She still didn’t get it. Her incomprehension was written all over her face, and he frowned at her slowness. ‘He’s making amends, Kathy, coming in from the cold, spilling the beans, in return for amnesty, for him and his family. The last of the supergrasses. Your bodies under the snow threatened everything. He hadn’t mentioned them. They weren’t part of the package. The last thing they needed was Brock blundering around pinning a twenty-four-year-old murder rap on the old thug.’
Kathy felt herself press back against the soft leather as if by the force of his revelation. ‘They? You said the last thing they needed?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Come on, now you are being obtuse.’
‘But . . . But the Roaches did murder those three men?’
‘’Course they did, but who now gives a monkey’s fart? They were Jamaican illegals, for God’s sake, drug dealers, scum. Okay? Mystery solved?’
And Dana and Dee-Ann, she wanted to say, were they scum too? But he had leaned forward and taken her in his arms again, nuzzling her cheek and neck as if trying to trace her new perfume to its source. His hand moved in under the lap of her coat, and she wondered how she could extricate herself without him thinking her an even bigger bitch than she felt.
Then another car turned into the car park, and Martin pulled away as its headlights caught them. For a moment the interior of his car was illuminated by the blinding beam, their faces brightly lit. Then the other car turned quickly and sped away. Kathy recognised the Subaru.
‘That was Tom Reeves,’ she said, and Martin swore.
‘Does he know me?’
Kathy wasn’t sure, but she said, ‘Yes. You’d better go.’
He didn’t argue, and as she ran through the rain to the front doors she heard his engine rev and drive quickly away.
When she reached her flat she dropped her coat and poured herself a big slug of Scotch and sat down to think. Then she got on the phone. She tried Tom first, without success, then rang Brock. He didn’t answer his home phone, but she got him on his mobile.
twenty-eight
There was no one in when Kathy arrived at his house the next morning, although she was ten minutes later than the time they’d arranged for her to call. She listened to the bell echoing again inside, then turned at the rumble of tyres in the cobbled yard at the end of the lane. A car door slammed and Brock appeared, dressed in a windcheater and jeans.
He opened the front door, picking newspapers and mail off the mat, and followed her up the book-lined stairs to the living room on the first floor, where he took her coat and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. There were no signs of breakfast, and Kathy wondered where he’d stayed overnight, but she didn’t ask. He brought coffee and chocolate biscuits, fetched a pad of paper and they got to work.
She went over everything again, everything Martin had told her and then other things that had occurred to her since. She recalled Tom’s comments about how he’d been encouraged by his boss to get involved with Brock’s team, and they began to draw up a timeline of events. During the night she’d almost persuaded herself, with a sick sense of betrayal and self-recrimination, that Tom had known from the very beginning what he was doing, that he had groomed her from the moment he had reappeared in her life, on instructions from his boss. But Brock disagreed. It was Tom, he pointed out, who had given them the crucial lead to the Brown Bread shootings, and it was that, Brock believed, which must have triggered alarms further up the line. She also told Brock what Tom had said about a friend in Special Branch pointing him in the direction of a ‘weak link’ in the Roach family whom he might target.
‘He was steered every inch of the way,’ Brock said. ‘They knew their man, how desperate he was to make amends, even if it meant stepping outside the system and throwing his lot in with Michael Grant.’
‘That was the phrase Martin Connell used about Spider Roach—making amends.’
‘He must have plenty to trade if they were willing to give him this much protection, and sacrifice one of their own.’
‘You think the Branch was behind this?’
‘And the others. I wouldn’t be surprised if MI5 already had that stuff on Grant’s background in his security file. This would have been a JIC operation, Kathy, and only the people at the very top would know the full story.’
‘So we should leave it alone.’
‘Clearly . . . But,’ he scratched his beard, ‘I would still like to have a talk to Michael Grant.’
He gestured at the headlines on the newspapers: ‘Yardie MP Vanishes’ and ‘Accused MP fails to face inquiry’.
‘Aren’t you angry?’ Kathy asked him. ‘You’re one of their victims too. I’d be furious.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. But I’m also intrigued. I wonder if they really know what Spider’s like to do business with. They must be worried that there may be other things he hasn’t told them.’
Kathy looked at him curiously, sensing some hidden meaning. ‘Did you find anything in the old files?’
‘Probably not. A sniff of a possible motive for the three killings perhaps.’ And he told her of his theory about Adonia and her daughter.
She thought about it, nodding. ‘Yes, that makes sense. And poetic justice to use Magdalen as the bait to trap Tom and close down the Brown Bread inquiry.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Of course we could find out for sure.’
‘With her DNA? Not much chance of getting that now.’
But Kathy was thinking of the handkerchief that Tom had left at her flat, smelling of J’Adore, and trying to remember if she’d thrown it out.
After driving across town to Finchley, they made their way to Sundeep Mehta’s pathology lab, where Brock explained the nature of the tests he wanted done.
‘There are possibly three DNA sources here,’ he said, giving him the handkerchief. ‘Kathy’s and two others. I want them tested against the DNA extracted from the three skeletons on the railway ground. A paternity test. Discreet, quick and in your name only, if you don’t mind, Sundeep.’
