by Gwyn GB
‘I’m not interested in anything else but this one case. A post van.’ Jack was trying to get across. The tiredness and lack of patience showed in his voice and body language.
The man in front of them stood his ground and blocked their further progress into the building. He was balding but with a neck as thick as his head and tattoos that covered its entirety. Jack imagined him as a regular at the local boxing gym, and he certainly wasn’t a bloke he’d pick a fistfight with. He guessed he was either Mr Davey or Mr Thomson, but they were unlikely to find out, as he wasn’t giving anything away. As the overpowering smell of spray paint wafted over his head, Jack hoped, at the very least, it might act in a similar way to glue and give his tired brain a chemical pick-me-up. He certainly needed it.
Two of the workers, facemasks on, had drifted over and were taking an unsubtle interest in the proceedings.
‘Seriously, mate. I ain’t lying. It’s nothing to do with us. We ain’t done nothing like a post van,’ the thick-necked man replied. There was an insincerity in his voice; he clearly wasn’t a fan of the police.
For a moment, Jack Salter glassed over in the face of Mr maybe Thomson or Davey. The smell reminded him of walking round boring stately homes and museums with his parents on holiday, sniffing at the intoxicating aroma of the guidebooks. His parents had never realised his real motivation behind wanting to carry them. He still loved that fresh glossy print smell to this day.
‘Okay, thanks for your help.’ Jack’s clipped tone gave away his frustration and sarcasm.
The two detectives turned and walked away from the entrance. They felt several pairs of eyes on their backs as they went.
Jack also felt the young officer beside him bristle at the attitude they’d just come up against. The detective was still fairly new to this work and had a lot to learn. David Oaks stuck out like a sore thumb and hadn’t yet learnt the art of being a chameleon. Change your accent and your demeanour to suit the environment. Instead, he spoke to everyone with the same perfect English accent. Jack was Cockney one moment and Queen’s English the next. He could draw himself up to be tall and threatening or crumple himself down and meld into the background. It was a skill learnt from watching people closely and trying to get the best from them. DC Oaks was smart, though. He’d learn.
He couldn’t contain his annoyance. ‘If he isn’t lying, I’m Lady Gaga,’ said David. ‘Word is they take in stolen cars and respray them. He’s not going to admit to anything off the books and certainly won’t want us sniffing around.’
‘Nope. I suspect they’re having a quick clean-up right now, just in case we come back. Might need to tap into uniform or the Specials, see if any of them have a better relationship, but somehow, I doubt it. How many more on the list?’
‘Another six, then the paint retailers,’ Oaks replied. ‘But that’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Asking if anyone has bought a red post van colour isn’t going to be an easy hit.’
‘Bloody hell, six more? Hang on, will you? I’ve gotta make a call.’ Jack stopped about fifty yards from the spray painters and dialled ‘home’ on his mobile. It rang and rang, but no one picked up; instead, the message-answering service kicked in, and the cheerful voice of his wife telling him no one could answer his call filled his ear. It made him wish for the time when “cheerful” had been her default state. He hadn’t seen Marie smile in weeks.
Just as he was about to follow Oaks to the car, a man in paint-covered overalls appeared from down the side of the building. He looked around shiftily and kept back in the shadows.
‘I ‘eard you was looking for someone who might ‘ave sprayed a van, yeah?’
Jack looked up from checking the messages on his mobile. The guy kept looking towards the entrance. He obviously didn’t want to be seen. Jack stepped towards him and out of the workshop’s direct line of sight. He kept it casual, though. Last thing he wanted was to scare the guy off or alert the others that he was talking to someone.
‘Yup. Needle in a haystack. Don’t tell me,’ he said.
‘It’s about that kid wot got murdered, innit?’ the man continued in his Cockney accent.
‘Yeah,’ Jack replied, unsure if he had a nosey voyeur on his hands or someone who might know something.
‘I got kids, yeah. I’d like to see ‘im banged up.’
‘So would we, and more important, so would Darren’s parents.’
