Gallowstree Lane Page 11

  Connor had been crying when Kieran left. She’d cuddled him in bed and tried to seem calm. Eventually they’d fallen asleep together, but she’d woken at 4 a.m. with a horrible sense of how reasonable Kieran’s offer had sounded. You could still see him … The city’s never-sleeping light had been seeping in around the edges of the curtain and she’d gazed at Connor, his cheeks red, his breath rising and falling. The lonely hour had made her prey to a paralysing fear that he would be taken from her. Worse: to the idea that some madness would possess her and she would give him up voluntarily.

  Ash was in the office now, wearing his cycling helmet and with his trousers stuffed into his socks. He looked around and then, addressing the ranked and largely empty desks of the office, threw his arms out operatically and sang some lines in Italian.

  ‘Batti, batti, o bel Masetto.’

  One of the younger PCs threw a hard-backed book. It landed short. Ash sang a bit more before stopping and picking the book up. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘A Practical Guide to Criminal Defence. I’ve been meaning to read this.’

  He moved towards his desk, leafing the pages and humming.

  ‘Hello, Lizzie.’

  She smiled and hoped she looked as happy and complicit in his tomfoolery as she used to be. ‘Hi, Ash.’

  How to ask him not to give her a prisoner? She didn’t like to do it. He was a friend. She didn’t like to treat him as someone to get things out of, but she would have to.

  Yesterday this life with its too many crimes and its childcare difficulties had felt too hard. Now she realized it had been a piece of cake. Yesterday she had been able to ask for help. She’d been texting Kieran, for God’s sake, asking if he could have Connor. It hadn’t crossed her mind that every text, every childcare difficulty, was possible ammunition in the family court. She’d have to play it differently from now on, pretend harder that everything was hunky-dory. Stop asking for help. Stop telling people that it was hard. This difficult life was one she was going to have to fight for.

  Officers were arriving holding coffee cups. Others had copies of Metro that they’d been reading on the way in. One was in running gear. There was the well-established rush for the good desks. Everyone grabbed a workstation and booked on before they’d sorted their stuff. A well-thumbed edition of yesterday’s Standard had been left on Lizzie’s desk. She saw the headline. Promising footballer found dying from stab wounds. While her computer booted, she glanced at the report. A photo of the red paramedic helicopter incongruous on a wide London road. The usual blue and white plastic tape. CRIME SCENE. Another photo, taken from Facebook apparently, of a thin boy, a stripe shaved through one eyebrow and a baseball hat on backwards.

  Spencer Cardoso, 15, had had a trial with local club …

  The computer had booted and Lizzie chucked the paper in the bin.

  She glanced at her emails. One marked priority. Urgent: Witness Inquiry. She recognized the sender’s name. Detective Inspector Sarah Collins. Their paths had crossed more than once before. Sarah had been the lead on the team investigating the deaths of her friend PC Hadley Matthews and the teenage girl, Farah Mehenni. Lizzie could still see little Farah in her green school uniform and her backpack with its polka dots. She shoved the memory away, as she had taught herself to do, and scanned the email quickly.

  You arrested Ryan Kennedy yesterday. Intelligence suggests Ryan was good friends with a recent murder victim, Spencer Cardoso …

  Spencer Cardoso – the promising footballer that Lizzie had just thrown into the office’s waste-paper bin. Shaved eyebrow, like his mate Ryan. Sarah had given a mobile number and, taking her seat at her desk, Lizzie called it.

  Sarah got straight to business, asked about the Superdry jacket in the CCTV of the assault Lizzie was investigating.

  ‘Yes, we looked for one when we nicked him, but no joy.’

  ‘That’s a pity. I’ve got a description of a witness in a Superdry jacket. I was hoping to get lucky. What do you know about the fight?’

  ‘Not a lot. Nobody’s talking to us. The victim – Robert Nelson – doesn’t want to know. I’ve tried a couple of times. I’m struggling, to be honest.’

  ‘I’ll need a copy of the CCTV from you.’

  ‘Fine. Ring me when you’re ready to pick it up.’

  There was a pause.

  Then Sarah said, ‘Let’s go back to Ryan. I’m fairly certain he’s our witness. You nicked him the day after the murder. How was he? His mood, I mean.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never met him before, so I can’t compare.’

  ‘I appreciate that. But first impressions?’

  ‘Up and down. A bit of a joker, then suddenly distracted. Volatile enough for me to notice it. But then most of these boys are volatile.’

  Ash was tapping his watch face. Lizzie held up an outstretched palm, her fingers spread wide. Five minutes.

  Sarah was speaking. ‘Did you seize his phones?’

  ‘Couldn’t find any.’

  ‘Interesting. Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘He had a lot of stuff.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘All that gear they like – you know, branded trainers, a gold necklace. A real gangster chain, pricey, and he’s only fifteen. Shitty flat and no visible income to pay for it all.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ Then, after a short pause, ‘You noticed a lot, very helpful.’

  Sarah Collins had that tone about her. What was probably meant as an olive branch sounded patronizing. Still – and this was also vexing – Lizzie wanted to please her.

