives vacated the room.

  ‘The door please, Danny,’ Porter said. ‘And do not let me catch either of you loitering in the corridor.’

  After aiming a piteous grimace at Kerry, Korba closed the door behind them. The click of the latch was ominous in its finality.

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘Stop,’ Porter snapped. ‘I don’t want to hear it. All I want when I give you an express order is that you obey it. Am I clear, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m only suggesting an alternative course of action, sir. One that will give us better results.’

  ‘Didn’t I warn you I wouldn’t tolerate insubordination?’

  ‘I’m not being insubordinate; I’m only trying to do my job to the best of my ability. I think arresting Funky’s the wrong move if we hope to get the others too.’

  ‘And I don’t care what you think.’ Porter's heels were dug in as firmly as hers, and superiority gave him the trump card. ‘When I give you an order, I expect it to be obeyed to the best of your ability.’

  ‘Respectfully, sir, I do not expect to be shouted at as if I’m a naughty child.’

  Porter’s hands made fists. It was a struggle to contain his anger. When he replied, his voice was still too loud, and it held a quiver. He’d overstepped the mark, but it was difficult coming back. He changed tack, wrinkling his nose. ‘Are you drunk, Inspector Darke?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I think my question’s clear enough…without shouting. But let me rephrase it. Have you been drinking alcohol?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you drink to excess last night?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m responsible for those under my command, as are you. If one of your team smelled as strongly of alcohol, and were quite obviously hung-over, I’d expect you to ask questions of them too. I’d expect you to make a decision on how fit they were to carry out their duties.’ He eyeballed her, allowing his threat to sink in. ‘You see, I’m wondering if your argumentative behaviour’s a result of still being drunk, or for some other reason.’

  ‘I’m not drunk.’ Even as she stated it, she knew he wouldn’t be convinced. The angel’s share still seeped from her pores. ‘Sir, I’ll admit to having a nightcap, but I’ve taken all precautions to ensure I’m fit and capable of carrying out my duties in a professional manner.’

  ‘I’m doubtful. And it’s not the first time I’ve had similar misgivings in the last few days. Your refusal to carry out a direct order isn’t helping.’ He faltered, and an expression danced across his features that approximated sympathy. ‘I know you’ve been through a difficult time, but it’s no excuse. You’re either fit for the job or not, and in my opinion, in your current state, you’re proving to be a liability. Get your act in order, Inspector Darke, or else. I can easily find a replacement who is, and who will carry out an order without argument.’

  She didn’t reply, couldn’t.

  ‘Go and arrest Funky.’

  When she didn’t argue Porter nodded brusquely, and strode for the door without looking back. His message was crystal clear. As the door slammed behind him, Kerry lowered her face into her pal
ms, and groaned in misery at…well, everything.

  26

  Funky was absent when Kerry, supported by DC Scott and two uniformed constables, attended his flat on the Patmore Estate. Secretly she’d never been as relieved at her inability to arrest a suspect. Only she and Glenn had entered the apartment block, with the others staying out of sight a block away — ready to bring in the van once Funky was in cuffs — but before they were on their way down the stairs, she suspected that alerts were flying up and down the estate that the Old Bill was on the hunt. It was doubtful Funky would return to his flat any time soon, going to ground at the hangout of one of the other gang member’s instead. Criminals were suspicious by nature, sometimes to a level of paranoia. It wouldn’t surprise her if he’d left immediately after she spoke to him the day before, ordered to go into hiding. She couldn’t ignore the fact that Jermaine Robson had shown up, and the probable reason was to contain a troublesome situation.

  DCI Porter demanded a quick win.

  Arrest Funky and throw the book at him.

  She would arrest Funky, and he’d pay for his part in the murders. The bastard had specifically targeted the Ghedis so the Nine Elms Crew could implicate their greatest rival in the murders. He’d chosen the victims by their skin colour, to add validity to the attack, and incite public anger over the racially motivated killings. Or was told to choose a certain type of victims by the brains behind the plan. Three footsoldiers of the Nine Elms Crew hadn’t come up with the scheme in order to curry favour with their leader; they’d acted on his orders, as they always did.

