The Crime Trade

by Simon Kernick

  Malik didn’t look convinced. ‘There’s no evidence against Jenner, nothing at all, and he seems to be co-operating fully. Plus, as Flanagan points out, there is the problem of motive.’

  I nodded slowly, thinking. I’d been doing a lot of thinking these past few days. ‘But there could be a motive if we assume that Stegs is still working for the Holtzes, or at least for Neil Vamen.’

  Malik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Well, say, Stegs uses O’Brien to set up the robbery at the airport hotel, knowing full well the robbers’ll get caught, thus implicating their boss, Nicholas Tyndall, and causing him no end of trouble – that would be a very nice outcome for Neil Vamen, wouldn’t it? A potentially very serious rival in the shit, which is effectively what’s happened, and if he can get rid of Merriweather at the same time, a chance to be back out on the streets and in complete charge of his old manor.’

  Malik thought about it for a few moments, taking the odd pensive sip of his orange juice, which seemed to be lasting an unfeasibly long time. ‘Part of it fits, but there are still unanswered questions,’ he said eventually. ‘Such as, why would Stegs put himself in such a dangerous position, which he undoubtedly did, for someone like Vamen? Also, we’re assuming that Vamen’s positive he’s going to get out of jail, otherwise why would he bother trying to set up Tyndall? And why put his old friends, the Colombians, out of business?’

  I finished my pint and placed the glass carefully on the table. ‘Something’s going down, though, Asif. I’m sure of it.’

  19

  Fiona Ragdale was pale and skinny, with bottle-blonde hair showing dark roots. She looked older than the twenty-three years she claimed to be, and tired too, but then she did have a hyperactive three-year-old boy jumping all over her. ‘Leave it, Jack,’ she said, swatting him away with an arm that was dotted with bruises. ‘I’m talking to these men. Go and play with your train set.’

  She turned back to us as Jack ran off towards the other side of the room. ‘I ain’t seen him since that night,’ she said. ‘And I hope I never see him again. Not after what he did to us.’

  We were sitting opposite her in the lounge of her cramped tenth-floor flat on the Warwick estate, a collection of monolithic 1960s council-owned tower blocks overlooking the A40 flyover, just west of Paddington station. Malik and I were hunched together on the tiny semi-collapsed sofa, trying desperately to stay upright, while she was hunched forward in a matching chair that looked like it had been savaged by a dog. The room itself was tidy but cold, and it badly needed a new coat of paint. The hole in the ceiling where Panner had fired the all-important round was still clearly visible, surrounded by long spider’s-web cracks in the plaster.

  Malik made a manful attempt to lean forward in his rapidly sinking seat. ‘He hasn’t attempted to make contact at all since?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I thought he would. Usually when he threatens something, he comes back to finish it off. Maybe he reckoned he’d gone too far, what with the gun an’ all.’

  ‘Gun!’ shouted Jack happily, coming back over and standing in front of Malik and me. ‘Gun! Gun! Gun!’ I gave him a brief smile and he continued his running round the room. I thought it was tough on the little kid, being cooped up high above the ground when he should have been outside playing.

  ‘I’m not working the streets no more, all that stuff’s behind me. And I’m clean too. I ain’t touched a thing since January.’ She looked us both in the eye as she said this, and there was an unmistakable pride in her voice. ‘That’s why he was so pissed off with me.’

  ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ I told her, hoping she’d be able to keep it up.

  Malik pulled the e-fit of our suspect from his jacket and passed it over to her. ‘Can you tell us if Mr Panner looks anything like this?’

  She checked the picture out for a couple of seconds, then her face lit up with a surprisingly pleasant smile. ‘Nah, it don’t look nothing like him. This bloke might not be real but he’s a lot better looking. And his hair’s shorter.’

  I asked her if she was sure.

  ‘Ain’t you got a photo of Pretty Boy?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Panner. That’s his street name. Pretty Boy. I think someone was taking the piss.’

