Spider Trap Page 9

  ‘David Brock. I’m a policeman, Winnie. I’ve seen you in Cockpit Lane.’

  ‘He needs yo’ help. He’s very scared, sir. He asked me to bring money for him. He said if I saw you to tell you he’s gone to the Windsor Castle in Mayall Road. He feel safer dere among black folk, and he has a friend who can hide him. His name’s Walter.’

  ‘You saw Joseph here?’

  ‘Only for a moment. He told me this, and then he saw somethin’ dat scared the life out o’ him, and he just ran for the door over there.’

  ‘What did he see?’

  ‘Two men came in the other door. Big men, hard men, in black leather jackets. White men.’

  ‘Thank you, Winnie. I’ll do what I can.’

  She laid a hand on his arm. ‘If you’re goin’ to Mayall Road you’d best take care, Mr Brock.’

  He hurried out into the maze of streets heading south, turning eventually into Brixton Road. There he stopped dead, transfixed by the spectacle of a circle of people dancing around a man on fire. His hair, his suit were ablaze with fierce orange flames, and it took Brock a moment to realise that it was a shop dummy. They were outside Burton’s the tailors, whose glass windows had been smashed. Beyond them youths were lining both sides of the road, apparently waiting, although there was no traffic. Then a shout went up as a police car approached, heading down the street towards the centre of Brixton. As it reached the lines the people began hurling bricks at it. Swerving, siren blaring, it ran the gauntlet and sped on. Brock saw the pale face of one of the coppers inside staring back through the cracked rear window at the jeering crowd.

  He hurried on past kids smashing shop windows. A white woman with long fair hair was wielding a broom at the window of an off-licence, sending glass shards flying. Outside a jeweller’s shop, necklaces and watches were scattered across the pavement among the glass. A large crowd was milling outside the tube station. People were wide-eyed with excitement, some frightened, some laughing, exchanging stories. A line of uniforms was holding them back from entering Atlantic Road, where he wanted to go. He could see a police car down there in flames and the stench of burning petrol and rubber hung in the air. A fire engine stood by on this side of the police line, radio crackling, the crew waiting with arms folded. Familiar shop signs— Colliers, Boots, WH Smith—seemed oddly out of place, as if they’d been transposed to another place and time, St Petersburg in 1917 perhaps.

  Brock decided to move on and try to approach the pub from another direction. He ran past the town hall and turned into a residential side street. Ahead of him he saw a group of people clustered at a front gate. Several black youths with bricks in their hands had cornered an astonished white man, while his terrified wife and two small children looked on from a car parked at the kerb. Brock moved to help but several other black men appeared and pulled their friends away, leaving the man unhurt. Brock could hear distant shouts ahead and the incomprehensible braying of a megaphone. The sky was darker here, twilight compounded by a pall of smoke, lit from below by a flickering orange glow.

  He turned a corner and stumbled into a squad of police. They were sitting on the kerb and against a wall, their shields and visored helmets on the ground beside them. One looked up at him and he recognised a young PC from his own station, dabbing at blood on his forehead.

  ‘Hello, Stan,’ he said. ‘You all right?’

  The constable didn’t seem to recognise him. ‘Got me with a fucking brick, didn’t they? Bastards. They’re chucking fucking petrol bombs at us now. Can you believe that? Molotov cocktails in the streets of London.’

  He moved on, sensing the heart of the storm ahead from the noises of battle, the rhythmic beating of batons against shields, the crashes of destruction, angry cries. Then at last he emerged into Railton Road. The street was littered with upturned and burning vehicles, broken bricks and glass. A fire engine stood abandoned, black smoke pouring from its cabin. Brock found himself behind a double police line facing a chanting crowd. A flaring petrol bomb arced through the smoke and smashed directly onto an upturned shield, spraying fire over several cops. There was a whoop from the crowd as the police line broke, a shower of bricks, and then the mob surged forward into the flailing batons.

