‘Keep up the good work,’ he called after me as I walked out of his office. ‘And don’t forget to bring back the cup.’
I went over to my desk next to Jools’s and sat down. The incident room had gone quiet again, and at least half the team seemed to have disappeared, including Jools, probably taking much-needed breaks from the monotony of staring at CCTV footage. Glenda was still there, though, po-faced, banging away on her keyboard.
I took a sip from my coffee and took the photo of Dana Brennan her mum had given me out of my wallet.
I stared down at the faded image of the smiling young girl, thinking that, as far as the investigation was concerned, she was becoming forgotten in all this. But someone had abducted her on that summer afternoon in 1989, pretty much a year to the day before Kitty disappeared. Had it been a young Cem Kalaman?
One thing was for sure: it was definitely someone who knew the twisting warren of country roads around Dana’s house.
I booted up my PC and went on Google Maps, using my mouse to create a map that took in the area around Medmenham College, in the top right corner, and Whitchurch, the village in Hampshire where Kitty’s cousins Lola and Alastair Sheridan had been brought up, in the bottom left corner. I opened another tab and went into my inbox. The notes Jools had emailed me were right at the top, and I found the postcode for the Sheridan family address and flagged it on the map. I then looked up Dana’s parents’ address in my notebook and flagged that on the map too. The distance between the two properties was barely ten miles, and the Brennan home was on the way towards the school, albeit still some thirty miles away.
I didn’t know what that told me. In truth, it was probably just a coincidence, and there was no reason to think that Kitty’s cousins, who would have been around twenty at the time, had anything to do with Dana’s abduction. Nevertheless, something about it bugged me so I printed off the map and put it on my desk, then slowly drank my coffee, pondering the case and my next move. Sometimes it’s good just to sit and think. It gets the ideas flowing. Other times it just adds to the general confusion, which was what was happening now.
I was just about to give up being Sherlock Holmes for the day and start on the mountain of paperwork I had to get through when I had an idea. It was a bit of a long shot, but some deep-down instinct I couldn’t quite explain told me it might come to something. And that instinct’s been good to me in the past. So I went online, found the number I was looking for, and picked up the phone.
Half an hour later I had what I needed.
Thirty-one
After the phone call with Dan the Pig, Ramon had walked for a long time. He appreciated walking these days, as was often the case with men who’d spent close to half their lives hidden away in prison. He was feeling restless so he walked in a big circle, even passing close to the estate where he’d gone looking for Marlon Jones all those years ago. He’d been a scared kid then, living on his nerves as he fought to prove himself to the Youngers and the Elders in his gang, doing what had to be done to get by. And you know what? In the end, not a lot had changed. He was bigger now, harder, maybe even a bit more wise. But he was as scared as he’d ever been, maybe more so, because just like before there was no way out.
Ramon was a couple of blocks short of his flat when he felt he was being watched. A car was slowing to a crawl just behind him, and that kind of thing was never a good thing. He kept walking, pushing out his chest and keeping his head high, telling himself that so far at least he hadn’t done anything wrong, so no one had any reason to hurt him.
The car was alongside him now and he heard the hiss of a window coming down. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the vehicle was black and sleek.
‘Hey, Ramon,’ said a deep, unfamiliar voice. ‘Why not come for a ride?’
Ramon looked down, half expecting to see Dan the Pig, but the man who stared out at him from inside the back of the Merc was a whole lot scarier than any Fed, and Ramon felt his heart jump in his chest as he wondered if he’d been found out already.
The door opened and Jonas Mavalu moved aside to let Ramon in.
Ramon took a quick glimpse in the front and saw only a driver, which made him feel a little safer. The truth was, though, he knew he couldn’t say no. Jonas was Junior’s boss, a legend in gangland circles, even inside nick. There were all kinds of stories about him: that he’d been one of the rioters who’d hacked to death PC Keith Blakelock during the 1985 Broadwater Farms riots, when he was only fourteen years old; that he’d killed a rival gang leader with a machete in front of a pub full of witnesses when he was only sixteen years old, and got away with it because no one dared snitch on him to the Feds. Ramon didn’t know how many of them were true but he did know one thing for sure: Jonas was one of Kalaman’s most feared enforcers, and therefore definitely not a man to be crossed.
