The Chalon Heads

by Barry Maitland

  She slid the bolts on the front floor and led them through to the back.

  ‘Bad, is it?’

  As Brock told her briefly about Sammy’s flight, his attack on Pickering and kidnapping of Leon Desai, she sank on to a chair, and the life seemed to ebb from her face.

  ‘Oh . . .’ was all she managed when he came to an end. She looked so devastated that Kathy got a glass of water from the sink and brought it to her.

  ‘Now, Sally,’ Brock said firmly, after a pause, ‘I need some help from you before this gets any worse. Do you hear me, Sally?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Sally, have you ever heard of this Walter Pickering? I think he knew Sammy, from the old days. He came from around here. And he referred to Sammy as Sammy China.’

  Sally looked up at Brock’s face, but said nothing.

  A movement at the door made Brock and Kathy both turn in that direction. Rudi Trakl was standing there, staring at them owlishly through his thick glasses. He gazed at the back of Sally’s head for a moment, then came forward silently and stood behind her, putting his arms gently around her shoulders. He bent his head to her ear and whispered something. After a little while she blinked and seemed to come back to life again. She looked round and up at his face and whispered, ‘It’s Sammy, Rudi. He’s—’

  ‘I heard, liebchen, I heard.’ He stroked her grey hair tenderly. ‘Do you want to lie down? Have you taken your pills?’

  Sally whispered, ‘I don’t feel well, Rudi.’ She looked hopelessly at Brock and Kathy in turn.

  ‘We must find Sammy,’ Brock said softly, intently. ‘We must find him soon, Sally.’

  ‘Poor Sammy . . .’ she whispered, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

  Rudi patted her shoulder in mute sympathy. ‘You must lie down now, liebchen.’

  ‘Walter Pickering,’ Brock tried again, but Sally lowered her head and began to shake it from side to side.

  ‘Please,’ Rudi said, holding up his hand. ‘She is not well. You must let her lie down. She must take her pills.’

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ Brock insisted.

  The little wizened man looked up at his face gravely. ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘you must wait until she is recovered. I know how this goes.’

  ‘Who’s her doctor, Mr Trakl?’ Kathy said. ‘I could call an ambulance.’

  ‘No. Please, go down to the Prince of Wales on the corner. Wait for us there. I will bring her to you when she is ready.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Brock said. ‘We’re staying here.’

  Rudi shook his head. His eyes looked large and extraordinarily compelling through the magnification of his lenses. ‘No. Please do this. You must be patient. Otherwise she will not talk to you, believe me.’

  Brock looked at him doubtfully, then said, ‘Very well, Rudi. You understand how important this is, don’t you?’

  The other man nodded and began to lead Sally towards the door. She turned her head back after a moment, saw Brock and Kathy watching, and mumbled something. Brock moved forward and bent his head to hear. He noticed how blue Sally’s lips had become.

  ‘What was that, Sally?’

  ‘I said, Sammy didn’t know Walter.’ Her voice was a croak. ‘I did. I went out with Walter for over a year when I was seventeen. It was a secret. I never told my mum, or anyone.’

  The effort of saying this seemed to finish her. She sagged in Rudi’s arms and he turned to Brock. ‘You must do as I say,’ he pronounced firmly. ‘Go now.’

  They sat at a small corner table in the Prince of Wales. ‘I haven’t allowed myself a drink in over a week,’ Brock grumbled, contemplating his third orange juice miserably. ‘And they make us wait for them in a pub!’ He looked at his watch yet again. Over an hour had passed, and the bar was filling up, the company becoming freer and more exuberant, the majority young and black, men and women in equal numbers.

  ‘I’ll go and check them again,’ Kathy said, wanting some relief from sitting there, and slipped away. She returned five minutes later. ‘No change. They’re still there.’

  ‘If they’re not out by eight,’ Brock growled, ‘we’ll sit on their doorstep and call an ambulance.’

  At three minutes to eight, the pub door opened, and Sally came in on her own. Kathy pushed her way through the crowd and led her over to their table. She looked not much better in her colouring but her eyes were sharp, almost unblinking, as if she were holding herself together with will-power.

