The Crime Trade

by Simon Kernick

  I shook my head slowly, allowing a thin smile to show itself on my face. I wanted to disconcert him, to let him know that we had something on him, but not what.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Panner,’ I said after a pause. ‘No-one ever found one.’

  ‘Where were you on the afternoon and evening of the eighth of March, that is last Wednesday?’ asked Malik. ‘Specifically between the hours of midday and eight p.m.’

  Panner seemed surprised. So too did Watson, who even managed to look up from his fingernails. ‘What’s this all about?’ he said. Panner said more or less the same thing, but his language was more colourful.

  ‘It was the same day as the Heathrow hotel shooting,’ I continued. ‘You must have heard about that.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I did, but what’s this got to do with anything? I ain’t done nothing, y’unnerstand? Nothing.’

  ‘Are you refusing to answer the question?’ demanded Malik.

  ‘No, no, course not,’ said Panner, his demeanour becoming noticeably more nervous. The only thing a criminal likes less than being nicked is being nicked for something he hasn’t done, and Panner was doing a very good impression of someone who couldn’t understand why the hell he was being asked this. ‘I was out and about, y’know. In the day. Seeing some of ma bros. This and that, nuttin’ much.’ He might have been pushing thirty and white, but Panner liked to talk the ghetto slang so beloved of today’s wannabe teenagers, at least when he could remember that that was what he was meant to be doing. He tended to veer in and out of it.

  Malik glared at him sceptically. ‘That’s not really a lot of help, is it? Have you got anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts during that time? Individuals – your bros – who can say that you were with them?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why the fuck you asking me anyway? What I meant to have done?’

  ‘What you meant to have done,’ said Malik, mimicking Panner’s habit of missing words out of his sentences, ‘is shoot dead one Robert O’Brien, and his grandmother, Mrs Kitty MacNamara.’

  Panner jumped out of his seat, gesticulating wildly. ‘No way, man! What the fuck is this? I don’t know nuttin’ about no shooting!’

  ‘Get back in your seat!’ I snapped.

  Panner’s face dropped and his aggression ran off as quickly as it arrived. He sat down slowly, looking across at his lawyer, who seemed perplexed by the whole thing.

  ‘I thought my client was under arrest for possession of an offensive weapon and resisting arrest,’ he said, referring to Panner’s interception the previous night.

  ‘And attempted murder of a police officer,’ said Malik.

  ‘Fuck that, it weren’t my fault he jumped all over my car.’

  I smiled. ‘So, you’re admitting it now? That you attempted to run me over?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he whined, knowing he was trapped. ‘Fuck this, man. You’re setting me up.’

  ‘Who paid you to kill Robert O’Brien and Kitty MacNamara?’ demanded Malik coldly, his words designed to shock the pimp. The fear that spread across the other man’s face suggested that they worked.

  ‘No-one did. Dat’s truth. I swear, man. I didn’t have nuttin’ to do wid it. You gotta believe me. I don’t even know no fucking Robert O’Brien, or the other one. I never heard them. Y’unnerstand?’

  ‘No, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Listen, my client is making it clear he doesn’t know anything about this man you keep talking about,’ said Watson testily, breaking his self-imposed silence. ‘Can you therefore move on?’

  Panner took this as a hint to shut up. His fingers drummed steadily on the formica table, and he stared down at them without blinking.

  ‘You’re in a lot of trouble, Mr Panner,’ I told him. ‘At the moment, whether you like it or not, you are our number one suspect in the double murder of Robert O’Brien and Kitty MacNamara, and the evidence against you is irrefutable.’ Watson started to say something else but I talked over him, staring straight at Panner. ‘We know full well that you fired the gun into Fiona Ragdale’s ceiling because not only did she tell us you did, you were also seen by several other witnesses leaving the building directly afterwards.’ This last bit was made up, but he wasn’t to know that. ‘And we also know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was the same gun that killed two people just over a week later. So, I think it’s best if you stop with the boring and repetitive denials and simply admit to us what happened last Wednesday.’

