Lee Potter smiled nervously. ‘It’s not bad. Not bad at all.’
‘No, I bet it isn’t.’ My tone was deliberately suspicious. Lee Potter struck me as a weak character, someone you could push. ‘What does Mr Franks do for a living?’
‘I believe he owns his own company. I’m not sure what it does, though. As long as he paid the rent on time—’
‘… Then you didn’t ask too many questions. How many times have you met Mr Franks?’
‘Er, I don’t know. Not many. Two or three times at most.’
‘In four years?’ I raised my eyebrows.
‘There was never any need to see him more than that.’
‘He lived there alone, did he?’
Lee Potter nodded, clearly flustered by my rapid-fire questions. ‘As far as I know, yes. That’s right.’
‘Where did the money come from?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did he pay you directly or did it come from someone else?’
‘His company paid. They used to send a cheque here every month, and they were always on time. That’s why I never bothered too much. Is there something wrong?’
I ignored the question. ‘Did he leave a forwarding address when he moved out?’
‘No, no he didn’t. In fact he never actually came round at all. I got a phone call from his brother saying that he’d gone, and asking what was owed. I was concerned because obviously it was all a bit sudden, so he suggested I go round and check that everything was OK. I did, the house all looked very clean, and then he phoned back a couple of days later, we divvied everything up, and the company sent another cheque for the balance.’
‘Did his brother leave a phone number you could reach him on?’
He shook his head. ‘No, he didn’t. He—’
‘So you couldn’t actually say for certain that it was his brother?’
‘Well, no, but there was no reason to believe otherwise. Why should there have been?’
‘The reason I’m asking is that we want to talk to Mr Franks about some very serious matters, and I’m particularly interested in details of any of his associates.’
‘As I said, Mr Gallan, I only ever met him a couple of times, and that was alone. He was a model tenant in pretty much every way. He never called me out, never complained, nothing. Just paid his rent and that was it.’
I paused for a moment and took several sips from my coffee before speaking again. ‘Was there ever any suspicion on your part that the house was being used for anything other than simply being lived in?’
Lee Potter tried to look like he was thinking hard about the question. It didn’t really work. ‘No, not really,’ he said eventually.
‘Are you absolutely sure? It’s very important we know about it if there was.’
He sighed. ‘I once went round there, I don’t know, about a year or so ago, mainly because I hadn’t even seen the place for God knows how long, and I was in the area anyway.’
‘Go on.’
‘It was nothing really, but all the curtains were closed, which I thought was a bit odd as it was the middle of the day, and there were also a couple of cars there. Anyway, I rang on the doorbell a couple of times, but no-one answered.’ He paused before continuing. ‘Only, I was sure there were people there, because there was a tiny gap in the sitting-room curtains and I was certain I saw the shadow of someone moving around in there. It was probably nothing, almost certainly nothing, but I phoned Mr Franks up a couple of days later and he made out that he’d been away, which was odd.’ He shrugged expansively. ‘But that’s about it. I can’t think of anything else. What do you think was happening there, then?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, but I had my ideas.
I finished the coffee, got the name of the company that paid Franks’s bills from Lee Potter, and then left.
Outside, the sky was darkening and it was already raining, but I hardly noticed as I started off in the direction of the Tube station. I was too busy thinking.
* * *
Twelve hours later my thoughts had turned to very different matters. Like why wasn’t the chief super traipsing round the rain-drenched midnight streets of Islington if he was so bloody keen to ‘foster a continued and ever deeper spirit of co-operation’ between those pounding the beat and those who’d hoped it was all behind them? It was ten past twelve and we’d just been called to the ground-floor council maisonette currently occupied by Brian and Katrina Driscoll.
The smell hit me in the face as soon as I followed Berrin and the two uniforms in through the open front door. Shit and BO and stale rubbish. Food that had gone off, trapped stagnant air; the standard, all-pervading odour of decay. A kid of about eight dressed in filthy pyjama bottoms, his ribs sticking out like they were going to burst through the skin, stood watching us impassively at the bottom of the stairs. It was dark in the hallway but there were lights on further in.