  She wanted Funky, and the two in the car, but she wanted Jermaine Robson more. Getting to the leader would prove tricky. There were layers of protection between him and the killings. If arrested, Funky and his pals would be coerced by promise of death or reward to take the rap for him. Direct evidence of his involvement was needed before she could arrest him, and that would never happen if Porter got his quick win.

  As they retreated from the Patmore Estate, she updated the control room with the negative result, and pre-empting Porter asked for a citywide bulletin to be issued requesting Adefunke’s arrest. In the meantime she hoped she got to the bottom of things before Funky was captured, and the key players got away scot-free. Players in its plural sense, because Jermaine Robson couldn’t have set up the scheme without insider help from somebody close to Swain. Back at the nick, she had Mel Scanlon fetch a certain piece of evidence from storage. It was the key for Swain’s lock-up where his Subaru Impreza had allegedly been stored since his disqualification from driving.

  Kerry didn’t need to hold the key, but seeing it helped concentrate her mind.

  ‘The garage was locked when you went to conduct the search?’ she asked Mel.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘New lock or old?’

  ‘Newish. But if you’re asking if it was brand new, put on after a previous one was cut off, I’d say no.’

  ‘What was the garage interior like?’

  ‘A regular lock-up, but with very little in it.’

  ‘Any suggestion that the Subaru was previously parked there?’

  ‘I’d say yes. I took photos of the interior if you’d like to see them.’

  Kerry nodded, and Mel fired up her computer. She brought up the appropriate digital file, and the dozen photographs she’d taken at the scene. It was unfortunate Kerry’s weird ability didn’t allow her to see the ghosts of cars. Yet she could see an open space where a car the size of a Subaru could have previously sat. Assorted cardboard boxes and sundry pieces of junk were clustered around the three walls, but the central area was bare. The floor was scuffed by tread marks in a film of fine concrete dust.

  ‘We only have Hettie’s word that the Subaru was ever parked there,’ Mel said.

  ‘I believe her,’ said Kerry. ‘The issue for me isn’t if the car was there, it’s how it was taken from the lock-up by the Nine Elms Crew without Erick Swain’s knowledge. When you went back with Hettie to collect the keys, did she invite you inside?’

  ‘Yeah. I followed her in and she went to where they were hanging on a hook in the kitchen.’

  Kerry sucked air through her teeth. ‘No pause, no trying to remember where they were first?’

  ‘No. Went straight to them. But that doesn’t tell us anything. I could take you to my house and walk you directly to where I keep my keys too.’

  ‘Hettie handled the key when she passed it to you, so that means hers will be the most prominent fingerprints we’d find if we looked.’ Kerry believed Swain’s fingerprints would also be on the key, seeing as he would have used it on other occasions. But the person that had used the key so the Subaru could be removed from the lock-up, then relocked the door and returned it to its peg in Swain’s kitchen, would have worn gloves. They’d want Swain’s fingerprints on the key, to implicate him.

  The detectives looked at each other, both of them ruminating over the possibilities.

  ‘Hettie gave the keys to somebody in the Nine Elms Crew?’ Mel finally posed. ‘Then had them returned to her later? Do you really buy that, ma’am?’

  ‘No. In interview she told me she didn’t leave the house, but Swain did. Gave me a story about doing some housework then watching TV. She offered no witness corroboration, said she was home alone. Do me a favour, Mel. Run Hettie through PNC, and check her driver status with DVLA. Then, if my suspicion’s correct, I’m afraid it’s back to reviewing CCTV evidence for you.’

  It took Mel less than a minute to confirm Kerry’s inkling.

  ‘Hettie doesn’t hold a driving license.’

  Kerry called Korba and put the phone on speaker.

  ‘When we were at Hettie’s last, Zane McManus had his car outside…’

  ‘Yeah. Nissan Skyline. The dog’s bollocks for boy racers.’

  ‘You ran a PNC check on it, did you happen to note down the reg number?’

  There followed the sound of the DS scratching through his notebook. ‘Got it here, boss.’ He read out the number.

  ‘Thanks, Danny.’

  ‘That’s all you need?’

  ‘For now.’ Kerry hung up. Mel had already brought up the car’s details on the computer.

