by Paul Finch
The first thing Heck and Gail noticed on entering was the smell: damp bedclothes, unwashed bodies, stale urine. When they pushed through into the living room they found it poorly furnished and littered with beer cans and dirty underwear. Instead of a carpet, lino covered the floor, brown and peeling at its edges. Bob Hunter was present, along with two other Flying Squad officers. A fourth person was also there, someone Heck didn’t know. He was seated in a low, slouch-backed armchair, wore a tatty grey sweater and blue tracksuit bottoms and slippers. He was no more than thirty, but scarecrow-thin, his face looking thinner still thanks to the overlarge glasses perched on his hawk-like nose and his immense feather-duster of brown/grey hair. A roll-up, so shrivelled and twisted that it was difficult to imagine it contained any tobacco at all, was stuck behind his ear.
He stared to his front, paying attention to nobody, though his demeanour wasn’t that of a tough guy – it was more as if he was lost in a world of his own. However, any questions Heck might have had about the guy’s dazed state were answered when, across the room, he spied a table covered with bottles, dirty spoons, and syringes.
‘Meet Billy Peerson,’ Hunter said, not bothering with a preamble. ‘Despite resembling a wandering mental patient, this is the Snake Eye Crew’s chief accountant.’
Heck regarded the guy in the armchair with astonishment. ‘This fella is?’
Hunter nodded and rubbed at the back of his neck. He was white-faced from lack of sleep, but still looked fully awake. ‘He was once a high flyer in the City. But it seems his habits got the better of him. He fell from grace … all the way down to Skelton Wood. But he can still crunch a few numbers when he wants to. Isn’t that right, Billy?’
Peerson said nothing, but continued to gaze into the near distance.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg,’ Hunter said. ‘He’s investigating a series of murders down in Surrey.’
Peerson seemed to flinch – his right cheek twitched, and he glanced up.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Hunter said in an ominous tone. ‘A series of murders. This gets better and better, doesn’t it?’ He glanced at Heck. ‘Billy here is quite nervous about getting charged with money laundering, handling stolen goods, possessing drugs, aiding and abetting a series of armed robberies, and so forth. So, again despite appearances, he’s actually very happy to talk to us. And it’s all going down on paper soon … isn’t it, Billy?’
‘Had nothing to do with any murders,’ Peerson said in a dull, vaguely uncertain voice, which even now carried a hint of the grammar-school education he’d so casually thrown away. ‘Not in Surrey. Surrey’s not our patch. We never had anything going in Surrey.’
‘Perhaps you’ll let DS Heckenburg be the judge of that,’ Hunter answered. ‘Tell him what you told me about the vehicle log. Like I said, your cooperation will not go un-rewarded.’
‘Erm …’ Peerson sniffed and, when snot came bubbling out, wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘The crew had different ways to, erm, to generate cash. Quick cash.’
‘You don’t say,’ Heck replied.
‘One was stealing vehicles to order,’ Hunter put in.
Heck nodded. ‘That could be interesting.’
Peerson sniffed again and dug through his matted locks to scratch at his scalp, which unleashed a shower of dandruff. ‘Some other firm needed a motor for a job, the crew would provide one at short notice. For an upfront fee.’
‘They stole them from around here?’ Heck asked.
Peerson shrugged. ‘Where else? Someone’s car goes walkies here, no one complains. Everyone knows the crew’ll be involved.’
‘Not anymore,’ Brogan chuckled.
‘True, true,’ Hunter said wistfully. ‘But I’m sure Billy’ll get used to the new world order pretty soon.’
Peerson looked puzzled by this exchange. He glanced from one to the other. ‘It’s a good place to get a motor. Nothing’d come back to you, you see. They’d report it eventually – few days later perhaps. Say some Glaswegian geezers lifted it.’
‘And as book-keeper, did you maintain a record of these transactions?’ Heck asked.
Peerson threw an arm towards a sideboard. Its cupboards had been opened and paperwork strewed the floor, but a pile of leather-bound ledgers had been laid out along the top, presumably by Hunter and his team.
‘If you want a look, Heck, get to it,’ the DI said. ‘I’ve got to book this lot in soon.’