The pathologist still hadn’t forgiven Brock for failing to arrest Mr Teddy Vexx for Dana and Dee-Ann’s murders, but he was addicted to mysteries and smiled conspiratorially at the odd procedure. ‘I hear you’ve been having a spot of bother, old chap.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Twenty-four hours?’
‘Make it four.’
‘Four? My dear fellow, the processing lab is out at Abingdon.’
‘That’s one of the reasons I came to you.’
Sundeep pouted. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll give you a ring. Shall we take an elimination sample from Kathy, or is it her daddy we’re looking for?’
He chuckled as he took a swab from Kathy’s mouth before they left for Cockpit Lane.
Father Maguire answered their knock on the presbytery door with painful slowness. They saw the twitch of the curtain, heard the shuffle of his feet, and finally caught a narrow sighting of him through the barely opened door. He didn’t remember them at first, and Brock had to introduce them. When the old man finally hauled the heavy door open his figure seemed more than ever diminished by the overscaled Victorian architecture that surrounded him. He was wearing an old grey cardigan and faded tartan slippers, and when he turned to lead them to the main room Kathy noticed that his clerical collar was yellowed and the seat of his black trousers was shiny with age.
‘Sorry . . .’ He’d caught Kathy looking at a tray with the remains of tea and a boiled egg. ‘My housekeeper isn’t with me at present. The siege, you know. It got too much for her. Gave her nervous palpitations. I had to tell her to go home.’
‘Siege?’
‘The press. They were out there for so long. I don’t know what they expected to get from me. I had to disconnect the doorbell.’ He sounded exhausted and defeated. ‘The worst thing, of course, is knowing what Michael must think of me. I go over it all again and again, working out what I should have said. He’s such a good ma
n, has achieved so much, yet I betrayed him to his enemies. They snatched the words from out of my mouth and used them to destroy him. Now he must regard me as Judas incarnate.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Brock said gently. ‘It was quite clear to everyone that you were trying to support and defend him. That’s what made their choice of you so very effective. They were extremely cunning.’
‘But were they telling the truth? Did Michael really commit a murder in Jamaica? I’m sure Father Guzowski never told me that, only that the police would kill him if they caught him. Some of them, you know, were as bad as the people they were up against.’
‘I don’t know what the truth is.’
‘I’ve tried to find Father Guzowski’s letter among my papers, but I can’t. It’s so long ago and everything’s in such a mess. I haven’t been very good with my paperwork, I’m afraid. Michael wanted me to write an account of our work here and did help me try to organise things a little, but of course he won’t be interested in continuing now. It’s like a terrible cloud, poisoning everything we’ve done, our whole lives and work.’
‘He was helping organise your papers?’
‘Well, not Michael himself. When he could spare her he sent over the girl who runs his constituency office.’
‘Kerrie?’
‘That’s her. Very efficient young woman. Just what I needed.’
‘So has Michael not been in touch with you?’ Brock asked.
The priest shook his head sadly. ‘I pray for him, but I’ve heard nothing.’
‘Apparently he and his family haven’t been seen at their home since Monday. Have you any idea where he might have gone? I really would like to talk to him.’
‘To arrest him, do you mean?’
‘No, no. I’d just like to talk to him about what happened on Monday.’
But he could see that the old man wasn’t convinced. He had betrayed Michael Grant once and he wasn’t about to do it again. ‘Could be anywhere, I suppose,’ he said vaguely. ‘If I were him I’d probably take my family far away, to the Outer Hebrides perhaps, until things blow over. I’m sure if he’d felt he needed your help he would have asked for it.’ This thought seemed to stiffen his resolve. ‘I’ll see you out now, if you don’t mind. I have things to do, a funeral service to prepare . . .’
They buttoned up their coats and made their way down the path to the street. A few daffodils in the lee of the presbytery were bravely heralding the end of winter. There should have been more, Kathy realised, from the number of cut stalks around them. The rest were probably on sale in the market. As they reached the end of Cockpit Lane, where it divided each side of the churchyard, she looked down to the market and saw people gathering at its far end, and the pulsing lights of an ambulance.
Across the street, large pictures of Michael Grant’s face still beamed with misplaced confidence from the windows of his constituency office. It was locked, but there was a light on at the back and eventually their persistent knocking brought Kerrie to the door. She mimed a message at them through the glass, pointing to the ‘closed’ sign, and Kathy responded by holding up her identification.
She opened the door a little and placed herself firmly in the gap.
‘Sorry, didn’t recognise you. Michael’s not here.’
‘Just a few words, Kerrie,’ Kathy said, and moved forward. The woman reluctantly stood aside. While she locked the door behind them, they moved towards the single desk lamp lit at the back of the office. A computer was switched on there, and the letter that was lying in the printer tray caught Kathy’s attention.
Dear Mr Grant, she read, I regret that I have decided to resign my position . . .
Kerrie appeared at her side and snatched the letter away. ‘What is it you want?’
‘We’re looking for Michael, Kerrie.’
She snorted. ‘So are a lot of people. Good luck.’