Reluctantly, Ramon got inside the Merc, squeezing his bulk in next to Jonas, who was also a big guy, though not as big as Ramon.
The inside of the car was silent as the driver pulled away from the kerb. Jonas just sat staring at him and Ramon felt his body tighten. He stared back, knowing from long and bitter experience that you never show you’re scared. Not to anyone.
‘I’m guessing you know who I am, Ramon,’ said Jonas.
Ramon wasn’t sure what the right answer was. Junior had told him that Jonas liked to keep a low profile so he might not like it if Ramon knew his name, but he decided to tell the truth anyway rather than risk a potentially needless lie. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know who you are.’
‘You’re not wearing a wire, are you?’ Jonas’s face was serious, his eyes boring into Ramon’s. He had an intense stare and big bug eyes that made it look like he was on the verge of launching an attack.
Ramon’s expression didn’t change, even though the question had caught him like a sucker punch. He knew he had to keep calm even as he wondered who it was who’d betrayed him. ‘Course I’m not. Why would I do that?’
Jonas kept staring, all muscles and aggression, and Ramon had to resist squirming in his seat. What the fuck did this guy want?
Then, just as suddenly, Jonas’s face broke into a big toothy grin and he punched Ramon in the arm. Hard. ‘I’m just fucking with you, bruv. I know you’re all right, and you can speak freely in here. This car’s been swept for bugs. The Feds aren’t listening in.’
‘Sure,’ said Ramon warily, resisting the urge to rub his arm.
‘I’m going to put up the screen, Anton,’ said Jonas, addressing the driver. ‘I want to talk privately to my man here, you understand? You just drive around. Make sure you don’t stray too far from here.’
Jonas pressed a button and a glass screen rose up from a panel behind the front seats. At the same time, Ramon glanced at the driver and immediately saw the black sleeve tattoo on his left forearm. He made a mental note of it before turning back to Jonas, who was watching him carefully with the kind of smile that would look good on a crocodile.
‘So, how are you enjoying working for Junior, Ramon?’
Ramon shrugged and deliberately left it a couple of seconds before he answered. ‘It’s all right. The work’s easy enough and I get paid on time. It’s a lot better than jail.’
‘Yeah, I bet it is. You know, you could go places, Ramon. You want that?’
Ramon nodded slowly, not sure where this was going, but ready to play along. ‘Yeah, I want that.’
‘You prepared to do what it takes? To obey orders, whatever they are?’
Ramon was getting interested now, sensing this was some kind of job interview. ‘Yeah, I am. I’m not scared of getting my hands dirty either.’
‘I know you’re not. I heard about you popping that boy back in the day. Cost you fourteen years, right? You know why? Cos you got caught.’
Which Ramon thought was kind of stating the obvious, even though Jonas was looking at him like a muscly black Buddha who’d just imparted some great wisdom.
‘Let me tell you something, Ramon,’ he continued. ‘When I first
started out I was just like you were. I even grew up close to your ends. I made my money mugging kids, nicking their pocket money, running little bits of dope here and there. I didn’t have no ambition, you get what I’m saying? I was just living day to day, trying to get respect, just like you were. I wanted to show everyone I was the best, the hardest. The one no one messed with. So one time when I held up this geezer outside the tube, and he wouldn’t give me the money and tried to run, I let him have it. Put a knife in his gut. The geezer survived and I got his money, all twenty-two quid of it, but then one of my boys ratted on me, said I was the one who used the shank, and I got put away for five years.’ He stared at Ramon, shaking his head. ‘Five years for twenty-two quid. Do the maths, Ramon. It ain’t worth it. But you know what? It did me good. Because all that jail time gives you time to think, right? It makes you realize that wasting your life doing petty little crimes, running round the street trying to scrape a few quid, just ain’t the way. You’ve got to think big, bruv. Have a plan.’ He tapped his temple with a finger. ‘You know what I’m going to be doing one day? Sitting on a yacht full of hot bitches in Montego Bay counting my money. How does that sound to you? A life in the sun with all the bitches you can fuck, and all the money you can count.’
