Gallowstree Lane Read online

  ‘Sit yourself down, Ryan. I’ll bring it over.’

  Ryan sat in the car seat, sipped his Coke.

  ‘Cheese and Branston, mate?’

  Kieran smiled. Steve had the most enviable quality of all, the one you could never put your finger on, the not-being-a-prick thing. Everyone – cops and robbers – wanted Steve to like them.

  Ryan had a plate in his lap now holding two sandwiches and a bag of crisps. Steve was standing by the low table, rolling a cigarette. Ryan didn’t seem for a moment to have noticed or questioned the unusual act of this adult making food for him. They looked like good sandwiches too, proper doorstops, white bread squashed under his hand and cut in half with the bread knife. Ryan’s need and the perfection of the meeting of it seemed to have blinded him to the strangeness of the gift.

  Was Steve on one level just a nice guy who saw a hungry kid and made him a sandwich? If that was the case then Kieran envied him that too, because he had come to believe that being kind was as much of a talent as being musical or – he sighed at the memory – like Lizzie, running fast. It didn’t come naturally to him to see the goodness in people. He didn’t underestimate himself. His talent perhaps was scepticism. Not a bad gift for a cop. He wasn’t sentimental or easily fooled. But was he kind? It wouldn’t be the first thing he said about himself.

  Ryan was slipping crisps between the slices of bread. Always hungry: that was Ryan. Maybe he was just a kid after all.

  Steve had moved over to the open window and stood with his back to the room, leaning out, smoking in silence.

  Kieran watched. Suddenly he felt unaccountably lonely.

  Steve nodded towards the tobacco on the small table.

  ‘Help yourself when you’re done, mate.’

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Ryan rolled himself a fag and stood side by side with Steve at the window. Steve flicked the lighter. They smoked. It was in the body language, Kieran thought, not in what Steve said or in any questions he asked. He was, mostly, silent.

  ‘I don’t know what Shakiel’s up to,’ Ryan said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  That was all it took. Like pressing the valve on an overinflated tyre and hearing the air hiss out, the first syllables escaped.

  ‘I was there, Steve. When Spencer was shanked. I was with him.’

  Ryan needed a prompt, a little squeeze, and Steve offered it seamlessly.

  ‘You were with him?’

  ‘Shaks, he told us to go down there, and they were waiting for us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was a set-up, innit. This crack whore, Lexi, she called up Shaks looking for a fix and he sent us down with some food. But it wasn’t her, it was these two lads waiting for us and they stabbed Spence. We wasn’t ready for them. We weren’t carrying. Nothing. Spence …’

  The talking stopped. Kieran could hear sobbing and see Steve rubbing Ryan’s back.

  Kieran put his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. He heard Steve, gentle, patient.

  ‘You’re all right, mate. You’re all right.’

  Ryan spoke again.

  ‘Spence, he was so frightened and he didn’t know what was happening and then he sort of lay down.’

  ‘Mate …’

  ‘I goes to Shaks and I tells him, we have to do something about this, pay them back, and he’s not done NOTHING and then today this crack whore, Lexi … Steve, he’s had her killed …’

  Suddenly Kieran found himself not breathing. His hands were on his face at this awful news. His immediate instinct was that everything was blown. Not just Perseus, but everything. Shakiel had solicited a murder, and on his watch. Not good. The fact that he’d never get to arrest him with the weapons might be just a minor detail compared to the shit tornado that was about to hit. But Steve, even there in the room with Ryan, was a cooler audience.

  ‘What do you mean, he’s had her killed?’

  ‘Well I dunno, but I was down there today, Gallowstree Lane, where she sells herself. I wanted to talk to her. Find out who these guys were that killed Spence. But she wasn’t there and I asked one of the tarts what’s happened and she said someone had driven at Lexi, killed her. I think they got it off WhatsApp. Shakiel must have wanted the tarts to know.’

  There was a silence.

  Steve said, ‘OK, but Ryan … you don’t know it was Shakiel did that.’