  ‘All right, Sally?’ Brock asked, as she sat down.

  ‘I’m quite well now, Mr Brock. I’m ready.’

  ‘Good. What can you tell us?’

  ‘I want to help, if I can. I’m partly to blame, you see, for what’s happened.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘Sammy and I didn’t part on the best of terms, almost three years ago. I’d known him practically all his life, and worked for him and his family for thirty years, and I considered that he treated me quite shabby after all that. So, anyway, when Eva came to me one day, wanting money, instead of turning her away as I should . . .’

  ‘Hang on, Sally,’ Brock interrupted. ‘Eva came here to see you? To get money from you?’

  ‘I know, I couldn’t believe it either, not after the way we’d parted. But that was her, wasn’t it? She could call you all the names under the sun one day, then assume you loved her again the next, especially if she wanted something. And she didn’t have too many people to go to for help.’

  ‘I see. Go on, then.’

  ‘Yes, well, I introduced her to Walter Pickering. I knew stamps was Sammy’s weakness, and I’d heard that Walter had a sideline in supplying, well, specialist material in that area.’

  ‘What do you mean, specialist? Stolen stuff, forgeries?’

  Sally gave a little shrug. ‘I suppose it was a spiteful thing to do, get back at Sammy like that, but there we are. I never intended for it to go so far.’

  ‘Have you heard the name Raphael, Sally?’

  She hesitated, then said, ‘Yes, I heard it.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘Mr Brock, I told you I want to help. But I also have obligations, and friendships, and maybe only a little time left to share them.’ She fixed Brock with sad, sharp eyes. ‘Tell me what you most need to know, and I’ll try to help. As for the rest . . .’

  ‘Sally,’ Brock’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I told you that Sammy had kidnapped a police officer. I didn’t tell you why. Evidently he got the name Raphael from Walter, and he believes that Raphael is responsible not only for defrauding him with fake stamps but also for murdering Eva, and cutting off her head.’

  Sally’s jaw dropped, her eyes widened in horror. ‘No! But I thought Sammy—’

  ‘Killed Eva? Did you have any particular reason to think that?’

  Sally seemed confused and agitated.

  ‘Not only that. Sammy also believes that I tried to steal a valuable stamp from him while I was leading the investigation earlier on. So he’s told us that he’ll release his hostage only if both Raphael and I surrender to him by dawn tomorrow. If we fail to do this, he will cut off the officer’s head.’

  She gave a little cry, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘What—what does he want you and Raphael for?’

  ‘Well, I don’t imagine it’s to swap stamps, Sally,’ Brock said, exasperation creeping into his voice. ‘He’s got a gun, and he’s very disturbed. He almost killed Walter last night. He probably hasn’t slept or eaten for days. He knows the whole of the Met is out there hunting for him. The strain of it must be driving him to the very edge. Some time tonight he’s going to tell us where Raphael and I have to go. We can’t afford to wait till then, Sally. I want to find him tonight, before he’s wound himself up to that final scene. And I want to tell him that we have Raphael under lock and key, and charged with Eva’s murder. Maybe then I can talk him into giving himself up.’

  Sally gave a little moan of despair.

  ‘Tell me
where I can find Raphael, Sally. You may be the only one who can help us now.’

  She wiped tears from both eyes with her fingers. ‘I can’t do that, Mr Brock. But maybe I can help you find Sammy.’

  Brock took a deep breath, his hands balling into fists as if the effort of containing himself was becoming too much. ‘How?’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Where have you been looking?’

  Brock glanced across at Kathy, who brought her head closer to Sally and reeled off a list of locations. ‘Business contacts he’s had in the past twenty years, garages, workshops he’s visited, empty premises advertised in recent weeks in the papers he reads, or on the routes he drives to Canonbury . . .’ She went on for a while until she couldn’t remember any more of the items on McLarren’s schedule.

  ‘Nothing around here, then?’ Sally said.

  ‘Around here?’ Kathy looked across at Brock, who had a gleam in his eye.