  ‘I think you’re right. Yes, I have seen a photo of him. I was just double-checking.’

  It had been the answer we’d been anticipating. On the way over here we’d checked with the incident room to see if Panner’s name appeared on the list of Desmarches suit owners, and it hadn’t. It still wasn’t conclusive proof that Panner and our killer weren’t one and the same, but it was getting close to it.

  Malik took back the e-fit, and now it was his turn to speak again. ‘You said just now that you thought he might have gone too far by coming here and firing a gun. Was that the first time you’d ever seen him with a firearm, then?’

  She gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘Yeah, it was.’

  ‘But he’d hit you before?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said matter-of-factly, as if this was par for the course in her life. ‘He used to knock me about quite a lot, especially if I wasn’t making enough money for him, or I was threatening to quit. But this was different.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘No, not like that. It’s just that normally he works himself up before he does it. You know, shouts about, smashes a couple of things. But this time he was only in here two minutes before he pulled the gun. He waved it in my face, then fired it into the ceiling.’ She shuddered. ‘I couldn’t believe it. And in front of Jack as well, poor kid. Scared him shitless. He was crying all night.’

  ‘What happened at that point?’ asked Malik. ‘After he’d fired the gun.’

  ‘Well, that was it. He told me not to say anything to anyone about what he’d just done, then he turned round and walked out. Didn’t say another word. It was weird.’

  Malik and I glanced at each other. She was right. It was weird, and just more confirmation that Panner wasn’t our man. He was just too much of an amateur. But then, if he wasn’t, who the hell was?

  ‘He didn’t say anything about you going back to work for him, then?’ I asked.

  Jack was shouting again – something unintelligible but loud, in a futile bid to get attention – and I had to repeat the question. She told him to be quiet, then turned back to me.

  ‘He did when he first came in, yeah. Told me that he was sick of me pissing him about, but he didn’t go on about it like he normally did.’

  Malik changed the line of questioning. ‘Do you know if he ever did anything else for money?’

  She said he dealt crack and blow now and again, and occasionally smack, but that was all, as far as she knew.

  ‘Does he, or did he, carry round large sums of money?’

  ‘He always had a few quid on him, yeah, but then he took money off me, and the other girls he had working for him, plus he made money on the gear, so it ain’t really surprising, is it?’

  Malik then asked whether there were any occasions when Panner had suddenly come into very large sums of cash, but she said she wasn’t sure, didn’t think so. He looked at me again, and his expression mirrored my thoughts. He wasn’t the O’Brien shooter.

  ‘It’s important we find Mr Panner,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve found him already, but you let him go. Even though he pulled a gun on me and Jack, and fired it. It don’t exactly make us feel safe, does it?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, Miss Ragdale. It wasn’t our inquiry. But if we find him this time, it’s very unlikely he’ll be seeing anything but prison walls for a good few years to come.’

  She managed a cynical smile. ‘What’s he done this time, then?’

  ‘We can’t tell you that at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Thought not.’

  ‘Can you tell us where you think he might be? We’ve got his bail address.’ I reeled it off to her. ‘Any other ideas?’

  ‘I ain�
�t had much to do with him these past couple of months, thank God. I know there were another couple of girls working for him. One was called Nicki, and I think another one was Dora. I dunno where they live, though.’ She must have seen the disappointment in our expressions, because she tried to justify herself. ‘Honest, I’m not trying to protect him. I hate the bastard. If you do ever get hold of him, I hope you throw away the key, but I honestly can’t think where he’ll be. He moves around a lot. He’s got a lot of enemies, people he owes money to, so he’s pretty slippery when he wants to be.’

  And that was it really. I stood up, and Malik followed suit.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Miss Ragdale. Bye, Jack.’

  Jack shouted a very long ‘bye’ back, and gave me a wide grin.

  Malik pulled a card from the pocket of his suit. ‘If you do hear from Mr Panner at any point in the future . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be on the blower like a shot. I don’t want that bastard coming anywhere near us.’