  Brock ran across to the far side of the street and kept going through the crowd, barging his way down a side street and into Mayall Road. There he stopped, transfixed by the sight. Ahead of him the Windsor Castle was in flames. He could hear the crash of exploding spirit bottles, and felt the billow of scorching heat as the ground-floor windows blew out. He leaned back against the brick wall, catching his breath as he watched the silhouettes of dancing figures against the blaze.

  nine

  ‘The Brixton riots,’ Kathy said. ‘I’d forgotten.’

  ‘You’d be too young to remember.’ Brock heaved himself to his feet and got them both another coffee from the pot he kept brewing.

  ‘And you didn’t find Joseph?’

  ‘No. I never heard of him again. The following days and weeks were chaotic. I filed a report but didn’t have a chance to follow up. The next time I saw Paul and Winnie at the markets I asked them if they knew what had happened to him, and they hadn’t heard from him either. They guessed he’d gone back home to Jamaica. I thought that seemed likely.’

  ‘And now you think we’ve found him.’

  Brock nodded. ‘The second body, Bravo, six foot two, age nineteen and bow-legged. Never collected on the race that Celia’s Dream was winning for him at exactly the time that the Windsor Castle was burning to the ground.’

  ‘Did you suspect this from the very beginning?’

  ‘It was a possibility.’

  ‘But I don’t understand the secrecy. Why couldn’t I tell anyone about Celia’s Dream?’

  ‘It gets more complicated, Kathy. Until I know exactly where we stand, I don’t want any more information leaking out than I can help.’

  She’d encountered this secretiveness in him often enough before. It was a deeply ingrained instinct, formed by years of stalking dangerous people while working in an institution of ambitious gossips. And there was always a good reason for it.

  ‘You think Spider Roach killed them,’ she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I couldn’t say that. But he’s an obvious candidate. We should go and talk to Winnie Wellington again. She was his aunt, and she was the last person to see Joseph that we know of.’

  As she drove them across Westminster Bridge, the sweep of the river sparkling in the crisp morning light, Kathy said, ‘Winnie spoke of two white men following him.’

  ‘Yes, although when Joseph first called me I assumed he was talking about being in trouble with some other Jamaicans, Yardies. You know about the Yardies?’

  ‘I’m learning. Last night Tom Reeves told me something about them—he’s been to Jamaica with Special Branch, did you know?’

  ‘Really? No I didn’t. When was that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He made a bet with me that if the three victims were black, then they were murdered after October 1980.’

  ‘Smart lad. What else did he tell you?’

  ‘About Jamaican food, mainly. And drink.’

  ‘Aha.’ Brock nodded sagely, as if that explained many things.

  Kathy drove first to the warehouse in Mafeking Road, where they went inside to check on progress. Bren was there.

  ‘Weather’s holding up, and we’ve got something interesting, chief. Remains of a bullet.’

  ‘Where did they find it?’

  ‘That’s the interesting part.’ Bren led them over to the gridded site plan, now covered with numbered pins and scribbled annotations in a dozen different hands. ‘C6.’ He pointed to an empty grid square. ‘We’ve just started excavating it. The bullet was on its own, embedded in the ground about six inches down. It’s not in good shape. Probably won’t help us match the gun. But it confirms what we assumed from the spent cases, that the victims were shot here on the site, not somewhere else and brought here for burial.
This one presumably exited from either Alpha or Charlie and ended up a good ten or fifteen yards away.’

  ‘And we’ve got something for you, Bren.’ Brock told him about the betting slip and date. ‘I’ll be releasing some of this to the press this afternoon. In the meantime, Kathy and I are going to start talking to people who knew Joseph.’

  ‘A photograph would be a help.’

  ‘And a surname.’

  They walked back down Mafeking Road to the junction with Cockpit Lane. The Ship public house stood on the corner, as scruffy and unwelcoming as when Brock had gone there to meet Joseph twenty-four years before. They turned into Cockpit Lane, threading through the market crowd until they reached the pots and pans on the final stall. Winnie was there, George at her side. She saw them and made a face.

  ‘Oh no. What now. You want this boy again?’

  ‘Not this time, Winnie. It’s you we want to chat to. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I’ve heard dat before. You want a cup of tea? Come inside.’