  ‘One other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When I bailed him, I took him through to the station office. There was a car waiting. His mum was with him but he split from her. These boys, usually they just walk off. Or it’s pushbikes. But having a car waiting – it looked a bit Hollywood for someone at Ryan’s level. I wrote down the registration.’

  ‘Can you give it to me now?’

  ‘Sure. Hang on.’ She reached for her daybook and read out the registration number she’d scribbled down. ‘It’s a white Volkswagen Touareg.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Another pause.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  There was that other thing: the attack on Lizzie. They hadn’t seen each other since. Lizzie had sent an email thanking her and received no reply.

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks for asking. And thanks for what you did.’

  ‘No problem. Pleased you’re doing well, back at work.’

  The line cleared. Ash was sitting on the edge of the desk. ‘Well, Miss Darrow, King Kong wants to see you upstairs.’

  ‘Miss Darrow?’

  ‘Really, can’t you guess?’ Ash put his hands over his eyes dramatically and spoke with an American accent. ‘Throw your hands over your eyes and scream, Ann, scream for your life.’

  King Kong – or KK as his moniker was frequently abbreviated by his officers – was Detective Chief Superintendent Trask, the borough commander. Six foot four, broad across the chest, ex Flying Squad from the time when armed blaggers were the hottest ticket in the Met and when senior officers still had bottles of whisky stashed in their desk drawers.

  He welcomed Lizzie into his office, standing up and offering his huge hand. The sight of that broad palm made her smile at Ash’s stupid joke, and into her mind came Trask climbing the Empire State in his chalk-striped suit, a damsel in a silver dress clutched in one of his massive paws.

  ‘I’ve got a posting for you, Lizzie,’ he said, beaming. ‘Off borough.’

  He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. Less enthusiastic than she felt was required by the situation, Lizzie sat.

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s exciting.’

  ‘It’s a bastard to let you go. But what can I do? You deserve it.’

  She smiled. Practically everyone admired KK, or claimed to. For all his scale and swagger, he was no idiot. If he talent-spotted you, it counted for something. Or at the very least it added to your own fledg
ling reputation. Nobody would want to forfeit Trask’s good opinion.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the job, sir?’

  ‘It’s confidential.’ He winked. ‘I’m not allowed to know anything about it.’

  Confidential. In spite of herself, she had a sudden surge of elation. Something new. Serious crime.

  ‘It’s just the kind of thing you need. Proper policing. You’ll enjoy it.’ He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘There’s your reporting details.’ He smiled. ‘You have to burn that after reading.’ He stood to hurry her out of the office. ‘They want you there today.’

  She stood too. ‘Thanks, boss.’

  Her hand was already on the door handle when he said, ‘Don’t take a job car, mind.’

  She turned back. ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘Bad enough to lose you. I need to hold onto the cars. Christ, all this management shit. I wish I was young again and starting out like you. Have fun.’

  And then he winked again, as if she was in on some tremendous joke.

  The tube train rattled out from the tunnel into urban sprawl. Buddleias spread along the edges of the tracks. Beyond them the long back gardens of 1930s semis: scrubby grass, washing lines, PVC conservatories. Ash had given Lizzie a hastily improvised poster. ‘For your new office.’ She took it out of her bag and looked at it and smiled: the damsel in the silver dress sitting in the paw of the great ape. Underneath it, a caption.

  It’s money and adventure and fame. It’s the thrill of a lifetime and a long sea voyage. For the rest of us it’s more work and not enough people to do it.

  The train wobbled into the station. Lizzie folded the poster and put it in her bag. This was the very edge of the Metropolitan Police district. A Red Lion pub with green-tiled cladding and flying Union Jacks. Red and yellow begonias fighting for space in grey plastic hanging baskets. This roundabout sponsored by Lodder’s Garden Centre. She followed her map off the high street and through acres of warehouses and car parks.

  The offices were tucked away behind a small door with a plastic sign: Valley Supplies. Lizzie pressed on the intercom and faced the camera. The door clicked open and she climbed narrow stairs. A small, thin man was waiting for her. His light blue eyes studied her from behind rimless glasses. His clothes – green shawl-collared cardigan, grey skinny trousers and loafers – looked like they were trying very hard and might easily be sensitive to any hint of mockery.

  ‘DS Mark Angel, I’m your reporting skipper.’

  He had already turned and she followed him to an empty workstation.

  The small office was silent except for the clicking of keyboards. About ten officers – male and female, all in jeans – were hunkered over computers. A sideboard and a cupboard on the side stood for a kitchen: a kettle, a sink, a microwave. In the far corner of the room a single private office made from partitions concealed its occupant.

  ‘First thing?’ Angel said, with that inflection that made every statement a question. ‘I need you to sign this?’

  He handed her a bunch of papers in a plastic folder: a copy of the Official Secrets Act.

  ‘I’ve already signed—’

  He interrupted. ‘This is specific to this operation? You’ll sign it again when you leave.’

  His expression gave her nothing. She signed the paper and handed it back to him.

  ‘The other thing is to make sure you know how this works? You can’t talk about this operation to anyone – not even your friends in policing?’ He waited while she logged on. Then he leaned over her and she caught the scent of antiseptic. ‘I’m going to watch while you delete all your Met printers. The only printer you can use is the one we have here?’

