Spider Trap

by Barry Maitland

  The other two teams were luckier. The search of old TV footage and newspaper archives had yielded two unpublished photos of the early stages of the fire at the Windsor Castle, before Brock had arrived. They clearly showed two white men in black jackets, frozen in the action of running towards a black man who was staring at the flicker of flames visible through the pub window.

  When enhanced, the faces made a convincing match with those of Mark and Ivor Roach, and Joseph Kidd. Bren and Tom’s team, meanwhile, going back through the Brown Bread shootings, had reinterviewed the Asian witness, Mr Singh, to the car theft outside his shop in 1986.

  ‘It was a beautiful car,’ he said, ‘a red Porsche 911, just like I used to dream about. A young blonde lady parked it right outside the shop. She was a looker, too, no mistake. She saw me standing in the shop doorway and gave me a lovely smile, then took off across the road to the hair salon over the way. Dad was in the back storeroom and he called out to me and I was about to go in when suddenly, quick as greased lightning, these two men appeared out of nowhere and went to the Porsche. One bent over the lock in the driver’s door and in two seconds he’d got it open. I was amazed, I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. He got in, opened the passenger door, against the kerb, and the other man went to get in. I stepped forward and I said, quite politely, “Excuse me, sir. Is that your car?” The man was as close to me as you are, face plain as day, one foot still on the pavement. He looked at me for a moment, then at the shop behind me, then up and down the street, all very calm and deliberate, see? Then he took a gun out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me, just like that . . .’ The man pointed his finger at Bren’s stomach. ‘I thought, I can’t believe this, it’s just like a film. Then he pressed the trigger. I didn’t feel the bullet go through me. I just passed out.’

  The man’s recollection was so fluent that Bren was sceptical. ‘You seem to have a very clear memory of this, Mr Singh. It happened a long time ago.’

  ‘Have you ever been shot, Inspector? It was the biggest thing that ever happened to me. I had to go over it again and again, for the police, for my friends, for the newspapers, and then, afterwards, in my head and in my dreams, again and again.’

  ‘And you helped the police make an image of the man.’ Bren showed him the drawing of a scowling face that could have been anyone.

  ‘Yes. The other one’s face was a blank, but this one was vivid in my mind—it still is.’

  ‘Still, nearly twenty years later?’

  ‘Oh yes. You see, I saw him again, about eight years ago.’

  ‘I don’t have a record of that.’

  ‘No.’ The man looked sheepish. ‘I never reported it. My dad decided he wanted to get himself a new Volvo, so I went with him around the showrooms. We’d just walked into this one when I saw him, sitting there at the manager’s desk in a smart suit and tie. It hit me like a blow. I managed to turn and run, and when I got outside I was sick, sick as a dog, in the gutter. My dad had to take me home. I couldn’t get out of bed for days. I couldn’t tell the coppers about it. This is the first time I’ve talked to anyone, apart from Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Where was this showroom?’

  ‘Eltham. Roach Motors.’

  Bren showed him a picture of Ricky Roach, son number three.

  ‘Oh my God. That’s him.’

  fifteen

  Commander Sharpe was not comfortable. He twisted in his seat, twitched his narrow pointed nose, rubbed his long pianist’s fingers fretfully before he set Brock’s report back on the desk with care, as if it might draw blood.

  ‘You’re aware of the history of our dealings with Mr Roach, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Brock felt curiously free. The ship was now launched and others would want to have a hand in steering it. There was still much detective work to do, but others would have their say in that, too.

  ‘Looks fairly damning. Pretty obvious, I suppose, the Roaches. Cut-throat mob back then. Different story now, mind you. Penny bought her sports car at that showroom, dammit. Nearly had a fit when I saw the name on the invoice. Several of her smart friends buy their cars there, apparently. Action?’

  ‘We have no choice in the matter of Ricky Roach. A credible witness, a clear body of circumstantial evidence, a previous record.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘The same can be said of Mark and Ivor. We can place them in pursuit of Joseph Kidd on the night he was murdered. They have to be questioned.’

