Silvermeadow Read online

  He turned abruptly away from the window and began clearing up his breakfast things. It had been a rough couple of weeks. He should get out of the city, breathe fresh air, sell antiques. As usual, Suzanne had pretty well got it right.

  Brock strode out of the archway into the intermittent stream of shoppers in the high street. He walked briskly with a long, rolling lope, hands in pockets, enjoying the wintry sun dappling through the skeletal plane trees in the street. It seemed very quiet for a Saturday morning, and he looked around him with the eye of a host, trying to imagine how the familiar would look to strangers, seeing it for the first time. And it struck him that the place was looking remarkably threadbare, as if the foliage on the trees, now gone, had been masking the underlying scruffiness. Nothing much to appeal to a five-year-old girl and an eight-year-old boy, either. There had been a cinema once, but it had closed down ages ago.

  The billboards at the newsagent’s door were recycling old headlines, ROYALS BLOW IT AGAIN and OOPS, SAYS TORY MP. He went inside and studied the front page of the Independent. MI5’s new role caught his eye.

  ‘Not again,’ he muttered.

  He bought the paper and stepped back out into the sunshine. His eye passed over the electrical goods in the shopfront next door, then scanned the estate agent’s, a gloomy little window filled with curling pictures of fading hopes, desperately straining to attract someone to pull them out of the pit of negative equity or divorce settlement. He paused as two elderly people blocked his path, struggling to drag a defective stepladder out of their car, and while he waited for them he watched the owner of the bicycle shop on the other side of the street setting up a rack of kiddies’ bikes on the footpath. Apologising profusely, the couple manoeuvred their burden through the door of a DIY shop, stumbling on the uneven pavement. The tree roots had done it, he noticed, and in odd places the council had pulled up the concrete paving slabs around the trunks and patched the footpath with tar. Scruffy.

  His next destination lay beyond the unisex hair salon, with its improbably glamorous photographs of stunning heads of hair. Not quite a deli, Butler’s was a half-decent grocer’s shop with an interesting if unreliable range of goods.

  ‘Morning, Mr Butler.’ He nodded, pleased to have the shop to himself. ‘Fresh delivery of your steak and kidney pies this morning?’

  ‘I’m afraid they’ve let me down again, Mr Brock.’

  ‘That’s no good. You know I rely on your steak and kidney pies.’

  The grocer shook his head sadly. ‘Not for much longer, Mr Brock.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m packing it in. Had enough.’

  ‘You can’t do that. Are you ill?’

  ‘Not me, but the business is. Got a bad dose of the Sainsbury’s. You’ll have to get in your car and go down the Savacentre for your pies in future, same as everyone else.’

  Brock scratched the crop of his short grey beard. He’d been coming here for years, since the days when it had been a butcher’s shop, with a frieze of brightly coloured tiles around the walls portraying the heads of animals—bulls, lambs, pigs, chickens—smiling cheerfully down on the customers engrossed in selecting prime cuts. He’d never tried the Sainsbury’s pies, but he was certain they wouldn’t be the same.

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr Butler, I really am. What’s going to take your place?’

  ‘A charity clothes place, so they tell me. Oxfam or some such.’

  The shops petered out beyond Butler’s, their place taken by insurance offices and car showrooms crammed together. The Bishop’s Mitre sat brooding among them, a dour 1950s pub that no amount of half-timbering and geranium window boxes could cheer up. Brock looked at his watch. Good timing. He hadn’t had the chance of a relaxed weekend pub lunch in ages. Inside, in the gloom, an off-duty crew from the fire station further up the high street were having a quiet pint.

  Brock stood at the bar and opened his paper to see what MI5 were up to now. Before he’d even ordered his ham sandwich and pint, the phone in his pocket started chirping. He recognised DS Bren Gurney’s voice.

  ‘I don’t think I need this, Bren.’

  ‘A sighting of North, chief. Sounds promising.’

  ‘Really?’ There had been a rumour, barely that, that Upper North was back in the country. The possibility killed his appetite.

