Spider Trap Read online

  Brock nodded.

  ‘It’s all happened before. So what do you do now? Are you giving up?’

  ‘As things stand, I have no hard evidence that any of the Roach clan were involved in the murder of those three men on the railway ground. But the case is open; I’m still looking.’

  ‘Another symmetry—three Roach sons and three victims. One side lives and flourishes, the other dies. But maybe there’s another way to even the score.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m a very low form of life in this great institution, David. There are 659 MPs and I’m one of the youngest and most junior of them, but even so, I have important resources available to me. I have my own research staff and access to a remarkable range of information sources through the House of Commons Library. I am also a member of committees, in particular the Home Affairs Committee, which I mentioned to you when we last met. It is one of eighteen committees set up by parliament to scrutinise the work of government departments, in our case the Home Office, and we’re broadly interested in anything to do with public order, including organised crime and its impact on the community. We don’t investigate crimes, of course, but we can affect the climate in which they are investigated. We have the power to call witnesses and have them give evidence under oath. We can broadcast their evidence on live webcast and through transcripts, and we can do all this under the cover of parliamentary privilege— you know what that means?’

  ‘They can’t sue you.’

  ‘Exactly. Of course privilege mustn’t be abused, but what is permissible is open to interpretation. The chair of our committee is Margaret Hart.’

  Brock knew of the veteran socialist politician and union activist, famous for her frankness.

  ‘Margaret gives me plenty of leeway, much to the disgust of the more conservative members, and I’ve had a few successes that have made people sit up. I don’t need the hard chain of evidence that you do in order to pursue Roach, but I do need solid information to persuade my committee that it’s in the public interest that his affairs should be brought out into the bright light of public scrutiny. That’s my primary interest. Not what Roach and his people may or may not have done twenty-odd years in the past, but what they’re doing to our community today.’

  ‘You said that before, but I thought the Yardies controlled the drug market in your area?’

  ‘They’re his partners. That’s the point. To begin with, they supplied him, but now it’s the other way around. The days of the Yardie mules and swallowers, the women coming over on free plane tickets with a few ounces of coke in their stomachs, they’re finished, David. Now it comes over by the hundredweight in containers, through legitimate import companies like those owned by Spider Roach. Roach sells it on to the Yardies, who turn it into crack and peddle it on the streets. I’ve been collecting material on this for some time, but I need more.’

  ‘I don’t think I have any information that would help you, Michael.’

  ‘You have access to the police files.’

  ‘As I say, I haven’t seen anything that would help you. The Trident people don’t seem to have anything on Roach.’

  Grant looked disappointed and unconvinced. ‘What about the JIC files?’ He saw the sudden attention in Brock’s eyes and went on, ‘The Joint Intelligence Committee gives us briefings from time to time, but they’re a cagey lot.’

  ‘What makes you think they have a file on the Roaches?’

  ‘I know that Special Branch, Customs and Excise, and MI5 have all taken an interest in them at one time or another. It seems inconceivable that they haven’t pooled their information, don’t you think?’

  ‘Even if it exists and I could access it, I couldn’t possibly pass on confidential JIC material to you, Michael. Can’t you approach them through your committee, or through the Prime Minister’s Office?’

  ‘I’ve tried that, but they’ve had their fingers burnt by Roach before. They say they have nothing of relevance to the Home Affairs Committee. Look, I’m not asking you to break any confidences, just to compare notes informally, give each other pointers. I’m willing to share what I know with you, and in the light of what you may know from JIC sources or wherever, you may be able to provide a critique, help me focus my arguments. We’re very much on the same side, David, approaching the same problem from different directions.’

  Brock wasn’t sure about the consistency of that last sentence. ‘There is another difficulty. If you use police evidence on your committee, there’s a risk, isn’t there, that you could compromise a future criminal trial?’

  ‘Our guidelines cover that. The key phrase is “matters currently before a court of law”. At the rate the police have been going, how long will it be before that happens?’

