by JOHN STANLEY
When the congratulations had died down, and everyone was seated again, Radford strode to the front of the room and looked at the mixture of plain-clothes and uniformed officers, fifty six of them in total, some pulled away from other duties, a number brought in from days off, a number who had turned up even though not invited. No one wanted to miss this.
Gaines was there was well, leaning against the wall by the door, Perlow next to him. The sergeant met Radford’s eye and the chief inspector gave a nod.
It was 11am, the time Radford’s disciplinary hearing had been due to start, but instead he was about to address a crucially important briefing. An electric energy had run round the station ever since, shortly after 9am, word had leaked out that Danny Radford was back in the station and that Heron had been reprieved. Despondency had been replaced by excitement and a strong sense that something was about to happen. Having endured the taunts of many villains when word spread round the criminal community that Heron had been abandoned, the officers were looking forward to ramming them back down their throats when they hit the streets again.
Radford himself had deliberately kept a low profile, he and Connor arriving early that morning and shutting themselves away in the superintendent’s office for the best part of two hours. No one knew what was said - those words would forever remain private between the friends - but the contrast with the raised voices of their previous meeting suggested that a peace of sorts had been made.
Now, Radford stood in front of the officers, eying each and every one of them keenly, his look one of satisfaction at the large turn-out. The chief inspector played a different type of numbers game from the accountants, one in which police officers swamped target areas and put the fear of crime back with the villains. So, every eye was turned expectantly on the chief inspector as the gathering waited in silence for him to speak. When he did, his voice was quiet.
‘Before we start, I owe you all a debt of thanks,’ he said. ‘I know that over the past few days, many of you have made your feelings known to the chief constable at great risk to your own careers. I am deeply grateful for that. Thank you, all of you. I cannot regret the action I took but I may have gone about it the wrong way. However, Heron is too important to sacrifice; the people of this area expect it to deliver, and, just as importantly, so do the villains.’
More applause ran round the room but it was cut short as the officers fell silent when the door opened and in walked a solemn Connor. Everyone knew the deep rift that had opened up between the two men and eyed them in uneasy silence. No one knew for definite the outcome of their meeting earlier that morning so they awaited Connor’s first words, seeking some clues. Connor said nothing but nodded at Radford to continue.
The chief inspector acknowledged the gesture and waited until Connor had accepted the offer of a seat from one of the uniformed constables.
‘However,’ repeated Radford, ‘for all I feel passionately that my motive was right, I have to acknowledge that I let down some pretty important people and for that I apologise wholeheartedly. I hope that apology will be accepted.’
All eyes turned to the superintendent, who stood up.
‘I suppose so,’ he said blandly, ‘although, to tell the truth, I was rather looking forward to working with Eddie Murtagh.’
There was a gasp from the assembled officers; this was not what they had hoped to hear.
‘But then,’ added Connor, sardonic humour breaking through his deadpan delivery, ‘I thought, hey, he’d only give me an easy life so what the heck? Welcome back, Danny.’
The superintendent strode across the room and offered his hand to the chief inspector. It was readily taken; they had already shaken behind closed doors earlier that morning but both men realised it had to be done publicly as well. The briefing was as much about theatre as anything. Besides, for all their friendship would take time to repair itself, and there would inevitably be strain for some time, shaking hands publicly felt like as good as way as any of drawing a line underneath the awful events of the previous week.
Although both men felt wounded, they also sensed for the first time in several days that they could see a way forward. And the thought that another youngster’s life might be on the line had filled them with a sense of urgency that they wanted, needed, to communicate to their officers.
‘Now,’ said Connor, returning to sit among the assembled ranks and acknowledging the smiles, ‘I really would like you lot to start nicking people instead of staring at us gooey-eyed.’
This time the applause was much louder; this is what they wanted to hear and Danny Radford was not about to let them down. Having moved past the awkward bits, the chief inspector felt a mighty weight lift and with its removal came a rush of adrenaline he had not felt for many weeks. He started pacing the room, addressing the officers in a manner most had not heard before, voice more forceful, words snapping out as he exhorted them to take the battle to the bad guys.
Gaines watched the performance in amazement. Now he knew why Radford had landed the job.
‘It’s time to fight back,’ said Radford, slamming a fist into a palm with a resounding thud. ‘Time to hit the villains hard. Most of you will have heard that a teenage boy died of a drugs overdose yesterday. The word is that he had taken bad gear supplied by a new gang in town. They are selling it cheap to get a foothold in Leyton and the odds are that plenty other junkies are taking the same stuff. I do not have to tell you what that means. Remember Framley.’
There was a lot of murmuring and plenty of nodding heads. Everyone realised how serious the situation was and several of the officers had served in the market town of Framley, to Leyton’s north, when the junkies were dying. None of them wanted to live through that again.
‘Contrary to what you might have read in the newspaper,’ continued Radford, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, ‘Heron will not now be closed down and has been given the job of bringing this new gang to book.’
The officers stood and applauded but after a few moments, Radford held up a hand.
