The Crime Trade

13

I awoke the next morning with a dry mouth and a desire to get going on the case. Tina and I had driven back to my place in Tufnell Park, then gone to the pub round the corner for a bite to eat and a few much-needed drinks. We’d talked about the case a little and I’d encouraged Tina not to read too much into Joey Cloud’s missing fingers. Violence among addicts and dealers, even violence that extreme, was endemic. Back when I’d been south of the river, there’d been a small-time thief and coke addict called Fredo Wanari who’d had a habit of not paying his suppliers and running up huge debts. One time, he’d gotten on the wrong side of the wrong person, a bigshot dealer who didn’t like to be messed around, and when Fredo couldn’t pay what he owed him he was given an ultimatum: find the money in forty-eight hours or, as the dealer allegedly put it, pay the interest in pain. Fredo had more chance of sprouting a second head than finding the cash, so when the forty-eight hours was up the dealer paid him a personal visit and removed the little finger of his left hand with a meat cleaver, while his men held him down. He then promised to remove another finger for every day he wasn’t paid. Sadly, Wanari never did find the money and these days he goes by the name of Fingerless Freddie, but it shows you that criminals can do some pretty gruesome things to each other in the name of cash.

I’d told Tina this story as we sat drinking, but again, I don’t think she was convinced. Eventually, though, tired of clawing about in the dark with theories and half theories that weren’t really leading us anywhere, we’d moved on to other, easier subjects. Sometimes you’ve just got to let go, although maybe we’d let go a little bit too much the previous night. At least that was what my hangover was now telling me.

But I was still feeling ready for the fray as I came into the O’Brien/MacNamara incident room on the third floor of the station at quarter to nine that Friday morning, Tina following a gossip-quelling two or three minutes behind. The room was crowded with getting close to two dozen mainly unfamiliar faces, some of whom were already working at computer terminals, while in the middle of the room stood DCS Flanagan, talking animatedly to Malik and one of the other detectives. He still looked tense, but less so than he had when I’d last seen him, the natural confidence he’d exuded in our earlier meetings already beginning to make a reappearance. He’d done extremely well to land this high-profile role so soon after his involvement in the disaster of Operation Surgical Strike, and I think he knew that. The Met might have been very short of senior officers capable of running a major inquiry, but that on its own didn’t explain why he was in charge of the O’Brien/MacNamara murder squad. A cynic might have said he was there because he knew the right sort of people, and that he was almost certainly a freemason, so had plenty of senior colleagues watching his back and making sure that the mud never stuck to him.

And you know what? I think the cynic might have had a point.

From what I knew about Flanagan (and it wasn’t a lot, I admit), he was something of a Teflon man. He’d made mistakes in the upward trajectory of his career — there’d even been the faint rumour of corruption, though no direct accusation was ever made — and he wasn’t so talented that you’d make excuses for him. He wasn’t even that popular, his manner considered too haughty and self-important by many of those who worked for him, myself included. I didn’t like him because he didn’t strike me as being a true copper, more an aspiring technocrat with his eye firmly fixed on building a power-base, and he always seemed pissed off about something, which is a trait I’ve never associated with success. But he’d made it all the way up to being the head of SO7, and it was possible that he was looking even higher. Assistant Commissioner Flanagan. Six people might have just been killed on his watch, eight if you include O’Brien and his grandmother, but he wasn’t going to be the scapegoat for Operation Surgical Strike. They already had Stegs for that, and I was pretty damn certain that the SO10 man wasn’t a regular down at the local Masonic Lodge.

Seeing me, Flanagan excused himself from his conversation and strode over, a small smile forming like a crease at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t replicated in the thin blue eyes that remained as serious and businesslike as ever. ‘Hello, John,’ he said, putting out a hand. ‘Glad you could join us for this one.’

‘Glad to be here, sir,’ I replied, shaking it. ‘Any new developments?’

‘Some interesting ones,’ he said, the half-smile melting back into lines on his face. ‘Very interesting. But nothing that’s a real case-breaker. I’ve got a news conference at Scotland Yard at eleven o’clock, and I wouldn’t have minded a bit more to give them. Still, this one was never going to be easy. How did it go with Jenner last night? Did you get to speak to him?’

‘We did, but he didn’t tell us anything we don’t already know.’

‘What about the calls to his mobile from O’Brien?’

