Spider Trap Page 8

  ‘Nonsense!’ Mehta almost shouted. ‘I quote Sauer, I quote Brace: “There are no races, there are only clines.” If we can’t dispel this wicked misconception, who can?’

  The odontologist, Dr Lyons, was peering over his glasses at his forensic colleagues. From what Kathy could make of his part of the report, the dental evidence had been disappointingly inconclusive, and throughout he’d had the air of someone rather bored and impatient to get back to his laboratory. But now he, the only white member of the trio, seemed intrigued by his colleagues’ increasingly irate debate about race.

  It was interrupted by the arrival of Morris Munns, who bustled in with a cheerful ‘Morning all’ and an ancient leather doctor’s bag. The lenses in his glasses were so thick that Kathy was always worried that he would barge into something, which was ironic since he was perhaps the most skilful photographic specialist and enhancer of latent images available to the Met. Dr Mehta, somewhat tight-lipped, invited him to speak, and from the bag he produced a plastic evidence pouch containing an irregular lump of material.

  ‘This is the remains of the shoe Sundeep gave me,’ Morris said in his broad cockney. ‘It was found with Bravo’s body. And hidden beneath what was left of his leather instep, Sundeep was smart enough to notice something odd.’

  Mehta’s sulk relaxed a little, mollified by this compliment.

  ‘Under examination, I found a fragment of what turned out to be rag paper. We ’ad a go with it on our new image detector equipment, digitally enhanced, and eventually came up with this.’ He passed out copies of a photographic enlargement, twenty times life size, of an irregular area of grey. Across its surface was a blur of darker grey smudges. Kathy held the picture at arm’s length, screwing up her eyes, until finally a pattern emerged.

  ‘Kathy’s got the idea,’ Morris said, and handed round another image, in which the first had been overlaid by red symbols, corresponding roughly to the shapes beneath. The smudges now read:

  Celia’s Dream

  8.22, 7/2, T4

  ‘Brilliant, Morris,’ Brock said, ‘as always. What does it mean?’

  ‘I reckon it’s a betting slip, don’t you? An old-fashioned one, hand-written. The horse is Celia’s Dream, running at odds of seven to two.’

  Horseracing was another acknowledged area of Morris’s expertise, and Brock was impressed. ‘What about the other numbers?’

  ‘Dunno for sure. 8.22 can’t be the time of the race— too early or too late and too odd. It could be the date, American style, month first—August twenty-second. Maybe Bravo was a Yank.’

  ‘Or the bookie was,’ Mehta suggested.

  ‘All right, we’ll see what we can find out,’ Brock said. ‘Many thanks. And thanks also to you and your colleagues for your report, Sundeep. Worth every penny, I’m sure. I realise what a rush it’s been. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Will you be wanting facial reconstructions?’ Dr Prior asked.

  ‘Definitely. Are the skulls in good enough condition?’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course, there are big differences in the thicknesses of facial tissues for different races.’ She paused with a slight smile on her lips, and Kathy realised she was needling Sundeep. ‘But we have pretty accurate tables for both pure Negroid and mixed-race subjects. The South Africans have done a lot of work in this area.’

  Dr Mehta winced at that, but he had obviously decided on a more dignified, patronising approach. ‘Yes, well, as we know, the results of facial modelling are open to conjecture. But Dr Prior is a very artistic practitioner.’

  Kathy gathered that ‘artistic’ was probably the most damning compliment that Mehta could find. As they got to their feet, Kathy made a point of speaking to the anthropologist. She introduced herself and they shook hands.

  ‘What was that all about, with Dr Mehta?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s an ongoing thing with us. Sundeep is a soft-tissue man, and they tend to see the way the responses of races to climate are evenly graded across populations, without clear breaks—the clines he mentioned. But deep inside you, in your bones, the opposite is true. There are sharp divisions between the races, and I can tell much more clearly what you are from your skull than from your skin. But of course, the reason Sundeep gets so heated isn’t scientific. He thinks that exposing biological differences between the races encourages racism, so he wants to suppress them. I, on the other hand, believe the opposite. I think that if we don’t explain exactly what science tells us, we encourage myths and stereotypes. When I was a student and my lecturer first explained the evolutionary basis of race I felt liberated. For the first time I understood why I was black.’

