by Linda Regan
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind.’
‘You have a one-track mind,’ Georgia said sharply. ‘You can fuck each other’s brains out for all I care. I just need to get these DNA results. We can’t afford to let Stuart Reilly out this time. And I heard Dawes has influential friends.’
A voice spoke from behind her. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, but I make no promises.’ David Dawes. Georgia closed her eyes. How long had he been standing there? Had he heard the entire conversation? She caught Stephanie Green’s eye.
‘I don’t know anyone personally in forensics, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But I know a few other people that might help. I’ll try and pull a favour. At least, I’ll do my best,’ he added.
Stephanie’s complexion had reddened and mottled all the way from her chin to her hairline. She bowed her head and bit into another biscuit. Georgia was glad that blushing didn’t register on Caribbean skin, but she certainly felt the heat. She turned to face Dawes. ‘I’m so sorry, that must have sounded crass,’ she said. ‘I’m just frustrated – pulling my hair out to get this arrest. I don’t want Reilly let out in case he disappears, and I really believe the DNA results will get us the conviction.’
‘No offence taken,’ he said with a grin. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. ‘I’ll make a call. It’s private, I’ll do it outside.’
Alan Oakwood was red hot at his job. His outward appearance was of a 1960s hippy who had lived his whole life on a diet of vegetarian food and herb tea, but it belied his true personality. The multi-coloured paisley shirt, single small gold earring and silver bangles around one wrist served only to make him look what he was: a man in the wrong job. All the other solicitors who visited the station came suited and booted. Oakwood’s relaxed look fooled no one, least of all Georgia Johnson. This man was callous, deceitful and highly intelligent – a dangerous mix when it came to keeping crooks out of prison. His pale, flyaway grey hair was long and thin, matching his physique. Tiny pebble-lensed glasses, not unlike the late John Lennon’s, covered grey eyes that were small, cold and heartless, and what he lacked in weight he made up for in verbal dexterity. He had a brain sharper than any knife belonging to the low life he represented, and he savoured every opportunity to get one over on the police.
He knew his clients were far from innocent, but he cared only for the fees that they earned him. Georgia frequently said he belonged in prison with them, and she’d like to put him there, or failing that, knock his know-all brain against a wall. Right now she wasn’t about to let him see he had the upper hand, that she had nothing to hold Reilly on, at least until the DNA results came through. When they did, Stuart ‘Yo-Yo’ Reilly would no longer be running the Aviary estate or threatening innocent citizens.
The truth was, Georgia doubted Reilly had actually murdered Haley Gulati; three stab wounds to the heart simply wasn’t his style. But he was behind it, she was sure of that, and the last nail in his coffin was that he had boasted to the victim’s niece.
What she needed to find out was why he’d had Haley killed. Reilly was known for wreaking revenge on the relatives of someone who crossed or owed him; Georgia had seen that Chantelle was a user, so putting two and two together she had her answer. She needed to talk to Chantelle again, but not until the girl was calmer. Meanwhile she was going to have a crack at getting Reilly to give up the lowlife who did the stabbing; that would take another of his gang off the street.
She pulled out a chair, settled herself beside Stephanie Green, and switched the recording machine to ON.
Reilly had been given a white forensic suit to wear while his clothes were taken for testing. He looked like an oversized snowman.
‘Where were you between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m. last night?’ Stephanie asked him. Alan Oakwood noisily clicked the catches of his briefcase, drowning out her voice. She repeated the question.
Oakley let out a sigh of irritation and, without looking up from his briefcase, he replied in a flat, condescending tone. ‘My client has already told you that. He has witnesses.’
Georgia leaned across the table until her forehead nearly touched Oakwood’s nose. He pulled his head back, ostrich-like, and met her eyes.
‘Detective Sergeant Green is asking your client to tell her again,’ she said. ‘So, for the tape, will you please answer the question, Mr Reilly?’
Reilly leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘I was having a fuck,’ he said, widening his ugly mouth into a grin and displaying a gold tooth at the side of his mouth.