‘He says he remembers getting one on Wednesday morning. He claimed O’Brien was just demanding protection again.’

‘Did you believe him?’

Flanagan, who must have been six feet three, and a good four inches taller than me, leant his long head forward like a praying mantis as he asked the question, his beady eyes locking into mine. I had the feeling it was a pose he’d learnt to strike in interrogations, and I could see that it would be disconcerting if you were a criminal, but I thought it was a bit much for nine o’clock in the morning. Especially as I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I told him I didn’t see why Stegs would bother lying.

‘I worked with him once,’ he said thoughtfully, moving his head back out of my field of vision. ‘He’s a slippery character.’

I think he was about to add something more, but he saw Tina coming into the room. ‘All right, we’re all here. Let’s get this meeting started. Right, everyone,’ he announced loudly, his thinly veiled attack on Stegs’s reputation forgotten as he clapped his hands together like an impatient headmaster, ‘let’s get underway.’

He went over to a whiteboard with a table next to it on the far side of the room, facing the door, and those people not at their desks went back to them. Malik nodded at me and I gave him a wink as I took a seat next to Tina.

‘Not present at the meeting yesterday for reasons outside of his control but joining us for the duration of this inquiry will be DI John Gallan, who, like his colleague from this station Tina Boyd, was acquainted with the victim, and who also had some involvement with the op on Wednesday that we all keep reading about and seeing on telly.’

Everyone turned round, making various grunts and casual gestures of welcome, and I gave a slightly embarrassed smile in return, keen to get on with things. I thought that Flanagan would give some justification as to why it wasn’t his fault that Surgical Strike had gone wrong, but he didn’t. Maybe he’d already done that yesterday.

‘Right,’ he continued, ‘so where are we so far? Let’s recap. Robert O’Brien and Katherine, or Kitty, MacNamara were shot dead two days ago in what appears to be a highly professional hit. I have the preliminary autopsy reports here, hot off the press this morning’ — he tapped a thin pile of A4 sheets on the table — ‘and they tell us that the two of them died at different times, possibly as long as six hours apart, with Kitty the first to go.’ At least I was right so far. ‘She was killed with a single shot from a.38 calibre weapon, possibly an old Smith and Wesson, delivered at point-blank range to the side of her head, half an inch above the right ear. A cushion was used to muffle the sound of the bullet, and it happened at some point between nine o’clock in the morning and three o’clock in the afternoon, but given that a neighbour heard a sound that could have been a shot during Neighbours, which runs from one-forty to two o’clock, it’s quite possible that it was then.’

He then explained his theory (or Knox’s theory, or even my theory, depending which way you wanted to look at it) that MacNamara’s murder had been opportunistic in so far as the killer had disposed of her purely so that he could use her apartment to ambush Robbie. According to Flanagan, the killer had almost certainly been let into the building and the apartment by Mrs MacNamara, since there were no signs of forced entry and no-one else in the building had let anyone in. That meant she’d either known him or he’d somehow tricked his way into her confidence. Flanagan said that we were going to need to interview all of Robbie’s known criminal associates who were still on the outside in case it had been one of them, and he assigned several of those present to the task, before revealing his first useful lead of the day.

‘The killer was in that apartment for three or four hours at least, and he was extremely careful not to touch anything or contaminate the scene in any way. Very professional, as you’d expect from someone who could execute two human beings, including a hardened killer, with the minimum of fuss. But he did, we think, make one mistake.’

There was a pregnant pause as those who weren’t in the know waited to hear what that mistake was. I already had a good idea.

‘We don’t think he went out the same way he came in, instead opting to go out the back way through a window in Mrs MacNamara’s bedroom. We think this firstly because the window was slightly open whereas Mrs MacNamara, who according to her granddaughter hated the cold, always tended to keep hers locked in the winter, and secondly because of the timing. From what we’ve built up so far on Robbie’s movements on the day of his death, we think he arrived home at some point between five and five forty-five that afternoon, if witness reports are correct.’ He turned and addressed a middle-aged detective in the front row. ‘Isn’t that right, Joe?’