‘And I would also like us to bear in mind that we are hunting a serial killer. It seems to me that there might be some overlap with the inquiry into the Alma Street deaths. The people involved probably move in the same circles.’
A number of officers nodded their agreement; they had come to the same conclusion.
Radford stopped his pacing and let his gaze range round the room: they could feel his stare boring into them. It was a call to arms.
‘So,’ he said, ’we need some results on this pretty quickly. I want everyone out there making things happen. Let’s turn the pressure up on your informants, knock a few doors down, put the word out that we are coming mob-handed. Any questions?’
No one spoke.
‘There is just one more thing,’ said Connor, walking to the front of the room to stand next to the chief inspector, the final show of unity. ‘I have just come off the phone from the chief constable. He has been coming under increasing pressure to release Alma Street for demolition and it has been agreed that work will start later today so be careful when if you are working that area. I don’t want any of you being flattened by a bulldozer.’
‘Ok, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Radford, gesturing to the door, ‘let’s get out there and make it happen.’
There was a scraping of chairs and loud murmurings as the officers headed for the corridor, excitedly discussing what they had been ordered to do. Radford watched them go then walked over to Perlow, who was still leaning by the door.
‘So,’ said the chief inspector, ‘tell me about Ginch.’
Jesus, it’s good to be back. That was too close for comfort.
Chapter fifteen
Ian Edward Gincham - Ginch to one and all - was in no mood to talk as he sat in the interview room at Read Street early that afternoon. Having been detained at the police station overnight, he had grown increasingly agitated as the hours passed. Now, he stared anxiously at Radford and Perlow over the table, hand tremb
ling slightly, sweat glistening on his brow, eyes darting left and right, never settling. Suddenly, this had become a matter of urgency for Ginch; without his next fix he knew the onset of withdrawal symptoms could not be far off and his priority was to get the interview over with and persuade the officers to free him. Only then could he seek out his dealer and stave off the nightmare that he knew would descend otherwise.
The chief inspector perused him in silence and pondered what he had learnt from Perlow that morning. Ginch was not yet twenty but was already a drifter, the inevitable product of a fractured and violent family life. According to Perlow, Ginch’s parents had divorced when he was six, his father leaving Leyton after emerging from prison where he had served a sentence for burglary; he never returned and Ginch did not knew where he was. Not that Ginch cared because his father had beaten the child repeatedly for the most minor of transgressions. Ginch’s mother was little better, turning increasingly to drink and meting out brutal beatings with the studded belt left behind by her husband when he was jailed. By the time she killed herself four years later, by taking tablets and downing half a bottle of whisky in a bedsit, Ginch had already been in care for eighteen months, moving from residential home to residential home.
There had been several attempts to foster him but he had always come back, judged too disruptive by all who tried to take him on. There had also been violent incidents and one foster mother ended up in hospital after Ginch struck her with a vase. Other carers had already noted the way his temper would flare up for no apparent reason and the incident was the final straw; it was decided that he would remain in residential homes until old enough to be make his own way in life. Those who looked after Ginch observed that he seemed at his calmest when he was in the homes and suspected that he responded to the order they offered, something that had been lacking in his chaotic life with his alcoholic mother.
However, that liking for order was not reflected in school, where he was a regular drop-out, constantly challenging teachers, leaving with virtually no qualifications and refusing to go on to college. Once he had left his last residential home, Ginch continued to make poor decisions, despite the support of job centre staff and social workers who repeatedly helped him find employment. If he appreciated the help, Ginch did not say so and drifted from job to job. Eventually, he gave up, preferring to live off hand-outs and mixing with the wrong people. He financed his growing drug habit with money from theft and robbery, crimes that led to him serving three months in prison for a handbag snatch.
Emerging from prison, Ginch became increasingly embroiled in the city’s drugs world. An impressionable and naïve person, Ginch found it difficult to make friends, which had made him easy prey for the dealers. Now, he was hooked and Perlow had seen his drug habit escalate from a few smokes of cannabis when he was fourteen to increasingly heavy-duty heroin use. What was depressing for the constable and Radford was that Ginch was not unique; there were plenty more like him across the city, young people who felt abandoned by society and turned instead to dark and hopeless lives.
The officers knew that, such was the junkies’ desperation, they would be prepared to take the risks associated with bad heroin if it was cheap enough and readily available. The new gang was gambling on that and police inquiries had already suggested they were undercutting everyone else to establish their share of the market. Radford had much to think about as he eyed the fidgeting Ginch.
‘I ain’t got nuffink to do with them blokes,’ said Ginch eventually, unnerved by the silence and the chief inspector’s steady stare.
‘What blokes?’ asked Radford blandly.
‘Them blokes what got killed in Alma Street.’
‘Who said anything about them?’
‘I just assumed,’ began Ginch but paused, thrown into confusion. ‘I just assumed you thought I did it.’
‘Now why would we do that?’ said Radford, his affable tone deliberately failing to conceal an edge.
‘I know the way you coppers operate.’
‘Come on,’ protested Perlow, ‘how long have we known each other? Five, six years? Have I ever treated you unfairly? Tried to fit you up?’
Ginch pondered then shook his head.
