“SOCO are here with me,” continued Gary. “They say there’s brain matter splattered across one of the walls, and a pool of vomit mixed with the blood.”
“That all ties in with what we know from PC Griffiths’ remains.”
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. SOCO are processing the scene as we speak. They’ll confirm DNA matches once they get samples back to the lab.”
“Good news, Gary. Keep me informed, mate.” The DI hung up. As he looked below, the quadrangle was beginning to fill with inquisitive residents from the block of flats. No doubt the noise of the raid had alerted them to the police presence. At that moment, the small crowd of onlookers was behaving; they were probably still partially asleep. But as to how long that would last, was anyone’s guess.
A few minutes later, one of the search team approached Colin on the balcony. He had a brown paper evidence bag in his hands, its clear plastic window showing some type of clothing inside.
“What you got there?” Colin asked.
“I found these in the bedroom, sir - jeans and a hoodie - both covered in mud and blood.”
“Good. Get ‘em off to forensics for DNA matching. Anything else found so far?”
“There’re a few small packets of white powder, some bags of weed, and the usual drugs paraphernalia, but nothing else relating to the murder, sir. We’ve still got loads to check though.”
“Good man. Bag everything up and send it to the labs once you’re done, OK?”
“Sir.”
With that, DI Peterson descended the stairs to ground level and made his way back to the police station to coordinate results from the other two raids.
...
As he departed, so the small crowd of nosey onlookers increased in number. No longer was this group made up of concerned residents worried about an early morning wakeup call from the police. The word had spread throughout the entire estate. The crowd now consisted of the Havering’s youth, gang members, and wannabes, all loitering, pacing back and forth in the confined area within the quadrangle of Jackson House.
Sensing trouble, local uniformed police presence had been reinforced to secure the entrances and stairwells to the block, ensuring that those searching above could do so in relative safety. But police numbers were short; they were stretched to the limit.
At first, the crowd regarded the police presence as a novelty. There was a carnival atmosphere as they watched closely what was going on. But as they saw repeated comings and goings from a flat on the middle balcony, and as murmurings began to suggest that the police were after Malachi (from their own close-knit community) for murder, so the tension began to build. It had been bred into them from an early age – the police were evil, they were never to be trusted – and the fact that they were hunting for one of their own, meant that feelings were heightened even more.
Local Community Police Officers, familiar faces to the crowd, were deployed to talk to the ringleaders in an attempt to defuse the situation. They were jeered and taunted. The growing crowd was in no mood for a chat. The officers could feel the tension building like static in the air. Things were at a tipping point. The slightest provocation and the crowd could turn violent. They reported their concerns to their superiors.
As men in white coveralls were seen rooting through the communal bins at the foot of the stairs, and as items were discovered, bagged, and removed to waiting police vans, so the crowd became even more agitated. They found their voices, screaming abuse at the police, calling them names, attempting to intimidate them by weight of numbers. They advanced on the narrow line of officers, sensing fear behind their eyes. They pushed and shoved at them, drawing a mirrored response as they fought back in an attempt to regain control of the situation. The officers drew their batons, extending them, and holding them in the ready position against their shoulders. Warnings were issued.
At the sight of weapons having been drawn, the crowd got angry. Shoves turned to surges, punches were thrown, and the police fought back, hitting protestors with their staffs. All semblance of control was lost. Hurried radio calls were made for “urgent assistance.” Those working upstairs finished their jobs hastily, filled the vans with evidence, and headed away from the rapidly deteriorating scene, leaving their colleagues to face the wrath of the mob.
Hidden amongst the masses, the two Karpov Brothers watched with interest as the riot began to brew. They incited hatred against the few remaining police officers, the words, “Broadwater Farm” being bandied about (a reference to the riot in London where a police officer had been killed by the protestors). They handed bottles and bricks to the baying crowd, urging them to throw the missiles at the beleaguered lines of law enforcement. But they were careful not to be seen actually committing any crimes. They knew that the group’s activities would be monitored by CCTV, and those seen to be involved would be rounded up later on.