  She paused, studying Kathy’s face as if trying to make a decision, then added, ‘And this case is about race, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. I think these murders were racially motivated, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think we know enough yet. They could be many things, gangland killings . . .’

  ‘No, this isn’t some crack-crazed Yardies taking pot shots at one another. And it wasn’t done to intimidate the opposition—the bodies were hidden. This was deliberate, like a military execution, torturing them first, breaking their bones, then making them kneel, shooting them from above and in front, through the crown. This was cold hate. Race hate.’ Dr Prior leaned closer to Kathy and whispered in her ear. ‘Use your imagination, sister.’ Then, as she was turning away, she added, ‘And forget about Sundeep’s jibe about facial reconstruction. I’ll show you exactly what those two boys looked like.’

  Kathy was silent in the taxi back to Queen Anne’s Gate with Brock, and finally he said, ‘You’re very quiet, Kathy.’

  ‘Just thinking about what Dr Prior had to say.’ She noticed mud on his trouser legs. The on-site teams were now working around the clock ahead of expected bad weather, and she wondered if Brock had spent the night out there. ‘You’ve been pretty quiet yourself.’

  Her remark sounded abrupt and he said nothing for a while, staring out of the taxi window at the dark figures hurrying along the cold streets. She wondered if she’d annoyed him. Then he turned and smiled. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. We should get together and talk about things. Soon.’

  She wasn’t sure if he meant about work or something else. Then he added, ‘But first I want to get a fix on when they died. From that, everything else will follow; without it we’re helpless. What did you think of Morris’s conjuring trick?’

  ‘Pretty convincing.’

  ‘Mm. Are you a punter?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think so. Me neither. But I’d like you to make it your number one priority.’

  ‘You want me to track down Celia’s Dream?’

  ‘Yes. Drop everything else. I dare say it’ll take time. Talk to experts, people in the industry, but don’t mention where this came from. And don’t tell anyone else about it.’

  Kathy looked at him in surprise. ‘The team?’

  He shook his head. ‘No one.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll explain when we get a date. I may be quite wrong. I want you to go at this with a completely open mind.’

  The cab had arrived at Queen Anne’s Gate. Kathy made her way to the room where she had her workspace. The building seemed deserted, as if all the others were away doing something active and important. She made some strong coffee, sat down at her desk, switched on her computer and tried to get her brain working.

  Celia’s Dream could be many things—a book, a rose, a boat. Perhaps Bravo had arranged to pick something up from a boat at 8.22. She was puzzled by the particularity of the time, if it was a time. Or perhaps Morris was right and it was a date.

  She got onto the internet and began searching Google. Celia’s Dream yielded 6890 entries, most concerning a track of that name from an album by a UK band, Slowdive, released in September 1991. She couldn’t find any reference to horses or boats. She tried horseracing websites, again without result, and then on one of the sites
she noticed the word ‘greyhounds’ on the site map and she remembered a scene from long ago, her Uncle Tom in Sheffield putting on his coat to go out and Aunt Mary telling her grimly that he was ‘going to the dogs’. And the races must have been held in the evening as she remembered the streetlights on outside.

  On greyhound-data.com she found ‘Dog-Search’, and typed in the name. And suddenly, there it was:

  Celia's Dream

  color WBD

  sex female

  date of birth MAY 1978

  land of birth IE Ireland

  land of standing IE Ireland

  owner Mrs Celia Frost

  It gave the dog’s pedigree through four generations and the percentage of Grand Champions in her bloodline over six generations (10 per cent). It also gave her racing history. Kathy sat back and blessed the internet.