Reilly and Oakwood looked like Laurel and Hardy sitting side by side. Reilly was heavily overweight, his brief was built like a string bean. It was clear he was shrewd enough not to indulge in the class A drugs he dealt. None of the big dealers ever did, Georgia thought angrily; they didn’t give a toss that a high percentage of the kids they lured into the habit lost their lives to it. In Georgia’s book, dealers were only one rung below rapists, and Reilly was probably both.
She stared at him. His dark hair fell over his forehead, shining with grease, badly in need of a wash. He was twenty-seven-years-old and weighed nearly as many stones.
‘Her name?’ Stephanie asked crisply.
Yo-Yo shook his head and shrugged. ‘Never asked,’ he said, letting out a loud fart.
‘Unfortunate,’ Stephanie said. ‘We have a witness who says you had a falling out with Haley Gulati, and stabbed her in the heart.’
Reilly shrugged again. ‘They’re lying. I was having a shag.’ He looked at Oakwood, who was wiping his pebble glasses with a white handkerchief. ‘Shame I didn’t ask her name,’ he said to Oakwood. ‘She was a good fuck as it happens.’ He turned back to face Georgia and Stephanie, jiggling his crotch.
‘What did it cost you?’ Georgia snapped. She longed to fling herself across the desk and smack him hard in the face. Patience, she told herself; when she had him for first degree murder, she’d wipe that disgusting grin off his disgusting face.
Just for a moment, she succeeded anyway. The smile disappeared, and his eyes grew small and dark. ‘I’ve never paid for it,’ he answered coldly.
‘It’s your charm they fall for, is it?’ Stephanie goaded. ‘Not the free drugs, then. Or your ill-gotten riches.’
‘You don’t have to answer that,’ Oakwood chipped in.
‘Do you have a contact for her?’ Georgia again. ‘This shag whose name you don’t recall?’
‘My client has already told you . . .’
‘That he doesn’t know her name.’ Georgia cut Oakwood off in mid-sentence. ‘But not where he picked her up, or what she looked like. See, we have a problem, Mr Reilly. You say you were having a shag, but can’t provide a witness, and we think you killed Haley Gulati, and do have a witness.’
‘You haven’t charged my client,’ Oakwood pointed out in a clipped upper-class tone. ‘So do you have proof to back up this accusation? If not, you know as well as I do that this conversation is going nowhere. I suggest that what you have is merely circumstantial.’ He pinned his eyes on her. ‘So bring out your evidence, or else I insist you release my client.’
‘Housing dangerous dogs is an imprisonable offence,’ Stephanie said. ‘We’ve called in a dog expert. If it turns out that your dogs are pure pit bulls, we will confiscate them, and charge you with owning illegal dogs, too.’
Georgia didn’t look at Oakwood. Stephanie’s remark would have told him they were playing for time.
Oakwood raised a disdainful hand. ‘My client’s dogs are not pure-bred pit bulls, and your expert will tell you as much.’ The side of his mouth bent into a tiny smile. ‘So I am going to insist . . .’
Georgia cut him off mid-sentence again. ‘Interview terminated at eleven oh seven p.m.’ She clicked the recording machine to OFF and left the room.
David Dawes was waiting outside Georgia’s office when she arrived back from the interview suite. She opened the door and beckoned him in.
The room smelled of lavender furniture polish
. A large, healthy pot plant, drops of fresh water still clinging to its leaves, stood upright in the corner. Three cans of Red Bull were stacked in the shape of a triangle on a shelf by the newly-painted wall; next to them stood a china cup and saucer and a packet of artificial sweeteners. Everything on her desk was in tidy piles.
‘I phoned a friend, then I phoned Lambeth,’ Dawes said. ‘I told them the Aviary material was top priority. They’re on it.’
Georgia opened her mouth to thank him, but he lifted his hand. ‘But there’s blood, and sweat in the blood – that’s two lots of testing.’ He grimaced apologetically. ‘That takes twice as long.’
‘But at least they’re on it.’ She sat down in her chair and waved him into the one opposite, then put her elbows on the table. They exchanged appraising looks.
Georgia had arrived where she was by being completely upfront; she had a reputation for speaking her mind, and was liked and respected by her team for it. Dawes was new to the squad, and on this showing he would be a big asset.
‘I was told you had friends in high places,’ she said.