  She saw us to the door, and as it shut behind us I suddenly felt very depressed. Ever since childhood, I’ve always wanted justice for people, and by that I mean seeing that they get the fate they deserve. If another kid at school was bullied for no reason, I’d intervene, because it wasn’t fair, and I knew that I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. As a copper, I’d spent the last twenty years intervening in the world around me, trying to create an illusion of fairness, but what depressed me now was that I could see no justice here and, worse, I could do nothing about it either. I was leaving behind a young woman and her son to live their lonely existence in a cramped little flat high above the ground, forgotten by the world around them, except when it came calling with threats and violence, and I couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before Fiona Ragdale ended up hawking herself for another pimp and escaping reality by sinking back into the dope. And what, then, would happen to Jack? A pimp and a thug in the making? A care-home kid? A street runaway dead by fifteen? Or maybe it would be a story with a happy ending. Such things are always possible, I suppose, but somehow I didn’t think so. The thing with me is that I’m a pessimist who’s constantly trying to be optimistic, but can’t quite manage it. Experience gained through years of policework doesn’t allow for that sort of naivety.

  I thought about saying something to Malik about how I was feeling, but decided against it. Sometimes these things are best kept to yourself. Perhaps I could buy Jack something, or send them some money. But I knew I was deluding myself. I’d forget about the two of them soon enough, when the next crisis or tragedy came calling.

  When we were back on street level, Malik pulled his mobile from his pocket and called the DCS while we made our way through the subway that led under the main road outside the Warwick estate in the direction of Royal Oak Underground station. A watery, early-spring sun fought its way out from behind the clouds as we crossed the wrought-iron bridge that passed over the train tracks heading into Paddington, and I suddenly got that uplifting feeling that the worst of the winter was over and that summer was coming.

  We got back to where the car we’d brought was parked at a meter in the somewhat grander ambience of Porchester Square, a few hundred yards and a million miles away from the tower block where we’d just been, and Malik finished talking to Flanagan and hung up. ‘He’s very pleased with the Panner lead,’ he said, as we got in and I started the engine. ‘The pressure’s beginning to get too much on this one. He’s doing a press conference down at Scotland Yard in half an hour, just to keep everyone in the media up to date with our progress. I think he was getting a bit worried about it. Now with this, he’s going to tell them that we’re following up on several significant leads, which should keep them quiet for a day or two.’

  ‘What’s he want us to do?’ I said, turning on to the Bishops Bridge Road.

  ‘Get over to Panner’s bail address and keep an eye on the place, just until he gets a chance to set up a team from SO11 to put him under surveillance properly. But it’s going to take a couple of hours. If he decides to leave the premises, we’re to follow him discreetly, see what he gets up to. At the moment, it’s only about evidence-gathering. We’re not to apprehend him, unless we catch him in the commission of a serious crime.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over there. Slow down.’

  I looked to where Malik was pointing. On the other side of the road, in front of the railings that separated the pavement from the grounds of Paddington’s Hallfield estate, a group of four men were fighting. It looked like it was one against the rest, and the one was having a bit of a hard time of it. He took a punch to the head and went down, disappearing behind a parked car, allowing the others to deliver a series of unseen kicks in his direction.

  I slammed on the brakes, coming to a skidding halt twenty yards away from the action, and shoved on the hazards. Malik produced his mobile phone and called for back-up, and at the same time we both jumped out of the car. The vehicle behind us did an emergency stop and gave a continuous blast of the horn, but I was already running for the other side of the road, waving my warrant card in all directions, Malik’s footsteps sounding close behind.

  ‘Stop, police!’ I yelled, unsure what else to say. It’s rare these days that I come across a crime actually taking place in front of me, so it’s not something I have to practise a lot. I’d almost forgotten the adrenalin rush you get when you suddenly shove yourself in the path of danger.

