The conversation from the night before with Helen entered his head, as well as the dark net search he’d done at home. If they focused on the evidence, they could still bring this guy in. No matter what happened.
He must keep telling himself that.
Ray arrived at the office early as usual. There was an email in his inbox that had arrived late the previous day. He made a quick call, pulled his jacket back on and left the office.
He was met at the reception by a small, very slim man with large jowls and wisps of hair going across his head in an attempt to fend off the obvious thinning process. His handshake, when he took Ray’s hand, however, was strong, firm.
‘Hi, I’m Russell Wade. I picked up your job when it came in.’
His voice was low, gravelly, at complete odds with his image.
‘Great to meet you, and thanks for seeing me this morning.’
Wade took Ray through to an open office space. The London hub of NABIS, the National Ballistics Intelligence Service, was a hive of activity. The room looked like any other office space Ray had seen. Desks with computer terminals and piles of folders. There was a large map of the UK on the wall and information on current statistics for the movement of weapons around the country alongside it.
Ray knew that past this average-looking office space were the high-tech rooms where they did all the ballistic work. Fired any weapons that had been seized, examined striations under high-resolution microscopes and matched ballistic materials to weapons and crime scenes. He’d been through there a couple of times, but today Wade walked him round to a desk in the far corner of the room, past a set of filing cabinets up against the wall where a half-eaten birthday cake sat with a knife and a few plates on top. Wade sat in front of his computer and indicated for Ray to pull up a chair himself. A small plate filled with cake crumbs sat on the corner of the desk. Ray picked up the sweet sugary scent and felt his stomach rumble.
‘So,’ Wade started. ‘We got the casing and the bullet after the forensic lab had finished testing them for fingerprints and whatever else they did to them.’
Ray nodded that he understood the process.
‘We’ve not had them long, but there was a rush notice on them.’
‘Yeah, an op went sideways and it’s important we get a lead on this job.’
‘Well, it’s an interesting one.’ Wade tapped at his keyboard and a new screen appeared on the monitor in front of them. ‘This is the job,’ he said to himself. ‘Okay, then. Let’s have a look.’ He studied the monitor for a minute. Ray gave him the space and waited him out.
‘That’s it.’ He leaned back in his chair, hair wafting gently above his head. ‘For basic information, the weapon you’re looking for is a Glock 19, but I can give you a print-out, or email you all the details of that, because that’s not the interesting part. There were no links to any other firearms jobs in the UK.’
Ray leaned forward. ‘So the type of weapon isn’t interesting and there are no links to other UK firearms incidents – so what is it that has piqued your interest?’
Wade pulled another page up on the monitor. ‘I read all the case information and noted that one of the offenders you arrested was Moldovan, so I put a search in iARMS.’
Ray gave him a quizzical look.
‘The INTERPOL Illicit Arms Records and tracing Management System.’
‘Ah.’ Ray was starting to understand where this might be headed.
‘Yes.’ Wade highlighted a section on the form on the screen. ‘Your bullets have been used in Moldova and have intelligence links to a Russian gang.’
Ray’s phone rang. He apologised to Wade, who shook his head that it was fine. Ray checked the screen. It was Jain. He cancelled the call – he’d get back to him in a few minutes, when he finished up here.
‘Sorry about that. It was the Super.’
‘No worries.’
‘So our job definitely has Moldovan links and has Russian links as well?’
‘Seems that way. Though it’s intelligence not evidence that links it to a Russian group.’
‘This is great. Thank you. Can you email me everything you have?’
‘Absolutely. If you have any questions on reading it, call me, or pop over again. And if you find the weapon in question, we’ll have no trouble matching it up for you.’
The phone was like a dead weight in his hand. And more than that. It was as though it held all the matter of the universe, as though it was the fault of the phone itself that this was happening. Ray’s arm hung limp at his side with the weapon of destruction pulling down to the ground.
He couldn’t think straight. He knew it had been coming. He’d been given notice. And he was more than tense about the impending ID procedure. He was about to throw the whole murder investigation, and tense didn’t even begin to cover how he felt. He was sick to his stomach.
He needed some time alone. Space to pull himself together.
The Haberdashery was a small café restaurant on Stoke Newington High Street, filled with neat wooden tables and mismatched chairs. It had a vintage feel to it and was a place that invited you in; it was a place Ray loved to sit and think. He’d found himself a small round two-seat table at the side of the room, and sat there with a small black coffee, nursing it as his brain spun in circles about what awaited him back at the station.
Two young women entered. They were laughing at something they’d said before they’d come in. Clutching the hand of one of the women was a small child. He looked to Ray to be about four years of age. His small round face lit up when he saw the cakes on display. Ray watched the women order coffees and cakes and arrange themselves at another table. Their chatter was constant, unworried, carefree. Jackets were thrown over the backs of chairs, a large bag pushed under a free chair, a napkin tucked into the neck of the child's T-shirt.