He waited a beat, then replied, ‘I do my job as best I can. I’m not superman.’
‘I never said you were.’ She kept her gaze fixed on him. ‘How come the interest in gang crime?’
His jaw tensed. Something had hit a nerve. ‘It’s personal, but I’m glad I’m on this case.’
Georgia took a breath. ‘If I have to apply for an extension to keep Reilly here, I’ll have to tell his brief about my witness statement. That will put my witness at risk.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘Even from inside, he can do damage. I can’t let him out. We have to keep him locked up.’
‘Then we charge him under the dangerous dogs act. He can go down for that.’
‘I want him for murder.’ She banged her fist on the table. ‘We’ve got a chance to get him for murder. No one has ever given evidence on that estate, and now someone has. I want him behind bars for life.’
Dawes nodded. ‘We all do, believe me we all do. And with a little patience we will. Has the witness got protection?’
‘We’re sorting out a family liaison officer at the lunchtime meeting.’
‘Good. Let’s charge Reilly with harbouring dangerous dogs. That will keep him locked up while we pull the murder charge together.’
‘Supposing he gets bail? That solicitor of his is a slippery bastard.’
‘Oh, I think we can swing it,’ Dawes assured her. ‘No one is above the law. Do you remember the Buzzards? The gang headed by Jason Young?’
‘Vaguely,’ Georgia said. ‘A bit before my time.’
‘They were dangerous, and very clever, but we got the leader. Jason Young, his name was. He went down for armed robbery, and the gang folded like a pack of cards. Some of the others are serving time too, and the ones left behind got shot or stabbed. Everyone knows Reilly was behind that, but it was never proved. Still, we got the Buzzards.’
There was a knock on the door and Stephanie Green came in holding a piece of paper. Her rosy face looked serious.
‘DNA results,’ she said.
Georgia flicked a glance at Dawes. ‘Already?’
‘And?’ Dawes asked anxiously.
‘Not from the blood on Chantelle’s door,’ Stephanie said apologetically. ‘Sorry. This is from the semen on the dead woman. Forensics have picked up four different DNA samples – two in her vagina, one on her face, and one on her body.’
Georgia lowered her eyes. Her heart went out to the woman lying in the mortuary. She had probably prayed for death. Georgia hoped she hadn’t felt too much pain. She had trained herself to keep her feelings and memories hidden, but sometimes it wasn’t easy.
‘Go on,’ she said crisply.
‘Michael Delahaye, street name Mince, and Dwayne Ripley, street name Boot, match the two in the deceased’s vagina. The one on her body is Jason Young’s. He’s a former gang leader around there.’
Georgia looked at David Dawes. ‘But I thought . . .’
‘He’s out,’ Dawes told her. He looked at Stephanie again. ‘What about the fourth one?’
Stephanie smiled. ‘That’s the best bit. The sperm on her face is Stuart Reilly’s.’
Georgia resisted the urge to punch the air and shout, ‘Result!’, but her grin was as broad as Stephanie’s.
‘Shall I bring the other two in?’ Stephanie asked.
‘Delahaye and Ripley are Brotherhood Elders or lieutenants,’ Dawes told her. ‘Vicious bastards. But Jason Young . . .’ He tapped the table with his fingers. ‘He’s their enemy. He was in Wandsworth till last week. And he’s more of a firearms man than knives. He went down for armed robbery.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Georgia said.
‘Delahaye and Ripley have got previous for carrying blades,’ Dawes said. He looked at Georgia thoughtfully. ‘This doesn’t add up. If Young is involved, we can be pretty certain Reilly isn’t. They would never work together. And Yo-Yo leaves spider scars as his trademark. Haley Gulati was stabbed three times, and one cut went straight through into her heart. Are we sure this is Reilly’s work?’
‘Someone knew exactly where to aim,’ Stephanie pointed out. ‘What about Dwayne Ripley?’
‘Could have been some kind of initiation for someone new to the gang?’ said Georgia.
‘Looks like it’s not as straightforward as we thought,’ Dawes observed.
Georgia turned to Stephanie. ‘Better warn the duty sergeant we’ll be needing a lot of back-up. We’re going back to the Aviary Estate to bring those three in.’
