Spider Trap Read online

  ‘Shut it,’ Roach croaked from his seat.

  Adonia misunderstood. ‘I’ll tidy up later, Dad.’

  Kathy was sniffing the air. ‘Someone’s fired a gun in here.’

  ‘I noticed a smell when I came in,’ Adonia agreed. ‘I know the man was hurt. Ivor got a call from his security men and came first, then Dad wasn’t well and I brought him home.’

  ‘So where are they now?’ Brock said.

  ‘Hospital, I suppose . . .’

  ‘Shut it, you stupid cow!’ Roach’s voice lashed her like a slap, and she blinked in surprise. He had hauled himself upright and was beating the air with a claw-like hand. ‘My daughter-in-law is confused. There was no burglar. Nobody’s been hurt.’

  ‘But Dad . . .’ Her voice faded as he glared at her.

  ‘You seemed to be expecting us,’ Brock said. ‘Did you ring for the police?’

  ‘Well, no. I assumed Ivor would have . . .’ The expression froze on Adonia’s face as she finally understood what was going on. ‘Dad’s right. I must have got it all wrong.’

  ‘Did you see him,Mum?’Magdalen cried. ‘Did you see the man?’

  Her mother frowned, shook her head. ‘I got it wrong.’

  ‘No you didn’t,’ Brock said. ‘Where did they go, Spider? Where did they take him?’

  Roach turned to Brock with a sneer on his mouth. Brock recognised the expression, the curl of the lip, full-blooded and terrifying once, still with the power to chill.

  Brock turned to Adonia. ‘What car was Ivor driving?’

  She shrugged and turned away.

  ‘Adonia, tell me. You have to stop this.’ Getting no response, he hesitated then said, ‘We found Robbie Forrest’s body.’

  She turned slowly back to him, her eyes huge with surprise. ‘Robbie?’

  ‘Yes. He was one of the three bodies we found recently, buried on the railway land behind Cockpit Lane. He died in 1981. Didn’t you know?’

  She shook her head in slow motion.

  ‘No, well, Ivor didn’t want you to know, of course.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Spider barked again. ‘You keep your evil—’

  ‘Where are they?’ Brock repeated, and the old man’s mouth snapped closed.

  ‘What do you mean, about Ivor?’ Adonia said.

  ‘He murdered Robbie, shot him in the head, him and his two friends. I think you know why.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ She turned away, her hand on the gold pendant at her throat.

  ‘What car is Ivor driving?’ he demanded, and when she still said nothing, he said, this time with a sigh of regret, ‘Does Magdalen know, Adonia?’

  ‘Know what?’ Magdalen said. ‘What is all this? Who’s Robbie Forrest?’

  ‘Nothing,’ her mother said. ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Your father, Magdalen,’ Brock said, and as Adonia shook her head and began to speak he went on, ‘Six foot tall, left-handed, Jamaican. We believe he had a gold tooth.’

  Adonia looked stunned. ‘What do you mean, believe?’

  ‘Part of his remains were missing. But we’ve done tests on his DNA and Magdalen’s. He was her father.’

  ‘Mum?’ Magdalen was staring in horror at her mother, whose eyes were filling with tears.

  Adonia turned to her father-in-law. ‘You knew?’

  Roach glared back at her defiantly. ‘You stupid bitch. A nigger! A man as black as your sin. You Greek whore!’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Magdalen cried. She grabbed Brock’s arm. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Ivor Roach murdered your father, who was having an affair with your mother, and now he’s murdering your boyfriend Tom.’

  Magdalen gazed at him, then whispered, ‘A black guy?’

  Brock nodded.

  ‘I knew. I think I’ve always known.’ She stared in horror at her mother, who was frantically turning over in her fingers the golden heart on its chain around her throat. ‘You told me he gave it to you when I was born . . .’ She blinked as if shaking herself awake from a dream. Then she turned to Brock and said, ‘I think I know where they’ve taken Tom.’

  ‘No!’ Spider roared, his rage lifting him out of his chair, but he couldn’t stop Magdalen, who went on.

  ‘There’s an old car yard . . . in Tallow Square.’

  ‘I know it,’ Kathy said. ‘You’ve been inside, haven’t you? You’d better come with us. You might be able to help.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Adonia said, and to her daughter, ‘You’ll need a coat, come on.’

