Spider Trap bak-9

by Barry Maitiland

  It seemed innocuous enough, and Brock agreed.

  On the way out they passed through the Central Lobby again, midway between the House of Commons and the House of Lords, and Grant stopped suddenly,staring at a line of people waiting at an information counter.

  ‘Kerrie?’

  The only black woman in the queue turned, looked embarrassed for a moment, then broke into a big smile.‘Michael!’

  Grant introduced her to Brock. ‘Kerrie’s the manager of my constituency office in Cockpit Lane.’

  ‘Yes, hello. I’ve been helping Sergeant Kolla contact people.’

  ‘But what are you doing here, Kerrie?’

  ‘I’m doing the PDVN course.’

  Grant looked blank.

  ‘The Parliamentary Data and Video Network course, Michael.We talked about it,remember? Andrea set it up for me.’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. There’s this big divide between the staff in the House and staff out in the constituencies,’ he explained to Brock.

  ‘It’s very important for people like Kerrie to come over and get brought up to speed.’

  ‘Apart from which I can move your constituency office broadband and email onto the central system and save you money.’

  ‘And access the intranet, yes. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I can’t find the room.’ She showed Grant the memo.

  ‘That’s Norman Shaw South,’ he said.‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  He led the way down the steps to the lobby in front of the entrance to Westminster Hall, now screened by a temporary partition, beyond which they could hear an excited hum of conversation.

  ‘Sounds like the widows are having fun,’ he said, and continued on through St Stephen’s porch into the sunlight of Parliament Square, where he shook Brock’s hand and said goodbye.

  That evening Tom Reeves took Kathy to a screening of Jean-Luc Godard’s 1960 film Breathless at a New Wave movie festival that was running at the National Film Theatre. She hadn’t seen it before, and Tom promised that she would find it interesting. She did, both for itself and for what it told her about Tom. At first it had seemed paradoxical, to say the least, that a cop should be so enthusiastic about the Jean-Paul Belmondo character, Michel, a crook who murders a cop. But then she began to notice subtle reflections of Tom in him-witty but also moody, and with a laconic smile that seemed to suggest unshakeable scepticism about the world and all its works. Even their looks found an echo, vaguely roguish and battered, though no one could look quite like Belmondo, with his concave boxer’s nose and thick Gallic lips.

  ‘At the end of shooting,’ Tom explained, ‘the American girl, Jean Seberg, was so disgusted by the whole thing that she said she didn’t want her name attached to it, and Belmondo, too, was appalled by the amateurishness of Godard’s production. Then the film came out and everyone went crazy about it, and they both realised that it was the most important thing they’d ever done. That’s genius, you see. The masterstroke that no one recognises until it’s been pulled off.’

  The way he said it, it didn’t sound so much like a bit of film criticism as a statement about life. Kathy wondered if Michel would have put it like that.

  Tom had another quote about Belmondo. ‘He said that women over thirty are at their best, but men over thirty are too old to recognise it.’

  She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but took it as a compliment, and as he drove her home she found herself warming to the thought of him coming up to her flat. She even got as far as trying to remember if she had any eggs to give him for breakfast, but when they reached her door he kissed her tenderly for a long moment, then said he couldn’t stay.

  SEVENTEEN

  On Monday morning Brock reassigned his team to other cases. No one referred to the Roach episode, as if it was over and best forgotten. But by the end of the briefing Kathy and Tom hadn’t been mentioned. Brock nodded to them as the meeting broke up and they followed him up to his office.

  They noticed that he hadn’t removed his own copies of the Brown Bread material from the big wall facing his desk. Kathy was struck by the symmetry between the pictures of the Roach family on one side and of the Brown Bread victims on the other, like the line-up for opposing soccer teams.

  ‘Despite what I said downstairs,’ Brock said, pouring coffee, ‘I still believe that discovering the truth behind the events of twenty-four years ago will be the key to finding Dee-Ann and Dana’s murderers. So . . . your boss says you can stay with us for a while longer, Tom.’

