The Crime Trade

by Simon Kernick

  ‘We were left with O’Brien as the only one aside from Stegs who knew the truth,’ continued Malik, ‘and who was going to be the most obvious suspect as the source of the leak. So someone else, most likely one of Vamen’s people, got rid of him.’

  For what seemed like a very long time, there was silence. I could almost hear the cogs whirring as each person picked at the pros and cons of the theory Malik and I had just put forward. Flanagan seemed to be the one concentrating the hardest, his eyes tight shut, the sweat re-forming on his forehead. I could hear his breathing – short and fast, as if he was having a panic attack.

  ‘It’s certainly a possibility,’ he said at last.

  ‘We know that Vamen’s been trying to get at Merriweather in Belmarsh,’ said Malik.

  Flanagan nodded. ‘True, true. I can see the logic in it as a theory. The only thing is there’s no evidence backing it up. At the moment, it’s nothing but conjecture, and we can’t touch Jenner for any of it. I think the important thing’s to keep following up on our other leads, particularly Robert Panner. We need to get him to talk.’

  ‘We’re pulling out all the stops trying to find him,’ I said, ‘but he seems to have gone to ground.’

  ‘Well, keep looking. It’s urgent we get him in custody. If he is the shooter, he might be able to point the finger at Jenner.’

  ‘What are we going to do about Stegs?’ Tina asked.

  ‘Nothing yet. We’ll keep an eye on him, but that’s all. I don’t want to spook him, he’s a cunning sod. He made a mistake today, but he’s not the sort who makes very many of them. I don’t want you to go following him again, Tina, OK? There’s plenty of other things that need doing. You can help go through that list of Desmarches suit owners.’

  ‘I’d like to follow up on my stolen card lead if I could, sir?’

  ‘What? The Barnet one? What’s there to follow up on? Did they catch the scrote who stole it, then?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s my impression of Stanbury, the man who reported it stolen. There’s something not right about him. First of all, he didn’t phone me back. Then, when I called him again, he became very furtive and sketchy on the details. Apparently the card was taken during a burglary while he was away for the weekend, but he couldn’t tell me what else had been stolen. It seemed to me he was hiding something.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Malik.

  ‘I got the idea that perhaps the card hadn’t been stolen,’ she said, turning in his direction. ‘Or maybe that it had been stolen, but that he knew full well who’d stolen it.’

  ‘You think someone paid him so they could use it while he was away?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I do. I checked with the credit card company and the spending on it started on the evening he left for the long weekend and stopped abruptly three days later, two hours before he informed them it had been stolen. There was no other attempt to spend money on it. It sounds very fishy to me.’

  ‘But all it shows is that maybe your man Stanbury isn’t the most honest in the world,’ I said. ‘Even if he can tell us who was actually using it, that person’s unlikely to be the killer, is he?’

  ‘I’d like the chance to follow it up though, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done pretty well today, Tina,’ Flanagan told her, ‘so I’m not going to stand in your way. We’ve got another meeting at eight-thirty tomorrow morning which I’d like everyone to attend. Go and see him after that.’

  Tina nodded, and the meeting broke up. I looked at my watch. Quarter past seven. Time to head home. We left Flanagan sitting in his office looking as if all the troubles of the world were on his shoulders, and it made me think that perhaps running high-profile murder cases wasn’t the best career role to aspire to, not if you wanted to live a long and healthy life. After we’d said goodbye to Malik, I told Tina that I was going to buy her a bottle of decent champagne, and she asked me why.

  ‘Because Flanagan may not have shown much enthusiasm for all the hard work you’ve put in, but you deserve it.’

  ‘He’s right, though. We’re still a long way from a result.’

  ‘Bullshit. We’re getting close. And when we crack this case, it’ll be down to a lead that you uncovered, I’d put money on that.’

  She smiled. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Definitely. Now, let’s go and get this champagne. And keep our fingers crossed that Robert Panner shows up.’