Heck strode over there and leafed through several pages, most of which were filled with scrawled biro, in many cases incomprehensibly, though pound signs were littered throughout, often with telephone numbers attached.
‘I’m looking for a grey Bedford van, Billy,’ Heck said, handing a couple of the ledgers to Gail. ‘Perhaps you can give me a hand. Registration G-D-1-4-F-E-D.’
Peerson brushed another hand through his unmanageable hair. ‘Reckon … yeah, reckon I remember that.’
‘Well come on, help the man out,’ Hunter urged him, taking him by the sleeve and tugging him to his feet.
Peerson trudged across the room as though half asleep. ‘It was recently. We usually charge ten grand for vehicle supply.’
‘Only ten, eh?’ Hunter snickered. ‘Me and you are in the wrong job, Heck.’
‘Maybe less this time.’ Peerson worked his way through the pile of remaining ledgers, and selected one. ‘They lifted it outside that Asian corner shop on Morgan Avenue.’
‘Yeah, and he did report it, as it happens,’ Heck said. ‘Straight away.’
Peerson shrugged as he flicked pages. ‘Pakis, you know.’ He paused to take the roll-up from behind his ear, filched a lighter from his pocket and tried to strike a flame. ‘Law unto their fucking selves since they got militant. They’d have known about it soon.’
‘You’re going to know about it, son, if you don’t get a move on,’ Brogan advised him. ‘These are law-abiding people your mates have been terrorising.’
Peerson didn’t respond until he managed to light his cig, at which point he continued glancing through the ledgers, puffing foul smoke. ‘This one,’ he finally said, tapping a page. He coughed as he read down its figures. ‘Grey Bedford van … knew I remembered. Yeah, there was no fee this time.’
Heck looked down at the page and saw the letters ‘F/R’ scribbled alongside the registration mark. ‘FR?’ he said.
Peerson nodded. ‘Favour returned. We must’ve owed someone.’
Heck read on. ‘And the buyer was “Jack Smith”.’ He glanced at Hunter, who shrugged, then at Gail, who shook her head. ‘What’s his real name, Billy?’
Peerson pushed the ledger into Heck’s grasp and shuffled back towards his armchair. ‘We don’t ask – so long as their money’s good.’
‘And what was the favour?’
‘Above my pay grade.’ Peerson coughed again. ‘I just keep books.’
‘Sorry, pal,’ Hunter said to Heck. ‘Looks like I brought you here for nothing.’
‘No you didn’t.’ Heck glanced down at the page, noting the date of the transaction – 22/7. ‘We’ll get Billy here to look at some photos.’
‘Don’t need to,’ Peerson said, relaxing back into his chair, blowing more vile smoke. ‘He’s still in London – I saw him last night.’
‘When and where?’ Gail asked.
‘About seven o’clock. He’s stopping at the Lambeth Royal.’ Peerson closed his eyes as he inhaled. ‘Was walking over to it from the kebab shop across the road.’
‘The Lambeth Royal?’ she said.
‘Cheap hotel,’ Brogan explained. ‘Right shithole. Prozzies, druggies, the lot.’
‘You sure it was this Jack Smith?’ Heck asked.
‘Sure.’
‘What does he look like, this fella?’
Peerson blew smoke from his nostrils, which seemed to relax him even more. His eyelids fluttered.
‘Don’t go to sleep on us, Billy! I said what does he look like?’
‘Erm … short, stocky. Anorak on. Jea
ns.’
‘Was he alone?’ Gail asked.
Peerson gestured vaguely. ‘On his own, yeah. Had two kebabs though. Rolled up in paper, you know.’
Hunter looked at Heck. ‘This mean anything to you?’
‘Rings true,’ Heck said quietly. ‘There were two of them on the CCTV. One was short and stocky. I’m just wondering why they’re hanging around here? I mean, they’re staying in a flop, so they’re obviously not locals. But if they’ve been doing jobs in Surrey, why aren’t they stopping down there?’
‘Maybe they’re not Surrey lads either?’ Hunter suggested.
Heck was perplexed. Whenever they turned a corner in this case, there seemed to be another one just beyond it. ‘Okay,’ he said, indicating to Gail that it was time to leave. ‘Thanks for your help, Billy. Hope it gets you a couple of years off your twenty-stretch.’