  ‘Glad to be rid of me, is he, Chief?’ ‘He didn’t say that exactly. It was my request. You all right

  with that?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  Brock smiled benignly, passing the cups around, but Kathy wasn’t fooled. He was watching their body language, the way they chose seats and leaned in together for the milk, trying to work out what was going on between them. Or maybe she was just being hypersensitive, the three of them together like that in his room.

  ‘Good. I didn’t mention it downstairs, but I’d like you two to stick with Brown Bread for a while longer, tie up some loose ends. Tom, you’re our Roach expert now. Commander Sharpe has asked for a summary of our investigation to put on file for the Organised Crime Liaison Group. Did you ever come across an OCLG or JIC file on Roach?’

  ‘Don’t recall one.’

  ‘You might use your Branch contacts to see if there is such a thing-informal approach, nothing official.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Did you meet the MP, Michael Grant? His office in Cockpit Lane helped Kathy track down the identity of our victims. Grant is also interested in Roach. He’s a bit of a crusader against drugs and crime in his community, and he’s convinced the Roaches are still operating, in partnership with the local black gangs.’

  ‘Really?’ Tom looked doubtful. ‘News to me. The Trident people didn’t think it likely, did they?’

  ‘No, but still, Grant claims to have information that he’s willing to share with us. I want you to talk to his research officer, Andrea.’ He handed Tom her card. ‘See what you think. They’ll want some quid pro quo, I daresay, but don’t give them anything without talking to me first.’

  ‘Haven’t really got much to give, have we?’

  ‘True. Kathy . . .’ He put his hands flat on the desk, as if at a

  loss.‘What do you think?’ ‘Loose ends? Well, who pressured the Singhs and Ferguson?’ ‘Yes. Anything else?’ ‘Neighbours? Rainbow?’ ‘Ah, Rainbow, of course. How did we manage without it?’ ‘I’ll have a look, shall I?’ ‘Please . . . By the way, did Michael Grant put you in touch with Mrs Lavender among his contacts, by any chance?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ ‘Mm, she may have passed away by now. All right. Let’s meet again tomorrow afternoon, see how we’re doing.’ On the stairs, as they turned a tight corner, Tom slid an arm around Kathy’s waist and gave a squeeze.‘Did we pass scrutiny?’ ‘You felt it too, did you?’ ‘We must have a talk sometime, about your relationship with the old man.’

  Kathy arranged to visit the Rainbow Coordinator at the area command that covered the elder Singhs’ home in Streatham. There they identified the cameras operating in the immediate area. There were none in the Singhs’ street, but a local council camera covered its junction with a shopping street at one end, the most likely direction of approach. As she talked to the coordinator, Kathy began to appreciate the difficulties.What exactly was she looking for? She had a list of cars registered to members of the Roach family, but Ricky was a car dealer and could presumably lay his hands on any number of other vehicles. Then there were the unknown associates and employees who may have been sent to give the Singhs the message. In the end, the coordinator agreed to try to provide a list of all the vehicles that had passed through the junction over a four-hour period on that night.

  ‘You realise that’ll probably be a couple of thousand? Who’s going to authorise the request?’

  Kathy gave Brock’s name and returned to her o
ffice, where she found two phone messages, one from forensic services and the other from a Mr Connell. She stared at the name, feeling a slight flush in her face, then rang the first number.

  The man at forensic services began by apologising for the delay. ‘We’ve had a rush of work and you did say it wasn’t top priority.’

  Kathy didn’t at first recall the job, and the man had to remind her about the cigarette end she’d found behind the fence overlooking the railway site.

  ‘That spliff you sent us. Interesting smoking mixture, must try it some time-tobacco and marijuana, half and half, with a garnish of cocaine. Prime sensimillia ganja, too, nothing cheap. Mr Murray has the right connections.’

  ‘Murray?’

  ‘The smoker. We’ve got his DNA on file. George Murray. Done for possession in a raid on a South London nightclub eight months ago.Charges dropped due to processing irregularities.We should have wiped the record. Oops.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘Eighteen Cockpit Lane, SW9. Know it?’