For a moment they both stood there in a mental standoff. Jack could see the man was working through the pros and cons of telling what he knew. He wasn’t going to pressurise him too hard. He’d learnt that one a long time ago. Silence and patience can often bring far better results than bombarding someone with questions.
The guy did a quick look around to make sure no one was near enough to hear. ‘There woz this geezer, used to work ‘ere, yeah. Left ‘bout two months back. Right weird he woz, gave me the creeps, yeah. Kept saying religious stuff to us, but he woz good at the spraying.’
‘He left?’
‘Yeah, see his old man got sick. He lived with ‘im. Stopped coming to work all sudden. Yeah, so Mick sacked ‘im, like. I ‘ad to clear out his locker. Right odd that woz, full of religious stuff and things about the Devil, like he thought he was worried about being possessed or somat. Sick in the ‘ead if you ask me.’
Jack’s interest levels had perked up with each sentence. ‘Got a name for this geezer?’ he asked. Salter modified his accent to suit his audience.
‘Yup, Cameron Platt. Lives at the Marion Estate flats.’
‘Cheers,’ Jack replied, writing down the name and details.
‘Don’t tell ‘im I told you, ay? As I said, the bloke gives me the creeps. And don’t tell Mick.’ He cocked his head back towards the spray-paint workshop. ‘He don’t want no attention, and he’d throw me out if he knew I told you.’
‘No worries,’ Jack replied. ‘I don’t know your name and I won’t ask.’ His mood and energy levels had suddenly boosted. The guy might be lying, sent to put them off from sniffing around the workshop, but his gut told him not. He came across as genuine, which meant they could have their first strong lead. The criminal community might be tight-lipped about nicked cars, but no one liked a child killer.
19
Harrison couldn’t help it. He told himself it was his lunch hour. He wasn’t losing any work time. He had returned to Nunhead and was stood looking at the area outside the block of flats where he’d chased the man. Did they live around here? Unlikely. Where did they go if they didn’t get on that bus? The graveyard could wait, but if he was going to find out anything about what happened yesterday, he needed to act now. See if anyone knew how that graffiti had appeared on those particular headstones. He’d been involved in enough police investigations to know you needed to investigate quickly before the trail went cold.
He wandered around the streets surrounding the flats. Harrison was looking for teenagers or any bunch of kids who might spend their time hanging around and be easy recruits if you wanted something like that done. He knew just asking straight out wouldn’t be easy. He’d worked with disadvantaged teens for years at the Taekwondo club. They took a fair bit of work before they’d trust you, and even then, it was arm’s distance until they had your measure. He also knew there were some nasty individuals out there. Boys and sometimes girls, who’d already been so tainted by the drugs and gang culture that they’d stab or shoot first and ask questions later. He didn’t fancy becoming another statistic. He could see Jack Salter’s face now when he was called out to investigate his murder. Didn’t see that one coming, did you? written all over it.
He made his way to the newsagents, which he knew was on the other side of the flats. It was a classic London corner shop located away from the more refined wealthy areas and tourist hot spots. Wire caging covered the windows to prevent robberies. CCTV cameras were everywhere, with signs stating the shop had CCTV plastered in every vantage point as deterrents. It looked like a shop under siege. Harrison
peered into the gloom and saw the counter stacked high with shelving. Only a small gap remained for the thin Asian man who was serving to peer at customers. Another protective measure. He suspected the guy had already endured robberies, attempted or successful, and behind one of those shelves was some kind of implement that could be used as a weapon, along with a panic-alarm button. A bank of small screens showed video footage of the shop from every angle. Harrison wondered how much the guy had lost through shoplifting a year and suspected it wouldn’t be insubstantial.
Someone like him, a newsagent who sold cigarettes and food, was at the heart of communities like this. He’d know where to find the local posse of teenagers, but would he tell him?