Over the roar of the protest, a distant, “Bang–Bang–Bang,” could be heard, gradually building up momentum and amplitude. It sounded like thunder, only to a steady rhythmic beat. From beneath the archway leading into the quadrangle, marched a line of perspex shields, behind them, the fully armoured men and women of the police riot team. They stopped, heightening the anticipation, hammering their heavy batons against their shields.
At an almost whispered order, they advanced line abreast. At first, they walked steadily towards the crowd, whose focus was now fully upon them. But their pace increased until they were charging forward at a run, their shields raised to the front forming an impenetrable barrier. The crowd turned and fired their missiles at the oncoming wall, the objects bouncing off, being trampled underfoot. Finding their space diminishing rapidly, many members of the crowd fled out of the furthest archway, dispersing into the maze of the estate. Those less fortunate, or more arrogant, stood their ground, only to be overrun by the advancing riot troops, battered by the wall of shields, and arrested by the following snatch squads (or bitten by the snarling police dogs who sensed blood).
Having cleared the quadrangle of Jackson House and rescued those officers who had been cornered by the violent disorder, the riot troops slowly retreated back to their vans and everybody left the estate before those with violent intent had time to regroup and mount a second assault. With nobody to focus their anger on, the scattered rioters’ temper soon waned, and the Havering Estate settled back into a state of simmering tension as things returned to relative normality.
...
From the safety of his office, DI Peterson had been monitoring the events on the Havering Estate. His initial response had been to return to the scene, to support his fellow officers. But there were far better equipped and far better trained police officers on standby for just such a situation. Foreseeing such an eventuality, he had ordered those officers to be stationed in side roads on the outskirts of the estate. Having now seen what had transpired, he was grateful that he had covered all possibilities.
Colin’s phone rang. It was the PSU Sergeant calling on his mobile from the back of a police van as it sped away from the Havering.
“Sir? Are you there? Can you hear me?” Reception was poor as the riot van raced through the city streets. “Just thought you ought to know, before the riot kicked-off, my team were searching the bins at the bottom of Jackson House...”
“Yeah, go ahead, reception is crap, but I can just about hear you,” said the DI.
“We found a police bodycam in the rubbish!”
“What? Are you serious? You’ve found PC Griffiths’ bodycam?”
“Yes, sir. Don’t build up your hopes though; it’s pretty smashed up, like someone’s stamped all over it.”
“Oh...” Colin felt deflated after his initial optimism. “When you get back, can you book it in, and then get it straight up to SOCO at HQ? They’ll pass it to Technical Services. I’ll give ‘em a call to expect you. Maybe they can get something off the memory circuitry?”
“Yes sir, will do.”
Colin then phoned the SOCO offices to warn th
em that a set of bloody clothes were headed their way, and could they expedite the DNA testing? He also informed them that a smashed bodycam was winging its way towards them, and could they check for fingerprints before passing it to the Techies to see if they could download any footage of the attack or offenders.
...
At exactly the same time, Sergei was lounging in his living room when his phone rang.
“Sergei? It’s Roman.” He sounded worried.
“What do you want?” he asked abruptly.
“It’s the Politsiya (police), they’ve raided Malachi’s flat at Jackson House!”
“Da (yes), I thought they might,” he replied with a smirk on his face. Roman proceeded to tell The Russian about what had happened, including his involvement in starting the riot.
“Malachi was not there,” Roman continued, “but the cops took lots of stuff from his flat and the communal bins.”
“What sort of stuff?” Sergei was intrigued.
“Looked like clothing mostly. But the bags from the bins had broken objects in them. I remember Maclean saying he was gonna dump that camera somewhere. You don’t suppose he stuck it in his own bin, do you?”