  Kathy did. She could picture the sign over the window, WELLINGTON’S UTENSILS EST. 1930.

  She thanked him and then, more cautious this time, pressed the numbers for the second call, a mobile.

  ‘Martin Connell, hello?’

  The voice still had that sonorous tone, which could be so skilfully adjusted to each occasion: a TV news soundbite, a judge, a former lover.Kathy waited a beat before revealing which one it was.

  ‘Hello, Martin.’

  ‘Kathy! It’s so good to hear your voice again. Seeing Bren Gurney the other day made me think of you. How are you?’

  ‘Fine.You?’

  ‘Yes, great.You know what I was thinking, while Gurney was going through all that nonsense?’ He said it as if he knew perfectly well that she’d been watching.‘I was thinking how really good it would be to see you again, have lunch, catch up.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I know, you’re frantically busy and we’re just old history. But we were important to each other once,and I think it’s wrong to lose contact completely with people who have been important in your life, don’t you? Christ, there aren’t that many of them when it comes right down to it. I don’t suppose you heard about Daniel?’

  It took a second for Kathy to remember.‘Your brother?’

  ‘That’s right.We buried him last month. His heart packed in, just like that. It was a hell of a shock-makes you stop and think, Kathy.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’ She’d never met Daniel, but she remembered the tone Martin’s voice took on whenever he spoke of his elder brother, a mixture of admiration, envy and intense frustration.

  ‘Well, anyway, maybe you’re a little curious, eh? To catch up?’

  She laughed. He’d perfected that inveigling pitch at an early age, she’d once decided, to get whatever he fancied-his brother’s cricket bat or his mother’s undivided attention-and it still worked a treat with juries and impressionable younger women.

  ‘What do you really want, Martin?’

  ‘Just to buy you lunch, and talk to an old friend, and maybe pass on a little gossip for our mutual entertainment. How about tomorrow?’

  She agreed. The key words were ‘pass on’. Martin was a messenger. And he was right, she was curious.

  Within an hour the weather had turned bitterly cold again, dark clouds looming overhead. Kathy parked her car in a side street, pulled a woollen beanie down over her ears,turned up her coat collar and paced briskly towards Cockpit Lane. The market was deserted, the stalls stripped back to metal frames, cardboard boxes stacked ready for collection. There was a light showing in Winnie’s shop window and Kathy pushed open the door. The old woman heard the buzzer and emerged from the back,wiping her hands on a towel.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ cautiously.‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Hello, Winnie. I wondered if George was around. There’s something I need to ask him.’

  Winnie’s face fell.‘He’s not here. Maybe I can help you?’

  ‘I’d really like to speak to him. Any idea where I can find him?’

  The woman’s brow creased like an old glove as she shook her head.‘He’s gone, he don’t work for me no more and I haven’t seen him in over a week.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We had a row, a week ago last Saturday it was. I wanted him up early to get things ready for the market, but he was out till four or five o’clock the night before, doing goodness knows what. He said some wicked things and walked out. I haven’t seen him since. What is it you want to ask him? Is he in trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know.We got some reports that someone was watching us when we were digging up the railway bank, from across the other side, in one of the gardens. Whoever it was was smoking drugs, and now we’ve learned that it was George.’

  Winnie nodded resignedly.‘Dat don’t surprise me.The drugs, I mean. He wasn’t even tryin’ to hide it from me no more. And it’s true, for over a month now he’s been disappearing for hours at

  a time, just when I need him.’

  ‘Why would he spy on us? There wasn’t much to see.’

  ‘Once, when I asked him where he’d been, he said I wasn’t the only one prepared to pay for his services.’

  ‘Any idea who he’d be working for?’

  The old lady shrugged as if to suggest the worst.‘All I can tell you is that one of my friends in the market said the other day that she’d seen him with some girl. Maybe he’s staying there. I don’t know. She lives over the laundrette in Cove Street, back of the tyre place, you know?’

