by Sarah Flint
‘Well hopefully we’ll be able to hear straight from the horse’s mouth shortly. Charlie, Paul, Naz and Sabira, get your stuff. Nick, carry on with the phone enquiries, as you seem to be a bit of an expert on it. Bet, let me know if you spot his car on CCTV.’ Hunter spun round and headed for the coat stand, pulling a lightweight jacket off the peg and wrapping it over his arm.
‘And his address is?’
‘Norbury. He lives about two miles away from Tooting Bec, in a rented one-bedroom flat.’ Paul gave the address. ‘So he had no reason to be around the area of the crime scene, especially at that time of night.’
*
Carl Hookham saw the two Ford Mondeos parked outside his flat straightaway. They looked like police cars; the usual make and model, fit for purpose, not for recreation, a bit like his vehicle. The small gaggle of official-looking people waiting at the downstairs communal door reinforced his suspicion. Coppers always looked like coppers, even the female ones. They couldn’t look normal if they tried.
He swung his car into the turning next to the railway station and headed for the car park, glad that as he did so, all their faces were tilted upwards towards the building. It hadn’t been a surprise to see them there. Mutual acquaintances kept him informed of every aspect of Tina’s day-to-day life, and with Brian being murdered, it was only a matter of time before his ex-wife bubbled him up. He balled his fists and drove them down on to the steering wheel, angry tears springing up at the corners of his eyes. Tina, his Tina. What had got into her these days? Her mind had been poisoned against him by that copper. Cursing loudly, he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, his thoughts turning back to the last time he had seen Brian Ashton. That man was toxic. He was glad he was dead.
He checked his rear-view mirrors as he squeezed his little car into a gap at the end of the line, but no one was following. Hopefully none of the police officers had seen him appear in the road and disappear from view just as quickly. If they had, he would be in trouble. There was stuff in the back of his car that they would find very interesting.
He made a snap decision. It was time to get away. There was nothing to keep him here anymore. Tina had taken her new baby and his children to stay with her family, rather than set foot back in the house she’d shared with that man. He didn’t even know where they were. She hadn’t told him. She probably had no intention of talking to him either, but she’d evidently been more than happy to blab to the police about their ongoing conflict. That’s why they were here now. They would keep coming to his address until they found him, and he couldn’t chance being found. The courts would throw him into prison and he would never get to see Bobby and Emily then.
He switched the engine off, squashing everything from the car’s interior into the dusty old rucksack that normally lived in the boot. The platforms of the station spread out in front of him, with a gate in the fence that led to the adjacent car park. There was no need to show his face in the road at all. For once, he was in luck. He swung his belongings up over his shoulder, flinching as a scab on his knuckle was knocked off in the process. It didn’t hurt but it did start to bleed slightly, a drip weaving its way slowly down the back of his hand. He licked it away and pressed the remote control on his keys to lock the car doors, checking one last time that nothing had been missed. The tannoy system was announcing the imminent arrival of a train to Clapham Junction. From there he could choose whichever destination he wished.
The train was just trundling into sight as he dashed through the gate, offering his Oyster card to the card reader. It wouldn’t do to get stopped without a ticket. There were a few other passengers waiting on the platform. They moved forward as the train slowed to a standstill, waiting for the doors to open. He paused behind an advert hoarding, glancing round for any sign of the coppers, until the doors were fully open; with the coast clear, he strode across the platform and into the carriage.
*
Charlie shook her head at Hunter from her vantage point on top of a wheelie bin she’d hauled up on to the flat roof of an outhouse, at the rear of Hookham’s converted flat. The flat was on the first floor of an old house which had seen better days. Paint was blistered and peeling on the sills and a large crack ran down the exterior wall from the roof, almost to the top of the back door. The windows were closed and caked in several years’ worth of dirt and grease, making the interior look gloomy, even in the June sunshine. An old sofa stood alone in the centre of the room, with a TV directly in front. The whole room looked tired and squalid, depressingly reminiscent of Hookham’s present life.
She jumped down and went back to join the group, brushing some cobwebs from the bottom of her trousers.
‘It doesn’t look as if there’s anyone in, although it does look occupied. Hookham must be out working. There’re a few parking spaces around the back, but there’s no sign of his Corsa.’
‘Damn it. I was hoping to get him on our first visit.’ Hunter exhaled noisily. He checked his watch and turned to leave. ‘Give it a couple of hours and we’ll try again.’
*
Brixton Road was buzzing with life as Paul drove Hunter and Charlie back towards Hookham’s flat. Another acid attack had just been reported and Hunter had delegated Naz and Sabira to deal with it. It appeared to be unrelated but Hunter wanted a confirmation as soon as possible. Assaults of this nature were still relatively unusual but if this was the beginning of a linked series, he needed to know.
The mid-morning drug dealers were out, positioned in their favourite spots. It was business as usual. A teenage dealer stepped out from a shop doorway, and whistled towards a youth on the other side of the road, pointing surreptitiously to a young boy emerging from an alleyway. Their target appeared unaware of the fact that both youths, now with hoods pulled tightly around their faces, were heading in his direction. Something was about to happen.