  Brock gave hurried instructions to the two patrol officers to secure the house and make sure Spider didn’t use a phone, and to call for an armed response vehicle to meet them at Tallow Square. While he was talking, Kathy went after the two women. She heard them in a back room, voices raised, then they were hurrying out, pulling on their coats, and they ran to the car.

  There was no sign of the ARV when they turned into the mean little square. Magdalen pointed out Vexx’s Peugeot, and described the layout of the place. ‘The entrance is down the laneway there. There’s a big old shed on this side, and beyond it what used to be the workshop. They . . .’ she hesitated, ‘store stuff there.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s a regular little laboratory at the back. And they have two bloody great pitbulls. Savage, they are.’

  ‘We’ll wait till help gets here,’ Brock said.

  ‘No,’ Magdalen said. ‘They’re murdering Tom in there. I’m going in. They won’t hurt me.’ She pulled open the car door, ignoring their cries. Then Adonia, too, was tumbling out of the door and chasing after her daughter.

  Kathy said, ‘I’ll stop them,’ and followed, running towards the mouth of the lane. She heard the ARV skidding into the square behind her as the two women disappeared into the shadows.

  There was a huge old battered metal sliding door with a small wicket-gate set into the side of the shed, and a speaker and keypad hidden inside an old fuse box bolted to the wall beside it. As Kathy caught up with them Magdalen pressed the button. From inside the building they heard the muffled scream of an electric motor, like a drill or a circular saw, which was abruptly cut as Magdalen began to speak.

  ‘Dad? Dad, it’s me, Magdalen. Open the door, will you? It’s important. I need to talk to you.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then the small door clicked. Magdalen pushed and it swung open and she stepped inside, followed by her mother and Kathy. They waited, their eyes adjusting to the dim light reflected off the high cobwebby ceiling from striplights beyond a low partition.

  Magdalen called out, ‘Dad? Are you there?’

  A door opened in the partition and Ivor Roach stood silhouetted against the light. ‘Magdalen? What are you doing here? Who’s that with you?’

  He came towards them. He was in his shirtsleeves and wearing a bloodstained apron, a gun hanging in his right hand at his side. Behind him, Kathy made out the bulky figure of Teddy Vexx in the doorway, and beyond him, in a pool of brilliant light, a white foot on a table.

  ‘It’s me, Ivor,’ Adonia said. ‘And this is someone from the police. I brought her here.’

  ‘You what?’ Ivor Roach advanced closer, peering at them in disbelief. ‘You brought a copper here? You stupid bitch . . .’ He raised his gun to Kathy.

  ‘It’s all right. She’s got something she wants to tell you.’

  Kathy’s mouth was dry. She swallowed, took a breath.

  ‘Go on.’ Adonia urged her. ‘What your boss said to us. Tell him.’

  Roach looked puzzled.

  ‘I . . .’ Kathy cleared her throat with a cough. ‘We were telling them that we’ve been running tests on the three bodies we found buried behind Cockpit Lane. We’ve established that one of them was Magdalen’s natural father. His name was Robbie Forrest.’

  Roach’s mouth opened, but he didn’t speak.

  Magdalen said, ‘They say you killed my real dad. Is that true?’

  Roach slowly shook his head, looking from his
daughter to his wife. ‘Of course not. How could she know that?’

  ‘The bullets were fired by a pistol, a nine-millimetre Browning,’ Kathy said. ‘It was used again a couple of years later in a car hijack, fired by your brother Ricky.’

  ‘It is true, isn’t it?’ Adonia said. ‘Your dad confirmed it. He knew all about it.’

  ‘Hey, darling . . .’ Ivor began to step forward, lifting his free hand in a supplicating gesture.

  Out of the corner of her eye Kathy saw Adonia pull something from her coat pocket and point it at her husband. It was a gun, she saw, swaying precariously in the woman’s hands. Ivor saw it too, and an incredulous look came over his face. ‘Adonia . . .’ he said, and was abruptly silenced by a tremendous bang that reverberated through the metal shed, then a second. For a moment Ivor stared at Adonia in astonishment, then his knees buckled and he fell flat on his face.