‘Na, Mr Perlow,’ he said, relaxing slightly, ‘you ain’t. You’re a decent bloke, you are.’
‘There you are then.’
‘But I’m not,’ said Radford, causing Ginch to look worried again.
‘I don’t know nuffink,’ he repeated.
‘Maybe,’ said Radford, sitting back and folding his arms, ‘but you have to admit that your actions need a bit of explaining. I mean, two of your fellow down-and-outs have died in those houses in Alma Street and lo and behold, where do you turn up?’
‘It’s where we go’ said Ginch defensively.
‘Why?’
‘To do drugs. That’s all, honest.’
‘Why there?’ asked Perlow.
‘It’s a house, innit?’ and Ginch shrugged and looked at them hopefully. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Not just yet,’ said Radford, acutely conscious that forensics had thrown up nothing to link the teenager with the killings. ‘There does remain the small matter of the assault on Sergeant Gaines last week.’
‘I don’t know nothing about that, either,’ said Ginch. ‘I were somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘There’s a derelict house over on Greenbank Road, near that freezer shop. Some of us go in there.’
‘I know it,’ nodded Perlow, recalling his visit there and trying to think if he had glimpsed Ginch in the shadows. ‘So why move to Alma Street last night?’
‘We got kicked out by the owner of the house in Greenbank Road. He set his dog on us.’
‘Did you know Robert Garnett or Desmond Creeley?’ asked Radford.
‘Na,’ and Ginch shook his head vigorously.
‘Sure?’ Radford’s eyes bored into him.
Come on, Ginch, we’ve lost too much time to start playing games with nobodies like you.
‘OK, I did know them,’ said Ginch, ‘but only by sight. They weren’t friends or owt. Not like JT was.’
‘You knew JT?’ said Radford.
JT was the name by which the teenager killed by the bad drugs had been known. Checks into James Toon’s background had discovered a similar story to Ginch, a disaffected young man from another fractured background, dad in jail for drug dealing, mother a junkie. He had lived on the east side but travelled over to Western Division by bus three times a week to buy heroin. His death was particularly tragic for those who knew him because there had been a time a few months before when a brighter future seemed briefly to beckon. Having steered clear of the drugs that had entangled his parents, he secured a place at college where he studied car mechanics. It seemed as if he might do well enough to land himself a job at the end of the course - his tutors said he had an affinity for the work - then someone offered him heroin and that was that. Soon JT was hooked, dropped out of college and joined the city’s drifters, initially moving from bedsit to bedsit then taking to the streets, constantly evading the youth workers who tried to help him.
For Radford, JT’s tragic story was justification alone for Heron and he knew that, outside the police station, his teams were carrying out a high-profile blitz to make life as difficult as possible for the dealers who made such tragedies possible. Many of his officers were driven by personal motivations, their anger at the teenager’s pointless death heightened because they were acutely aware that JT could have been their own son or daughter.
Reinvigorated by the news that Heron was to continue, they had spilled out of the briefing room after Radford’s rallying cry and the cells were already starting to fill up as dealers were hauled in for questioning. The blitz had not yet yielded the gang but the police were putting the pressure on and any snippet of intelligence was eagerly analysed.
Radford was not surprised that Ginch and JT knew each other - the drug-taking world in Leyton was full of connections - and
he saw in the teenager someone who knew more than he was letting on.
‘So do you know who sold him the drugs?’ asked Radford.
‘Na,’ said Ginch quickly.
‘Na isn’t good enough,’ said Radford, leaning towards him, ‘not in here anyway, sunshine. Was it you that sold him the bad gear?’
The question shocked and terrified Ginch and the detective smiled slightly as the prisoner went pale.
‘Na,’ said the teenager and shook his head furiously again. ‘I wouldn’t do that, never. Honest, it were nothing to do with me. He got his gear from someone else.’
‘Going to tell me who?’
‘Na.’
‘I think that means you know but dare not tell us.’
‘There’s some heavy stuff going down,’ said Ginch, looking fearfully at the detectives. ‘People are getting hurt.’
‘Indeed they are,’ nodded Radford.
His worst fears were already being realised. Shortly before the chief inspector had headed for the interview room, Gaines had told him about an altercation on one of the housing estates earlier that morning. One dealer had been stabbed and was now critically ill in hospital and the attackers had tried to tip another dealer over the edge of one of the walkways in a nearby block of flats. Failing to do that, they had kicked him senseless before leaving the area - terrified witnesses had described them as strutting, as if they were determined that everyone knew what they had done. It was clear to Radford that the new gang was asserting its position for everyone to see. The dealers’ bravado was effective because when detectives interviewed local people, everyone seemed to have conveniently forgotten what the gang looked like.
‘Listen, Ginch,’ said Radford, speaking in more urgent tones, ‘we really need to know who is pushing the bad gear and I think you can help us.’
‘More than my life is worth…’ said Ginch, adding with a sombre flash of self-realisation, ‘and it ain’t worth much as it is.’
‘Ask yourself,’ said Radford, ‘who would you rather have as an enemy, me or them?’