  Brock nodded. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘But I appreciate the sensitivities, and in view of that I’d like to suggest that we don’t communicate directly on this. How about you nominate a member of your team to chat from time to time with my research officer, Andrea? Keep things at arm’s length.’

  It seemed innocuous enough, and Brock agreed.

  On the way out they passed through the Central Lobby again, midway between the House of Commons and the House of Lords, and Grant stopped suddenly, staring at a line of people waiting at an information counter.

  ‘Kerrie?’

  The only black woman in the queue turned, looked embarrassed for a moment, then broke into a big smile. ‘Michael!’

  Grant introduced her to Brock. ‘Kerrie’s the manager of my constituency office in Cockpit Lane.’

  ‘Yes, hello. I’ve been helping Sergeant Kolla contact people.’

  ‘But what are you doing here, Kerrie?’

  ‘I’m doing the PDVN course.’

  Grant looked blank.

  ‘The Parliamentary Data and Video Network course, Michael. We talked about it, remember? Andrea set it up for me.’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. There’s this big divide between the staff in the House and staff out in the constituencies,’ he explained to Brock. ‘It’s very important for people like Kerrie to come over and get brought up to speed.’

  ‘Apart from which I can move your constituency office broadband and email onto the central system and save you money.’

  ‘And access the intranet, yes. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I can’t find the room.’ She showed Grant the memo.

  ‘That’s Norman Shaw South,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  He led the way down the steps to the lobby in front of the entrance to Westminster Hall, now screened by a temporary partition, beyond which they could hear an excited hum of conversation.

  ‘Sounds like the widows are having fun,’ he said, and continued on through St Stephen’s porch into the sunlight of Parliament Square, where he shook Brock’s hand and said goodbye.

  That evening Tom Reeves took Kathy to a screening of Jean-Luc Godard’s 1960 film Breathless at a New Wave movie festival that was running at the National Film Theatre. She hadn’t seen it before, and Tom promised that she would find it interesting. She did, both for itself and for what it told her about Tom. At first it had seemed paradoxical, to say the least, that a cop should be so enthusiastic about the Jean-Paul Belmondo character, Michel, a crook who murders a cop. But then she began to notice subtle reflections of Tom in him—witty but also moody, and with a laconic smile that seemed to suggest unshakeable scepticism about the world and all its works. Even their looks found an echo, vaguely roguish and battered, though no one could look quite like Belmondo, with his concave boxer’s nose and thick Gallic lips.

  ‘At the end of shooting,’ Tom explained, ‘the American girl, Jean Seberg, was so disgusted by the whole thing that she said she didn’t want her name attached to it, and Belmondo, too, was appalled by the amateurishness of Godard’s production. Then the film came out and everyone went crazy about it, and they both realised that it was the most important thing they’d ever done. That’s genius, you se
e. The masterstroke that no one recognises until it’s been pulled off.’

  The way he said it, it didn’t sound so much like a bit of film criticism as a statement about life. Kathy wondered if Michel would have put it like that.

  Tom had another quote about Belmondo. ‘He said that women over thirty are at their best, but men over thirty are too old to recognise it.’

  She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but took it as a compliment, and as he drove her home she found herself warming to the thought of him coming up to her flat. She even got as far as trying to remember if she had any eggs to give him for breakfast, but when they reached her door he kissed her tenderly for a long moment, then said he couldn’t stay.

  seventeen

  On Monday morning Brock reassigned his team to other cases. No one referred to the Roach episode, as if it was over and best forgotten. But by the end of the briefing Kathy and Tom hadn’t been mentioned. Brock nodded to them as the meeting broke up and they followed him up to his office.

  They noticed that he hadn’t removed his own copies of the Brown Bread material from the big wall facing his desk. Kathy was struck by the symmetry between the pictures of the Roach family on one side and of the Brown Bread victims on the other, like the line-up for opposing soccer teams.

