Spider Trap

by Barry Maitland

  Brock, meanwhile, had got through to Michael Grant in his office at the Houses of Parliament. The MP had already heard from Father Maguire, and said he’d been intending to contact Brock. He said he’d come over immediately, Queen Anne’s Gate being only a short walk away, and ten minutes later Brock met him at the front door. Seeing him again he recognised the handsome boy of the photograph, but the caution in his look had been replaced, or masked, by that air of open energy and confidence.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to get in touch again ever since the rumours started about finding bodies on the railway land. Is this where you’re running that investigation from? No chance of seeing the operations centre, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course. This way.’ Brock led him along the corridor to the main case room, once a merchant’s drawing room with tall sash windows to both the street and the small courtyard at the rear. There he introduced him to Bren and Kathy, whom he remembered, and gave him a tour of the material on the walls—the gridded site map, the photographs of retrieved items and, most recently, the enlarged photograph of Joseph and himself.

  ‘Oh my goodness.’ Grant stared for a long moment at the picture. ‘Father Maguire said he’d found a photo. I never knew it existed. Is there any chance, do you think, of getting a copy?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Brock had a word to Kathy, who nodded and went to her computer. ‘Let’s sit down and see what you can tell us, shall we? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be good.’

  ‘Yes, always the safer bet.’ Brock led the way to a conference table by the window overlooking the rear courtyard.

  ‘So you think Joseph is one of your victims?’

  ‘It looks very likely, Mr Grant. We’re trying to contact his family in Jamaica to make a DNA match, but we’re having trouble tracing them. Can you help us with that?’

  ‘I don’t think I can. You see, I didn’t know Joseph before we came out together. Father Guzowski introduced us for the first time at Kingston airport.’

  ‘Didn’t Joseph talk about his background? Mrs Wellington thinks he was from Tivoli Gardens.’

  ‘Actually, that does ring a bell. I’m sure we must have chatted about things like that on the flight over, but I don’t remember. He was a few years older than me, and I can recall feeling a bit intimidated. To tell the truth, I was pretty overwhelmed by the whole experience. It was my first trip out of Kingston, my first flight. And I didn’t come from Tivoli Gardens.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The Gardens was a rough district, but we used to think of it as a step up from where we lived. I came from Riverton City, on the edge of town. Riverton City was the Soweto of Kingston, grown up around the Dungle, the Kingston City rubbish dump, which was pretty much the only resource the people there had to live off. It’s all been cleared away now, transformed into what they call Riverton Meadows.’

  Kathy arrived with his copy of the photograph and mugs of tea.

  ‘You would have kept in touch with Joseph when you arrived here, I take it?’ Brock asked.

  ‘No. Oh, I saw him around, but I wasn’t in his circle. The whole point of Father Guzowski sending me here, as he drummed into me again and again, was to get an education. He believed in me, said I could do it and mustn’t let him down. I worshipped the man. With the help of Father Maguire and Abigail Lavender I just buried myself in schoolwork—I was so far behind the English kids, you see. I don’t know what Joseph was up to, but it certainly wasn’t studying.’

  ‘What about his friends, someone called Walter and another, older man? They called themselves the . . .’ Brock checked his notes, ‘. . . the Tosh Posse.’

  ‘Oh, after Peter Tosh, yes?’

  Brock looked puzzled.

  ‘He was one of the three original Wailers, with Bob Marley in Trench Town. But no, I didn’t know Joseph’s friends. You think they could be the other bodies?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Brock described the physical characteristics they’d been able to establish, and for a moment he thought that something registered with Grant, then faded.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help with Joseph or his friends. I’m sorry. And what about the murders of the two girls? Has there been any progress there?’

  ‘DCI Savage believes they were killed because of something that happened in Harlesden, where they came from. He’s quite optimistic about some leads he’s following up there.’

  ‘I see.’ Grant looked carefully at Brock. ‘You don’t sound entirely convinced.’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind. We’re still trying to trace their movements after they arrived in Cockpit Lane, and find the people they made contact with. It’s a slow business, but it usually brings results in the end.’

  ‘Good.’ Grant paused, looked back over his shoulder at the people working, then leaned towards Brock and spoke more softly. ‘Father Maguire mentioned to me that you were asking about Spider Roach. Can I ask, do you think he was involved with the bodies on the railway land?’

  Brock hesitated. ‘What would your interest be in that?’

  Still in the same quiet voice, but stabbing the table with a finger to emphasise his points, the MP said, ‘When I arrived in Cockpit Lane I thought it was paradise compared to where I’d come from. But I quickly learned that there was a nasty serpent in paradise. Spider Roach and his gang had an iron grip on that part of the city, and everyone was terrified of him. I saw what he did to people. Abigail Lavender’s husband had both legs broken because he threatened to go to the police with something he’d seen. They told him the next time they’d take the hammer to Abigail.’

  Brock nodded. ‘I was a detective in the area then. I remember Mr Lavender. The hospital reported his injuries, but he wouldn’t say a word.’