  As I spoke, I mentally crossed my fingers. Both Malik and I were almost a hundred per cent certain he wasn’t our man, so now it was a matter of hoping that he knew who was, that Catherwood hadn’t made a mistake about the bullets, and that Panner felt he was in sufficient trouble that it was worth giving us the information.

  Watson leant over and whispered something in his client’s ear. After a few seconds, Panner told the lawyer that it was all right. ‘I didn’t do it, man. I swear,’ he said, sounding annoyed that no-one appeared to believe him. Then he turned to me. ‘That time with Fi, yeah, I did pull a piece and put bullet in da ceiling, but it wasn’t my piece, man.’

  ‘Who did it belong to then, if it wasn’t yours? And where is it now?’

  ‘If I help you, will you drop the charges? You know, attempted murder of po-leece man, and all that.’

  ‘If you help us, your case’ll be reviewed favourably,’ I told him, giving the standard police spiel. ‘We’ll see what we can do.’

  He nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘I got it off a guy a few weeks back. He hires them out, y’know. There was man after me because he said I owed him, and I had to get hold of a piece fast, you know what I’m saying? There’s a guy over Acton who rents them out, so I got one off him for a week, just in case this man who said I owed him came calling. Then the bitch, Fi, started giving me grief about something, so I went over there and pulled the piece, just to scare her, y’know? Put bullet in the ceiling, just so she knows the Pretty Boy means business, but she starts screaming, the neighbours start shouting, and I’m outta there. Next day, I got bit worried that po-leece would come a-knocking, so I gave the gun back to man in Acton. I told him I hadn’t fired it; y’see I didn’t want to lose deposit on piece. If it gets used, then the rule is I have to get rid of it, and I lose the two hundred I had to put down. I needed the money, so I lied.’

  ‘Why didn’t he check the gun, this guy from Acton?’ I asked. ‘He could easily have told if you’d fired it.’

  ‘I borrowed a spare bullet from a friend of mine, put it in there, and he never knew.’

  ‘A spare bullet?’ said Malik disbelievingly. ‘You borrowed a spare bullet?’

  ‘I swear!’ he shouted. ‘It’s da truth, man. I swear it is. I know it don’t sound true, but that’s the way it is.’

  We all gave him sceptical looks, even Watson. It wasn’t that it was outlandish for someone like Panner to go to an armourer if he wanted a gun, particularly if he only wanted it for a matter of days. Because of the UK’s relatively draconian gun laws, it wasn’t always easy for a criminal to get hold of firearms, and since plenty of the bad guys wanted them, a rental trade in guns had developed, run by individual armourers who typically hired them out to criminals for one-off crimes, or occasionally, as in Panner’s alleged case, longer periods of time. The usual way it worked was that a rental price was agreed, and on top of that a deposit put down by the customer as security. If the gun got fired while in the customer’s care, he or she not only had to get rid of it themselves, they also forfeited the deposit. That way the supplier didn’t lose out. What made Panner’s story a lot less believable, of course, was that he was claiming to have given the gun back even though it had been fired. If this was the case, then the supplier clearly wasn’t very good at his job, as he should have been able to see that it had been used. And, if Panner didn’t have easy access to firearms (and he presumably didn’t if he had to use the services of an armourer), then where did he find a spare .38 bullet?

  We both glared at him. ‘Th
at story’s horseshit,’ said Malik, with a dismissive snort.

  ‘I’m telling the truth, serious. You can fucking check.’

  ‘All right. What’s this guy’s name?’

  ‘It won’t come from me, right? If I tell you, want it kept quiet I co-operated. I got a rep, y’know.’

  ‘Sure you have,’ said Malik sarcastically. ‘Now, what’s his name?’

  ‘Tony.’

  ‘Tony what?’

  ‘I don’t know his last name, man.’

  ‘Then you’re going to be spending a long time in prison.’

  ‘He lives in a flat on a place called Haymarket Road over in Acton. Number ten or twelve. If we go over there, I can show you which one it is.’