  ‘This is where he grew up. This is where we began,’ she whispered. ‘God help us.’

  ‘Has he been here recently, then?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But he talked to Eva about it, not long ago . . . not more than a month ago. There was a bit in the property section of the Sunday papers. About how this old council-housing estate in Brixton that had been going to be demolished was going to be done up instead, turned into private flats. The picture in the paper made it look like somewhere on the Mediterranean, he said, all pink and yellow. The place was Myatts Grove, where we grew up.’

  ‘How do you know this, Sally?’ Brock asked quietly.

  ‘She phoned me. Said she was coming up early in the month, to get her money from Walter. Raphael had been busy. I never saw her since.’

  ‘I thought you two didn’t get along?’ Brock asked.

  ‘Funny, innit? This brought us together, ripping Sammy off.’ She raised weary eyes to Brock’s and added, ‘I’m not a very nice person, Mr Brock.’

  He rubbed his chin and didn’t reply. After some thought he said, ‘Sammy definitely mentioned this place to Eva? You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. She said he told her he’d like to see it again, before they turned it into the Costa del Spade—that was his joke. She didn’t get it. Sammy always enjoyed a little racist joke. He felt, being what he was, that he was entitled, like.’

  ‘Let’s go and take a look at it, then, Sally,’ Brock said. ‘Feel up to it, do you?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Tough as old boots, I am.’

  She rose to her feet, tottered, and was caught by Kathy, to whom she felt as light as a bird.

  They drove through the evening streets, low raking sunlight flattering the old brick terraces with a golden patina. It wasn’t enough to make the Myatts Grove estate look good, however. They came upon it suddenly, turning a corner and being confronted by a wall of blackened brick with boarded window openings. A pioneering development of the London County Council in response to the housing crisis in London after the end of the First World War, its dark, abandoned five-storey bulk now looked grim, institutional and threatening. Graffiti sprayers had got to work on one end, but had lost heart and become dispirited with their task after fifty yards or so. Instead they’d turned to defacing the large advertisement board, which showed renderings of the block improbably transformed into a Mediterranean fishing village.

  ‘Gawd. Don’t look much now, does it?’ Sally said.

  It filled a city block in a U-shape plan, with a central court open at one end, and Sally directed them around the surrounding streets until they came to that end, and could look back through a high chain-link fence at the whole development, its access decks looking rather like the terraces of a stadium overlooking the central court, which had been originally intended as a landscaped park but had long since been paved over for car parking.

  ‘Don’t slow down, Kathy,’ Brock murmured. ‘Any guesses where he’d be, Sally?’

  ‘Our flat was one level down from the top, near the north stair.’ She pointed towards one of the internal corners of the building.

  ‘Well, if he’s there now he can get a clear view of the whole central court as well as this street, and across the road here to that wasteground.’

  Kathy drove on to the next corner and slowed down beside a poster of a snarling dog’s head and a security company’s warning and phone number. Brock wrote it down and they continued, circling through the surrounding streets.

  It was Sally who spotted the red sports car, conspicuously parked at the kerb two blocks away from Myatts Grove. ‘That’s Eva’s. She hardly ever used it. That was one luxury she wasn’t much interested in.’

  Kathy pulled in and walked across to check it. It was locked, nothing apparent through the windows. She returned and pulled out her phone. ‘That’s it, all right. We call McLarren?’

  Brock looked down the length of the street. ‘Tell him to rendezvous in the car park behind those shops on the corner there. No sirens, and tell them to avoid the streets skirting the Myatts Grove estate. I’ll call the security firm.’

  Kathy was pacing in the car park, waiting impatiently for McLarren, when her phone went. She grimaced when she heard Peter White’s voice. ‘Peter, this is not a good time—’

  ‘Have you found him, Kathy?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Don’t ring off, Kathy. I’ve had another idea where he might be.’

  ‘Peter, I really—’

  ‘Kathy, listen! Have you thought what a hunted animal does when it goes to ground? It goes back to the safest place, the oldest place. I think that’s where he might be. He was brought up on a council housing estate in Brixton, Myatts Grove. It’s abandoned now . . .’ White’s voice trailed off as Kathy said nothing. ‘It would be worth checking.’