Joe, who was wearing a frighteningly retro purple shirt with black tie, cleared his throat and picked up his notebook. ‘That’s right, guv. We’ve been down to every known haunt O’Brien used in the Islington area. He had lunch on his own in the Sacre Coeur in Theberton Street. They reckon he left about two-fifteen, and was acting normally. We don’t know where he went after that, but he did turn up in the Half Moon on Essex Road later on that afternoon. The barman said Robbie told him he was on his way home. He was in there for about fifteen minutes and just had a pint and a couple of packs of crisps. He left approximately five o’clock, give or take fifteen minutes, according to the barman, and from there it’s about a ten-minute walk to the murder scene, probably fifteen or twenty when you’re his size. So it would have been some time around five-thirty.’

‘And, according to Islington CID, O’Brien’s building was under police surveillance by ten to six, at the request of SO7. No-one emerged after that, and a neighbour who was parking his car opposite at twenty to, and who stopped for a short conversation with a passer-by he knew, didn’t see anyone come out the front either, so the back route looks like his most likely exit.’

‘What was his mistake then, guv?’ asked one of the younger detectives.

‘We think he might have caught the jacket he was wearing on a nail sticking out of the wall as he climbed out the window, leaving a piece of it behind. It might not be his, of course, but it hasn’t been there long, and I can’t see who else’s it would be. I have to tell you, there’s not much left of it, and it’s wet, but it’s a clue and, given how careful he was in every other aspect of the murders, it may well be the best we’re going to get from the actual scene itself. It’s being analysed now and hopefully we’ll get an idea of the type of jacket it came from within the next few days. I’m hurrying things along as fast as I can.

‘And also, if he did go out through the back window, then he still would have had to cross a number of gardens to get back to the road, and he might have been seen. It’s therefore especially important that we talk to everyone in the surrounding streets. A Portakabin’s going up at the scene this morning, and it’s going to be manned by DCs Holby and Birch’ — he pointed at two young officers sitting near the back — ‘and a couple of uniforms, and we’ve also managed to get hold of a further twenty uniforms to conduct house-to-house enquiries. I can’t see the killer hanging around in the flat with the two bodies, so it’s probably safe to assume that he killed Robbie as soon as he arrived back at the building, and made his escape immediately afterwards.’

He paused for a moment before continuing.

‘Which leaves an important question. Why, after he’d killed O’Brien, did the killer choose to exit the building through the back window, which was surely a lot less convenient and potentially more risky than going out the way I believe he came in, i.e. the front door? It’s a question we’re going to need to answer. Was he disturbed? I don’t think so, otherwise we probably would have had a third corpse. Or did he think it was too risky going out the front because the police might be looking for Robbie O’Brien? In other words, did the killer know about the op at the hotel? Because if he did, that means he was somehow connected with it. Which brings me on to motive. Why was O’Brien killed? We didn’t cover the “why” so much in the meeting yesterday because I wanted us to get moving on the basics of what actually happened, but now we need to look at his murder in relation to the events of Wednesday, because I believe it’s in there that we’ll find our solution. Not only is it highly coincidental, Robbie dying like that on the day of Operation Surgical Strike when he’d had so much input in setting it up, but it’s clear that a lot of planning went into his and his grandmother’s murder. O’Brien undoubtedly had a lot of enemies, but I’m not sure how many of them could have organized this.

‘And that’s not all.’

Everyone in the room waited expectantly. Flanagan gave another dramatic pause lasting at least five seconds, and I decided that this was how he’d risen as high as he had. The bloke loved the centre stage, basking in the glow of self-importance. He was an actor, and I bet he could have kissed ass with the best of them when it suited.

However, even I had to admit that what he had to say was dramatic.

‘As you know, we recovered a mobile phone from the body of Robbie O’Brien on which a number of calls had been made to Stegs Jenner’s police mobile. There were also several other unidentified numbers on there, the most recent of which, according to the phone company, was phoned on Wednesday afternoon at three thirty-five p.m.’ His suspicious little eyes scanned the whole room as he paused yet again, before continuing. ‘We’ve just identified that number as the Donmar Hotel. It looks very much like it was Slim Robbie who made the call that got Vokes Vokerman killed.’

Now this was an interesting one, but it was also a revelation that we could all have done without, mainly because it made no sense whatsoever. Why on earth had Robbie made that phone call? Had he had a sudden fit of nerves and made a last-ditch attempt to save himself from the Colombians’ wrath by warning them about what was going to happen? It was possible, but highly unlikely, because at that point, with the police next door, the Colombians were doomed anyway and would hardly have turned round and forgiven him.