  Malik wrote down the address but didn’t let up on the questioning. Neither did I. There was no point. This was a story that reeked of convenience. An armourer owned the gun, so although Panner had been in possession of it once, it was now no longer anything to do with him. Sure.

  So we carried on.

  What we were trying to do was find inconsistencies in his story and then hit him with them in the hope that he’d tie himself in knots, realize the error of his ways and spill the beans on who the shooter was. Then we could start getting to the bottom of who’d actually organized the hit on O’Brien, and from there bring this whole sorry case to something akin to a satisfactory conclusion.

  But Panner wasn’t playing ball, and for the next twenty minutes he insisted that the gun he’d fired had belonged to the armourer, and that he’d never seen it since he’d given it back more than a fortnight ago. We tried coming at him from different angles, but nothing seemed to budge him from his story, and eventually we brought the interview to a close. Watson demanded that his client be given bail, but we both laughed at that one, and Panner was taken back to the cells. We had another nine hours before the initial twenty-four were up, so there was no need to worry about letting him go just yet, but it was a concern that he was sending us up what looked like another blind alley, even with a whole host of charges hanging over his head.

  32

  Bernard Stanbury worked as an accountant for a civil engineering firm in Winchmore Hill, a short commute from his Barnet home. At just after ten o’clock that morning, Tina Boyd walked into the firm’s cheaply decorated reception area and asked the woman manning the switchboard – the only person in the room – if she could speak to him.

  ‘And whom shall I say is calling?’ asked the receptionist in a comically affected voice as she looked Tina up and down with barely concealed suspicion. ‘I don’t seem to have anything in the appointments book. If you’re here to sell anything—’

  ‘Police,’ said Tina with a polite smile, removing her warrant card.

  ‘Oh,’ the woman said with interest, pausing to hear if there was any further explanation.

  There wasn’t. Tina simply stared at her, waiting, the smile remaining fixed on her face.

  The receptionist got the hint and called Stanbury’s number. ‘The police are here to see you, Bernard,’ she said in hushed, conspiratorial tones. ‘Amiss . . . ?’

  ‘Boyd. Detective Sergeant Boyd.’

  A few seconds later and she was off the phone. ‘Mr Stanbury’s office is through those double doors, the second one on the left.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Tina put the warrant card back in her jacket pocket and walked through the double doors. Almost immediately, the second door on the left opened and a smallish man of about forty-five with nondescript glasses and an even more non-descript face stepped out. His expression was a combination of anxious and annoyed.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ He ushered her into his small and surprisingly untidy office, swiftly shutting the door behind her. ‘What’s the problem?’ he demanded, returning to his seat, without shaking hands.

  Tina smiled and took the seat opposite him, on the other side of the desk. ‘I’m DS Boyd. We spoke on the phone yesterday regarding your stolen credit card.’ She put out a hand and he took it reluctantly, blinking behind the glasses and avoiding her eyes.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘and I answered everything you asked. There’s nothing more I can add, and it was a long time ago. I’m also very busy.’

  Tina fixed him with a calm but unflinching gaze. ‘It’s possible, in fact very likely, that the person who stole your credit card has been involved in a double murder.’ Not strictly true, of course – it was still a fairly remote possibility – but there was no point letting Stanbury know that.

  ‘Oh God, no . . .’ The words came out like a strangled gasp, and he put his head in his hands.

  Tina pressed her advantage. ‘The card was stolen from your house while you were away. The thief gained entry through an unlocked window on the first floor. Two hundred pounds in cash was stolen, as well as your credit card. Nothing else. According to the crime scene report, the burglar didn’t leave much of a mess. Why didn’t you take your card with you when you went away?’

  Stanbury took his head out of his hands. He still looked distraught but was desperately trying to control it. ‘I’ve got another credit card. I took that one instead.’

  ‘Let me level with you, Mr Stanbury. I know that you have money problems. I also know that you owed several thousand pounds on the card you took with you on your trip last August, and that you owed very little on the one that was left behind, the one that was stolen. That’s strange in itself. Even more strange is that you leave your card lying around at home with a window unlocked when you’re going away for three days. I think what happened is you told someone where your card was and that they stole it and used it with your full knowledge. Presumably they paid you for the privilege. It happens a lot, I’m sad to say.’