  For an alarming moment Kieran heard a police officer verifying the facts, but then, in an instant, he realized that it wasn’t a cop talking after all but rather a concerned mutual friend – a friend to Shakiel and to Ryan who wanted to think the best of everyone. Steve was opening up the gap, allowing Ryan the possibility he wanted so badly and in the process exploring everything Ryan knew.

  ‘Who else could it be?’ Ryan said, longing – Kieran guessed – to be told that it could be anyone but Shakiel.

  ‘But hang on, do you know it’s Shakiel? Have you heard anything?’

  Ryan shook his head.

  ‘Did the tarts tell you anything?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘OK. So why wouldn’t it be those guys that stabbed Spencer that did it?’

  The question coincided so perfectly with Ryan’s heartfelt wish that he didn’t come close to noticing that Steve was no longer the tired old ex-junkie but rather a precise questioner.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, this tart – Lexi, you said her name was? If they used her to set up Spence then she’s a witness, isn’t she? They’d want to silence her, wouldn’t they? Do you know them?’

  Ryan shook his head.

  ‘Anything about them? What did they look like?’

  Kieran leant into the screen. Christ, Steve was asking for a description! Ryan would have to wake up surely and see his interviewer for who he was, but no, he turned blindly to Steve.

  ‘One of them’s got a tattoo.’

  ‘What kind of tattoo?’

  ‘It’s a bird, with blue wings. It’s on his neck.’

  Maybe Steve wasn’t so kind after all. First he’d put Ryan in the car seat, which gave the best picture of him. Then they’d talked right by the mike that was concealed by the window. Kieran called up DCI Baillie.

  32

  Sitting in the café over a second cup of coffee, Sarah had told Lee some of what she now understood about the murders of Lexi and Spencer.

  First was that Lexi had been carrying no identification when she died and so the first officers on scene at the collision, tasked with identifying the next of kin, had gone through her phone. Evidentially it had been a bit amateur, a bit bungled, but they’d had no grasp at that time of the complexity of what they’d stumbled across. They were just identifying the victim of a hit-and-run. It was understandable, those two uniformed response officers on the dirty roadside, pushed for time, under pressure to take another call and so cutting corners and getting the job done. But the few contacts on Lexi’s phone hadn’t helped. They had only street names. No mum listed. No dad. So, rifling through the phone with the proficiency of officers who had other people’s phones in their hands day in, day out, they had turned to the call log.

  In the last three days, Lexi’s phone had made only two calls. That was unusual, so they’d rung a mate back at the station and asked him to run those two numbers through the intelligence systems. And this rapid if unorthodox search had turned out to be fortuitous, because a link was established that might have taken days to uncover if things had been done properly. The most recent call was to another prostitute, Michelle Roberts. But the second number was more interesting. As soon as their mate put it through the system, it pinged, flagged up by a homicide team north of the river. Turned out that Lexi, a drug addict and a prostitute, had called the same burner Ryan had called shortly after Spencer was stabbed.

  The call made by Lexi had been short and was connected at 21:37 hours on 9 October – roughly an hour before Spencer’s murder. In her contacts the number dialled was list
ed only as S. There were other calls from Lexi’s phone to that same number on previous days. All short. No texts.

  ‘Requests for drugs?’ Lee said.

  ‘Looks likely.’

  ‘OK. So Lexi calls this guy – S. Asks for drugs, and about an hour later Spencer’s killed. What’s happened? She’s set them up, maybe? Ryan and Spencer are just the delivery boys. So after the stabbing, Ryan runs to the canal and calls his boss … to tell him what’s happened. Or to ask for help.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

  ‘And what about the car that’s hit her? What’s the link there to Ryan?’

  ‘Ryan was arrested for a GBH the day after Spencer’s murder. The arresting officer notices he’s picked up from custody by a white Volkswagen Touareg. Bit unusual for a boy like him to have a ride waiting for him, so she makes a note of the VRM. Then today Lexi’s hit by the same make, same model, same colour. Different VRM, but turns out the plates have been cloned. And meanwhile, the car Ryan was picked up in hasn’t been returned to the hire company. That’s our link.’