  ‘You remember Pauline Lewins? The bank job in Ilford. One of the last ones he pulled before the big one in the City. Manager shot dead.’

  ‘Yes of course. I remember Pauline.’

  ‘Well, she works at Silvermeadow now.’

  ‘What’s that? A retirement village?’

  ‘Blimey, chief. Where’ve you been? It’s a bloody great shopping centre out in Essex, on the M25. Pauline reckons she saw North there this morning. I’ve been talking to her, and I reckon it’s a possible. If it is him, he seems to have changed his appearance a bit. She’s working on a portrait at the moment, and we’re going through the security tapes from the shop where she works.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘K Division, the divisional station at Dagenham, Hornchurch Street. Know it?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘It’s on the edge of a bloody great housing estate. Don’t go in there whatever you do. There’s a security access to the station off the high street. I’ll be at the gate.’

  ‘I’ll come right over. And Bren, let’s keep this as restricted as possible, eh? That includes the locals. The name North doesn’t get mentioned.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. They’re up to their ears in their own problems anyway, from what I can gather. There’s a WPC who brought Pauline in. She knows what’s going on. I’ll have a quiet word with her.’

  Brock followed Bren’s instructions to the AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY rear entrance to the Hornchurch Street station, where he stopped and spoke into a speaker on the wall. The metal gate rolled up after a moment, and he drove through and down into a basement carpark where Bren was waiting for him. They went up to a room on the third floor where he recognised Pauline Lewins sitting with a uniformed woman whom Bren introduced as PC Sangster. Pauline smiled weakly in recognition at Brock, as one might at a surgeon whom one had fervently hoped never to see again. He sat and they talked quietly for a while.

  She explained to him that she loved Cuddles, and he, noticing that she had put on some weight over the years, thought that she, plump, soft and friendly, was perfectly suited to a job in a soft-toy store. Despite her recent shock, she still had the warm, rather shy smile he remembered, made all the brighter, he noted, by new front teeth. In answer to his enquiry she explained that, although she still sometimes became weepy without any apparent reason, and remained a little self-conscious about the scar on her upper lip, her confidence and happy disposition had largely returned. And this was at least partly thanks to Cuddles, where she had learned to get behind a counter again and deal with strangers without dissolving into hysterics. Cuddles was a reassuring place, she told him, selling delightfully reassuring soft toys, and located in the safest and most reassuring heart of the largest shopping centre in the Home Counties. So when she heard that voice again, halfway through ringing up a pair of fluffy tiger cubs, she had just sort of seized up.

  ‘You remember the voice, Mr Brock?’

  ‘Oh yes, Pauline. I remember.’

  And who wouldn’t seize up, he thought, hearing it again after all that time?

  The first time she had heard it, four years ago, she had been working in a bank in Ilford. One morning she had opened up the front door for business as usual, and was immediately confronted by three men who pushed their way in, locking the door behind them and pulling masks over their faces. One of them took hold of her and rammed the muzzle of a gun into her mouth, so violently that it knocked out her front teeth and split her lip. Using her as a hostage, they had forced the other staff to hand over money and then lie flat on the floor. No one offered any resistance, but the robbers maintained a violent and aggressiv
e manner, especially the one holding Pauline, who seemed to be the leader of the gang. He was very agitated and excited, screaming at the bank staff to try making trouble so that he could show them what he would do to them. His ranting terrified the staff and several of the women began to cry. Finally the branch manager—Fairbairn, Brock remembered—had felt obliged to try to calm the man down. He had looked up from his position on the floor and told the man to kindly stop shouting and be reasonable.

  There was immediately a terrible silence. All the witnesses subsequently commented on it, as if this was a signal of some kind that the robbers recognised. The man holding Pauline went very still, then smiled down at the manager, withdrew the muzzle of his pistol from Pauline’s bleeding mouth, bent down, held it six inches from Fairbairn’s upturned face and pulled the trigger.