Harrison looked around for something to buy. Something small. He didn’t want a lottery scratch card. Why anyone would think they could beat the odds on those things and win anywhere near as much as they were going to spend on them, he’d never understand. It was a totally human trait. A bit like someone who hedged their bets that they were going to go to heaven, paradise, or whatever their idea of nirvana was. The unbeatable psyche of human optimism. Do enough good, scratch enough cards, say enough prayers, and your lucky card will come up. Animals, even our nearest intelligent cousins in orangutans and gorillas, were purely reward and risk-driven by the facts they saw before them. Fight the dominant animal, and I might win some more territory—or they might kill me. Look at the odds: how much bigger is he? Am I strong enough? Is the reward worth trying? Make a decision. Simple. They never said a quick Hail Mary before they started fighting, thinking it might help them win, or make a wish on a falling star and expect to get lucky.
Humans were illogical at the best of times, but it made them more interesting.
Harrison picked up a pack of chewing gum. On long days like now, it was good to refresh his mouth now and then.
‘Hi.’ He smiled warmly at the newsagent. He was about thirty years old, with stubble on his face and bags under his eyes. He obviously kept the shop open all hours and spent very little time on his own care. A wedding ring told of a wife, probably kids as well at home, so no need to attract a mate, but every need to earn money.
‘Sixty pence,’ the man said.
Harrison wondered if maybe he should have spent a bit more to get him on his side.
‘I was wondering if you know of a group of lads around here. Someone saw them yesterday with spray cans.’
As the newsagent held out the card-payment machine, his eyes darted around the shop. Harrison had chosen his moment well. There was no one else there to hear their conversation.
‘I’m with a charity. We work with disadvantaged kids on art projects,’ Harrison lied.
The newsagent humphed.
‘I just want to speak to them, see if they’re interested in the project,’ he continued.
‘You’ll be lucky,’ the man replied, taking the card machine back after Harrison had waved his phone at it.
‘I’ll be lucky to find them or speak to them?’ Harrison tried to clarify.
‘Oh, you’ll find ‘em, all right. They hang around near the Benson Estate. But they don’t do talking, least not the kind that anyone would appreciate.’ He almost snarled the last part of his sentence.
Clearly some of the precautions in his shop were aimed at the Benson Estate lads, and the idea that they were going to benefit from some kind of charity was an anathema to a man who worked as hard as he did for his living.
‘Okay, Benson Estate. Cheers and thanks for the warning.’ Harrison gave the guy another smile. Must be tough running a business like this, he thought. Stressful.
The newsagent was right. It didn’t take Harrison long to find them once he’d crossed a couple of roads to the Benson Estate. They sat on a low wall, smoking. Occasionally they shouted abuse at passers-by, most of whom looked intimidated or had already crossed the road to avoid them. They were exactly the kind of group he’d ask to spray graffiti on something—for a price. Cocky. Thought themselves untouchable, and had probably already had more run-ins with the police than Harrison had worked on cases, but the difficulties the force had in convicting and sentencing young people had emboldened them. There was also something else they exhibited, something he loathed: they were bullies.
After watching them discreetly for a few minutes, Harrison strolled over.
‘Y’all right?’ he addressed them.
They tensed and looked at him like he was a piece of filth on their shoes.
There were six of them. All in the basic street gang uniform. Hoodies, trainers that looked more expensive than most teenage kids on a council estate should be able to afford, and sweatpants or jeans. The latter were in some cases so low down their backsides they were nearly falling off. Harrison never could understand that fashion statement.
It was obvious what the pecking order was. There were four black kids and two whites. Probably all roughly the same age—about sixteen, maybe seventeen—but one of them sported full facial hair. He’d clearly matured earlier and was top dog. His sidekick was another black lad. He watched his ‘leader’ keenly, taking every cue like an out-of-sync echo. Number three was a white boy. He looked like the one with the least brain cells, but was the biggest. The muscle and the kind of kid who spelt ‘babies’ as ‘babys’. Four and five were wannabe leaders, but probably destined to always to be followers, while six didn’t even have aspirations. Harrison worked all this out within a few minutes by just watching how they interacted with one another. It was the same principle David Attenborough used when looking at an animal pack.