  As she led them through the shop door there was a loud clatter from the street behind them and Winnie yelled back over her shoulder, ‘Clumsy boy!’ She shook her head with disgust. ‘He wears those thick gloves, so he drops things. I tell him he’s got to take the gloves off, but he complains, “Aw, Winnie, I’m so cold. I get frostbite.” He’s eighteen years old and he’s a baby, dat boy.’

  They settled in the small kitchen at the rear. A shed had been built in the backyard right up against the window, and they could see racks and cardboard boxes piled inside. Winnie put the kettle on and they sat around the kitchen table.

  ‘You’ve heard that we’ve found some old human remains on the waste ground at the back here, beside the railway?’ Brock asked.

  ‘The whole street’s talkin’ about it. They say it’s a Yardie burial ground. Is dat fer true?’

  ‘We don’t know, Winnie, but you’ve been here a long time, and I wanted to tap your memory. Back to 1981, the time of the Brixton riots, remember that?’

  Winnie nodded. ‘I remember.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about a nephew of yours—Joseph was his name. I used to see him in the Lane, all those years ago.’

  ‘Joseph?’ The old woman’s lined forehead wrinkled as she thought. ‘Yes, I remember Joseph. But . . .’ She looked horrified. ‘You don’t think dat’s him do you, lyin’ out there in the waste ground all that time?’

  ‘We’ve found a man who was tall, six foot two, and bow-legged from childhood rickets. He was about nineteen when he died, and he was black.’

  Winnie put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Lord above.’ She crossed herself quickly and felt in the pocket of her quilted coat for her rosary beads. ‘Was that 1981, when we met in dat pub in Angell Town?’

  Brock nodded. ‘You do remember. Did you ever hear of him again?’

  ‘No, I never did. I just assumed he’d gone back to the yard—to Jamaica—but I never knew for sure.’

  ‘The thing is, Winnie, there is a way we can be certain if it’s him. If you’re his aunt—his mother’s sister—and you allow us to do a small test . . .’ But Winnie was shaking her head.

  ‘No, I’m not his real auntie. Dat was just a figure of speech. I really don’t know who his baby mother was back there.’

  ‘Oh. Well, perhaps you could give us some details about him —his full name, his age, anything you know.’

  ‘But I don’t really know anything. When he arrived I gave him a room upstairs and some work on the stall, like George out dere. Just to get him started, you understand? I just always knew him as Joseph, dat’s all.’

  ‘The last time we saw him was the eleventh of April of that year. When did he arrive, exactly?’

  She pondered. ‘It was before Christmas, I think. Yes, I’m sure he was here for Christmas . . . Unless I’m mixing him up with Bobby. He was next, I think. Oh dear, I’m not sure.’

  ‘So you think he was staying with you for four or five months? Something like that?’

  ‘Yes, I’d say so. Somethin’ like dat. I expect Father Maguire could tell you. He helped Joseph.’

  ‘Father Maguire?’

  ‘At St Barnabas, up the Lane, beyond the market. He’s been here nearly as long as me.’

  She got up to make the tea, bringing the pot and cups and saucers to the table. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be very hospitable. I don’ have no cake. Maybe I can find some biscuits.’

  ‘Tea will be just fine, Winnie. What else can you tell us about Joseph?’ Brock coaxed. ‘What about his friends?’

  ‘Well, there was Paul, who sold shoes in the market. But he’s long gone. I’ve no idea where he is.’

  ‘You went to the Cat and Fiddle that night to give him money, do you remember? The message he asked you to pass on to me was that he was going to the Windsor Castle in Brixton to meet someone who could help him. His name was Walter. Did you know this Walter?’

  Winnie seemed to draw her tough little body in upon itself, and not just from the effort of remembering, Kathy thought. She seemed troubled.

  ‘He was always gettin’ into hot water, dat Walter. He had a big mouth and never went to church. He came from a bad crowd in the Gardens.’

  ‘Covent Garden?’ Kathy asked, puzzled.

  ‘Tivoli Gardens, in Kingston. Dat’s where the Shower Posse hang out, you know? Walter and Joseph were both Garden boys.’

  ‘They were rudies, were they?’ Brock said. ‘With the Shower Posse? Is that why they had to leave Jamaica?’