Only six months ago his life had resembled this image. Maybe not quite the same, they weren’t a family unit, but though his days were busy, his out-of-hours time hadn’t been spent in a state of constant fear that he’d upset someone by not recognising them if he saw them in an unexpected setting, or of screwing up relationships because of the lack of connection, or this waiting to screw over a murder investigation.
He picked up his drink, smiled at the child, who was now staring at him, and knew he would never recognise him again.
47
Rusnac had been in smaller rooms, his living room at home was probably smaller, and he’d even been in rooms that smelled worse than this one – his own would give it a run for its money. It was a square grey box. Bare grey walls, a grey concrete floor and, to finish it off, a painted grey ceiling. The metal toilet in the corner was emanating a pretty disturbing smell. It was the first time he’d found himself in a British cell. As the solid metal door had clanged heavily closed on him, he’d been surprised to find he was nervous. Being arrested for murder tended to be a wake-up call for one’s confidence in one’s invincibility.
All the measures he’d taken to protect himself, and yet he still found himself in this position. Pulled over as he was driving. He thought he’d been stopped for minor speeding or for going through a red light, but as soon as they’d got him out of the car they’d arrested him.
He sat on the bench that was built against the wall opposite the door, a thin black plasticky cushion providing what he supposed they thought passed for some level of comfort, and wondered how much information and evidence they had against him.
The interview room was of similar size but held a table, four moulded plastic chairs, and recording equipment. A red alarm bar ran the length of each wall.
Rusnac didn’t trust lawyers, but neither did he trust the cops. It had been a toss-up between which he trusted the least, but he’d opted to have a lawyer present. The man, when he’d spoken to him in a side room, proved to be inept and had advised him to reply no comment to every question the police asked. He was an inadequate man, balding, a thin patch of hair running around the side of his head, and sm
all round metal-framed glasses. He informed Rusnac that it was up to the police to prove their case against him, and that they’d provided him little in the way of disclosure. Not enough to feel happy with anyway.
This was enough information for Rusnac to decide on his own plan for the interview.
The two cops could have walked straight out of some TV drama. The guy was short and round, though he wasn’t bad looking, with his own head of hair and – what did the Brits call it? – a fresh face? The woman, she looked smart in her suit, her hair tied back from her face, which he thought was rather plain. It was when she opened her mouth that Rusnac heard the accent. He couldn’t understand what she said half of the time, but he understood what it was like to be in a country and to not sound like the rest of them.
They were polite enough introducing themselves. Like polite would make him answer their questions. The drip of a lawyer sat and scribbled in a notepad on his knee. Scrawny nicotine-stained fingers bent tight like an owl’s claw around the pen. Rusnac had to turn away.
The interview dragged on for hours. The detectives may have looked as though they’d walked off a television set but the interview itself wasn’t what you see on screen. On screen, he’d have been in and out within the hour. It was what he had expected, but no, they tortured him with the mundanity of their questions for hours. They stopped so he could eat a cardboard meal out of a microwave box, and then dragged him from the first boxy room into the other boxy room to go again. He was getting bored and the drip of a lawyer didn’t say a word. Because the questions had been so boring and tedious, Rusnac had happily answered no comment to most of them and this had kept the head of his lawyer down. He’d have been surprised if he’d stayed awake.
They covered his business. The transplants. He knew from his lawyer that they had nothing on that so he replied ‘no comment’. The male detective led the interview. His tone and manner at ease in the room. Not perturbed by the lack of meaningful responses. The questions kept coming. Not at speed. Relaxed, as though they had all the time in the world.
He was bored.
It was then that the woman, the one with the voice that split his brain open, told him they were bedding him down for the night and would talk to him again in the morning.
How dare they!
What did this mean? How confident were they?
Rusnac looked at the black plastic mattress in his cell and wanted to roar in anger.
There were no apologies for holding him all night. No apologies for the shouts and bangs that had kept him awake through the night and no apologies for the shoddy plastic food that passed for breakfast, or the piss that passed for tea. The same two faces in the interview room and the same useless lawyer. This all served to sour Rusnac’s mood more and more. But he still had his plan of action for when the interview got to where it was heading.
One question passed through his head, and that was the whereabouts of the detective who saw him kill the kid. Why did he not question him? He would have no way out of this, then. He was still confused as to why he hadn’t chased him at the memorial service. He’d expected to have to run for his life. To have to evade dogs and helicopters as well as an army of boots on the ground. But nothing happened. Not even one set of footsteps behind him, never mind the full force of this very English police force.
They were so polite. They introduced themselves all over again. He had no interest in their names. Was he supposed to remember them? Care who they were? Why the politeness, this Britishness at the start of each interview, at the start of each recording? And that voice of hers, so – grating.
His mood was not good. His tolerance level for this process was low. He had to hope Mihai Popa, his second in command, had all the transactions in order, and also that they were secure, that these idiots hadn’t infiltrated them and pulled others in. It was too lucrative a business to lose it. All he needed was for this to be dealt with and any other moles rooted out and terminated.