‘It sounds good, man,’ said Ramon. And it did. Jesus, it did.
‘You can have it. You do what you’re told, you act like a good soldier, and you’ll be rewarded. And the sky’s the limit, Ramon. You get what I’m saying, bruv? The limit.’ Jonas sat back in his seat and put his hands on his head, flexing his biceps. ‘You’re the kind of man we’re looking for. Someone who don’t mind getting his hands dirty. Someone who can kill.’
Ramon stayed silent.
‘How did you feel killing that boy, Ramon?’
Ramon shrugged. He’d thought about it a lot over the years, and the thoughts had been mixed. Sometimes regret. Sometimes guilt. Other times, indifference or anger. Today it was definitely anger. ‘Him and his boys dissed me. He deserved it.’
Jonas laughed, a deep bass sound that rattled round the car like someone had turned the volume right up. Then he stopped and looked serious again.
‘You want to join my crew, Ramon?’
Ramon hadn’t expected this. A move up to Jonas’s crew – a small, select group of Kalaman soldiers who wielded real power – was a major promotion. And to be honest, Jonas’s words were inspiring him in a way he’d never been inspired before. He wanted what was on offer. The money, the women. The respect. And for the first time in his life, it was actually within his grasp. At that moment, even the fact that he was supposedly working for the Feds didn’t bother him.
‘Yeah man, I want to join your crew,’ said Ramon, looking Jonas in the eye as he spoke, just so Jonas knew he was absolutely serious.
‘Good. Junior will pick you up tomorrow night at ten outside your flats. Be ready. Right now, though, I want you to do me a favour. And I don’t want you to tell Junior about it. You got a car?’
Ramon nodded. He’d bought a second-hand VW Polo as soon as he’d passed his test. He didn’t use it much but he was proud of the fact he actually owned his own car.
‘You know where you and Junior dropped them girls off last night? I want you to go there at eight, pick up one of the girls, and take her to this address.’ He pulled out a wallet fat with cash from inside his hoodie, found a slip of paper inside, and handed it to Ramon. ‘You put her in the back of the car, you don’t look at her. You don’t talk to her. When you’ve dropped her off, you burn that piece of paper, and forget you ever went there. Understand?’
Ramon knew better than to ask questions. This was a test. He needed to pass it. ‘No problem, it’s sorted,’ he said.
Jonas put a hand on Ramon’s shoulder and fixed him with a cold smile. ‘Good. I know I can rely on you. But one thing, bruv. Don’t ever let me down.’ The smile faded and the grip on the shoulder grew tighter. ‘Cos if you do, I’ll cut out your fucking eyes.’ He released his grip, pressed the button, and the glass partition came back down. ‘Anton, drop our man here.’
The driver pulled over. Ramon got out without a backward glance and slipped the piece of paper into his jeans pocket. As the sleek black Merc pulled away he wondered if he’d be driving one of them one day. Or whether he’d end up face down in a ditch with a bullet in the back of his head and his eyes cut out.
It said everything about his life that it could just as easily be either.
Thirty-two
It was almost eight and darkness was beginning to settle when I rang the doorbell.
Dr John Kettleborough PhD, retired lecturer and research fellow at Goldsmiths, London, lived in an attractive townhouse on a quiet north London street that, thanks to the capital’s insane property prices, would have cost him a lifetime’s university salary if he’d bought it today. I’d finally managed to track him down after seven different phone calls, and at least one threat of prosecution for obstruction, and had called him an hour earlier to make an appointment, so he was expecting me.