  ‘Bloody hell. We need to find that car and nick the guy in the hire company with the ridiculous hair. Who is he?’

  ‘No idea.’

  All of this Sarah discussed with Lee before suggesting he take the job car home and catch some sleep. She didn’t tell him about seeing Steve Bradshaw leaving that flat. The only person she’d spoken to about that was her boss, DCI Fedden.

  Sarah pulled up outside Lizzie’s flat. The lights were on. Lizzie opened the door. There was a baby in her arms. The baby leant into Lizzie as if trying to escape from Sarah, and Lizzie patted his head.

  Sarah was surprised, almost shocked. Lizzie was constantly changing and she couldn’t keep up. In a rush she was jealous, almost, but not of the baby; rather of the impetuousness of this woman she barely knew. Lizzie went missing and foot-chased armed suspects and then changed her life by having a child. Sarah had no idea what it was like to be her. She wanted to know the details, longed to ask if the baby was Kieran’s – as if the infant was anyone’s but Lizzie’s.

  She realised in an instant that she had paused for a moment too long in the doorway; her curiosity combined with her natural reserve had frozen her. She smiled awkwardly.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you off duty.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  Lizzie turned and led Sarah inside.

  The first time she had been inside the flat, Lizzie had been missing and they’d been searching it. Lizzie had not been there but her imprint had been: a single girl. Lacy underwear in the drawers, running shoes by the door. The second time it had been different. Although it had been early morning and probably light, Sarah remembered the hallway in darkness. The smell then was of blood and stale air and fear. Now it was milk and a sweet fragrance like pear drops and something else that brought to mind wet straw. In the sitting room was a drying rack with babygros and bibs. On the table a Perspex bottle half full of milk. The baby had filled the small flat with its presence. But by the French windows, Sarah noticed, there were still running shoes.

  She said, ‘Are you managing to find time to run?’

  ‘Once in a while.’

  Lizzie sat down at the kitchen table and bounced the boy on her lap. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No, I can’t stay long.’

  She should probably be gooing and asking the baby’s name and to hold it. But she didn’t want to hold it. It would be awkward and the baby would sense it and cry.

  Lizzie met her eyes and said, ‘He’s Kieran’s.’ She coloured slightly. ‘In case you wanted to know.’

  Sarah nodded and smiled and then realized that the smile was the wrong kind: sympathetic rather than enthusiastic. ‘OK,’ she said and smiled again. Another awkward one. ‘How’s that working out?’

  Lizzie shrugged. Sarah brimmed with refreshed curiosity. How was Kieran? Was he a good father? Were they together? There seemed to be no trace of him in the flat. Even the questions she imagined were too rudimentary and could not begin to fill the gap of the life she saw before her but did not know.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

  ‘Connor.’

  ‘That’s a lovely name.’

  It was. They’d chosen a good name.

  ‘Only one we could both agree on.’ Lizzie smiled slowly and then changed the subject. ‘The CCTV’s in my bag. It’s a copy. The original is filed in property. I’ve done you a statement for continuity.’

  For a moment Sarah regretted the breach of understanding between her and this young woman. But there wasn’t time for such thoughts; Lizzie was evidently tired with the baby and work and simply wanted her gone.

  She said, ‘Have you managed to identify any of the people Ryan was with before the attack?’

  ‘He’s with two people. I’ve emailed you a note of the times and cameras.’

  ‘Do you know who they are?’

  Lizzie had either not heard the question or ignored it.

  ‘What about Robert Nelson, the victim of the attack at the gig?’ she asked. ‘Have you looked at him? Might he be Spencer’s murderer?’

  ‘One of the first things I actioned. He gave us an alibi. He was at the Odeon apparently – the remake of The Magnificent Seven, he says. Seems an unlikely way for him to be spending his Sunday night, but we checked it out and sure enough there he was, recorded on CCTV at the cinema. Arriving and leaving. We got a really good facial shot too. No hoody. Only thing he didn’t do was keep the ticket.’

  ‘It’s a planned alibi?’