Peerson’s cheek twitched again; he threw a querying glance at Hunter.
‘Ignore him,’ Hunter said. ‘You deliver and we’ll sort you out.’
‘I’ve a special interest in that ledger, Bob,’ Heck added as he walked to the door.
‘Yeah … I’ll make a note of it.’
‘Jack Smith?’ Gail said, when they’d exited onto the gantry. ‘You sure you believe that junkhead? He was stoned out of his mind.’
‘Not necessarily when he filled that ledger in.’ Heck looked lost in thought. ‘The Snake Eyes provided our perps with that van on 22 July. That’s two days before I hit the river up at Thornton Farm.’
‘The timings are right at least.’
He strode off along the gantry. ‘Next stop the Lambeth Royal.’
‘Think it’s as great a place as it sounds?’ she asked.
‘All I’d say is have you still got your body armour from last night?’
‘Yeah, it’s in the car.’
‘Good. Put it on.’
Chapter 28
The Lambeth Royal stood down a side street off Stockwell Road and was a rather soulless building, though that perhaps hadn’t always been the case. It was Victorian in origin, about four storeys high and, in terms of its architecture, resembled a large, rambling townhouse, though its redbrick façade was encrusted with soot and its gutters filled with weeds and bird’s nests. It was accessible via a short drive, which was potholed and strewn with litter. As they trudged up this, Gail glimpsed a face grinning from the matted undergrowth to one side. It belonged to a goblin seated on a stool. It was cut from marble or some other white stone, but was now grey with grime and crumbly with moss.
‘Salubrious or what?’ she said quietly.
‘Yeah,’ Heck replied. ‘And check that out.’
Left of the house, an offshoot of the drive led under a car port, its corrugated plastic roof bowed beneath layers of autumn leaves. In the shadowed space below, they could make out two vehicles; one a beaten-up Volvo with a rusty engine grille, the other a grey Bedford van. The latter’s registration plate read: GD14 FED.
They approached the front door, which stood open on a porch filled with the trampled rags of innumerable give-away newspapers. A fanlight over the top had once sported handsome stained glass but was now broken and dusty. Beyond this they entered a cavernous foyer, where more decayed fragments served as remnants of a grander past: a chandelier minus bulbs and hung with cobwebs as thick and black as rotted drapery; wood-panelled walls that were dented and scratched; an ornate brass handrail running up the main stairway, now green with age. On the right, enclosed in a cubbyhole, there was a small counter, on the other side of which a desk clerk in his mid-twenties reclined on an overstuffed leather armchair. He was a lean, emaciated sort with a nose ring and a goatee beard, wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and a woolly hat pulled down over a mop of stringy, shoulder-length hair. His spiked leather wristbands only served to enhance the thinness of his pipe-cleaner arms. He was reading a music magazine, which he only lowered slowly on realising they were there. Eventually he stood up.
‘Can I help?’ His accent betrayed Staffordshire origins.
Gail displayed her warrant card. ‘You’ve got a Jack Smith staying here, I understand?’
The desk clerk seemed unimpressed. ‘Have I?’
She put her ID away and produced a folded twenty. ‘I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you to check.’
The clerk sniffed indifferently. ‘Gonna cost you more than that.’
Heck lunged across the counter, grabbing him by the collar. ‘More than it’ll cost you for a new top set?’ For a second they were nose to nose – so close that Heck could see scarlet inflammation and yellow pus gathered around the nose-piercing. ‘It’s very simple, pal … we’ve had a trying few days, and are in no mood to get fucked in the arse by some sociology student street-guy wannabe. Understand?’
‘Erm …’ The desk clerk still tried to affect indifference, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. ‘Yeah, sure, but I gotta check the register, know what I mean?’
‘I’m sure you don’t, actually,’ Heck said. ‘I’m sure you’ll have no problem remembering someone who’s checked in here for several days. I’m damn sure it would be an event in your life if someone wanted to stay here longer than a single afternoon. Am I right?’
The clerk still tried to pretend this was nothing to him, but the Adam’s apple was quivering in the middle of his throat. ‘Listen … we don’t want any trouble here.’