  It made sense now why Zane owned a car that was normally way out of the reach of a kid like him. With Swain disqualified, and being driven around, Hettie also required a personal chauffer. And Hettie wasn’t the type to be seen dead in the kind of crappy motor the likes of Zane could ordinarily afford. She was keeping it in the family, using a car to her taste and by employing her younger cousin as her driver.

  ‘Do you know what a Skyline looks like?’ Kerry asked.

  ‘Got a good idea, ma’am. But hang on.’ Mel typed the make and model into a search engine, and brought up the images. Kerry pointed out a Skyline the same colour red as Zane’s.

  ‘I want you to look for his Skyline in the neighbourhood of Swain’s lock-up in the hour or two before the shooting on Wandsworth Road, OK?’

  ‘Bloody hell, I’m square-eyed already,’ Mel groaned, but it was for effect. She didn’t object to sitting through however many hours of video footage it took to find what Kerry was after. ‘Shouldn’t take too long actually, Swain’s lock-up’s in a secure compound. It never occurred when I was there to ask, but I’d bet it’s protected by cameras.’

  She should have thought about that too, Kerry realised. Footage of the compound would show who collected the Subaru as well. But her mind had been on other things that had made her miss the obvious.

  ‘I’ll take a run out and see if I can find who monitors the site.’ Mel could discover the information she needed via her computer, but Kerry didn’t begrudge her some freedom from the office. She needed some too.

  ‘Can you drop me at home before you do that? I didn’t bring my car to work this morning.’

  Mel grinned. Porter wasn’t the only detective with a nose. Surely by now, hours later, the incriminating smell had faded?

  ‘I’ve a couple of things to
do at home, and then I’ll drive myself back here,’ she explained, to prove she was now sober enough to be behind the wheel. ‘Hopefully by then you’ll have something to show me.’

  Mel checked the time. ‘I’m supposed to be off at six, ma’am.’ It was less than two hours away. ‘But I don’t mind hanging on if you’re happy to approve the overtime.’

  ‘Take as long as you need, Mel. I’ll be back as soon as, OK?’

  ‘Let’s get you home then.’ Mel closed down her computer. ‘I’ll go drop the key in evidence and then join you outside.’

  While she waited beside Mel’s vehicle, Kerry peered around the subterranean parking garage. It was the domain of light and shadow, a breeding ground for a fertile imagination. Erick Swain was conspicuous by his absence. His non-appearance gave her hope that by following her intuition, she’d banished the need for his prompts for good.

  Hope, unfortunately, was wishful thinking, and another desire driven by the id. The devil on her shoulder wasn’t finished with her yet. Not by a long shot.

  27

  Adam was out, and it suited Kerry. Returning home, it wasn’t with making up with him in mind. She wished to be somewhere beyond the reach of DCI Porter’s beady eyes and flapping ears. Adam’s presence would only complicate matters while she made a call she’d put off for too long, even if he were responsible for pushing her into it.

  She had to do some digging to locate the number she was after. It was two decades since last she’d spoken to Doctor Ronald Dawson, and for all she knew her psychologist could be dead. In a child’s perception, Doctor Ron had looked ancient, but could have barely been into his forties. If that were the case then he would be now be around retirement age.

  There was no listing in Carlisle for a practicing psychologist of his name, and none in the wider Cumbrian region either. But she didn’t give up easily. She put his name through a search engine and it threw up a few historical newspaper reports where Ron had been quoted. The most recent article spoke about the publication of the retired psychologist’s debut novel — not a psychology treatise but a crime thriller — and gave details of his website. Apparently Ron had aspired to write for most of his adult life, and after retirement had taken the plunge and finally put his keen mind to another use. He wrote under the pen name Don D. Rawson: not exactly a household name, but Kerry felt she’d noticed the author’s name on books in remainder bins and wholesale discount shops. She wasn’t certain if the proliferation of discounted books was due to his success or a failure to gain a readership. She followed the link to his website. He’d been busy in the past four years, turning out six novels, the latter of which was exclusively available in eBook. Again Kerry’s knowledge of the publishing model didn’t give her a clue as to his success. A mega successful author might have an agent or PR team handling his communications for him: she didn’t want to go through any third party. As it were, Doctor Ron was an approachable author, and had added an email contact page to his site, and, helpfully, a phone number.