  The three men then calmly walked away, locking the front door behind them. Because of the masks, the other staff weren’t able to identify the gunmen, but Pauline had had a clear view of their faces at the moment they had pushed in through the front door. She gave a particularly vivid description of the man who had held her, his wild unblinking grey eyes, the smooth pink skin on his left temple and cheek where it looked as if he had been burned, the belligerent thrust of his mouth. And she described his voice, a hoarse voice, naturally soft but made to sound big by straining his throat, like vegetables forced through a grater.

  The task force from Serious Crime, led by Detective Chief Inspector David Brock, had known exactly who she was talking about, and she had immediately identified the photographs of Gregory Thomas North, a professional criminal with a record of violent armed robberies, known as Upper North because of his dangerous habit of psyching himself up with amphetamines before a job.

  ‘You heard the voice, Pauline,’ Brock said gently. ‘And you saw him?’

  ‘I . . . think so. I looked up as soon as I heard it, and I saw a man walking past behind my customer, talking to a little girl he was holding by the hand. He didn’t look at me. He just walked on out of the shop, and I . . . everything went blank.’

  ‘She fainted, sir.’ PC Sangster spoke. ‘Two of the other sales assistants went to help her, and when someone saw me passing by in the mall they called me in to help.’

  Brock turned to her. ‘I don’t suppose you happened to notice this man and the little girl?’

  ‘No, sorry. The place was packed out this morning.’

  Brock picked up from the table a copy of an image of a man’s face, based on photographs of North, modified on the computer to Pauline’s instructions.

  ‘A bit older—like all of us, eh, Pauline?’ Brock said. ‘And wearing glasses now. Suntanned?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. But I couldn’t see the scar. At least, I don’t remember it.’

  ‘It was the left side of his face you saw?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But apart from that, you’re pretty certain?’

  ‘I heard the voice, Mr Brock.’

  ‘Yes. What about the child?’

  ‘I hardly saw her. I just had an impression of a little girl. I can’t remember how she looked.’

  PC Sangster said, ‘I took statements from three of the other shop assistants, sir. One of them had served the man. He wanted to know if they had a particular kind of stuffed animal toy, a badger.’

  Brock looked sharply at her, wondering if this was some kind of joke. Brock the badger. She blushed and consulted her notebook.

  ‘Yes. He wanted a big badger for the little girl. She was about three or four, blonde curls, wearing a red coat. He was wearing a black bomber jacket and jeans, white trainers.’

  ‘Did they have a badger?’ Brock asked.

  ‘No. He’d apparently been there before, because he said he’d seen one there, and the assistant said it’d been sold, but they were getting more in next week.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he left a name?’

  ‘No, nothing. He just asked about the badger and then they walked out of the shop, the little girl holding his hand.’

  Later, after Pauline had been taken home with advice to get a doctor’s note to stay off work for at least two weeks, they played part of the video tape taken by the security camera in Cuddles, from which they had identified the man and child Pauline had seen. Brock sat forward, peering at the screen as they replayed the sequence, then he got to his feet and began pacing up and down the cramped room.

  ‘What do you reckon, Brock?’ Bren asked.

  ‘Looks very like him, doesn’t it? Same build, way of holding himself. And she was very sure about the voice.’

  He stopped and turned to PC Sangster. ‘We appreciate your help, Miriam. Did Bren speak to you about keeping this to yourself?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I did report to my inspector, Inspector Rickets, and he was the one who notified the Yard. Other than that I haven’t spoken to anyone.’

  ‘Good. If it was him, we don’t want a hint to get out that he’s been spotted. Don’t want to frighten him off.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  Brock picked up the computer simulation again. It was him, no question. North had returned. They were being given one more chance to put him away. Why had he come back? And for how long?