Charlie indicated the trio to Paul and jumped out as Paul slewed the car to a standstill. Within seconds he joined her, leaving Hunter to call for further assistance over the radio. The two youths grabbed hold of the boy, bundling him backwards into the alleyway. She saw the glint of metal as the first dealer pulled a knife out from the back of his trousers and flashed it towards the youngster. He was no more than twelve years old, young and cocky, the new boy on the block, and it was clear he had overstepped the mark and was about to be taught a lesson. The boy’s face crumpled at the sight of the blade, his hands stretched out in front of him to try to fend off his attackers.
There was no time to wait for back-up to arrive. Charlie ran at them, shouting as she did so, with Paul in hot pursuit. The two aggressors turned towards the noise, before splitting at the sight of them and running off in different directions, the knifeman down the alleyway. Charlie concentrated on him as he disappeared around a bend in the path, watching as the knife clattered to the ground. She continued after him, panting with relief as a police car pulled up at the end, blocking his escape. He turned, rooted momentarily to the spot as she torpedoed into him, pushing him up against the wall and slamming him in handcuffs. She was joined within seconds by Paul, who had decided to assist her with the knifeman rather than risk both of them getting into danger in separate chases. Together they marched their suspect back towards the shops, stopping on their way to retrieve the knife from where it lay. It was all over; the whole scenario having lasted less than a minute from start to finish.
By the time they got to the main road the young boy had disappeared, melting into the background; his relief at being rescued on this occasion not transferring to gratitude. He would live to fight another day, but hopefully he had learnt a valuable lesson. A police van was waiting and a small group of onlookers had gathered on the nearby pavement. Hunter opened the van doors as they approached, taking possession of the knife while Paul searched their suspect.
‘That’s right, you bastards,’ a woman screamed towards them. ‘Stitching another poor young black boy up for nothing. Why can’t you lot just leave ’em alone?’ The wo
man broke away from the group and launched herself towards the van. She was short, white and middle-aged; a fiery, spitting ball of rage, with long bleached-blonde hair and huge hooped earrings. What she lacked in stature, she more than made up for in aggression. Charlie moved across, blocking her path with outstretched arms, but she needn’t have worried. The woman stopped, sucking on her teeth and peered instead towards their detainee.
‘You all right, Marlon?’
The youth turned his head towards them, narrowing his eyes. ‘Yeah I’m all right, Shirley. Can you go to me house and tell me mum I’ve been nicked. Tell her to come to the station and bring my brief. Tell her I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.’
‘I will do, son. Leave it wiv’ me. I’ll have you outta there before you know it.’
The youth nodded, pulling at his restraints in an arrogant show of strength. ‘Thanks, Shirley. I know you will.’ He continued to posture, showing off to the crowd.
Hunter stepped forward as Paul was concluding the search, taking hold of his other arm. ‘Paul, get him away from here,’ he said, as together they lifted the youth up into the van cage. ‘We’ll catch up with you later.’
*
Hunter stood at the front of the house while Charlie re-positioned the wheelie bin and clambered back up onto it. Hopefully, with several hours having elapsed Hookham might have returned. If so they’d call for more units. Nothing had changed though; everything being in exactly the same position as it had been earlier. She signalled with her hands, it was identical to their last visit and shook her head.
Hunter nodded his understanding, but she could see from where she was positioned that he wasn’t happy. It was not what either of them wanted. She jumped down and headed towards him, watching as he answered his phone, his brow creasing further with the conversation.
‘Damn it,’ he repeated his earlier phrase as she joined him. ‘That was Nick on the phone. He sent up for another cell-siting on Hookham’s phone to see if we can get an up-to-date location and the result has just come back.’
‘And? Anywhere we can head to now?’ She knew the answer before he opened his mouth.
‘It was last used in the Clapham Junction area about fifteen minutes after we were here before, knocking on his door. Since that time, nothing, and apart from late at night Nick says it’s used a lot. He’s worried the phone might have been switched off.’ Hunter ran his hands up over his head. ‘Do you think he could have seen us here earlier?’
‘I don’t know, but there’s no way he could get to Clapham Junction that quickly from here, park up and disappear. It’s at least thirty to forty-five minutes’ drive at any time of the day in traffic.’ She pulled the car door open, before glancing up and noticing the distinctive red-brick building of Norbury railway station and the line of minicabs queued up outside. A train horn sounded as she did so, the two-tone blast sending a warning to passengers that it was coming through. ‘Unless,’ she pointed towards the station, suddenly conscious of its proximity. ‘He caught a train.’
Hunter grimaced and headed off, leaving her to secure the car. She slammed the door shut and started jogging to catch up. He was already halfway along the side passage, striding towards the parking area. ‘If you’re right, Charlie, we should turn a corner into the car park and see…’
‘His little red Vauxhall Corsa.’ She recognised the registration number instantly. ‘Beautifully parked. Complete with learner plates and his name and number. Shit!’ She started walking towards it, pulling a pair of gloves from her pocket. She tried the doors but they were locked, then she put the back of her hand on the bonnet, but the engine was cool, or at least as cool as the heat of the day would allow. It certainly hadn’t been driven for a while.