‘You don’t know where he is?’
‘No idea. He’s not been in touch since Monday and he’s not answering his mobile.’
‘You’ve decided to quit, have you?’
‘None of your business, but yes, as a matter of fact. There’s no point in staying here.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’m moving to a staff position in Westminster, if you must know. It’s a natural step up, after the experience I’ve had in the constituency.’
‘But not with Michael? With another MP?’
‘How long do you think he’s going to have an office over there, do you reckon? He’s not the only one allowed to have ambition, you know.’
Kerrie was angry as well as defensive, and Kathy felt she was catching sight of a drama she hadn’t been aware of before. ‘No, of course not. Did you resent being stuck here?’
‘I’ve done my time here, that’s all. It’s a dead end, I have to move closer to the centre if I’m going to get on. That’s the trouble, isn’t it? If you’re any good at what you do, the boss tries to keep you stuck.’
‘Michael did that, did he?’
‘There’s a big gap between those who work in the constituencies and those who work in Westminster. He promised to help me move up, but in the end you’ve got to help yourself, haven’t you?’
‘Is that what you did when you went to sort out Father Maguire’s papers? Help yourself?’
Kerrie gave an involuntary little jump, which she immediately tried to convert into a fussing gesture over her filing tray.
‘Was that how you crossed the gap?’ Kathy persisted. ‘By offering things you’d found out about Michael to his political enemies?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ She turned away, shuffling papers.
‘Who are you going to work for, Kerrie? Mr Hadden-Vane?’
She was close, Kathy realised, but not close enough, for Kerrie relaxed and turned to face her with a show of defiance.
‘No. Now I’d like you to leave.’
As they stepped out into the street Brock murmured, ‘You were on the right track, Kathy, but it would have been more indirect. Hadden-Vane probably fixed her up with a job with one of his mates.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. So where do we go now?’ She turned up the collar of her coat against the March wind, feeling its implacable cold like a verdict on their situation. The truth was, they’d pretty well explored every option, and discovered each to have been anticipated and blocked long before they got there.
Ahead of them she recognised Adam Nightingale emerging from the market. He was with his friend Jerry, both gesticulating wildly to their heads and ears, white teeth flashing.
‘Hi, Adam,’ Kathy called, and the boys stopped dead and stared at them. Then without a word they hunched into their parkas and turned and fled.
When they reached the car Kathy said she’d try Tom again, and called his home and mobile numbers without result. His voice on both answering services sounded painfully normal and buoyant, like Michael Grant’s pictures in the shop window. She left more messages and rang off. Almost immediately her phone began to burble. The caller gave his name as McCulloch and Kathy recognised the gravelly voice.
‘If you’re still interested,’ he said. ‘The bloke you asked about, George Murray.’
‘George, yes. What about him?’
‘He was picked up by an ambulance not long ago, in Cockpit Lane. I’m going over to the hospital now.’
‘He’s been hurt?’
‘Yeah. Somebody drove a nail into his head.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what I’ve been told. They’ve taken him to St Thomas’.’
The same place they took Adam, Kathy thought, remembering the look of panic on the boy’s face when she’d said hello.
Brock dropped her at the A&E entrance to the hospital on Lambeth Palace Road. The entrance to the hospital car park was jammed with a long queue, and he continued on to join Westminster Bridge Road and cross the Thames. Ahead of him Parliament brooded darkly.
Kathy found McCulloch sitting on a bench in a c
orridor talking to the stooped figure of a small dark woman, whom she recognised as Winnie Wellington when she turned her tear-streaked face towards her. Embarrassed, Winnie wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and sat a little straighter. Kathy sat beside her and put a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, Winnie.’
‘I knew he’d get into trouble, dat boy. But he didn’t deserve anything like this.’
McCulloch, impassive, raised an eyebrow at Kathy and nodded his head to one side. She got to her feet and followed him a little way away.
‘What happened?’ she murmured.
‘Kids coming out of school for lunchbreak saw him stagger out of the side street opposite, clutching his head. He collapsed and they went and had a look. He had blood all over his face and someone called triple nine. When the ambulance men got there they discovered he had a six-inch nail rammed in his ear.’
Kathy screwed up her face in disgust.
‘Yeah. Extremely lucky it didn’t kill him. Punctured the eardrum of course. Very painful, apparently. They’re trying to find out what other damage it’s done inside his head. He hasn’t spoken. Any ideas?’
‘I visited him again at the girl’s flat in Cove Street. Could it be punishment for talking to me?’
‘That’s what I wondered. “See and blind, hear and deaf ”, that’s the Yardie code.’
Another horrible thought came to Kathy. ‘Yes, that, and the fact that he’s a musician.’
McCulloch grimaced. ‘Some punishment. When did you visit him?’
Kathy checked her notebook. ‘The eighth, over a week ago. The girl caught me in the flat talking to him. She could have told Vexx.’
‘Long time to wait to teach him a lesson. Maybe it was something else.’
Kathy shook her head. ‘No. You’ve been reading the papers? They waited till that was all over, then they cleaned up their own backyard.’
‘Well, he certainly upset somebody.’
Spider Trap Page 27