‘I’m not police,’ he tried to reassure them.
‘Wot? So you some paedo after a piece of my arse?’ That came from number two, who looked to number one to see if he’d found it funny. The entire group sniggered and sneered.
They carried on assessing him. He was no wimp who’d be easily overpowered, but with it being six against one, they felt confident enough. Number one stood up and strutted forward. He’d clearly decided that instant aggression was the best way to show this stranger just how hard he was and to show off in front of his gang.
‘Yeah, what you want, man? Why’d you bring yourself into my yard?’
‘I don’t want to cause any trouble. Just wanted to see if you knew whose graffiti handiwork it was in the cemetery. I’ll pay for info. Not going to report anyone—only want to talk to them about who it was that paid them. No names needed, just a description.’
‘That ain’t none of your business,’ the strutting adolescent replied.
‘Actually, it is my business,’ Harrison countered. He was still being polite, not rising to the aggressive levels being displayed to him.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off before I cut you?’ the boy said, turning to smirk at the group of lads lounging on the wall behind him. Two of the others stood up intimidatingly, taking their cue. They swaggered a few steps towards him, sneering with confidence.
‘That’s not polite,’ Harrison replied, completely unfazed.
‘Not polite!’ the boy tried to copy Harrison’s accent and laughed.
‘I haven’t been disrespectful to you, so why are you being rude to me?’ Harrison persisted.
‘Yo, this wallad gem thinks he’s teachin’ me manners,’ the boy shouted over his shoulder to his gang. He pulled a knife from out of the back of his trousers and walked threateningly towards Harrison.
Although Harrison didn’t think the boy was serious about stabbing him, he’d had enough of his abuse. He had a pathological dislike of bullies and would be happy to teach this one a few lessons. The lad gave him his excuse when he lunged at him with the blade, a little perturbed by Harrison’s lack of fear and the fact he hadn’t moved a centimetre in the face of his aggression.
Without batting an eyelid, Harrison grabbed him, had the knife out of his hand, and both his arms behind his back in seconds. All without seeming to exert any effort or thought.
‘Now that really isn’t polite,’ he told him. The lad tried t
o wriggle like a caught fish, kicking out with his legs. Harrison took them both out and sat him on the floor, still holding his arms up behind his back. He wouldn’t hurt him in this position, but he could use his weight to keep the boy still and protect himself if he needed to.
A string of expletives came from the wriggling youth on the ground, and the other lads walked towards Harrison threateningly.
‘So,’ Harrison said, addressing them all, ‘we can do this my way, or we can do it yours. One will mean I break both his arms…’
Harrison took one of the boy’s arms and held it out straight, lifting his knee to show how easy it would be to snap it back. The boy was no match for his strength. It looked like he wasn’t even trying to resist, but the exertion on his face told a different story. Then Harrison placed one foot lightly on the front of the boy’s knee to show his intention.
‘…and I could also sort his legs out, before I deal with the rest of you. Or you can just tell me who did the graffiti and why.’ Harrison was bluffing, but they didn’t know that. He wouldn’t have broken any of the boy’s limbs, although a part of him felt the urge; they were after all just kids, even if they weren’t very nice ones. He’d got himself out of tougher situations than this one and while the lads were clearly street wise, they didn’t have his training and even number three was no match for his strength.
‘Get off me, man,’ the boy whined. He was exhausted, overwhelmed by the power and speed of the man who held him. He stopped struggling.
For a few moments the rest of the gang thought about the proposition. Without their leader, the bravado had turned to confusion. None of them seemed prepared to step up and make a decision. Instead, one by one, they made the right choice and backed away. Seeing they were beat, their number one gave Harrison what he wanted.
‘It was some old woman. Told us what she wanted, paid us. Dunno why. Didn’t ask.’
‘Okay, thank you. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? One last question: you ever seen her before?’