  She knocked on Brock’s office door and went in. He was tilted back on his swivel chair, shoeless feet up on the desk and bright green boots on the floor nearby, as if he’d just come in from a spot of gardening. He was sipping from a mug of coffee, staring over his half-lens glasses at the opposite wall, which was covered with his own version of the crime scene information on the wall of the case room they’d established downstairs—a street map of the area around Cockpit Lane, a gridded map of the railway land, and dozens of photographs of what they’d dug up.

  ‘Problems?’ he asked.

  ‘Answers, I think.’ She handed him the printout of the dog’s details.

  He sat up sharply. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘And here’s her racing history.’ Kathy pointed to one line. ‘On 11 April 1981 she won the 8.22 race at Catford from trap four with a starting price of seven to two.’

  ‘Yes, of course! Catford dog track is just a couple of miles from Cockpit Lane.’

  ‘That’s right. Bravo was probably a regular punter there. Unfortunately the track closed down a couple of years ago, so I may have trouble tracing its records. I think I’ll concentrate first on finding out about that date—what day of the week it was, what was going on then.’

  For a moment Brock seemed mesmerised by the information on the page, then he slowly shook his head and waved her to sit down. There was no need to find out about the date; he already knew.

  eight

  The eleventh of April 1981 was a Saturday, and warm for the time of year. Around midday Brock got a phone call at his desk at the station.

  ‘Hello, Detective Inspector Brock.’ The promotion was recent, and he still had to check himself from saying ‘Sergeant’.

  ‘’Lo? I wan’ fe talk to you.’

  The voice was pitched low and he had difficulty at first understanding what the man was saying.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Me name Joseph, seen? Paul gave me yo’ number.’

  Paul was a stallholder in the market and a useful informant, and Brock remembered being introduced to a tall, loose-limbed young black man. Joseph had cut a stylish figure in a white Kangol cap and black leather coat, and when he strolled away he almost seemed to be dancing on his markedly bowed legs.

  ‘Fine. What do you want to talk about, Joseph?’

  The caller hesitated, then said, ‘Paul said seh you wan’ fe put some bad bwoys ah goal, yeah?’

  ‘Which bad boys do you have in mind?’

  ‘Not on t’phone. Dem bwoys real bad, seen? You know dem. Is like dem cyan wait fe kill someone. I don’t need fe talk to nobody, but I do need fe get money, seen?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Tonight, six o’clock, the Ship in Cockpit Lane. Don’ you be late.’

  After he hung up Brock tried to find out if anyone else knew of this Joseph, but the station was in turmoil, uniforms rushing everywhere. There had been trouble on the streets the previous evening and more was expected. Brock decided not to hang around and headed out to catch a bus for home and lunch.

  His felt the usual sag in his spirits as he approached the flat, a trendy shoebox. He hated the place, its miserable little rooms, low ceilings, windows looking out at blank walls. As he opened the front door he knew instantly that it was deserted. He felt the heavy silence, as if all the accumulated tensions had finally snapped like an overstretched elastic band. The kitchen was spotless, tidier than it had ever been since they’d moved in, three years before. A thousand days, a thousand nights. The lounge and bedroom were also immaculate, as if for a final inspection. Her drawers and wardrobe were empty.

  There was no note, although in the bin beneath the kitchen sink he found two screwed-up attempts: ‘Dear David, I can’t’ and ‘David, I have to’.

  He found a bottle of beer and a lump of cheese in the fridge, and sat for a long time at the kitchen table staring at them, trying to work out how he felt. Relief, on the whole, at the arrival of the inevitable. Perhaps in a week or two, when the repetitive cycle was broken, they might talk, he told himself, but found it hard to believe.

  He left the house at five, the beer and cheese still untouched on the table. He felt light-headed, disengaged from the world, as if after a violent accident, and put the odd little dislocations he noticed around him down to this. The bus timetable seemed to have been disrupted, and it took longer than expected to reach Cockpit Lane. The street was unnaturally empty, and through front windows he could see the blue flicker of television sets. In the distance he heard the howl of an ambulance. He hadn’t seen the news before he left, and he didn’t have a police radio.