  ‘Then you know what I’m talking about. But do you know that Spider Roach is still there, still sucking the life out of those people like a predatory leech?’

  ‘Still there? I thought he’d moved away?’

  ‘Oh, you won’t see him on the streets any more, or his sons, but they’re still operating there, through their agents, behind the scenes, intimidating, destroying our young people with drugs.’

  Brock looked sceptical. ‘Do you have any evidence of this?’

  ‘I have evidence enough to know I’m right, but not enough to interest the police. Perhaps you know of the reluctance in some quarters to pursue Spider Roach. But if you have some new evidence against him, it may be that I can help you. I have a strong constituency network, including people who were around in 1981.’

  Still Brock hesitated, weighing the risks. In the end it was the strong impression that Michael Grant had made on him, his passion and conviction, that persuaded him to open up.

  ‘Joseph Kidd disappeared on the night of April the eleventh, 1981, the night of the Brixton riots. He told a witness that he was going to the Windsor Castle, which was burnt down that night. He appeared to be in fear of his life, and was apparently being pursued by two white men. A witness thought they might be Roach’s men. I’d be very interested to know if Joseph and his friends had upset Roach in some way, if they did jobs for him, or were ever seen in the company of Roach and his sons. I’d also be interested in finding anyone who was in the Cat and Fiddle in Angell Town that night, or between there and the Windsor Castle, and who may have seen Joseph or the two men.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘But very discreetly, please, Mr Grant. As you say, plenty of people around here never want to hear Roach’s name mentioned again.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you for being so open with me, Chief Inspector.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now, I must dash. I have a committee meeting. Home Affairs Committee, you know it?’

  Brock caught the gleam in Grant’s eye. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You should. It’s a Departmental Select Committee, charged with scrutinising the operations of the Home Office, the Attorney General’s Office, the Crown Prosecution Service and the Serious Fraud Office. You lot, in other words.’

&n
bsp; He grinned and got to his feet, shaking Brock’s hand.

  When he returned to his office Brock put a call through to Keith Savage. The Trident detective spoke with a renewed confidence. Things were going well, he said, and arrests were expected shortly. Several sources had confirmed that Dana and Dee-Ann had stolen drugs from a powerful underworld figure in Harlesden, and Savage hoped their murders would provide the opportunity to close him and his operations down for good. And this time the team was going to do the job properly, at their own pace. Brock told him what they’d learned about the bodies on the railway land and asked if the Trident records might throw any light on them.

  ‘They don’t go much further back than 1998,’ Savage said, ‘when we were formed. There were earlier operations, of course, going back to the “Yardie Squad”, Operation Lucy, in 1988. Before that you’re talking ancient history, I’m afraid. Things have changed a lot since those days. For a start, most of our villains today aren’t Yardies at all—they were born here.’

  ‘While other things never change,’ Brock said. ‘The guns and the crack are still concentrated in the poorest boroughs.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘So you don’t think you can help us identify our three victims?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s all too long ago. Ancient history.’

  ‘Right. Incidentally, I came across a little quirk of ancient history that may intrigue you. That name that Michael Grant gave you—Roach.’

  ‘Yes?’ Savage was cautious. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It seems that Mrs Ivor Roach was hurt one day last week in a robbery.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Her car was stolen as she was getting into it, by two unidentified black kids. I’m wondering if there could be a connection.’

  Savage was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Million to one, I’d say.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

  Kathy’s phone rang precisely on seven. Icy rain was battering the window.

  ‘Hi, I’m downstairs.’

  ‘I’m ready, be down in a minute.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the door. I’ve got a brolly. By the way, I, er . . . I have someone else with me.’ He sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ she said, slipped on her coat and grabbed her bag. She took the lift down to the lobby and saw his car parked directly outside under the lights. In the rear window she could make out the pale face of a small figure.

  Tom wrestled his umbrella open. ‘Hi.’ He offered her a smile and an arm, but no kiss. ‘What a night!’

  Kathy smiled back. ‘Hello. Who’s your passenger?’

  ‘It’s my daughter, Amy. I’m sorry, I’d forgotten that I’m supposed to feed her before I take her back to her mother’s.’ He looked acutely embarrassed.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said, sounding more enthusiastic than she felt. ‘I’d like to meet her. How old is she?’

  ‘Nine.’

  They scurried across to the car together and Kathy slid into the passenger seat and turned around to meet the eyes of the young girl staring at her from the back.

  ‘Hello, I’m Kathy.’

  ‘I’m Amy.’ Her expression was grave, and Kathy couldn’t quite shake off her first impression of a little old lady.

  ‘We’ve been out together, Kathy,’ Tom said. ‘Tell Kathy where we’ve been, Amy.’

  ‘The London Dungeon,’ the girl said, still inspecting Kathy carefully.

  ‘Oh yes? Any good?’

  ‘Yes.’ Amy turned away as they moved off, wipers beating against the storm. ‘It was all right.’

  ‘It was horrible,’ Tom said. ‘I felt sick.’