  Now there was the crash of boots and shouts as men burst in through the door behind them. Kathy took the pistol from Adonia’s hand, and the woman reached to her throat, unfastened her pendant and threw it at her husband’s body.

  thirty-one

  They sent two people to the meeting, the smooth and the rough. The smooth was MI5, Brock was fairly sure, and the rough a copper, a senior figure from Special Branch. They were there representing the Organised Crime Liaison Group. Facing them were Commander Sharpe and Brock, and the meeting was held in the Scotland Yard headquarters at 10 Broadway and chaired by an Assistant Commissioner.

  Brock and Sharpe had been up all night, managing the aftermath of the Tallow Square incident. There had been the hunt across South London for Vexx and Crocker, who had escaped from the rear of the building while the three armed police were being tackled by the pitbulls. There had also been the first interviews with Adonia Roach, who appeared to have been liberated from years of intimidation and fear by her act of murder, and had begun talking about the activities of her husband and his brothers in an adrenaline rush. Like Magdalen, she was convinced that Ivor had had her pendant made from her lover’s golden tooth, and had made her wear it all those years as a vindictive act of revenge. Then there was the forensic information coming in from the crime scenes, not to mention the search of Ivor and Adonia Roach’s house and of the crack factory they found at Tallow Square. And there was Tom Reeves, on the critical list after three hours of emergency surgery.

  Despite their lack of sleep, Sharpe was in good form, as if wading through murder scenes in the middle of the night had reawakened some long-dormant feeling for a life of action. Now he ignored the barbed inquiry from the pair from OCLG as to Brock’s status and launched into a spirited description of the night’s activities that left them momentarily speechless. Finally, Smooth conceded that there had been a JIC-sanctioned operation involving the Roach family, but refused to go into details. Sharpe responded that in that case he would feel free to instruct Brock to pursue his investigations which, in the light of Adonia Roach’s revelations and material found in her home, would undoubtedly embroil the whole family. Rough broke his silence at that point, bursting with fury at what had happened.

  ‘They were giving us everything,’ he protested. ‘Every drug lab in London, every dealer, every importer. They had it all, and they were giving it to us! This is a total disaster.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have tried to use us as puppets,’ Sharpe said coldly. ‘I’ve got one officer at death’s door, another . . .’ he indicated Brock, ‘. . .with his reputation in tatters, and a missing Member of Parliament whose life has been ruined.’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ Smooth said with a pained air, ‘nobody asked Reeves to try to burgle the Roach house, and I really don’t think that anyone questions DCI Brock’s reputation. As for Michael Grant, well, that was Roach’s price, in the end. And let’s face it, Grant was a troublemaker, out of control. He was regarded as a menace in the House, and he was never going to leave Roach alone. He was simply beyond reason.’

  Brock spoke for the first time. ‘They had murdered his brother,’ he said quietly.

  ‘So you say. But you have no proof, have you?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  The Assistant Commissioner stepped in. Perhaps, now that everything was out in the open, some way forward might be considered? Might it not still be possible to gain the information from the Roaches, who, after all, must be even more anxious than before to do a deal? Smooth thought this a constructive approach, although Rough was obviously still seething. After considerable discussion, it was agreed to share operational information daily and include Sharpe in the OCLG control group. The meeting broke up with handshakes and in a mood, at least to outward appearances, of conciliation and cooperation.

  The following morning, Saturday, Kathy was wrenched from sleep by the phone ringing. She stumbled through the dark and fumbled the receiver. It was Brock, calling from the hospital where he had been with Tom.

  ‘Oh . . .’ The curtains were drawn and she had no idea if it was night or day. It seemed only minutes since she had been there herself at Tom’s bedside, and she could still smell the hospital. ‘Any change?’

  Still critical but stable, Brock said, and really as good as could be hoped for, given the terrible injuries compounded by loss of blood. Even if he survived the next few days, they still weren’t sure if they could save his legs.

  Kathy groaned. They hadn’t mentioned that to her. A wave of nausea rose inside her and she sat down heavily. She felt exhausted, unwilling to face it all again. Her eyes, adjusting to the gloom, made out pale light around the shape of the curtain. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight-twenty. Sorry, did I wake you? The reason I’m ringing is to tell you that I’m going to drive up to see Michael Grant today, and tell him what’s happened. So if there are any developments you’ll phone me on my mobile, will you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll come back over to the hospital soon.’