  ‘All a matter of identification, though, isn’t it? You say Mr Singh is credible?’

  ‘Credible but nervous. I’ve offered him protection, but he’s worried about his parents and his business. I’ve persuaded him that none of them will be safe until he helps us put Roach behind bars.’

  ‘And Ferguson?’

  ‘Solid.’

  ‘So the first step is identification parades, yes? Conducted by uniformed branch, of course.’ Sharpe took a breath, as if relieved that at least that would be out of his hands. ‘Who do you suggest? Eltham?’

  ‘The offences took place in Lambeth.’

  ‘Of course, yes. You’ve heard of KCG Resources? They have mines, Canada and South America. Their shares are hot at the moment. Resources boom. The DCC told me to buy some. Safe bet, he said. The Roaches are major shareholders. Where do you buy your wine? Paramounts? They’ll have an off-licence down your way. One of the Roaches’ companies.’

  ‘I know it won’t be easy.’

  ‘And you seriously think that they were physically involved in the murder of those two kids recently? Wealthy, respectable men like they now are? It beggars belief.’

  ‘I think when faced with something personal they reverted to type. But I can only connect them to those murders through the gun that was used. We have to go for the old cases.’

  ‘But something else worries me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You, Brock. You’re not happy, are you?’

  ‘I know I’m right about the Roaches.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I know how slippery they are in a corner. I’m reluctant to show our hand until we’ve got a watertight case. The trouble is, we’re not going to get one without getting close to them and stirring them up. It’s all just too long ago. The evidence isn’t out there any more.’

  ‘Let’s get the question of identification sewn up, then we’ll talk again.’

  Three days later Brock was summoned back to his boss’s office. This time Sharpe had a third person on hand, Virginia Ashe, prosecutor from the Crown Prosecution Service. She grinned and barked a greeting.

  ‘Brock! Good to see you again. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Fine, Virginia. Congratulations, I saw you on the news last week.’

  ‘Oh, that. But you’ve been beating me on airtime lately. Everybody loves a grisly corpse; three old skeletons and two young girls is unbeatable. Absolutely royal flush.’

  Sharpe broke in. ‘Sit down, please. I’ve asked Virginia to assist us with our discussion, Brock. You’ve heard the results of the line-ups? Three clear identifications. Fine, so we consider the next steps. Interview Mark and Ivor, I take it, warrants if necessary, and a warrant for the arrest of Ricky? You’ve read the summaries, Virginia. You agree?’

  ‘Ye-es, but we are on thin ice with the first two, don’t you think? I mean Brock has done brilliantly constructing a chain of evidence of their movements on that night, twenty-four years ago. Amazing really, but it doesn’t actually prove anything, does it? If they don’t want to cooperate, there’s not enough for a case to be brought for murder. Unless you could prove they still have the gun, say. Where is the gun, by the way? Does anybody know?’

  ‘No,’ Brock said. ‘I think we have to assume that it’s well and truly disposed of by now. But we certainly need to search their compound at Shooters Hill. Virginia’s right. Let’s concentrate on Ricky. We have a witness who saw him use that gun in 1986. He’s the one to start with.’

  ‘Mm.’ Sharpe star
ed at the ceiling. ‘The way my thoughts are going is this. Given the publicity surrounding the case, it would make sense for criminal proceedings to be instituted by the DPP, would it not?’

  ‘By us?’ Virginia looked sharply at him. ‘Rather than the police? By laying an information?’

  ‘Yes. With our full resources behind you, of course.’

  Brock saw that Sharpe had been doing some homework and probably taking advice. If ‘an information’, as the case for an arrest warrant was called, was laid by the police, it would be done not in the name of the police force as a body, but in the name of an individual officer, a chief constable or someone designated by him. Commander Sharpe didn’t want his name on that document.

  ‘Well,’ Virginia said. ‘I’ll take it to the boss, shall I?’ She shot Brock a deadpan look as vivid as a wink.