  ‘Despite what I said downstairs,’ Brock said, pouring coffee, ‘I still believe that discovering the truth behind the events of twenty-four years ago will be the key to finding Dee-Ann and Dana’s murderers. So . . . your boss says you can stay with us for a while longer, Tom.’

  ‘Glad to be rid of me, is he, Chief?’

  ‘He didn’t say that exactly. It was my request. You all right with that?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  Brock smiled benignly, passing the cups around, but Kathy wasn’t fooled. He was watching their body language, the way they chose seats and leaned in together for the milk, trying to work out what was going on between them. Or maybe she was just being hypersensitive, the three of them together like that in his room.

  ‘Good. I didn’t mention it downstairs, but I’d like you two to stick with Brown Bread for a while longer, tie up some loose ends. Tom, you’re our Roach expert now. Commander Sharpe has asked for a summary of our investigation to put on file for the Organised Crime Liaison Group. Did you ever come across an OCLG or JIC file on Roach?’

  ‘Don’t recall one.’

  ‘You might use your Branch contacts to see if there is such a thing—informal approach, nothing official.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Did you meet the MP, Michael Grant? His office in Cockpit Lane helped Kathy track down the identity of our victims. Grant is also interested in Roach. He’s a bit of a crusader against drugs and crime in his community, and he’s convinced the Roaches are still operating, in partnership with the local black gangs.’

  ‘Really?’ Tom looked doubtful. ‘News to me. The Trident people didn’t think it likely, did they?’

  ‘No, but still, Grant claims to have information that he’s willing to share with us. I want you to talk to his research officer, Andrea.’ He handed Tom her card. ‘See what you think. They’ll want some quid pro quo, I daresay, but don’t give them anything without talking to me first.’

  ‘Haven’t really got much to give, have we?’

  ‘True. Kathy . . .’ He put his hands flat on the desk, as if at a loss. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Loose ends? Well, who pressured the Singhs and Ferguson?’

  ‘Yes. Anything else?’

  ‘Neighbours? Rainbow?’

  ‘Ah, Rainbow, of course. How did we manage without it?’

  ‘I’ll have a look, shall I?’

  ‘Please . . . By the way, did Michael Grant put you in touch with Mrs Lavender among his contacts, by any chance?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Mm, she may have passed away by now. All right. Let’s meet again tomorrow afternoon, see how we’re doing.’

  On the stairs, as they turned a tight corner, Tom slid an arm around Kathy’s waist and gave a squeeze. ‘Did we pass scrutiny?’

  ‘You felt it too, did you?’

  ‘We must have a talk sometime, about your relationship with the old man.’

  Kathy arranged to visit the Rainbow Coordinator at the area command that covered the elder Singhs’ home in Streatham. There they identified the cameras operating in the immediate area. There were none in the Singhs’ street, but a local council camera covered its junction with a shopping street at one end, the most likely direction of approach. As she talked to the coordinator, Kathy began to appreciate the difficulties. What exactly was she looking for? She had a list of cars registered to members of the Roach family, but Ricky was a car dealer and could presumably lay his hands on any number of other vehicles. Then there were the unknown associates and employees who may have been sent to give the Singhs the message. In the end, the coordinator agreed to try to provide a list of all the vehicles that had passed through the junction over a four-hour period on that night.

  ‘You realise that’ll probably be a couple of thousand? Who’s going to authorise the request?’

  Kathy gave Brock’s name and returned to her office, where she found two phone messages, one from forensic services and the other from a Mr Connell. She stared at the name, feeling a slight flush in her face, then rang the first number.

  The man at forensic services began by apologising for the delay. ‘We’ve had a rush of work and you did say it wasn’t top priority.’

  Kathy didn’t at first recall the job, and the man had to remind her about the cigarette end she’d found behind the fence overlooking the railway site.