  I was now less than ten yards away and the three men, all eastern European in appearance, turned to face me, their expressions ones of surprise rather than fear. I could see why. One of them was holding a wicked-looking claw hammer in his hand, claw facing outwards, and they also had the numerical advantage. I slowed down, knowing that if they didn’t run Malik and I were both in trouble. Neither of us was armed and neither of us was in a position to bring this situation to a swift end, other than through the force of our personalities.

  ‘Police!’ I shouted again, still coming forward, speeding up again now, knowing that any obvious hesitation would be fatal. ‘You’re all under arrest.’

  One of them aimed another kick at their unfortunate victim, shouting something in a language I didn’t understand, and then, without warning, all three turned and made a dash for it up the road. I ran up onto the pavement, gave a half-hearted five-yard chase – more to make sure they didn’t come back than anything else (I’ll be straight: there was no way I was tackling a man with a claw hammer when he was hot-footing it in the opposite direction) – then turned in the direction of the victim, who was being pulled to his feet by Malik, one hand covering his face where he’d been kicked.

  He looked familiar, but then he would have done: I’d seen his photograph often enough that day, although he was a lot bulkier in the flesh. Malik recognized Robert ‘Pretty Boy’ Panner at exactly the same time, and took his arm, starting to speak.

  Panner might have taken a bit of a beating but he didn’t appear too much the worse for wear, and his eyes widened as he realized who we were. Knowing he might make a run for it, I took a step forward to secure his other arm, but before I could reach him he lashed out, hitting Malik in the gut, then swung him bodily against the bonnet of the nearest car. Malik’s not the biggest of guys, and he went straight over it. I jumped forward, trying to grab Panner’s jacket, but he was a fast mover and did a nice little ballet-style twirl before accelerating away down the pavement in the direction of Paddington station.

  I looked over at Malik, saw that he was OK as he clambered up from behind the car, then took off after Panner. He might have been fast, and obviously keen to get away, but I was also very keen to catch him, and now that I’d started going to the gym (albeit erratically) in an effort to get myself fit again and impress Tina, I thought I was in with a chance.

  But clearly my fitness regime needed some improving because Panner had the edge and slowly b
ut surely he opened up a gap between us, helped no doubt by the fact that a group of schoolkids across the street were enthusiastically cheering him on. Whatever happened to rooting for the good guys?

  As he came to the north-eastern corner of the Hallfield, he turned into Gloucester Terrace. There were ten yards between us now, twelve when I had to dodge an old lady who looked like she was trying to cut me off. Or maybe it was just that I was getting suspicious of everyone. I rounded the corner and saw another schoolkid lying on the pavement where Panner had evidently knocked him over. He was surrounded by a group of his mates who were all staring after the fugitive’s rapidly disappearing figure. That bastard could have been a promising athlete if he’d put his mind to it, instead of spending his days pimping, threatening women and children, and getting beaten up. He had a natural swiftness of foot that made it look like there was lead in my brogues. But I was going to get him, I was sure of that.

  ‘Police! Out the way!’

  The group scattered, but the kid on the ground sat up and tried to crawl away, and I was forced to jump over him, losing my footing as I landed back on the pavement and stumbling forward onto my hands and knees. Behind me I heard laughter, but I didn’t have time to worry about that as I ran on, my breathing getting heavier all the time as the full enormity of my unfitness finally became apparent.

  Up ahead – twenty yards away at least, probably more – Panner had stopped by a battered old BMW and was fishing round in his pocket for the key. I made a final burst, ignoring the pain in my lungs, knowing that I’d hardly have the strength to stand up, let alone nick him, by the time we were face to face, but knowing that I couldn’t stop. Glory beckoned.

  He found the key, opened the door and jumped inside. I was ten yards away now. The engine coughed and roared into life, and he reversed straight into the car behind him, smashing its headlights. Eight yards, six, four . . . He turned the wheel as far as it would go, at the same time moving forward, but a car coming the other way prevented him from pulling out. Two yards, one, and then I was pulling open the door and yelling at him to stop, reaching for the keys.