  As he walked along the deserted street he thought how much he liked this part of London. To those passing through on the commuter trains it might look like a scruffy mess of aging yellow-brick terraces, but to him they were dignified, sturdy, forgiving receptacles for the endlessly permutating human lives they’d sheltered for over a hundred years. These were the sorts of streets he’d grown up in, and the struggle of the West Indian immigrants today matched the earlier struggle of his own parents, fresh from the North. It was true, though, looking around with a critical eye, that these parts were going through a tough time now. Businesses were going bust, buildings falling vacant and being turned into squats, and a growing number of young unemployed men standing idle in the street. Always on the street. So where the hell were they now?

  The Ship was a pokey little pub opposite the church at the end of Cockpit Lane. It had no room for gadgets like Space Invaders machines, jukeboxes or TV sets. Now it was deserted, the landlord leaning morosely on the bar studying form in the racing pages.

  ‘Quiet tonight,’ Brock said. He was five minutes late.

  The publican grunted and shrugged. ‘Something going on. What’ll it be?’

  ‘Half of bitter, please. Have one yourself.’

  ‘Ta.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. Young black lad. Seen him?’

  ‘Haven’t seen nobody, mate. You’re my first customer tonight.’

  Brock glanced through the morning paper while he sipped at his beer. On page two he came across a report of the disturbance in Brixton the previous evening. Three police officers from Operation Swamp had been assaulted by a crowd after trying to assist a black youth who’d been stabbed. Bricks and bottles had been thrown, and six arrests made.

  The time dragged on. He checked his watch again at six-forty and decided Joseph wasn’t coming. Then the phone behind the bar rang. The publican had difficulty understanding what the caller wanted. Eventually he looked over and said, ‘Your name Brack?’

  ‘Brock. It’s for me, is it?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ The man handed him the phone.

  ‘Hello, Brock here. Is that you Joseph?’

  ‘Yeah. Is you fe true, man?’ He sounded out of breath, panicky, his voice pitched higher than before, no longer cool and husky.

  ‘Of course it’s me, Joseph. I’m waiting at the Ship, like we arranged. Where are you?’

  ‘I cyan come dere now, seen? Dem try fe dus’ me!’ The voice rose almost to a shriek. Brock could hear thumping music and voices in
the background.

  ‘Who’s trying to kill you?’

  ‘You know who, supa. Dat big bad white bwoy.’

  ‘White? You’re talking about Spider Roach, is that right?’

  Joseph gave a sob.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘De Cat and Fiddle in Angell Town. Somebody ah follow me. Mek me laf yah, y’hear?’

  ‘No, don’t leave there, Joseph. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. Just stay where you are!’

  Brock was out of the door and running. It was a ten-minute walk, he reckoned, a five-minute run, a two-minute taxi ride. But there were no taxis. He reached the main road where the traffic was dense, not moving. A police car was stuck in the middle, lights flashing impotently. As he plunged across the road he heard the sound of a helicopter overhead, chop-chop-chop. He looked up and saw the word ‘Police’ on its fuselage. He’d read about the new Air Support Unit but it was the first time he’d seen such a thing over London. It was flying south-west, where he was going, towards a haze of smoke he now noticed in the sky, turning the late sun into a red disc.

  He reached the pub at last, his chest heaving from the half-mile run. Sirens were braying everywhere around him now, although he still hadn’t encountered the crisis, whatever it was. An excited crowd made up of both black and white youths was gathering in the street outside the pub. It was crowded inside and he struggled through, from bar to bar, without success. Joseph was nowhere to be seen. As he stood, panting, eyes roving, a soft voice murmured at his side. ‘You wan’ Joseph, sir?’

  ‘Yes!’ He swivelled, then dropped his eyes to face a tiny middle-aged woman staring up at him.

  ‘You’re his friend, sir?’

  ‘I am. We were supposed to meet here. Have you seen him?’

  ‘He phoned me too. I’m his aunty, Winnie Wellington’s my name.’ She offered a hand and he felt the skin hard and rough in his grasp.