  ‘That spliff you sent us. Interesting smoking mixture, must try it some time—tobacco and marijuana, half and half, with a garnish of cocaine. Prime sensimillia ganja, too, nothing cheap. Mr Murray has the right connections.’

  ‘Murray?’

  ‘The smoker. We’ve got his DNA on file. George Murray. Done for possession in a raid on a South London nightclub eight months ago. Charges dropped due to processing irregularities. We should have wiped the record. Oops.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘Eighteen Cockpit Lane, SW9. Know it?’

  Kathy did. She could picture the sign over the window, WELLINGTON’S UTENSILS EST. 1930.

  She thanked him and then, more cautious this time, pressed the numbers for the second call, a mobile.

  ‘Martin Connell, hello?’

  The voice still had that sonorous tone, which could be so skilfully adjusted to each occasion: a TV news soundbite, a judge, a former lover. Kathy waited a beat before revealing which one it was.

  ‘Hello, Martin.’

  ‘Kathy! It’s so good to hear your voice again. Seeing Bren Gurney the other day made me think of you. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Yes, great. You know what I was thinking, while Gurney was going through all that nonsense?’ He said it as if he knew perfectly well that she’d been watching. ‘I was thinking how really good it would be to see you again, have lunch, catch up.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I know, you’re frantically busy and we’re just old history. But we were important to each other once, and I think it’s wrong to lose contact completely with people who have been important in your life, don’t you? Christ, there aren’t that many of them when it comes right down to it. I don’t suppose you heard about Daniel?’

  It took a second for Kathy to remember. ‘Your brother?’

  ‘That’s right. We buried him last month. His heart packed in, just like that. It was a hell of a shock—makes you stop and think, Kathy.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’ She’d never met Daniel, but she remembered the tone Martin’s voice took on whenever he spoke of his elder brother, a mixture of admiration, envy and intense frustration.

  ‘Well, anyway, maybe you’re a little curious, eh? To catch up?’

  She laughed. He’d perfect
ed that inveigling pitch at an early age, she’d once decided, to get whatever he fancied— his brother’s cricket bat or his mother’s undivided attention—and it still worked a treat with juries and impressionable younger women.

  ‘What do you really want, Martin?’

  ‘Just to buy you lunch, and talk to an old friend, and maybe pass on a little gossip for our mutual entertainment. How about tomorrow?’

  She agreed. The key words were ‘pass on’. Martin was a messenger. And he was right, she was curious.

  *

  Within an hour the weather had turned bitterly cold again, dark clouds looming overhead. Kathy parked her car in a side street, pulled a woollen beanie down over her ears, turned up her coat collar and paced briskly towards Cockpit Lane. The market was deserted, the stalls stripped back to metal frames, cardboard boxes stacked ready for collection. There was a light showing in Winnie’s shop window and Kathy pushed open the door. The old woman heard the buzzer and emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a towel.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ cautiously. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Hello, Winnie. I wondered if George was around. There’s something I need to ask him.’

  Winnie’s face fell. ‘He’s not here. Maybe I can help you?’

  ‘I’d really like to speak to him. Any idea where I can find him?’

  The woman’s brow creased like an old glove as she shook her head. ‘He’s gone, he don’t work for me no more and I haven’t seen him in over a week.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We had a row, a week ago last Saturday it was. I wanted him up early to get things ready for the market, but he was out till four or five o’clock the night before, doing goodness knows what. He said some wicked things and walked out. I haven’t seen him since. What is it you want to ask him? Is he in trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know. We got some reports that someone was watching us when we were digging up the railway bank, from across the other side, in one of the gardens. Whoever it was was smoking drugs, and now we’ve learned that it was George.’

  Winnie nodded resignedly. ‘Dat don’t surprise me. The drugs, I mean. He wasn’t even tryin’ to hide it from me no more. And it’s true, for over a month now he’s been disappearing for hours at a time, just when I need him.’