‘You don’t know the meaning of trouble, son. Not yet. How many of them are there?’
‘Only seen two. They booked room fourteen. That’s a twin.’
‘When did they check in?’
‘I’ll need to look at the register for that.’
Heck released the clerk and he tottered backwards. He glanced once, regretfully, at the twenty-pound note as it disappeared into Gail’s pocket, and filched something from a side drawer that looked like a school exercise book. He flicked through it quickly. ‘July 22. Didn’t give a checkout date.’
Heck turned to Gail, and she nodded. They moved to the foot of the staircase.
‘But they’re not in now,’ the clerk added.
Heck glanced back, irritably.
The clerk shrugged. ‘Saw ’em go out first thing. Didn’t say when they’d be back.’
‘They weren’t doing a runner by any chance?’ Gail asked.
‘Didn’t have bags with ’em.’
Heck glanced past him. On the other side of the cubbyhole lay a small back office. ‘We’ll wait in there with you,’ he said.
For the first time the desk clerk looked disgruntled, but he still lifted a hatch in the counter. ‘This’ll do our rep a world of good.’
‘You don’t tell anyone, neither will we,’ Gail replied as they made their way through.
The back office was actually little more than a tea-making area. It had a table with a kettle and a couple of dirty mugs on it, another armchair, a small portable television, and a free-standing heater, though this was currently switched off. Its walls were dingy and peeling, its carpet impacted with crumbs. Heck positioned himself to one side of the entrance, so that he could view whoever came to the counter, and settled there to wait.
Gail perched on the edge of the armchair. ‘How long are we giving this?’
‘As long as it takes, I think – don’t you?’
She nodded resignedly.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’ll probably be an education.’
And he wasn’t far wrong on that. The next arrivals at the counter were a couple. The girl, who was black and buxom, but no more than eighteen, wore flip-flops, indecently short cut-offs, and a bikini top; despite her dusky skin, needle tracks were visible on both her arms. The guy was white and somewhere in his late sixties, wearing a black shirt and a white clerical collar under his pale grey jacket. His severe, unsmiling manner was more than a little ominous.
As the odd twosome headed upstairs together, the desk clerk stuck his head back into the office. ‘By the looks of that, isn’t just her pussy that’s going to get
pounded, eh?’
The cops remained blank-faced.
‘Don’t worry,’ the clerk added. ‘He isn’t a real vicar. That’s just his kink.’
‘Well that’s a load off,’ Gail said.
The wait dragged on, and a few minutes later another couple came in. The woman was grossly overweight, bare-legged and wearing clattery high heels and a short, billowy summer dress. She had styled blonde locks and a pretty face – though it was less so under a pancake of thickly applied make-up. On her arm there was a bone-thin Indian man, who nodded politely while she signed the register. No sooner had they vanished up the stairs than a third person entered, nodding at the clerk but saying nothing as he followed them. This third character was short, bearded, bespectacled, and wore a beige tracksuit with white piping.
‘That’s her husband,’ the clerk said matter-of-factly, when this man too had vanished upstairs. ‘She’s not a full-time tom, but he pimps her out two or three times a week. Always comes and watches while she gets stuck in.’
‘Each to their own,’ Heck remarked.
‘That’s one way to look at it,’ Gail said.
The clerk shrugged. ‘All got to make a living, haven’t we?’
‘You would call it that!’ she muttered. ‘You little toerag.’
He smirked. ‘Get off my back, darling. I’m helping these women.’
‘Helping? You’re exploiting them just as much as any of their johns.’
‘And what exactly are you lot doing?’ The clerk looked amused. ‘These girls are up shit creek. Their lives are a mess, but I don’t see you lifting a finger.’
She stared daggers at him.
‘There’s nothing, is there?’ he said. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do, so don’t give me crap for putting a roof over their heads.’
‘Slimy bastard!’
‘Chill out, Gail,’ Heck interrupted. ‘This isn’t what we’re here for.’
‘In other words I’m right and you’re wrong,’ the clerk laughed.
‘Hey!’ Heck stabbed a finger at him. ‘It’s the building we need, not you. You can spend the rest of the day in the bin out back.’