  When that was done, he handed her a CD. ‘Start with this one.’

  She smiled nervously. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Transcriptions?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ve given you access to the operation’s shared drive.’ He leaned over her again, clicked on a drive labelled Perseus and opened a folder. Lists of files with single names were followed by dates and times.

  ‘Copy the format in these.’ He started clicking through the shared drive again. ‘And if you’re not sure who’s who …’ he opened another folder labelled Nominals, ‘they’ll probably be in here?’

  Lizzie looked around, hoping to get a smile from someone. No one looked away from their screens. She clicked on the file in the CD and the computer’s media player loaded.

  She saw a large room – the lobby of a block of flats, she guessed. The angle was high, looking down and slightly fish-eye. Double glass doors meshed with metal, a wide stairway on the right with a dark banister, glass bricks through which light filtered throwing a blue cast.

  ‘Where you been?’

  It was a large black man speaking. He sat in the middle of the lobby in what appeared to be an old office chair on castors. His forearms were on the armrests, his legs spread wide. His feet rested on the back of his heels, the soles of his trainers tipped up flashing white as he swung the chair slowly from side to side. Lizzie understood immediately. The incongruousness of this office chair in a tower-block lobby claimed authority. She wouldn’t like to enter there alone.

  A thinner, smaller white man had moved into the frame. He had been hidden from view, leaning against one of the pillars and even now, silhouetted against the light, his features were barely visible.

  Lizzie paused the video.

  She loaded one of the documents Angel had shown her. It was a transcript of another conversation. She didn’t read it but scrolled quickly through instead, getting an idea of the layout and the style. Then she deleted the existing text and renamed the document, keeping the format and entering her own exhibit number at the top. She pressed play on the video recording and began to concentrate, typing out what she saw and heard in the lobby.

  Black man:

  Where’s he at?

  White man:

  He’s busy.

  Black man:

  I been waiting.

  White man:

  Yeah but … [inaudible] … nice girl. Know what I mean?

  The white man had an accent – something eastern European, Lizzie guessed. The office chair swung slowly from side to side.

  Black man:

  You fucking with me?

  White man:

  No, Shakiel.

  So the black man was called Shakiel. DS Angel was speaking, Lizzie realized. She hit the pause button and turned to him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I said. Have you got any headphones on you?’

  She’d had the speaker on. She looked around self-consciously, but no one was looking at her.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  She slotted her headphones into the machine. It felt like a pretty lonely office.

  She hit find-and-replace and substituted Shakiel’s name for the description. She looked back at the text she had just edited. It didn’t capture the nuance: the lack of contrition in the white man’s demeanour, the threat in the black man’s question. She’d missed the last exchange and had to scroll back. The white man had stepped forward a bit. He was smoking, she noticed. He must have lit up when he was leaning against the pillar. She could see the detail of his jacket now. It was one of those naff leather ones – tight bomber style with too many zips.

  Shakiel:

  You don’t want to be fucking with me.

  White man:

  Nobody’s fucking with you. My man, he’s a proper guy.

  Shakiel:

  We’ll see what is my proper and what is your proper. This thing happening? You gonna call him?

  White man:

  Sure, I’m gonna call him.

  The white guy got his phone out and Lizzie heard the quiet beeping of the keypad. A woman had entered with a pram. She clocked the two men and nodded at them but said nothing, looking down and moving quickly. Minding her own business. Who wouldn’t? She moved out of the shot towards what Lizzie assumed must b
e her flat or the lift. The white man was speaking now into his phone and she began to type again.

  [Inaudible] White man has conversation on phone in unknown language.

  The black man – Shakiel – was swinging his chair again from left to right. The white man ended the conversation and put his phone in his pocket.

  Shakiel:

  What does he say, your guy?

  White man:

  He says what kind of business you in? He says to tell you seems like a lot of shit is going down. He’s not sure any more.

  Shakiel got up and moved towards the other man. He towered over him in height and breadth and Lizzie was impressed that the other man didn’t give ground. Now that the two men were close, the words were hard to hear. Lizzie scrubbed back and forth, turned the volume up, typed what she got:

  Shakiel:

  [Inaudible] … I run this estate … [Noise on recording]… [Inaudible] … talks too much … [Inaudible] …

  Shakiel held the lapel of the other man’s jacket for just one second.

  White man:

  I gonna call you. It’s gonna be OK.

  Shakiel:

  It better. I ain’t joking.

  White man:

  I get you the thing, man. Hundred per cent I get it to you. I’m gonna get … [Inaudible: that thing?]

  The office intercom buzzed. Lizzie, presuming herself to be the lowest-status person in the room, moved her chair to get it, but DS Angel caught her eye and shook his head.

  ‘Only a few of us are authorized to open the door.’

  Lizzie sat down, feeling ridiculously humiliated. She tried to cover by staring at her screen. It came into focus and she saved the document she had just finished, wondering whether she ought to get it checked. Then she realized that someone had moved over to her desk, and she looked up and saw Steve Bradshaw. She smiled. He had already put one bum cheek on the side of her desk.