  Amy said flatly, ‘He didn’t like the blood when they cut off the queen’s head.’

  ‘Too right. Not a good evening to be out on your site, Kathy.’

  ‘No, they were expecting this. It’ll be flooded.’

  ‘Is that the murder site?’ Amy asked. ‘Can we go there?’

  ‘Not tonight, sweetheart,’ Tom said.

  He dropped them at the door of the pizza restaurant while he tried to find a parking space, and Kathy and Amy hurried inside together. The place was bright, warm and busy, and they found a table and took off their coats. Looking around Kathy saw young women in studded belts, stretch jeans and pointy black boots, looking like refugees from the eighties. On the wall were framed posters for The Cure and Depeche Mode. It seemed that Brock wasn’t the only one having an eighties revival.

  She noticed that Amy had been clutching a fat paperback under her raincoat.

  ‘You’re a reader, like your dad.’

  ‘Yes,’ Amy said, settling herself. ‘We’re very alike.’ She glanced around at the other tables. ‘I shouldn’t really be here. I’m on the Atkins diet.’

  Kathy looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She screwed her nose up at the menu. ‘The most dangerous food additive on the planet is sugar, in all its forms.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. How many bodies have you found so far?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Yuk, doughnuts, twenty-seven carbs. Were they all together?’

  ‘No, they were spaced apart.’

  The precocious manner sat uncomfortably on the little girl and Kathy suspected that it was her form of protest at having to share her father with her.

  ‘Can you draw a plan?’

  Kathy smiled at the girl’s serious expression, as if they were discussing a professional problem of great mutual concern. She took a pen from her bag and drew a diagram on a paper napkin with three crosses. ‘We call them Alpha, Bravo and Charlie.’

  ‘Hm . . . Doesn’t that mean they were shot separately? If they were shot at the same time you’d dig one big hole, not three little ones, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Sounds reasonable.’

  ‘How did the murderers get onto the land?’

  ‘We think from here, a derelict warehouse.’

  ‘So this would have been the first grave . . .’ Amy pointed to Bravo, ‘. . . followed by Alpha, then Charlie.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Bravo is the closest to where they got in, right in the middle of the site, halfway to the railway. The next time they went past that spot to here, and the third time further again, to here. I bet you I’m right, fifty p.’

  ‘Okay, you’re on. You’re pretty smart. Do you want a Coke?’

  ‘I’m going to be a forensic pathologist. Forty-one carbs, no thanks. I’ll have a Diet Pepsi, zero carbs.’

  ‘You should meet our forensic anthropologist, Dr Prior. You’d like her. She worked out just about everything we know from their bones.’

  ‘Cool. If you’re going to have pizza, I’d advise the thin ’n crispy, and definitely not the Hawaiian.’

  ‘All right.’

  Tom arrived, shaking off rainwater. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Fine. Amy and I have just made our first bet. And here’s the fiver I owe you.’

  They ordered, three thin ’n crispies, and chatted happily for an hour until Tom said he had to get Amy back to her mother’s. As she sat in the car, watching Tom and his daughter running to the front door beneath the umbrella, Kathy felt as if she’d been given another little glimpse into Tom’s life, and wondered if it had been as accidental as he’d made out. Afterwards they went for a drink, and he told her a little more about his ex-wife, divorced now for six years.

  ‘Amy seems very bright,’ Kathy said.

  ‘She’s like a sponge, soaks it all up.’

  ‘Isn’t she a bit young to be on a diet?’

  He laughed. ‘Is that what she told you?’

  ‘Yes, she’s very serious about it, telling me exactly how many carbs there were in everything on the menu.’

  ‘She was having you on, Kathy. That’s her mother, she’s obsessed by all that stuff. This afternoon Amy had, let’s see, one chocolate milkshake, two hot dogs, one sticky doughnut, two Cokes and
a bowl of chips. All the stuff her mum tells her she can’t have.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What’s your bet about?’

  ‘She told me the order in which the bodies were buried, for fifty pence.’

  ‘Aha.’

  Kathy saw the grin on Tom’s face. ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s smart all right.’

  They both felt like an early night and Tom drove her home. They reached the forecourt of her building, the rain still pounding, and ran with the umbrella to the front door. Beneath its black canopy he kissed her cheek, then mouth.

  ‘You didn’t mind too much, me taking you out with Amy, did you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I was really pleased to meet her. It was fun.’

  ‘Good. Oh, look, I forgot about that thing I’ve got for you.’ He patted his pocket. ‘We really need some light.’

  ‘Want to come up to the flat?’

  ‘Maybe I should.’

  As they went up in the lift Kathy realised that this was the first time she’d brought a man up to her flat since Leon had lived there with her. She felt a little itch of disquiet, sharing her lift, her front door, her living room, with a man again.

  ‘Take your jacket off,’ she said. ‘It’s wet. Want a glass of wine?’

  ‘Thanks. So are my trousers.’

  ‘Feel free,’ she laughed, but he kept them on. In fact, he seemed to sense her reserve about having him there, and sat quietly on the sofa.