  Kathy knew very well from their abortive raids on Mr Teddy Vexx. She hurried back to her car and drove to Cove Street, then turned into the laneway that led past the tyre yard. From there she could see the back of the block of shops and laundrette. Stairs led to an open access gallery to the flats above. There were lights on in one and Kathy was about to get out when its front door opened and a young woman,heavily wrapped against the cold,manoeuvred a child’s pushchair out onto the deck.She reached back into the flat to turn the light off, then carefully locked the front door with three separate keys before pushing the chair towards the stairs. Kathy guessed that there was no one left in the flat, and stayed where she was as the girl struggled down the stairs. Kathy realised why it was such an effort when she emerged into the lane and Kathy saw that the pushchair was a double one,with a pair of little pink hats visible under the hood. Kathy locked her car and followed.

  After a couple of blocks the woman slowed at a shopfront beside a bus stop. There was another struggle as someone on the inside opened both doors and helped lift the pushchair’s front wheels over the threshold. The sign stencilled on the front window read CAMBERWELL GUM CLINIC. Kathy continued walking towards it as the woman disappeared inside, and as she reached the front door it opened again and she saw into a room crowded with women. A smaller sign on the other window said GENITOURINARY MEDICINE.

  Kathy guessed the woman was going to be there for a while,and picked up a paper at the corner shop before crossing to a cafe over the road, where she bought a mug of tea and a toasted sandwich.

  An hour and a half later the girl re-emerged. As soon as she was out on the footpath she lit a cigarette and blew a great puff of relief into the frosty air, then headed off again along the street, turning eventually into a grim little park where she released the tiny twins to totter around on the soggy ground while she sat on a bench and lit another cigarette. Kathy checked the name of the place, Tallow Square, then followed the narrow road around the edge, convinced now that she was wasting her time. The sky was growing darker and more threatening by the minute, and she was on the point of turning back when she noticed parked ahead of her a car that she recognised, an electric-blue Peugeot convertible. It looked remarkably pristine and sleek among the battered dustbins and graffiti-covered walls on this more derelict side of the park, as did the glossy red BMW sports car behind it. At that moment a man stepped from the mouth of a lane midway betw
een Kathy and the cars.

  Kathy stopped dead, recognising George. The tree trunks behind her were as black as her coat, otherwise he would surely have noticed her. Instead, his attention was caught by the figures in the park. He gave a shout and trotted towards them, and at that moment the sky overhead flickered with light, followed almost immediately by a massive bang of thunder. Kathy came abreast of the lane from which George had appeared and caught an image of battered fences topped by barbed wire and a faded sign, REILLY’S USED CARS. She heard the savage howl of a dog, then the first heavy raindrops hit the ground.

  She hadn’t noticed cameras, but she kept her head down, shoulders hunched,and continued past the cars,noting the number of the BMW and of several other cars further up the street.The rain turned into a torrent and she broke into a run.

  When she got back to Queen Anne’s Gate she phoned DS McCulloch to see if he knew anything about George Murray, who didn’t have a police record. He said he’d check and get back to her. Then she decided to see how Tom was doing. She found him in a room in the basement where he had taken all the material they had accumulated on the Roach family. Cold and vaulted like a crypt, he called it The Roach Room, and had covered its walls with photos and diagrams.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he offered. ‘Your hair’s wet. Did you get caught in that downpour?’

  ‘Yes,’she sniffed.‘I think I’m getting a cold.’

  He plugged in the electric heater he’d brought down there and she moved closer to it, looking around at the images on the walls.‘Why are they all dressed in black?’

  ‘The most recent pictures were taken at a funeral four years ago, when the whole family turned out to farewell Cyrus Despinides, who happened to be a friend of someone else Special Branch were interested in. Cyrus Despinides was an old business partner of Spider, and his daughter Adonia is married to Ivor Roach, the second son, the accountant.’ Tom pointed to a family tree diagram.

  ‘Yes, I’ve met Adonia, and her daughter Magdalen.’