  ‘Yes, why don’t you do that, Virginia,’ Sharpe said, getting to his feet. ‘Excellent idea.’

  Ricky Roach sat facing Bren Gurney and another detective across the table. He was much plumper and sleeker than in the old photographs, with more scalp showing through the well-groomed hair, but with the same contemptuous curl to his mouth. Beside him sat Martin Connell.

  Brock, not wanting at this point to disclose that they had made the link of Brown Bread between the Cockpit Lane murders and the shooting of Mr Singh, had decided not to carry out the interview himself and was sitting at Kathy’s side. Virginia Ashe was also there, keenly watching the screen.

  Bren opened the proceedings with the standard preliminaries, then said, ‘We’re investigating a series of thefts of luxury cars during the 1980s.’

  Roach looked at him in disbelief. ‘Oh yeah? The 1980s? Are you serious?’

  ‘Perfectly. You were in the car business at that time, I believe. You had a sales yard and workshop in Lewisham, yes?’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ Roach turned to look at his lawyer. ‘The 1980s?’

  ‘I thought the charge was attempted murder,’ Connell said.

  ‘We’ll come to that. The matters are related. We want to examine your business records for the period 1979 to the present.’

  Roach laughed. ‘No way.’

  ‘They don’t seem very worried, do they?’ Virginia said.

  Bren was laying three documents on the table in front of Roach and Connell. ‘These are copies of warrants to search your business premises at Eltham, your accountant’s offices in the City, and your home at Shooters Hill. Officers are executing these warrants as we speak.’

  Roach picked up one of the sheets. ‘You’re searching Ivor’s office? He won’t like that.’ He smirked.

  Connell had picked up another of the warrants and had turned away from the camera, pulling out his mobile phone. After a short conversation he snapped it shut and turned back to face Bren.

  ‘My client’s wife is asleep.’

  Bren looked mystified. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you know the rules? “In determining when to make a search, the officer in charge must always give regard to the time of day at which the occupier is likely to be present, and should not search at a time when the occupier or any other person on the premises is likely to be asleep.” I quote. My client’s wife is recuperating from recent surgery and is currently at home asleep. I have advised her sister, who is with her, not to permit entry to her home. Then there is Mrs Adonia Roach, my client’s sister-in-law, also resident at The Glebe, who is recovering from a street robbery in which she was seriously hurt. I suggest you advise your officers to withdraw.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Kathy said flatly, ‘They knew. They were expecting this.’

  Brock’s phone rang. He listened, then turned to the others. ‘The team at Shooters Hill. They’re being refused entry to The Glebe. It seems the construction of the perimeter gates and wall is more problematic than they anticipated. They’re going to have to bring in heavier gear.’

  Virginia Ashe stared at him. ‘He’s right, you can’t break in. It’s our warrant, Brock. Tell them to back off.’

  For a moment it looked as if Brock wouldn’t agree.

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  Brock nodded and spoke into his phone.

  On the screen Bren was questioning Roach about his movements and operations in the mid-eighties. To every question Ricky replied, ‘Don’t remember.’ This went on for some time, the same reply given again and again until Bren’s exasperation began to show. Then Connell broke in.

  ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere. Can we cut to the quick? These warrants mention the evidence of a witness as grounds for a search. Who is this witness?’

  ‘We’re not prepared to disclose their identity at this stage.’

  Connell sat back, fingers laced across his belly. ‘I think we’re wasting our time here, don’t you?’

  Brock had persuaded Mr Singh and his wife to take a holiday with cousins in Birmingham. The witness had become increasingly anxious after his first conversation with Bren, and was on a variety of medications against panic attacks and hypertension. Brock had noticed the way he unconsciously fingered his side where Roach’s bullet had hit. When the couple finally agreed to leave London, Brock made arrangements with the police in Birmingham to keep watch on the cousins’ home.