  ‘It’s not like that, honestly. I didn’t—’

  ‘Frankly, I’m not interested in whether you’ve been involved in anything illegal. And neither will any of my colleagues be. We’re far more interested in catching a brutal killer. So, who used your card while you were away?’

  ‘Listen, I had nothing to do with any killings. I swear. I’m not like that. Oh God, why the hell did I ever get involved? This is going to ruin me, you know. What’ll my wife say? The kids?’

  ‘It’s possible that no-one’ll have to know,’ Tina lied, knowing that if they were on the right track she’d never be able to keep it quiet. ‘Now, who was it?’

  Stanbury removed his glasses and rubbed his hands across his face. ‘It’s a neighbour of mine. He’s a friendly enough chap and I’ve known him a while, but, to be honest, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’

  ‘If he’s done what we think he has, then he won’t be a threat to anyone. He’ll be behind bars, probably for the next thirty years.’

  ‘I was broke, you know, really suffering. He paid me three hundred pounds to let him have the card while I was away. He said it was foolproof. No-one would ever know. He even told me to claim for stolen cash as well on the house insurance. God, why did I get involved? I’m a respectable man, I promise. I’ve never done anything wrong before.’ He gave her a pleading look, desperate for her to believe him.

  Tina gave him a reassuring smile. ‘This neighbour of yours. What car does he drive?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Just answer the question, Mr Stanbury.’

  ‘A Megane,’ he said. ‘A black Renault Megane.’

  33

  Tino lay on the bed in his holiday apartment for a long time, his face and ego badly bruised. He could still smell Judy Flanagan’s perfume on the pillow. It was strange, considering that for most of the time she’d been here she’d been asleep, but he genuinely missed her.

  That first evening, when she’d still been conscious, they’d had some fun together. He’d started chatting to her in the café where she worked as a waitress, and they’d got on so well that she’d readily agreed to go on a date with him. He’d then taken her to Garfunkel’s restaurant in the West End, and a local pub, before heading ba
ck to his place for sex. She’d been good, too: enthusiastic, adventurous, admiring of his ample charms. Hygienic and nice-smelling as well, which wasn’t always the case with amateurs. In fact, they’d done it for several hours before finally it had been time to do what he’d been ordered, and administer the drugs that bastard police officer Mark had given him.

  He’d almost decided not to do it, knowing that he could have been getting himself in a lot more trouble than he was in already (this was, after all, a kidnap), but fear, and the desire to avoid complete humiliation, had driven him on. Perhaps, he’d reasoned, if he did what Mark told him then that would be the end of it, and he could return to Holland and start again, putting the events of the past few days down to experience. But as the hours had turned into days, and he’d given Judy more and more of the drugs, so the realization had dawned on him that, rather than saving him from prison, Mark was making his situation ever more dangerous.

  He’d felt guilty, too, awful that he’d got a pretty young girl to trust him and then betrayed her so cruelly, drugging her when she was defenceless. He’d tried to make up for it, talking to her in her sleep, telling her how sorry he was, trying as hard as he could to make her stay with him as comfortable as possible by washing her twice daily, and always making sure she had plenty of water. And now he’d betrayed her again when he’d had the chance to protect her. Who knew where Mark was going to take her now. To her death? It was possible. Why not? He’d lied about everything else. She’d called for him to help her, and when he’d finally tried he’d been beaten like a dog for his troubles. Humiliated, like he’d been back in Holland. Life had once seemed so good. Now it was dealing him a cruel hand.

  He continued to lie there, cursing the world. Occasionally weeping, which angered him still more. And with Judy Flanagan never far from his thoughts. Judy, who might be on her way to her death. He couldn’t let it happen. For once, it was time to do something good.

  He had to find Mark, to stop him. But how could he do that? He was all alone in a city of strangers, all of whom seemed treacherous and keen to do him harm.