  26

  Robert ‘Pretty Boy’ Panner was none too pleased with the way Dora Hayes was acting. She was getting way too fucking lippy, telling him she didn’t need him now that she’d found a better job, working for those bastard Kosovans from the Hallfield estate. She’d told Panner that they let her keep more of her money, looked after her better and had unlimited access to crack and smack, both of which Dora liked to indulge in. She now operated at the southern end of the Bishops Bridge Road on the other side of Paddington station to the patch off Praed Street where she’d earned money for Panner, and the way the bitch was acting was making it very difficult for him. How was he meant to keep his other girls in line when one of them was so fucking out of order and, worse still, getting away with it? It seemed he was losing them all over the place at the moment. Dora had already set the bastards on him as a warning, and he’d been lucky to escape relatively unscathed the previous day. The next time, she said, they’d kill him. She was living with one of the greasy bastards now. It made him sick the way they took the piss. You help the bastards out by liberating their country and they repay you by coming en masse to yours, taking over your business and acting like they owned the fucking place. Well, they were going to get a shock tonight. Pretty Boy Panner didn’t like people stealing his business, and he didn’t sit back and take it like a bitch either. He got payback.

  He parked his battered old BMW 3 Series, a poor man’s pimpmobile, over on Gloucester Terrace, just down the road from Royal Oak station and only a few hundred yards from Dora’s new patch. He hadn’t seen her on his drive down the Bishops Bridge Road, and hoped that she was somewhere with a trick and therefore back soon. He didn’t fancy waiting around half the night. He’d come here the previous evening, keen to get things sorted before the rebellion spread to the other two girls he looked after, but she hadn’t been working. Tonight had better be his lucky night. If it wasn’t, he’d cut the bitch to pieces when he finally caught up with her.

  The evening was cool and dry, a result of the clear skies. It was even possible to see the odd star among the dull orange glow of the city’s lights, but Panner wasn’t interested in star-gazing. He was here for one reason, and one reason only. Payback. Justice. And to sort out his livelihood. Even though that was three.

  He moved on to the street proper, keeping to the shadows, knowing that he was taking a big risk showing himself on the street with the Old Bill after him, but knowing too that he couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. It was 11.15 and traffic was sparse. He spotted a couple of skinny bitches in halter tops and mini-skirts outside the building across the road, but didn’t recognize either of them. He kept walking and watching, playing with the razor in his pocket, thinking about what he was going to do to the bitch when he got his hands on her. Make her squeal a bit, and beg for mercy. Let her see the blade, give her a few seconds to ponder what was about to happen, then slash, cut that acned fucking face right across, and listen to her scream. You take my fucking livelihood, I take yours. That’s the law of the street. An eye for an eye.

  When he got up to Westbourne Terrace, he turned round and walked slowly back the way he’d come. A car – it looked like a Jaguar – pulled up alongside the two bitches. There was a bit of banter as they talked cash, then one of them got in and the Jag pulled away, heading over the Bishops Bridge.

  He kept walking up to the bridge, then turned round again. Another car was coming towards him in the opposite direction. A silver Lexus. Sweet. It pulled to a halt, double-parked, about thirty or forty yards away, and the passenger door opene
d.

  A bitch in a fake fur coat and red micro-dress got out. It was a bitch he knew well. It was Dora. A smile like the devil’s slithered across Panner’s face and he felt himself go hard. She was laughing now and saying her goodbyes, a wad of cash in her hand. She’d done well here. A trick who liked to pay. He bet she’d be feeling real good now, well pleased with herself. Totally unsuspecting. Stupid bitch. Stupid fucking double-crossing bitch. He was going to enjoy this.

  The trick’s car pulled away, the driver oblivious to Panner’s presence as he turned right towards Paddington station, the remnants of a smile on his face. Dora, meanwhile, stood on the pavement, putting the money in her red handbag, giving the occasional suspicious glance in the direction of the bitch on the other side of the street, the one whose mate had got in the Jag.