  ‘Oh, dey weren’t serious gangstas, Mr Brock. Dey was what dey call “fryers”, at the bottom rank, but dey got in trouble with the police. When Joseph came here he tried to start a new life, but before too long Walter led him astray again. Dey called themselves the Tosh Posse, which was just stupid showing off to the girls at the club, and dey upset the Spangler boys across the railway line with their boasting about what big men dey’d been in the Gardens.’

  ‘Were they selling drugs?’

  She flared. ‘I wouldn’t have no drug dealers in my house! Joseph was a show-off and weak in the face of temptation, but he wasn’t really bad. Father Maguire had faith in him. But Walter . . .’

  ‘This Tosh Posse, who else was in it?’

  ‘I only remember one other boy with them. He was older than them, nice-looking boy. Don’t know the name.’

  ‘How old was Walter?’

  ‘He was a few years older than Joseph, I’d say. Dey made an odd pair, Joseph tall and so particular about his appearance, and Walter short and dirty.’

  ‘How short?’

  ‘Oh, shorter than her,’ she nodded at Kathy, ‘but not as short as me.’

  ‘Was Joseph left- or right-handed?’

  ‘How can I be expected—No, wait, he was right-handed. I remember watching him trying to write a Christmas card to someone back home. It was a struggle for him.’

  ‘And you say they upset people across the railway— Spanglers?’

  ‘Dat Shower and Spangler business was from the yard; it had no place here. But some of ’em brought it over with dem.’

  ‘Any names?’

  Winnie shook her head.

  ‘When we met in that pub in Angell Town, you told me that Joseph had been frightened by two white men. They couldn’t be Spanglers, could they?’

  ‘Not if dey was white dey couldn’t.’

  ‘So who were they?’

  Again, Winnie seemed to close in on herself.

  ‘You’d seen them before, hadn’t you? Come on, Winnie. Let’s have it.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure. At first I thought dey might be coppers, but then I thought dey might have been Mr Roach’s boys.’

  ‘Yes,’ Brock said quietly. He seemed to Kathy to relax, easing back in his chair as if finally satisfied. ‘Did Joseph get on the wrong side of Mr Roach, do you know?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Dey seemed to get on just fine. Too fine, if you wan’ my opinion.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, and
the tea was just what we needed.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘Would you have a picture of Joseph or Walter?’

  ‘No, I don’t have no camera. I don’t know if Father Maguire might.’

  ‘We’ll ask him. If he doesn’t, I’d like you to help one of our computer people make a likeness of them and the third man. Would you do that for me?’

  Winnie seemed quite taken with the idea as she bustled out with them to the street, where George was standing miserably stamping his feet.

  ten

  The sun had disappeared behind dark clouds and the threatened rain or snow seemed imminent as they made their way between the market stalls towards the church. There were few people around now, hoods and collars turned up against the sharp wind. The church was locked, and they knocked on the door of the presbytery next door. A housekeeper answered and told them that Father Maguire was at the hospital and would be back in an hour. Brock suggested they see if the Ship did lunches.

  The pub had succumbed to TV, an absurdly large screen on one wall showing a game of American football. Otherwise it seemed little had changed. Lunch was limited to an assortment of greasy sausage rolls and meat pies in a hot cabinet. Brock ordered a couple, and a beer and a tonic water, and took them to Kathy, who’d found a small table as far as possible from the TV speakers. She thanked him for the tonic and unbuttoned her coat.

  ‘You need more than that,’ Brock said.

  ‘Had a big dinner last night.’

  ‘Ah yes, with Tom Reeves. So how is he these days?’

  ‘Fine.’ She was going to leave it at that, then thought she should say more, for the purposes of barter. ‘He was called away over Christmas, so we’re just catching up again. Do you remember that other Branch bloke we worked with a couple of years back, Wayne O’Brien, who just disappeared one day? I thought the same had happened to Tom. They’re difficult people to keep track of.’

  ‘True enough. It’s the nature of the job. Not easy.’

  ‘He wants to transfer out. Anyway, he made a Jamaican dinner from stuff he bought here in the Lane—pot roast with Red Stripe beer. It was really good. You can get takeaway from the café, too.’ She described the other dishes.