I never went to university. I joined the army instead. But I have to say when he answered the door, Dr Kettleborough looked exactly as I’d assumed a retired history and philosophy lecturer would look. He had a big head of unruly white hair, an intelligent yet slightly mischievous face, and the ruddy complexion of a man who’d enjoyed life’s pleasures over the years. He was wearing a check shirt, partly covered by a burgundy waistcoat, trousers that had seen better days, and a pair of worn leather slippers that had probably been expensive once. According to his bio, he was sixty-nine, which looked about right.
I smiled and put out a hand. ‘Dr Kettleborough. Thanks for agreeing to see me at such short notice.’
We shook, and he had a firm grip.
‘DS Mason, please come inside.’
I followed him as he led me down a pleasantly warm hallway with an oriental carpet and paintings lining the walls, past a living room lined with books where an attractive woman about twenty years younger than him sat reading an old hardback without looking up, and into a cosy study at the back of the house, where a fire was burning in the hearth, even though it wasn’t a particularly cold evening. Bookshelves lined two of the walls and the PC on the desk facing the window was open at a Word document. Next to the PC was a miniature bust of Karl Marx.
‘I’ve been working this evening,’ said Kettleborough, motioning for me to take one of the armchairs next to the fire. ‘I’m writing a book. I think I’d go mad if I didn’t have something to occupy my mind. Do you read, DS Mason?’
‘When I can,’ I told him, turning my chair away from the heat of the fire and waiting for him to take the one opposite me.
He offered me a drink but I declined. I wanted to get down to business.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked, carefully lowering himself into the chair in a way that made me fear growing old.
‘It’s about one of your former students, Henry Forbes. I believe you taught him in the 1980s.’
‘I thought it might be about that. I read about his passing. A horrible thing. Horrible.’ He gave a little shudder as if violent death was something unheard of in his world, which I suppose it was. ‘I don’t know how much I can tell you,’ he continued. ‘I haven’t seen Henry for a long, long time now, not since he left the university in 1989.’
‘That’s fine. I’m just trying to build up a background on him.’
‘Do you suspect him of murdering Katherine Sinn? I read about her body being found in the papers, and the timing of his death seems very coincidental.’
‘He is definitely a person of interest,’ I said, not wanting to give too much away.
Kettleborough shook his head sadly. ‘It’s a pity. He was a nice enough young man. Popular with other students, a good public speaker, and a solid philosopher. But not the kind of person I would expect to commit murder, although I’m sure you’ll tell me that it’s always the ones you don’t expect who commit murder.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Most of the time it’s the ones you expect. Why don’t you think he was the type to commit murder?’
He pondered this for so long that I thought he’d forgotten the question. But he hadn’t.
‘I suppose he simply didn’t look like he had it in him,’ he explained. ‘He always struck me as a weak character. One who would never want to get his hands too dirty.’
‘How long did you know him for?’
‘Oh, the whole time he was at Goldsmiths. I lectured him from the very first year of his BA. And I was his mentor for his PhD.’
‘Would you say you had a close relationship with him?’
For the first time Kettleborough appeared to hesitate, as if I might have hit a nerve. ‘I liked him,’ he said. ‘He had potential, but he wasn’t the kind of man who inspired people. He didn’t give much of himself away and I came to the conclusion that he was actually quite shallow.’
‘I know this might sound a strange question, but did Henry ever express an interest in Satanism or witchcraft?’
Kettleborough raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, that is a strange question. No, he didn’t. Why do you ask?’
‘He had a tattoo of an occult sign underneath his arm, here.’ I pointed to the spot on my body where I’d seen Henry’s pentacle. ‘It looked like this.’ I produced the A4 image of the sign from my pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to him.
He put on a pair of reading glasses and examined the sheet of paper before handing it back to me. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before. Was it a new tattoo?’
I remembered the faded ink from Henry’s badly burned body. ‘I don’t think so. I think he’d had it a good few years.’
‘He didn’t have it when I knew him.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘This is just background information you’re looking for, isn’t it? So I can talk to you in confidence, knowing what I say won’t end up in the public domain?’
‘Yes,’ I said, more interested now. ‘This conversation is entirely off the record.’
The Bone Field Page 18