  As Miriam Sangster turned to leave, Brock asked suddenly, ‘Is this Silvermeadow on your regular beat?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. We don’t patrol there. It’s private property, and they have their own security. I was following up another inquiry, a missing girl.’ She hesitated, but he seemed to want to know more, so she went on. ‘She lives close by here, and hasn’t been seen since Monday at school. Her mother reported her missing on Wednesday. The girl had a part-time job at Silvermeadow, and I was just checking with her employer there. It was an accident, really, that I was there at that time.’

  ‘Ah. Lucky for us then.’

  At the door she stood back to let two men come in, uniformed and with rank. One announced himself as the divisional commander, Chief Superintendent Forbes, and introduced the other as Inspector Rickets.

  Brock thought he remembered the name Forbes, but the face meant nothing: fleshy, large ears, with hair growing on the cheekbones. They shook hands formally.

  ‘They call you Brock, don’t they?’

  Brock nodded. He had no idea what they called Forbes, apart from sir.

  The chief superintendent looked ill at ease, Brock thought, as if he wasn’t used to being in rooms like this. It was one of those spaces belonging to no one, windowless, soulless, a dozen chairs around four tables pushed together, all bottom-of-the-range office furniture, a few cigarette burns along the edges. Forbes’s smart leather document case looked as out of place as he did.

  ‘We did meet at Bramshill six or seven years ago, a senior officer management course. You gave a paper on streamlining case management. Quite inspiring.’

  Brock didn’t remember. Had he really spoken on a subject like that? Inspiringly?

  A sudden violent burst of noise echoed through the building, like a jackhammer being applied to a concrete frame.

  Forbes pulled a face, gritting his teeth. ‘They’re doing some repair work downstairs,’ he said loudly to make himself heard. ‘It’s been going on all morning.’

  Brock wondered if he was making the point that he had been there all morning, at his desk, on the weekend.

  They waited for the noise to stop, then Forbes continued. ‘Inspector Rickets tells me we may have Gregory North on our patch.’

  ‘It seems possible, sir. We know the principal witness, and she’s reliable, I think.’

  ‘I see. At Silvermeadow, I understand. Well, half the population of London goes through Silvermeadow at this time of the year, I suppose. So you’ll be wanting to mount an operation there? Shop to shop enquiries, posters, leaflets, information desk . . .?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Brock said. ‘The opposite, really. We’d heard rumours that North might have returned, but so far this is the only sighting. It seems that the man at Silvermeadow had visited that sh
op before, and may do so again, so the last thing we want to do is frighten him off. There’s also the question of the safety of the witness. So I would like this whole business treated in the utmost confidence. I’ve impressed that on PC Sangster. We’d be grateful if you’d leave it entirely with us.’

  Forbes looked disappointed.

  ‘If it’s a matter of credit . . .’ Brock began, but Forbes dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.

  ‘No, no. Tell me, do you think it possible that North is planning something at Silvermeadow?’

  ‘It’s possible I suppose. We have no indication as yet.’

  ‘But it is possible. You see, I wondered if some cooperative arrangement between us, a sharing of resources, might not be appropriate.’

  ‘To be honest, sir, the fewer of your officers seen at Silvermeadow over the next few weeks the better.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m afraid that may not be practicable, Brock.’ Forbes leant forward across the table. ‘We have our own investigations to pursue, and one of them seems very likely to be focusing on Silvermeadow.’

  Brock wondered where this was leading. There was something very calculated about Forbes’s manner, an experienced committee man negotiating his way into a position of relative advantage. What it had to do with catching villains he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Is that the missing girl investigation?’ Brock asked.

  Forbes looked startled. He turned to Inspector Rickets, who glanced at Brock. ‘PC Sangster briefed you on that, sir?’

  ‘She mentioned that was why she was at Silvermeadow in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, well, she won’t be aware that there have been further developments in that case, sir. A body has been found.’

  ‘At Silvermeadow?’

  ‘Not quite. But there seems to be a connection.’

  ‘And that being the case,’ Forbes broke in, ‘we may well find ourselves conducting an Area Major Investigation right where you want to be discreet and inconspicuous. Hence my thought that some measure of co-ordination, co-operation . . .’