“Der’mo! (Shit),” Sergei snarled. He was sure that even if the camera had been located, he had smashed it so badly that it would reveal nothing to the police. That having been said, there was still that nagging doubt lurking at the back of his mind that it may hold some incriminating evidence. He terminated the phone call.
He then typed a text message to Anon.
“Police onto Maclean – He is lost cause – You better protect my arse!”
Within seconds, the reply arrived.
“Don’t threaten me! – Tidy up your own loose ends!”
Chapter 22
DS French stood before Colin Peterson’s desk having updated him on the events at Maygrove Road.
“OK, Gary, I want all of the CCTV footage on the Havering Estate checked thoroughly for the past few days. Malachi has got to be on it somewhere. Check all his associates, monitor the LIVE streams, and search his known haunts. But be careful – tensions are high – we don’t wanna spark another riot. We’ve got to find him, and fast,” said the DI.
No sooner had he finished speaking, than Colin’s office door exploded inwards, bouncing off the filing cabinets to the left.
“What the fuck...” Colin started to say, as he rose to his feet.
“DS French, GET OUT OF THIS ROOM NOW!” roared Superintendent Mitchelson as he stepped into the office. Gary could see the anger in his eyes. He had never seen Mitchelson behave so aggressively before. He looked at Colin, silently asking his permission. Colin nodded as if to say, “It’ll be alright,” and as he stepped into the corridor, Gary shut the door behind himself.
“What the hell do you think you’ve been doing, Peterson?” the Superintendent demanded. “You were supposed to discretely raid those addresses, NOT start a bloody riot on the estate!”
“I know, but...” Colin began, but he was interrupted mid-sentence.
“It’s a fucking fiasco, and you didn’t even find the bleeding suspect.” Mitchelson was pacing up and down in front of Colin’s desk.
“Look, sir, Malachi wasn’t at either location. I can’t be blamed for that; we had to check in case he was. What happened afterwards was not my fault; I couldn’t predict what they were going to do. At least I had the foresight to have reinforcements on standby.”
“Bollocks! It was a high-profile raid on a notorious estate, and it was a high-profile fuck-up! You might not blame yourself for this mess, but others will.” Mitchelson looked Colin in the eyes. Clearly, the Superintendent was the one looking to apportion blame, and Colin was the likely scapegoat.
He continued, “This whole operation was a failure of monumental proportions. How do you think it’s gonna look to the press? A police killer on the run, we can’t even locate him, and yet we lose control of the situation on an estate with a reputation as a no-go-zone to police. And we spark a full-blown riot to top it off. We’ll be a bloody laughing stock. I can see the headlines already – Police Incompetence...”
“It’s not all bad, sir,” Colin tried to get a word in, “we did find the murder scene at Maygrove Road.”
“That’s some small saving grace, I suppose,” replied Mitchelson. “What are you doing to find this murderer?”
“We know who he is and what he looks like, so it’s only a matter of time before he surfaces. We’re monitoring CCTV, and we’ve got informants tasked with...”
Mitchelson had heard enough. Interrupting, he said, “Well, I’ve got to go and hold another bloody press conference, try to clear up this mess before the media get their teeth stuck into it. I don’t want any more fuck-ups, not from you, or anyone. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Colin.
“The clock is ticking, Inspector. If you don’t get your man pretty soon, heads will roll, and yours will be one of the first to go. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Colin mumbled through gritted teeth.
As Mitchelson turned to leave the room, he looked over his shoulder at Colin, and in a calmer voice, he said, “You know Colin, failure seems to be following you. First there’s that balls-up down in London, now you’ve created this mess.”
Before Colin had a chance to reply, Mitchelson left the office.
As he sat silently alone, Colin’s world seemed to implode. He held his head in both hands, staring into space, the Superintendent’s last comment reverberating around his mind. In a flood of self-doubt, he analysed how he had handled the search for Malachi. Had Mitchelson been right? Could he have done things differently, in a better, more efficient manner? Should he have known that a riot, or some sort of disorder, was inevitable? Maybe it was his fault after all? Maybe he should have done a better job?