  On the day of Ricky Roach’s arrest, the patrol car parked across the road watched a white Volvo registered to Mr Singh’s father draw up outside the cousins’ house. This was expected, as the police had monitored a phone call that morning from the older man to his son saying that they would drive up from London to pay him a visit. The elderly couple got out of the car and entered the house. An hour later a second patrol saw two people return to their car and drive off.

  When Brock phoned later that day to speak to Mr Singh, his cousin answered and said that wouldn’t be possible, as he was lying down with a severe migraine. When Brock asked to speak to his wife, that also was refused on the grounds that she was in the bath. There was something about the conversation that made Brock uneasy and he called the Birmingham police. When officers called at the house they found the cousins and the elderly parents, but no sign of the Singhs.

  Brock got a fast patrol car up the motorway with lights and siren going. When he arrived at the suburban house there were already three police cars there, and West Midlands detectives were questioning the four occupants of the house. Brock chose the elder Mr Singh, who had so far refused to say a word.

  ‘Are they safe, Mr Singh? That’s our first priority. You must tell us that.’

  The old man, back straight, very dignified in his black turban, blinked at the clock on the mantelpiece and murmured, ‘I believe they are, sir, yes. But I can say no more.’

  At that moment a detective hurried into the room and glared at the Indian. ‘They took a flight to Paris, sir, five hours ago. We’ve just heard. We found the Volvo at the airport.’

  It was another hour before it was established that in Paris the Singhs had transferred to an Air India flight to Mumbai.

  ‘It was too much to ask, sir,’ Mr Singh said sadly to Brock. ‘You don’t know what it was doing to him. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. He lost eight pounds in a week.’

  ‘He didn’t receive any direct threats though, did he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘What about you? Did they threaten you, Mr Singh?’

  ‘As to that, sir, I cannot say.’

  Brock regarded him carefully. It was as if the man couldn’t bring himself to tell an outright lie.

  ‘I understand. But it would help me to know when this unspoken event took place. We arrested the man who shot your son at nine this morning, and you and your wife must have left for Birmingham at, what, nine-thirty? Not much time for a visitor this morning.’

  ‘There were no visitors this morning.’

  ‘We can trace telephone calls, discover when tickets were purchased . . .’

  ‘There’s no need to trouble yourself, sir. There have been no strange telephone calls. I mys
elf purchased plane tickets for my son and his wife last night, on the internet.’

  ‘So you had a visitor last night.’

  ‘As to that, sir, I cannot say.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Singh. How long does your son intend to stay in India?’

  ‘Hard to say. There are many relatives. It may be a long trip.’

  Later that evening, on the insistence of Virginia Ashe, the charges against Ricky Roach were dropped and he was released from custody. At about the same time, Kathy took a call from the builder, Wayne Ferguson. He just thought he should let her know that, although he was absolutely clear in his identification of the two Roach brothers at the lineup, because of course he had seen them before, he was less sure now about whether it was actually that particular night that he’d seen them in the Cat and Fiddle. It was such a long time ago, and if he were put under cross-examination he couldn’t honestly swear that it couldn’t have been some other night.

  ‘Has somebody been talking to you, Mr Ferguson?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘No!’ He sounded offended. ‘Certainly not, no way,’ he protested, too much.

  She called Brock, on his way back down the motorway. He sounded tired and flat, as they all did.

  When he got back to London, Brock spent a couple of hours in his office dealing with urgent paperwork. A note from Dot told him that a meeting with Commander Sharpe had been scheduled for first thing the following morning. He put a sheaf of signed documents on her desk and left the building. It was a cold but dry night, and he walked the length of Whitehall to Charing Cross station, stopping on the way for a glass of whisky at the Red Lion, a stone’s throw from Big Ben. He caught his train home and walked from his station to the high street, where an archway gave access into the cobbled courtyard that led to the lane in which his house stood. In the far corner, at the beginning of the lane, stood a large horse chestnut tree, its black skeleton silhouetted against the dim clouds. A man was standing motionless beneath its branches, watching him approach. Brock looked around and was able to make out a second figure in the darkness against the wall of the old warehouse.