  Then Kathy said, ‘I have to hand it to you, Peter . . .’ The tension in her throat turned to a laugh. The old coot was amazing.

  ‘What? What?’ he was saying anxiously.

  ‘Peter, you haven’t lost your touch. I’m standing outside Myatts Grove now.’

  ‘What? He is there? I’m right?’

  ‘It’s looking that way. Please, Peter, I must ring off. I promise I’ll let you know when the dust has settled, OK?’

  ‘Wonderful. Thank you, Kathy. Thank you!’

  Twenty minutes later Brock and Kathy got into McLarren’s car. The small car park was now jammed with unmarked cars as well as two armed-response vehicles.

  ‘Well done indeed, Brock,’ McLarren said, with fair grace. ‘And you reckon he’s somewhere in Myatts Grove, do you?’

  ‘I’ve sent the security guard to check the perimeter. We didn’t spot any signs of forced entry, but he may see something.’

  ‘The sun sets in twenty-five minutes. I suggest we wait until it’s completely dark before we move in. The negotiating team should be with us shortly.’

  ‘Jock, it’s your show, of course . . .’

  McLarren eyed him. ‘Aye, it is. And now you want to tell me how to run it, I suppose?’

  Brock smiled. ‘I was going to suggest that the first step will be to establish exactly where he is.’

  ‘Of course. We’ve got the lads with the listening gear. They’ll go into the floor below the one you think he’s on. They’ll find him, if he’s there.’

  ‘Fine, as long as they don’t alarm him.’

  ‘Brock! These laddies do this sort of thing every day.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. But they don’t do it with one of my men on the end of a razor every day. Anyway, look, what I was going to suggest was that when they’ve finished, I go in—’

  ‘You go in? Brock, my dear fellow! What are you dreaming of? Sending you in would be like pouring petrol on a fire! The man wants to kill you!’

  And whose fault is that? Brock thought, but bit his tongue.

  ‘Brock!’ McLarren went on. ‘Leave it all to the negotiating team. They’ve been preparing for this all day. They’ve got their psychological profiles of our Sammy all prepared, and their str
ategies all mapped out, and they are the experts at this particular part of the job. You find the wee bastard, and they talk him into coming quietly. Fair enough?’

  ‘No, Jock, not in this case. I’ve known Sammy for a long time, as you’re aware. I’m quite certain he’s come to the end of his tether, and that he’ll go through with what he’s got in mind.’

  ‘And what’s that, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think he intends to come out of there alive, and if we don’t give him what he wants, he’ll take Leon with him—it’s as simple as that. You can’t develop a negotiating strategy for that—he doesn’t want to negotiate. He just wants to wipe the slate clean before he goes.’

  ‘And how would you overcome this death-wish?’

  ‘You’ve got to give him something, and I’m all you’ve got that he wants. Once he’s got me, I can talk him into releasing Leon because Leon will no longer be of any use to him.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Then I talk to him, about Raphael, about what’s really happened. He knows me, Jock. Face to face I can talk him round. Yelling at him through a loud-hailer isn’t going to work.’

  McLarren thought for a while. ‘Good try, Brock, but I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? Because people’s lives are at risk, man, and that’s no time to be improvising half-baked schemes, that’s why not! It may make you feel better to exchange yourself for young Desai, but in my book it doesn’t improve the situation one wee bit. I’d just exchange one hostage for another, and in the process lose the one bargaining chip I’ve got, namely your unworthy self. Sorry, Brock, we play this one exactly by the book.’

  Brock returned to his seat in the front of Kathy’s car. In response to her look he shook his head grimly.

  ‘Hell!’ Kathy swore softly, and smacked the steering wheel with the ball of her hand. ‘Maybe he’d let me.’

  ‘Don’t waste your breath,’ Brock murmured.

  From the back of the car, Sally perked up. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, Sally. A technical matter. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘I asked what the matter was,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m not a fool, Mr Brock. I deserve to be told what’s going on.’