  ‘Could be. Have you identified Nelson’s associates?’

  Lizzie shook her head.

  ‘You don’t know where they are on the CCTV?’

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t had time. I wasn’t investigating them.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Sarah reached into her bag and took out Lee’s brown envelope. ‘You remember Ryan got into a white VW Touareg when you released him from custody?’ She placed the CCTV grab of the unidentified male on the table. ‘This is the man who hired the car. Is he in the CCTV at all?’

  Something passed across Lizzie’s face. She said, ‘Ryan’s with him before the assault.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  Lizzie looked back at the image but didn’t reply.

  Sarah said, ‘We’ve got an attack that we think is linked. A prostitute, Alexandra Moss – Lexi? Worked Gallowstree Lane. Mean anything to you?’

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘She was hit today by a white VW Touareg driven on ringed plates. We think it’s a revenge attack, for Spencer. The car crushed her pelvis and nearly amputated one of her legs.’

  Lizzie met Sarah’s eyes, her expression curiously both still and sensitive. ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah tapped the CCTV grab of the man who had hired the Touareg. ‘So we need to identify him quickly before we lose evidence.’

  Lizzie put Connor on the floor. Immediately he started to look around him and complain: ‘Mumma.’ Sarah got down with him and picked up an elephant she found there. ‘This your elephant, Connor? He’s very lovely.’ The child smiled. Encouraged, Sarah made the elephant rear up and trumpet, and Connor laughed. It was going surprisingly well.

  Lizzie had reached out her notebook. She sounded impatient. ‘Can you write this down?’ Sarah went to get her book, but Connor had taken the elephant from her and now he made it trumpet too. It felt rude to leave him in the middle of this game.

  Lizzie muttered, ‘What the hell.’ She wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to Sarah. ‘That’s his name and PNC ID.’

  Sarah glanced at the paper. Ujal JARRAL. She looked up at Lizzie. ‘That’s great. Thank you. How did you identify him?’

  There was the slightest movement, hardly a shake of the head, and suddenly Sarah saw Steve Bradshaw walking into that flat above the Chinese shop. In an instant her suspicion was fully formed. And she remembered, as if it was yesterday, that gap of time between Steve find
ing Lizzie after she’d gone missing and Lizzie arriving at custody to be interviewed. Sarah imagined links and debts and friendships that she could only begin to guess at.

  She said, ‘This hasn’t got something to do with Steve, by any chance?’

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Sarah.’

  33

  Lizzie put Connor in his cot and started tidying away angrily, wiping down the kitchen table, opening the dishwasher and stacking the dirty cups inside.

  Sarah Collins!

  She should have asked her to stay and help do the bloody washing-up. The shopping, the cooking, the feeding, the clearing-up, the washing, the folding: Lizzie could never keep on top of it. Whenever she got everything straight and was going to have a moment to herself, something always intervened. And while she had never done the shopping without forgetting something essential – toilet paper, nappies – there was also always food sulking in the fridge that she hadn’t got round to until it was past its sell-by date. Never too long, just a day or so, enough to worry. God, the amount of conversations she’d had with herself about whether or not to eat some damn chicken breast, sullen and pasty behind its cellophane wrapper.

  Sarah had left – of course she had – as soon as she’d got what she wanted. Lizzie was a means to an end. Sarah had demanded everything – not only the information but even Lizzie’s name on a police statement. She’d tried to resist, but Sarah, with her usual immaculate reasoning, had insisted.

  ‘You’re providing information in your capacity as an officer, Lizzie. There’s no way round it. We have to arrest Jarral asap and I need an identifying statement from you. It’s part of the chain of evidence. How can I justify an officer not giving a statement? But we won’t disclose it. Jarral will just know we got a screen grab at the hire company.’

  It was all wrong! This wasn’t how the information should have been given. She should have refused to talk, rung Kieran.

  ‘But I’m not allowed to disclose the operation.’

  ‘You’re not disclosing it. No one will see this statement. The only issue would be when it got to court, and the operation will be over by then anyway. Don’t worry. You’ve done the right thing.’