But how? For the life of him, he could not think of anything that he would have done differently. Maybe it was just him? Maybe he was bad luck, a jinx? After all, what his boss had just said rang true in Colin’s mind – the operation he had been involved in, down in London, had gone drastically wrong; hell, his partner had nearly been killed. Even before that, in another world, in another life, as a soldier in Afghanistan, he had the death of someone under his command weighing heavily on his conscience. And now, he had lost another life, and had been unable to capture his colleague’s killer. Suddenly, it all made sense to him – it was his fault. Not in terms of him having done something wrong, but in the sense that everything he touched went wrong. He thought back to his marriage; even that had not survived the curse of Colin Peterson.
As he became even more morose, Colin began to doubt whether he was up to the job. Was being the SIO on a police murder case beyond him? In his mind, he knew what steps he needed to take, what procedures to follow. His team were loyal and trustworthy and could do all the legwork for him, all that he had to do was coordinate them, point them in the right direction. And yet, that was exactly what he had been doing, and look at the disastrous results so far. Was it fate? Was it history repeating itself? Colin did not know.
From the darkest recesses of his mind, he heard another voice calling - a sensible voice - the voice of reason. Pull yourself together, man, it whispered. Stop being so ridiculous. There’s still a killer on the loose out there. Find him. Suddenly, Colin’s sense of duty kicked in. He had a responsibility to PC Griffiths to find his murderer. He had a responsibility to Donna Griffiths, and to Jessica Thompson to bring closure. And he had a responsibility to his team to lead them to the best of his ability. Stuff Mitchelson’s opinion (he had never rated him anyway). He had a job to do, a case to solve, a murderer to find. And he vowed that he would do exactly that.
Chapter 23
The Technical Services Laboratories on Ward Street were meticulously clean.
Every surface was polished to a mirror-like quality, the smell of antibacterial cleaning fluid assaulting the nostrils. The harsh fluorescent strip lighting reflected
off the glass partition walls making the open-plan offices appear larger than they were, and every piece of equipment was positioned just so, nothing out of place, not a hint of clutter.
DI Peterson entered the labs through the air-lock-style automatic doors and walked along the wide carpeted passageway between the glass walls. To his right, he saw a young auburn haired woman in a white lab coat leaning over a workbench, staring at a computer monitor. On hearing the “swoosh” of the doors, she looked over her shoulder at him.
“Ah, DI Peterson, sorry for dragging you all the way across town, but I thought you ought to see this for yourself,” she said. She moved along the bench to a TV monitor, and pressed a few buttons on the control panel. Having discovered the crushed remains of PC Griffiths’ body camera in the bins at Jackson House, they had been rushed to the labs for examination.
“Now, don’t build up your hopes,” she smiled, “but we’ve managed to download some footage from the police camera device that you sent us.”
“That’s great,” replied Colin.
“The camera was pretty much destroyed, the case was shattered, and its internal components were crushed. But...” She paused to highlight her discovery. “...the memory chip was mostly intact! However, because it hadn’t been shutdown properly, its data had been corrupted.”
“What does that mean exactly? You’ve got to remember, I’m a copper, not a technically minded person,” asked Colin.
“Well, you’ll see once I show you it, but basically, we’ve lost all time and date information, and the images are broken. Some have sound, others don’t, and there’re a lot of pictures missing. It’s a bit like a series of snapshots of what was captured, only with gaps in-between, sort of disjointed,” she explained.
“I see,” said Colin. “What’s the quality like?”
“Sketchy, to say the least, but useable. Anyway, let me show you what I’ve managed to salvage.”
The technician pressed buttons, scrolling through drop-down menus on the screen. Colin pulled up a black computer chair on casters, its gas lift mechanism sinking as his weight was applied to the cushioned seat.
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