‘And no pay-and-display ticket. He’s not bothered about his car being impounded.’ She peered up at the sign on top of the roof. ‘And if he’s switched his phone off, he’s risking his livelihood. Why would he do that?’ She didn’t need to say anything more.
The interior looked relatively tidy, nothing obviously incriminating left out on display. The front seats were clean, but the rear seat was dusty, with several patches of mud smeared across the material. A few burrs and leaves lay in the rear footwell. She strained her head closer to see if she recognised any of the same foliage that grew on Tooting Bec Common, when her eyes noticed two tiny splashes of red against the fabric, two dried drips of what appeared to be blood.
‘Boss, look.’ She pointed to the spots before moving forward and squinting at the driver’s seat. ‘And there’s more here.’ Hunter looked to where she was pointing, before shaking his head and staring skywards.
‘For fuck’s sake. How did we all miss seeing him drive in here earlier? The car stands out a mile. It’s bright bloody red and has his name emblazoned all over it.’
Charlie was still staring at the scuffs of blood on the steering wheel. They weren’t big but there were a few of them. ‘Do you think its Brian’s?’ she asked quietly.
Hunter pulled his hankie out and wiped the face of his watch, squinting as he read the time. ‘It would certainly explain why Carl wasn’t keen to talk.’ He pressed a number into his phone and barked some orders down the line. The Corsa had to be recovered to a secure pound to await an urgent forensic examination and another unit needed to get to them ASAP to sit with it until its removal. He had far more important things to do than stay here wasting his time with it any longer.
What he didn’t say, but what he and Charlie both knew, was that each day about two thousand trains passed through the seventeen platforms of Clapham Junction railway station. It serviced the busy London stations of both Victoria and Waterloo with destinations all over the south of England and Wales and links to services running to the north of England and Scotland.
Carl Hookham could be on route to anywhere in the UK by now and they had no way of finding out where.
Chapter 11
It was to be another night to remember.
Detective Sergeant Leonard Cookson was to die. Vengeance would be sweet and brutal. Leonard Cookson deserved nothing less. He worked on Trident, the Met’s answer to ‘black on black’ crime. It was common knowledge on the streets and behind bars that Trident officers were all bent, planting drugs and guns, taking backhanders, fitting innocent black kids up.
Trident officers thought they were special but they were nothing more than a bunch of lying bullies. None of them would stand a chance if they were on their own. How he’d love to see how they coped in prison. They wouldn’t be such ‘big men’ then; they’d be the con’s target, beaten up, spat at, shanked, or worse. They’d have to do their time on a special wing, no one to talk to except the screws or nonces. It would serve the fuckers right
Detective Sergeant Leonard Cookson was one of the worst. Prison was too good for the likes of him. He knew it… and Ice knew it too. All the stories circulating about him, all the images on display, just reinforced what people already believed about police.
Leonard Cookson was in charge of a team of the Trident lying scum, making up the rules as he went along, allowed to continue because he was one of them; none of his mates daring to stop him because they were all the same.
Tonight he would again be doing Ice’s bidding, but he would also very much be doing his own. They were right to have picked this copper.
He hefted his kit up onto his shoulder and checked the time. The instructions were clear; researched, accurate and brutal, so fucking brutal. Now it was time to put them into practice. Around midnight, after the doors to the pub closed, the devil would claim his prize.
*
It was only a short walk home. Well to be more exact, it was only a short stagger. Leonard Cookson stood leaning against the gatepost of The Lonely Mole Public House, watching as some of his team crammed themselves into a single cab, one in the front and three bulky frames squashed together in the rear. He wanted to laugh at the minicab driver’s expression. They both knew it would be a miracle if all four got home without o
ne of them puking. God knows how many pints and shots they’d downed. Still, it wasn’t his problem anymore. With a muffled shout from its passengers, the car was on its way, the chassis creaking noisily at the increased weight on the rear shock absorbers.
He turned to face the direction of his house. Now, all he had to do was to get there. Judging by his inability to walk in a straight line however, this was going to prove harder than he’d originally thought.
He lurched forward, allowing his momentum on the downhill gradient to carry him along. At each tree he steadied himself before moving onwards. The road bent to the right in a gentle curve before straightening again as it passed the entry to his local park. As he walked, his mind wandered back to the shenanigans of the evening. Coppers and alcohol were a bad combination. It had been a good night though, a double celebration; his forty-eighth birthday and the conviction of four teenagers responsible for shooting a young black lad in the torso, leaving him wheelchair-bound for the rest of his life.
The incident had taken place near the local skateboard park, the suspects together ambushing their rivals and firing towards the opposing gang arbitrarily, their faces covered, the violence meted out without thought to anyone who happened to be nearby. An innocent bystander, caught in the crossfire had ended up with a bullet lodged in her arm. The teen gunmen had all then melted into the nearby estate.
The shooting had been a tit-for-tat hit, in response to the stabbing of one of their own, but the tensions on the streets between the local gangs had escalated to such a point that it was only a matter of time before another kid from the neighbourhood was killed, or an innocent child, or parent, or pensioner. Bullets were indiscriminate. They didn’t care whose flesh they tore apart or whose heart they stopped pumping.