Jason should have been feeling pleased with himself. He was out of prison, and had a chance to live his dream; and Chantelle had said she wanted to be with him. But wandering along the street right at this moment, it didn’t feel like it was going good for him. Things were going to be OK now that Chantelle had fingered Reilly, and he had his dance scholarship – so why did he feel so uncomfortable? He could look out for himself, and he had a shank to protect himself, if necessary. Was that it? He wanted to go straight, and he didn’t want to carry, but it was like life just wouldn’t let him. Carrying with previous meant a custodial; if he got stopped and searched he was right back in the slammer. They said estate kids never got to do right, and it was true. But he wanted to prove them wrong.
He walked toward the bridge and stopped to look at the view of London, all spread out in front of him.
This was going to be where it all began again for him and Chantelle. After college they would get an act together and be paid to dance, hip-hop and street stuff, just the two of them. Wouldn’t that be cool? Memories of making love together came back to him. It had been a long time since they’d done that. Her warm skin against his, and the cute umph sounds she made to let him know the touching felt good and he was turning her on. He smiled, remembering one night they were doing it in Aunt Haley’s front room; he tried to hush Chantelle’s loud umphs as he brought her to orgasm. He kept sshing and aahing in delight, and trying to keep quiet himself too, and it sent them both into a fit of giggles. Then Chantelle got the hiccups, and that was what woke Haley, not the umphing. Haley came in and caught them, stark naked and him with an erection like a bloody erect water fountain. Haley went ballistic, beat him about his head with a stale French loaf and threw him out. It was worth it, though.
The smile quickly left his face as the thought of Chantelle sucking off strangers for the price of a gram of coke hit home. He’d kill Reilly, and any other bastard that touched her. No matter what she said back there, he knew he couldn’t leave her for long; she was getting a habit and that could make you do bad things. He would get everything sorted real quick: work all night if he had to, to pay their way. He’d get her off the shit, and give her back her life.
She was born to dance, just like he was. Omar, his social worker, who had helped him so much, and encouraged him to apply for his scholarship, had told him to believe that you could take control of your own destiny. He had, and now he had to hel
p Chantelle to take control of hers. If she carried on down the path she was on, she would be dead within two years. That was the way it worked when the stuff took you over.
He wasn’t letting that happen to his girl.
EIGHT
Chantelle stood in front of the mirror in Luanne’s grubby front room. Her nose itched, and she rubbed it with the back of her hand.
Jason thought this dance scholarship was going to change everything, but it wasn’t going to happen for him, she knew that. Away from the estate, he’d be mixing with kids who had parents who’d cared for them, kids who hadn’t spent their lives on the street or in young offenders’, and he wouldn’t be able to cope. He’d be back on the Aviary in no time, and things would go back to how they were – he’d start stealing and dealing again, and he’d get caught and go down for another stretch.
That was how you lived around here: stealing, dealing, and whoring. Guns and knives were the tools of the trade. Nothing changed, except Yo-Yo ran things around here now, not Jason.
She rubbed her nose again, and smeared dark red lipstick on her mouth. She noticed her leg wouldn’t keep still.
Luanne and Alysha were on the sofa watching the TV. Luanne looked up.
‘Don’t stress, babe. Yo-Yo won’t do nothing to you,’ she assured her. ‘It’ll take a good few days before they get those DNA results and find out it wasn’t Yo-Yo, and Jason will call for you before that. It’ll be OK. Try and chill. D’you want a joint?’
Chantelle shook her head. ‘I need a hit.’
She pulled the money Jason had given her out of her cleavage. She could get a rock for a tenner. She’d promised Jason she wouldn’t, but this was an emergency; the Feds had told her she’d have to go and identify Aunt Haley’s body later today, and she’d need something to get her through that. She’d give the drugs up after all this calmed down.
‘I’m going to get a rock,’ she said to Alysha, ‘Will you come with me and look out for the Feds?’
Alysha was dressed in embroidered jeans and a black satin puffa jacket. Her corn-rows were newly plaited, and she was wearing some of Chantelle’s dark red lipstick. She was twelve, but could have passed for sixteen. She jumped up from the sofa. ‘You bet.’