  He was twenty yards away and closing. Walking casually but trying to keep in the shadows of the doorways to avoid attracting her attention. The razor slid out of his pocket, and he opened it, his forefinger stroking the blade. It had a beautiful carved bone handle and was his pride and joy, taken from the unconscious body of a pimp he’d had a run-in with years before. He carried it everywhere, loving the way the blade shone in the darkness, revelling in the fear it infected the girls with whenever he held it up for them to see. And Dora was about to taste the pain it could inflict, the price for being stupid and selfish enough to defy him.

  Fifteen yards, ten yards, nearer and nearer. He quickened his pace, the thrill of the hunt making him want to laugh out loud.

  Then the skinny bitch across the street screamed a warning and Dora looked up and saw him, her eyes bulging as they caught sight of the blade.

  Panner lifted the razor and charged.

  With a scream of her own, she turned and ran, only just managing to keep her balance in her heels. She dodged between two cars and stumbled into the road, swinging her handbag round and catching him in the face as he caught up with her. The blow threw him off kilter, and hurt too. It was harder than he’d thought a little crack whore like her capable of. He lashed out with the razor but she was already running again, making for the other side of the street and what she probably thought was safety.

  But her heels let her down. She stumbled in them, trying to run too fast, and her legs went from under her. She fell forwards, landing hard on the tarmac, screaming for help with all the power her lungs could muster.

  Too late, bitch. Too fucking late. Shouldn’t have been so busy counting the money like a greedy, selfish whore.

  As she tried to scramble to her feet, he grabbed her by her long hair and pulled her roughly upwards, turning her round so she was facing him. She lashed out desperately, catching him in the shin, and he reflexively let go, yelping in pain. She started running again, but he was on her before she could get two paces, and this time he yanked her back with such force that her head ended up tight against his chest.

  ‘Please!’ he heard her cry out. Panner liked that, the terror in her voice. It made it so much better.

  Her hand went up to protect the side of her face closest to the razor, and the blade sliced into the fingers as it tried to find the tender flesh of her cheek and mouth and do some real damage. She screamed, this time in pain as the blood poured onto the palm of her hand, and tried to move her head, knowing full well what was going to come next. Even amid the animal fear, she was vividly aware of the implications disfigurement would have on her career and her living situation. Ahmet wouldn’t go near her, her daughter would cringe when she looked at the deep, ugly slashes, there for the rest of her life as a testimony to her foolishness for thinking she could ever escape him. The tears were stinging her eyes. She couldn’t move. His grip was like iron. She shut them tight and clenched her teeth, waiting for the worst. For the final painful humiliation her life had always been coming to.

  But it didn’t happen.

  Instead, from somewhere behind her Dora heard the sound of footsteps and an angry female shout. ‘Leave her alone, you fucking bastard!’ There was the tight hiss of aerosol being sprayed, and then it was Panner’s turn to cry out.

  ‘You bitch, what you done? My eyes! My muthafucking eyes!’

  He let go of Dora and she pulled away, looking down at the blood pumping steadily through the deep cuts on all four of her fingers and splattering loudly on the ground. Panner still had the razor but his hands were pressed against his eyes and he was dancing round in circles, yelling and cussing. Her rescuer, a working girl she knew only as Saph, and who’d been across the road earlier, now kneed him hard in the groin, and he fell to his knees.

  ‘Ohmigod, he’s hurt me. The bastard’s cut my hand!’

  A car was coming down the street. They saw the blue lights on the roof and both recognized what it represented.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Saph, grabbing Dora by her good arm, and whistling as she saw the extent of the bleeding. ‘I’ll get you down to St Mary’s. You’re going to be all right.’

  They ran into the darkness, leaving Panner incapacitated in the middle of the road.

  The cop car stopped in front of him and two officers got out.

  27

  Stegs made the call to Flanagan’s mobile from the phone box down the road from the One-Eyed Admiral where, as Tam, he’d stopped in earlier for a restful couple of pints, and to get hold of some speed.