A hysterical wailing came from one of the rooms down the hall. The voice was female. She sounded drunk. ‘I can’t believe you fucking did that to me, you fucking cunt!’
‘Fuck off you old slag or you’ll fucking get some more!’
She screamed again. ‘Fuck off!’
Then him. ‘Do you want some, then? Do you fucking want some?’
There was a sound of glass or crockery breaking and the first uniform, PC Ramsay, called out that it was the police responding to a call. We walked down the hall in a long line to the kitchen, past the boy who continued to stare at us blankly.
‘I fucking called you! Look what he did to me!’ She came into view, a big, misshapen woman in jeans and a white vest that rode up over her ample belly. A thick trail of blood ran down her face and onto her neck. Its source was a large cut on her forehead where she’d clearly been struck by something. She grabbed hold of Ramsay and pulled him to her like a sexually aggressive bear. ‘Look what the cunt did to me! Look!’
The WPC with Ramsay, Farnes, shepherded the victim into the lounge away from her partner, who now appeared, bare-footed, in the kitchen doorway. ‘I ain’t done fucking nothing,’ he said, shaking his head, the words oozing drink. He was tall with a thick head of messy brown hair and an out-of-proportion beer belly. Aged about thirty-five, and dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. We’d been warned he was violent, particularly when drunk. Apparently, the police had been called here plenty of times before.
‘Come on now, Brian,’ said Ramsay, who seemed to know him. ‘I think it’s best you come with us.’ The words were spoken calmly, almost soothingly. Ramsay was understandably eager to avoid a scene. I was too, since I’d have to get involved if he didn’t come quietly.
His response, however, was predictable. ‘Fuck off. I’m all right. I didn’t touch her. She’s fucking lying again.’
Brian came forward, trying to get into the room where his partner was. Ramsay stood in the way and put his hands up to stop him. ‘She’s made a complaint, Brian. Now we’ve got to follow up on it. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘Fuck off. Get out my way.’
‘Look, don’t make this hard on everyone, Brian. Let’s just go nice and quiet now.’
Brian lunged forward and I did my best to grab him in a bearhug from behind while Berrin managed to get him round the neck. Ramsay produced some handcuffs from out of nowhere and the three of us wrestled him towards the front door. Two more recently arrived uniforms came in and helped with what was no easy extraction. Brian cursed and screamed, then fell over, trying to lash out with his arms. I grabbed one, one of the uniforms grabbed another, and Ramsay forced on the cuffs.
‘What are you fucking doing to me, you cunts! Leave me alone! Bastards!’
I looked up and saw the kid on the stairs still watching the whole thing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to see your dad wrestling with a load of police officers. The man reeked of sweat and his hair was greasy. I had my knee in his back and I felt this sudden urge to grab him by the back of his greasy mane and slam his head
into the floor.
‘I’ll fucking kill you, you bastards! You’re dead! You know that? Dead!’
We pulled him to his feet and he snorted loudly, filling his mouth with phlegm.
‘All right, get rid of that spit,’ demanded one of the uniforms in his line of fire. ‘Get rid of it now.’
‘Come on now, Brian, let’s be having you,’ continued Ramsay, persisting with his softly-softly approach.
Brian gobbed something thick and horrible onto his carpet, deciding against sending it into one of the arresting officers’ faces and risking a charge of assault, and continued with his pointless invective. We got him outside on the pavement and, while one of the uniforms got the doors of the van open, he had a final angry struggle, just to show he wasn’t coming quietly, and tried to kick Berrin who dodged out of the way. I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back.
‘Fuck off, you fucking wanker!’ he shouted, and lashed out again with a bare foot, this time in my direction.
I stepped aside, then stepped back and stamped hard on his other foot, grinding the heel of my shoe in. Brian howled in pain and I felt a momentary burst of satisfaction.
‘Did you see what he fucking did, the cunt? Did you fucking see?’
