Good Bait

58

It had kept circling around in Karen’s brain, hovering over everything else, never settling. On the rare instances she came into contact with Burcher in the ensuing weeks, he seemed much the same as before; no signs of being under particular stress, under fear of investigation. When she bumped into Alex Williams — a brief conversation on their way back from separate meetings — she came close to asking her about passing on something told in confidence, but the moment wasn’t right. If there were rumours of the Chief Superintendent being involved in some criminal conspiracy, she didn’t hear them, not directly. Just that same insistent, distant, buzzing. Work to do, she ignored it as best she could.

A party to several interrogations herself, a close witness to others, it became clear that the various members of Dooley’s gang responsible for the Stansted killings were intent upon shifting blame from one to another. Talking themselves, as Mike Ramsden put it, into life inside with less chance of parole than I’ve got of pulling off an accumulator at fucking Ascot.

More tenuous, but promising, the earlier set of arrests officers from Operation Trident had made in connection with the murder of Hector Prince had been followed by another, four young men currently being held for questioning, the magistrate’s court having agreed to an additional time in custody.

Only the death that had, in a way, begun it all, remained unsolved. Petru Andronic, his dead eyes staring blankly up at her through the ice. Terry Martin, their prime — their only — real suspect untouched by the recent spate of arrests, his alibis still unbroken.

‘How long is it, girlfriend,’ Carla asked over a late-night vodka tonic, ‘since you gave yourself any kind of a break? Had a proper holiday?’

They went to Fuerteventura: five nights in a four-star hotel on the edge of Jandia, just six hundred metres from the beach. Some days they didn’t even get that far. The hotel had three swimming pools, sauna, Jacuzzi and spa. Karen rested, allowed herself to be pampered, read trashy novels, tried to erase the buzzing from her head.

On their final night, Carla talked her into joining her on stage towards the end of the karaoke. ‘Respect’, ‘Single Ladies’, ‘Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves’.

As an encore, ‘It’s Raining Men’.

It wasn’t.

They slept, each, alone. Flew back into Gatwick the next day feeling, if not cleansed, then, at the very least, refreshed. Even the sun was shining. The visibility as they approached over southern England was clear and good; the winds, a low five miles per hour from the south-west. They laughed and joked aboard the Gatwick Express, said how they must do that again and before too long. Autumn. An autumn break before the cold of winter. Snow and ice.

At Victoria, Carla gave Karen a big hug and they went their separate ways.

Karen saw the news placard on her way down into the Tube.

House fire in North London. Arson suspected. Seven dead.

Seizing a copy, her eyes raced down the page.

Address in Wood Green … seven killed, five others being treated for severe burns … leg broken, jumping from upstairs window … firefighters beaten back by the intensity of the flames … unconfirmed rumours that three of the dead had recently been questioned in connection with the murder of Hector Prince … asked to comment on the possibility of revenge as a motive, there was no response from …

She punched in Ramsden’s number.

‘Been trying to raise you,’ he said, ‘since early this morning.’

Karen had deliberately switched off her mobile.

He gave her the address. One of a row of terraced houses, cramped together east of Wood Green High Road. When she saw Ramsden, he looked as desolate as the scene before him. Brickwork blackened, windows shattered and shorn of glass; front door badly charred and hanging from a single hinge. The last wisps of soot, restless on the air. Inside, a glimpse of hell.

There were two fire engines still in attendance, men and women inside, still damping down.

The last vestiges of smoke in the air.

Bunches of flowers, a few, clustering along the pavement to either side.

‘When did it happen?’ Karen asked. Vestiges of smoke catching at her throat, smarting her eyes.

‘Two in the morning, give or take. Petrol bombs through both downstairs windows. Some kind of accelerant through the front door. Poor bastards inside never stood a chance.’

‘Payback.’

‘Without a doubt.’

Three young men, aged between fifteen and seventeen.

A girl of sixteen; another just twelve.

One thing to withhold names from public scrutiny, maintain reporting restrictions in place; another within the world in which they lived: holding them back for further questioning, even if they were later released, like painting a target on their backs.

‘Witnesses?’ Karen asked.

Ramsden laughed and shook his head.

There had been a fire in New Cross, Karen knew, some thirty years before. Thirteen young black people killed. Part of her history. A racist attack? An accident? Revenge for some uncharted wrong? At the inquests an open verdict was twice returned. To this day, no charge in relation to the fire had been brought.

And if those lives lost had been white …?

She remembered her father driving her past the spot when she would have been no more than seven or eight years old.

‘Remember what happened here,’ he had said, removing his hat. ‘Don’t forget.’

She did remember, a small part of her, every day. And if ever it looked as if she might forget, there was something like this.

Or this …

Just five days later, what had happened in Wood Green and the events that had led up to it faded from the news, the head of the Trident independent advisory group issued a statement proclaiming a very real fear that, due to further government cuts, the unit, despite its successful record of building trust and solving gun and violent crime within the black community, was, as previously rumoured, facing imminent disbandment.

Sure, Karen thought, why not? Just a few black kids, capping one another for fun, why not put the money where it’s really needed? Where the votes are.