He brought his mind back into the room, away from his organisation and what was happening out there in his absence. The two TV detectives had a look of expectation on their faces.
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Please state your name for the recording,’ said the woman with the dreadful voice. Had they really got no further than this?
It was going to be a long day and he was tired.
They covered the old ground from yesterday, making sure they understood his responses. How could the idiots not? His response had been no comment. They wanted to know if he wanted to add anything.
‘No comment.’
Eventually they made it to where he had something to say. The guy was still leading the interview. They’d stopped for another break. Rusnac had no idea what time it was, but he’d been given some lunch and informed that an extension had been granted on his custody clock while they finalised the interview, after which there was something else they needed to do.
He wasn’t informed what.
But the questions came.
About the garage lock-up. If he knew of it and had been there. When he’d been there. His lawyer had told him they had some evidence that placed him at a scene that tied him to the murder. This was it. He knew it had to be. He had no idea what he’d missed but he wasn’t a stupid man. Far from it, so he’d speak and he’d place himself there.
‘Yeah, I think I know the place you talk of. An associate of mine, he stopped off one day in a car. I was with him.’
A look passed between the television cops.
He was right.
‘Mr Rusnac,’ the lawyer spoke up. ‘I advise you to stick to my advice.’ His pen tapped on his pad.
‘Is this my arrest? Is it only advice?’
The cops exchanged a look again. The lawyer’s face changed from a pasty white to a rosy pink. ‘Well, yes, of course, but it’s advice that I urge you to listen to, for the reasons I provided.’
‘It’s advice I decline.’
The lawyer turned to the cops. ‘I’d like a break to confer with my client, please.’
‘Of course, I’m stopping –’
‘No.’ Rusnac was firm. ‘I understand the advice. I took the advice all this time. Now I talk about this.’
Again, in a hushed voice, the lawyer strongly advised Rusnac to no-comment his answers. Rusnac didn’t need to use words to silence him this time. A look closed him down and sent him back to his notebook.
The cops once more looked to each other and continued.
They tried to pin him down to specifics. He played it vague. Only placing himself there, while stating that he wasn’t sure of dates or times. Unwilling to provide details of his associate. After all, it was him they were questioning. They pushed and wheedled for this information. He wouldn’t budge. Threw in the odd ‘no comment’. With a smirk at his lawyer.
The questions continued, they moved on. He stopped answering.
Then it came.
The evidence.
They had a cigarette end with his DNA on. How would he account for it being at the scene of the fire?
Rusnac thought back. He knew he’d had a smoke outside as he’d watched. It certainly wasn’t in the car. They still couldn’t prove anything.
‘As I already told you. My associate was running an errand around there. I was smoking in his car and threw it out when I was done. I have no idea where it landed or where you found it. Unfortunately it was clearly near your scene.’
‘One more thing, Vova,’ said the male detective. ‘We now need you to do a video for an identification procedure.’
48
Ray’s office had never felt so small and claustrophobic. Jain had told him to wait in there until the ID suite was ready to receive him. It had to go smoothly. They had to do everything by the book. Rusnac’s solicitor would be present and had insisted that they bring another ID officer over from another station. One that didn’t know Ray. So that there could be no sneaky signals about which male should be picked out.
Ray r
ubbed at his face. He wasn’t likely to pick up on sneaky signals, the way he felt at the minute, even if he wanted to. Even if they were corrupt enough to try it. And they weren’t. He felt nauseous, and had the sense that the walls were closing in on him.
But he waited. Pretended he was working. In reality he scrolled through the intranet without reading a single word that rolled past his eyes.
Time ticked by in a surreal kind of vortex. Incredibly slowly and yet at the same time far too quickly, because there was a knock at the door now and Jain was there with a quick nod of his head, indicating they were ready.
Damn, how could he even do this? How could he have managed to get himself into this position? It was one thing to lie and say he hadn’t seen the face of the killer, but to put himself in the position where he had to do the VIPER (video identification parade electronic recording) viewing, this was on another level entirely.
He acknowledged Jain with a nod of his own and closed down his computer. Stood and made his way towards his worst nightmare.
‘You never know,’ said Jain, falling into step beside him. His voice sounding far too happy. ‘Seeing him might jolt something in that brain of yours. This might be the break we need. Even the side view of him could be the trigger and you’ve not realised you saw enough.’
Ray remained mute.
‘Relax, give yourself time and look at each face.’
Again Ray didn’t respond.
Jain laughed. ‘Listen to me. Talking to you this way. Giving you the speech either one of us would give a witness. I don’t need to tell you how to do this!’ He clapped Ray on the shoulder and wheeled away from him towards the safety of his own office. ‘Let me know how you get on.’ And with that he was gone.
Ray tried to steady his breath and still his mind as he took the stairs to the identification suite, but all he felt was a heaviness take over his body and his mind. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have enough problems with his head, and now there was a dull weight taking over.
Dead Blind Page 16