I turned away as he was manhandled into the back of the van and cursed myself for losing control. I’d forgotten what these lowlife domestics were like, and how irritating drunks could be. Still, that was no excuse for rising to the bait. As much as anyone, I knew the possible long-term consequences of a two-second loss of control.
‘Nice one, Sarge,’ said Berrin, giving me a pat on the back.
Another patrol car had arrived now and two more officers went into the house. The van containing the prisoner remained where it was while Ramsay and the other two officers chatted among themselves, ignoring the steady rain that beat down from the night sky.
I didn’t say anything. I was pissed off. It struck me as ridiculous that Berrin and I should be sent out on worthless exercises like this that did nothing to bolster morale or understanding, while every effort possible was being made to squeeze the life out of the Matthews murder squad. Capper and Hunsdon had now gone over to the aggravated burglary inquiry involving the pregnant woman, and I’d even had difficulty holding on to Berrin. Knox had lost interest in the case. Particularly now there was no evidence to back up his theory of a Matthews/Iversson partnership. Maybe if the Crimewatch mugshot helped to flush out Iversson, things would change, but for the moment Matthews’s murder was slipping down the endless list of priorities.
The sound of a baby crying came from inside and I walked back in. The kid on the stairs had gone, and the two officers who’d just arrived were talking in the doorway of the room where WPC Farnes had taken the victim, who was still sobbing and cursing. Since no-one else seemed bothered about the crying baby, I mounted the stairs, wrinkling my nose against the smell, and walked onto the landing. I found a light switch, flicked it on, then went to the door where the crying was coming from.
The smell when I opened it was foul, fetid. I had to work hard to stop myself from gagging as I switched on the lights.
The room was a cramped mess of toys, boxes, tissues, all sorts. It was difficult to make out the floor in places. In the corner was a cot, and in the cot was a baby of no more than six months, naked except for a nappy and crying hysterically. The stench of shit was horrendous, and I saw that a lot of the tissues were stained brown with it.
I walked over to the cot, the smell getting worse with each step, and looked down at the crying infant. He or she had sores round the thighs where the nappy, which looked almost full to bursting, must have been chafing. I wanted to turn round and walk out of there, and I could have done, too – there was nothing to stop me. It wasn’t my business if this family, and I used the term loosely, couldn’t look after their own. But it wasn’t the kid’s fault either so, steeling myself against the smell, I leant down and picked it up. My hands immediately felt wet and slimy and I knew without looking that they were covered in shit. Grimacing, I turned the baby over and saw that the nappy had leaked and the stuff was all up the poor little kid’s back. No wonder it had been crying, having to lie helpless in its own waste. Nobody had changed this nappy for hours, possibly days.
‘Whatchoo doing with her?’ came a hostile voice from the doorway.
I turned to see the kid who’d watched us come in standing in the doorway. ‘Trying to change her,’ I said. ‘Find me some wipes or a tissue, will you?’ The kid didn’t move. ‘Look, do as I say. I’m trying to help her.’
As the kid rummaged through the crap on the floor, I laid the baby on her front and removed the nappy, using it to mop up the worst of the stuff that clung to her. I folded it up and put it on the floor, for want of a better place. ‘Here y’are,’ said the kid, handing me a half-used roll of toilet paper. Not quite what I had in mind, but at least it was clean.
‘Thanks,’ I said, continuing the grim process. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Wet some of these tissues as well, and see if you can find a cloth. If you do get one, put soap and water on it, and bring it in.’
‘Is she all right?’ asked the kid.
‘Yeah, she’s fine. I think she was feeling a bit neglected.’
The kid came back a few moments later with a cloth and two wet bundles of tissues. ‘Right, see that plastic bag over there?’ The kid nodded. ‘Put the dirty nappy in it, then bring it back here so I can chuck this stuff in it.’ The kid did as he was told, and I thought he’d probably make a good assistant.
When I’d finished making the baby half-presentable, the kid and I hunted round for a clean nappy, finding a bag of them in the corner. ‘Have you ever changed your sister before?’ I asked him.
