Private London

Chapter 83

There are A number of soup kitchens, plus day and night drop-in centres, for the homeless in London. If you know where to go.

Part of PC Mark Smith’s job was to let people know. Some people were made homeless through a change of circumstances – the breakdown of a relationship or the loss of a job, for example. Their homelessness could often be a temporary state, but for others it was a way of life. For these people there was a pattern to their lives on the street and Mark Smith got to know them pretty well.

Not all the centres were open on a Sunday, but St Joseph’s off Tottenham Court Road ran a soup kitchen on Sunday afternoons, between services.

Sure enough, the Major was where PC Smith expected him to be. A number of people, young and old, were gathered around the van which was parked outside the church.

The man was instantly recognisable. Had a dark brown tartan picnic blanket from Aquascutum draped over his shoulders, despite the heat. He was sitting on the church step, sipping on a large styrofoam cup of soup.

He looked up at us as we approached. His eyes seemed sharp, focused – he could have been forty or he could have been sixty. He had long grey curly hair and an unruly beard and, although he was ill-kempt, he looked clean. He took care of himself as best he could, that much was evident.

He nodded to PC Smith, gave me an appraising look and then saluted me. I smiled. It was a good sign. I saluted him back.

He nodded, pleased. ‘I thought you were military.’

‘Ex.’

‘RMP?’

‘You’re pretty good at this.’

‘You’re with him.’ He nodded at PC Smith. ‘You walk like military. Hold yourself like military. Reckon you could handle yourself if push came to shove.’

‘It has been known.’

‘So what do you want with me?’

‘We’ve got a couple of questions for you, major.’

‘I wasn’t there,’ he said. Then his body convulsed in a hacking cough, soup spilling onto the step. He shuffled sideways, away from it.

‘We’ll get you some more,’ I said.

‘I still wasn’t there,’ he mumbled, looking at the floor. His eyes were slightly out of focus now.

‘Weren’t where?’

He looked up at me, his eyes brightening again.

‘See, it’s courts. Wallahs in wigs…’ he said. ‘I see nothing, I don’t have to report, see?’

I did see. ‘It’s okay, major, you talk to us and you don’t have to talk to anybody else. No courts, no police.’

‘Your word? Officer and gentleman?’

‘My word.’

‘The van was there. The two girls walked up to it. They heard that other girl calling them. Then it all went mad.’

‘They didn’t see you?’

‘No one sees the major. Not if he doesn’t want to be seen.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Special training, you know.’

‘So what did you see?’

‘The first two, they were chatting with the men in hoods, then they pretended to be attacked. Screaming as the other girl came round the corner and started fighting.’

I felt as though someone had punched me in the gut. I’d been played for a fool. We all had. All along.

Hannah Shapiro had set the whole thing up. I’d taken her spiel and swallowed it – hook, line and sinker.

Harlan Shapiro had been the real catch all along and she had been the perfect bait. Perfect for Jack, perfect for me and perfect for Harlan.

Guilt. It’s a powerful motivator.

And a deadly one.