  ‘Tom’s daughter and her mother are here at the moment. They seem a little better today. The forecast is fair. Should be a nice day for a drive into the country. I expect I’ll be home later tonight.’

  ‘Right. Have a nice trip.’

  ‘Thanks. Oh, one bit of news should appeal to you. I’ve just had the result of the tests on the gun Adonia used. It is Brown Bread.’

  She opened the curtains and looked out on a dark morning sky, heavy with cloud. Ivor Roach, Brown Bread’s last victim. Brock was implying that there was justice in that, a kind of resolution, but she couldn’t really feel it. To her it just seemed as if all their digging around had brought some nasty dormant thing wriggling to the surface to create more pain and misery. What was the point of avenging those ancient deaths if it just caused more death, more anguish, more broken lives? She felt tired, so tired, and had to force herself under the shower to face the day.

  She also didn’t fancy meeting Tom’s family at the hospital, and left her visit until mid-morning, by which time they’d gone. After an hour staring at his motionless, mummified form she felt restless and decided to get some fresh air with a walk along the river. She made her way down to the ground floor and had barely cleared the entrance doors when she was stopped by a cry.

  ‘Kathy!’

  She turned and saw Martin Connell running towards her, his coat flapping, hair flying in the wind. He looked pale, eyes pouchy, and she guessed he hadn’t had much sleep either in the past forty-eight hours.

  ‘Thank God,’ he gasped. ‘Where’s Brock?’

  His abruptness startled her. ‘Hi, good morning to you too, Martin.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He took a deep breath, pulling himself up with a visible effort, and put on an unconvincing smile. He was agitated, blinking rapidly and she noticed a tremor in his cheek. ‘Kathy, this is terribly important.’ He took hold of her arm, gulping for air as if he were drowning. ‘Do you know where he is? Is he inside? I haven’t been able to find him.’

  ‘No, he’s not here. What on earth is wrong?’

  ‘I have to see him
, Kathy. It’s very urgent!’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you can’t, not until tonight anyway, or maybe tomorrow.’

  Martin’s face looked so racked that she added, ‘He’s gone to North Wales to speak to Michael Grant. But you can reach him on his mobile. Here’s the number—’

  ‘No, that’s no good! I have to speak to him in person. North Wales?’ He shook his head as if this were impossible. ‘Where? Do you know where?’

  Kathy hesitated, thrown by Martin’s obvious alarm. ‘Grant’s staying in a cottage out in the country somewhere, I don’t know exactly where.’

  ‘You must!’

  ‘Martin,’ she said, exasperated now, ‘Brock got the directions himself from the friend of Michael’s who owns the place. I wasn’t really paying attention. Surely someone else can help?’

  He shook his head desperately. ‘How long ago did he leave?’

  ‘Oh, three hours, but—’

  ‘Maybe I can go after him. Who is this friend?’

  ‘He’s a builder. But why—’

  ‘Can you get hold of him?’

  ‘I do have his phone number, but—’

  ‘Ring him, please. Get the directions from him.’

  ‘Not until you tell me what this is all about. What’s going on?’

  ‘Kathy, please. I just have to get to Brock, now, today, as soon as possible. It’s a matter of life and death. Believe me, please.’

  She’d never seen him like this, panicky and wild, clutching his coat about him, looking more like a beggar or a mugging victim than a top criminal lawyer. She took out her phone and notebook, checked Wayne Ferguson’s home number and made the call. His wife answered. There had been an emergency of some kind at the building site and Wayne had had to go in. She gave Kathy his mobile number, but when she tried it she got his message service.

  ‘He’s gone to a building site,’ she said. ‘A supermarket. There’s been—’

  She caught a look of alarm on Martin’s face, his eyes on something over her shoulder, and when she turned she found herself staring into the faces of the two remaining Roach brothers, Mark and Ricky. Close up, in the flesh, they were nothing like the remote images on the walls at Queen Anne’s Gate. Beefy men with heavy bodies and florid meaty faces, their father’s thin gene had bypassed them or been gorged out of existence.