‘Course I have,’ said the kid.
‘Good. What’s her name?’
‘Karen.’
We cleared a place on the floor, then I lifted her out of the cot and put her down gently on her back. ‘OK, Karen. Your brother’s going to change you now, while I go and sort myself out.’
I found the poky little bathroom and washed my hands thoroughly in the dirty sink. There were a load of hairs clogging up the plughole – hopefully from heads, but it wasn’t that easy to tell – and I thought that this woman and her partner deserved absolutely no sympathy whatever. They behaved worse than animals – which was fine if that’s how they wanted to live, but to ruin their kids’ lives too, that for me was unforgivable.
I went back into the bedroom and helped the kid with the rest of the nappy. Then we both put Karen back into her cot. She was still crying.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.
‘Dean,’ he said.
‘I think Karen might be hungry, Dean. You go to bed now, and I’ll sort out some feed for her.’
The kid disappeared without a word and I walked wearily back down the stairs, thinking that he didn’t really have a chance with parents like that. Neither of them did. The ambulance had arrived for the mother and they were tending her wounds in the lounge while WPC Farnes looked on. The mother was wailing drunkenly and I found it hard not to hate her for her selfishness.
‘Your baby needs feeding,’ I told her. ‘I presume she’s on bottled milk.’
There was a commotion outside the front door and Berrin walked inside, talking excitedly to PC Ramsay. He saw me and immediately came over. ‘Sarge, we’ve got an all units out. There’s been a shooting.’
‘You’d better wait here until social services arrive,’ I told Farnes. ‘And sort out the baby’s feed, can you?’ Farnes tried to say something but I wasn’t listening. ‘Where’s this shooting at?’
‘Heavenly Girls.’
Iversson
It’s true I stood to make a lot of money from the abduction of Krys Holtz, but I’ll tell you this, I was going to earn every fucking penny of it.
It was our third night in a row outside Heavenly Girls, and tempers were fraying, particularly mine. It was Johnny Hexham. He was driving me mad. Aft
er two nights stuck in the back, I’d finally decided to risk sitting in the front where it was a lot more comfortable. I now had a full beard, and with a cap on and a pair of specs, I looked a lot different than I had two weeks back. In fact the look quite suited me, to tell you the truth. Showed my intellectual side.
But unfortunately there was no escaping Johnny, who’d spent the night constantly trying to weasel information out of me about what we were doing on this street, and coming up with all these theories, some of which veered dangerously close to the truth. Not to mention the complications of his love life, which he insisted on going on and on about even though I wasn’t in the least bit fucking interested. Apparently, his ex-girlfriend Delia was pregnant, the result of a flying visit by Johnny to pick up some CDs he’d left there, but she was already shacked up with some seventeen-stone black bloke who thought the baby was his and who was going to have something of a shock come the happy day. Delia wanted to run away with Johnny, who it turned out she still felt something for, and was threatening to tell the boyfriend Johnny had raped her if he didn’t. But Johnny, not surprisingly, wanted nothing further to do with her, and was getting worried that any day now he was going to receive a leg-breaking visit from half a dozen of the boyfriend’s mates. Also, he had another serious girl now, Amanda, who he’d met at Arcadia some weeks before, and who he was really smitten with. Matters were further complicated, if you could believe it, by the fact that Amanda was vigorously bisexual and wanted Johnny to share her with her other lover, German student Beatrix.
‘The problem is, Beatrix is, like, a full-on Magnus.’
‘A what?’
‘Magnus Pike, dyke. She wouldn’t touch a dick if her life depended on it, so there’s no way of, you know, having a bit of fun with both of them together, which would definitely have helped to numb the pain of having to share her. But I don’t want to lose Amanda. I don’t know what I’d do if she pulled the plug on it. But it’s a bit of an odd fucking way to run a relationship, isn’t it?’
‘You know, Johnny,’ I said, taking a swig from my bottle of mineral water, ‘you are the only thirty-four-year-old I know who complains that he gets laid too much.’
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