For the next ten minutes we debated this apparent paradox, not really getting anywhere. The closest we came to a theory was that Robbie O’Brien had somehow managed to find out about the location of the meeting and had set up the robbery with Tyndall, knowing full well that when the robbery went down Tyndall’s men would be caught. The theory went that he’d done this because he was setting up Tyndall in order to remove him as a potential rival in the north London coke trade. The phone call, then, was a deliberate attempt by O’Brien to ingratiate himself with the Colombians by warning them about what was going to happen and therefore making things even worse for Tyndall, while at the same time hopefully removing all suspicion that it was in fact he, Robbie, who’d been the source of the set-up in the first place.

If so, it was a clever plot. Unfortunately, as a theory, it was also one with a hell of a lot of holes in it. First and foremost, why would Tyndall have got involved in the robbery in the first place? As I’ve said before, he was no fool or short-timer, and would have known that he’d become number one on the Cali cartel’s hitlist as a result of his actions. Why too did Slim Robbie end up dead if he’d masterminded the whole thing, and who’d killed him? And, of course, how had he been so sure of the location of the meeting that he’d made that phone call?

Tina asked this last question, adding in the same breath that Stegs hadn’t been a hundred per cent convincing in explaining away the calls made to his mobile by O’Brien in the days leading up to Operation Surgical Strike — a none-too-subtle hint of the possible involvement of the SO10 man. Thankfully, she didn’t mention Joey Cloud and his disappearing fingers. I think that, on that day at least, it would have been a complication too far. It was hard enough as it was getting our heads round the possibilities on offer for O’Brien’s death and the car park robbery without putting in yet another angle.

Flanagan nodded sombrely to show he was taking WDS Boyd’s comments on board. ‘How did you think Jenner came across last night?’ he asked her, studiously avoiding my gaze.

‘He seemed uptight.’

‘Did you go through all his movements on Wednesday?’

She nodded, opening up her notebook and reeling out what Stegs had told us the previous night. When she’d finished, the room was silent for a few moments.

‘Is Stegs a suspect, sir?’ I asked Flanagan, deciding to get it out into the open. ‘Because I can’t see what he’d be gaining from it.’

‘No, I don’t believe he’s involved,’ he answered, choosing his words carefully, ‘but it is important that he’s fully eliminated from the inquiry. We wouldn’t want doubts to remain.’ He let the last words hang in the air for a couple of seconds, and it made me think that he was more than happy for any doubts to stay put. Poor old Stegs. He really did have enemies.

Finally, Flanagan continued. ‘I am, however, getting the feeling that the solution to this crime is not going to stand up and smack us right in the face. It’s going to take a lot of legwork. What we’ve got to do is keep digging. Keep asking around. See what clues, what physical evidence, we can turn up. If we can get O’Brien’s shooter, then we’re going to be able to crack the whole thing. At the same time, Tina, you have raised an important point, so I want you and John to look into the backgrounds of Stegs and Vokerman and see what, if anything, crops up. As I’ve said, it’s important that everyone involved in Wednesday’s operation is eliminated from the inquiry.’ I noticed he didn’t include himself in this. ‘And the pressure for a result is going to be massive. More intense than any case I can remember for a long, long time.’

Final pep talk over, he then brought the meeting to a close, checking with each pair of detectives what their tasks were for the day, and making sure that every angle was covered. When he got round to Tina and me, he gave us both a grim smile. ‘Nicholas Tyndall, Strangleman Grant’s boss. He operates off your manor, so I want you two to pay him a visit and rattle him a bit, make out that we know a bit more than we do. Get him down here to make a statement and see what you can get out of him.’

‘He probably won’t talk,’ I said. ‘We’ve never got anything out of him before.’ Which is the case with a lot of the more serious criminals. They don’t build up their little empires and stay out of nick by being co-operative. I guessed that Tyndall would do nothing more than point us at his lawyer.

‘Well, see what you can do. This is important.’

He gave me a look that suggested he didn’t think my attitude was positive enough, but I looked away, deciding that I didn’t like DCS Noel Flanagan. I’d met his sort before. Ones who think they’re born to lead and everyone else is born to be led.

The annoying thing is they’re often right, but what they tend to forget is that it doesn’t actually mean they’re going to be any good at it, and Flanagan was a case in point. In Vietnam, he’d have been shot by his own men.

And would probably have deserved it.