  Flanagan picked up before the first ring had finished, and Stegs spoke into the voice-suppressor, introducing himself as the man who had his daughter and asking if he had the address Jack Merriweather was residing at. Flanagan told him to hang on, and he heard the DCS’s wife’s voice in the background asking if it was Judy. She didn’t sound unduly concerned, which meant that he’d kept his mouth shut to her about the kidnap. Good. The last thing he needed was panic. Flanagan told her that it wasn’t and that he wasn’t expecting a call from her for a couple of days yet. His voice was heavily tinged with a forced casualness, and Stegs was surprised that his missus didn’t suspect something. Clearly she had her husband’s non-talent for detective work.

  After a few seconds, Stegs heard the sound of a door shutting. ‘All right,’ said Flanagan, breathing heavily into the phone. ‘Is that you, Jenner?’

  Christ, thought Stegs. How the hell had he guessed that? Boyd must have talked. ‘Who’s Jenner?’ he demanded.

  ‘If it’s you, I’ll have you fucking killed. Now, where’s my daughter?’

  ‘I don’t know who you think I am, but whoever it is, you’re wrong. Now, you change your fucking attitude or I might have to take some unpleasant measures.’ That ought to shut him up. Flanagan had never exactly been Braveheart.

  It did. ‘Look, please, don’t do anything to hurt her. She’s my only child.’

  ‘At the moment, she’s safe and well, I promise you that.’

  ‘I need some guarantee that she’s OK. Please?’

  ‘Nothing’ll happen to her as long as, number one: you give me that address; number two: it’s the right one; and, number three, Merriweather’s there when we send our people round to deal with him.’

  ‘Listen, I can’t get involved in any of this. You’ve got to understand, I’m a police officer. I can’t condone murder.’

  ‘You will be condoning it if you do nothing,’ Stegs told him evenly through the voicebox. ‘And it’ll be the murder of your daughter.’

  The words hit home, just like he knew they would. It was cruel what he was doing. Ruthless. Playing with a father’s love for his only daughter. But Stegs took comfort in the fact that, apart from a very bad hangover, Judy wasn’t going to suffer as a result of what had happened to her, and certainly wasn’t going to die. Still, he thought, Flanagan might. The bastard sounded stressed to the nines, and he wasn’t what you’d call the fittest and healthiest of blokes.

  ‘I have the address,’ Flanagan said finally, with a loud sigh, ‘but I need some guarantee she’s alive. I’ve told you that.’

  ‘I’ve got the best guarantee of all: there’s no point in killi
ng her if you do what you’re told. She’s perfectly well, hasn’t seen her captors’ faces, and does not have a single clue as to who might be behind her abduction. As soon as we have confirmation that the address is correct, and have taken steps to deal with Mr Merriweather, your daughter will be released. If you give me the correct address now, that will be in less than twenty-four hours. You will receive instructions on where to find her.’

  Flanagan sighed again. ‘Is Neil Vamen behind this?’

  ‘Don’t keep asking questions. What’s the address?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone else hurt. No police officers.’

  ‘How many are there guarding him?’

  ‘There are two men there round the clock. I don’t want—’

  ‘I know what you don’t want. No-one else’ll get hurt, and if they do it’ll be their fault, not yours. Now, give me the address.’

  Flanagan reeled it out, speaking slowly and painfully as if each word was a sharpened dart hitting him right in the arse. Stegs wrote it down in his spidery handwriting, then asked how to get to it.

  ‘It’s off the A22 in Surrey, just south of Blindley Heath.’

  ‘Good. You’ll be seeing your daughter shortly.’

  Stegs hung up, and called Tino to get an update on how Judy was doing. She was back under again, courtesy of several further doses of the Rohypnol, but Tino was getting worried now. Stegs told him to dose her up one more time when she showed signs of coming round, and said that he’d be there to deal with everything first thing in the morning. ‘Hopefully we can just let her go,’ he said.

  Tino grunted something and Stegs hung up on him, before putting some more coins in the slot and making yet another call.