Elizabeth George - With No One As Witness

“I didn’t mean to suggest you were.”

“No offence’s been taken. You’re doing what you have to do.” He slid off his stool. “How’d you get here?” he asked. “You didn’t bike over, did you?”

She told him she had done. She finished off her brandy and said, “So I’d better set off.”

He said, “It’s late. I’ll take you home.”

“Take me? I thought you cycled as well.”

“To work,” he said. “Otherwise, no. I got Dad’s van off him when he died in the summer. Poor sod. He bought himself a camper for his pension years and dropped dead the next week. Never even had a chance to use it. Come on. We can fit your bike inside. I’ve done it before.”

“Thanks, but that’s really not necessary. It puts you to trouble, and-”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s not any trouble.” He took her arm. He said, “’Night, Dan,” to the barman and he guided Ulrike not to the door through which she’d come but towards a corridor. This led, she found, to the toilets and, beyond them, to the kitchen, which he entered. Only a single cook remained, and he said, “Rob,” with a nod of hello as they passed through. She saw there was another exit here, an escape route for the kitchen workers should a fire start, and this was the door that Robbie chose. It took them to a narrow carpark behind the hotel, canyoned on one side by the building itself and on the other side by a slope at the top of which was Granville Square. In a far dark corner of the carpark, a van stood waiting. It looked old and harmless, with rust spots pitting the faded white lettering on its side.

“My bike,” Ulrike began.

“Up in the square? We’ll sort that out. Get in. We’ll drive round to pick it up.”

She looked round the carpark. It was dimly lit and otherwise deserted. She looked at Robbie. He shot her a smile. She thought of Colossus and how hard she’d worked and how much would fall into ruin if she was made to hand it over to someone else. Someone like Neil. Someone like Griff. Anyone, in fact.

Some things needed a leap of faith, she decided. This was one of them.

At the van, Robbie opened the door for her. She climbed inside. He shut the door. She felt for the seat belt but couldn’t find it anywhere above her shoulder. When Robbie joined her and saw her searching, he started the van up and said, “Oh, sorry. That’s a bit tricky. It’s lower than you’d expect. I’ve got a torch here somewhere. Let me give you some light.”

He rustled round on the floor next to his own seat. Ulrike watched him bring up a torch. He said. “This should be of some help,” and she turned back to reach over for the belt once again.

Everything happened in less than three seconds after that. She waited for the light to shine from the torch. She said, “Rob?,” and then felt the jolt run through her body. She gasped for breath.

The first spasm shook her. The second rendered her semiconscious. The third teetered her on the edge from which she slid into the dark.

HARROW ROAD’S REPUTATION AS A POLICE STATION wasn’t a good one, but cops had a lot to contend with in West Kilburn. They were dealing with everything from the usual social and cultural conflicts one found within a multiethnic community, to street crime, drugs, and a thriving black market. They found themselves perpetually coping with gangs as well. In an area dominated by housing estates and grim tower blocks built in the sixties when architectural imagination was moribund, legends abounded of cops being outrun, outmanoeuvred, and outsmarted in places like the interlocking and tunnel-like corridors of the notorious Mozart Estate. The police had been outnumbered forever in this part of town. They knew it, which didn’t improve their tempers when it came to meeting the needs of the public.

When Barbara and Nkata arrived, they found a heated argument going on in reception. A Rastafarian accompanied by a hugely pregnant woman and two children was demanding action of a special constable-“I wan’ that fuckin’ car back , man. You t’ink dis woman plan on giving birth in the street?”-who claimed things to be “out of my power, sir. You’ll have to talk to one of the officers who’re working on the case.”

The Rasta said, “ Shit , then,” and turned on his heel. He grabbed his woman’s arm and made for the door, saying, “Blood,” to Nkata with a nod as he passed him.

Nkata identified himself and Barbara to the special constable. They were there to see Detective Sergeant Starr, he said. Harrow Road had a boy in lockup, fingered as the shooter in a street crime in Belgravia.

“He’s ’xpecting us,” Nkata said.

Harrow Road had reported to Belgravia, who’d reported, in turn, to New Scotland Yard. The snout in West Kilburn had proved reliable. He’d named a kid who resembled the one seen on the CCTV films from Cadogan Lane, and the cops had found him in very short order. He hadn’t even been on the run. The job on Helen Lynley done, he’d merely repaired to his home, via underground to Westbourne Park because his mug had been visible on their CCTV tapes as well, sans companion this time. Nothing could have been easier. All that remained was matching his fingerprints to those on the gun found in the garden near the scene of the crime.

John Stewart had told Nkata to take it. Nkata had asked Barbara to accompany him. By the time they got there, it was ten o’clock at night. They could have waited till morning-they’d been working fourteen hours at that point and they were both knackered-but neither one of them was willing to wait. There was a chance that Stewart would hand this job over to someone else, and they didn’t want that.

Sergeant Starr turned out to be a black man, slightly shorter than Nkata but bulkier. He had the look of a pleasant-faced pugilist.

He said, “We’ve already had this yob in for street brawling and arson. Those times, he’s pointed the finger elsewhere. You know the sort. It wasn’t me , you fucking pigs.” He glanced at Barbara as if to ask pardon for his language. She waved a weary hand at him. He went on. “But the family’s got a whole history of trouble. Dad got shot and killed in a drug dispute in the street. Mum toasted her brain with something, and she’s been out of the picture for a while. Sister tried to pull off a mugging and ended up in front of the magistrate. The aunt they live with hasn’t been willing to hear shit about the kids being on the fast track to trouble, though. She’s got a shop down the road that she works in full-time and a younger boyfriend keeping her busy in the bedroom, so she can’t afford to see what’s going on under her nose, if you know what I mean. It was always just a matter of time. We tried to tell her first time we had the kid in here, but she wasn’t having it. Same old story.”

“He talked before, you said?” Barbara asked. “What about now?”

“We’re getting sod all out of him.”

“Nothing?” Nkata said.

“Not a word. He’d probably not’ve told us his name if we hadn’t already known it.”

“What is it?”

“Joel Campbell.”

“How old?”

“Twelve.”

“Scared?”

“Oh yeah. I’d say he knows he’s going away for this. But he also knows about Venables and Thompson. Who bloody doesn’t? So six years playing with bricks, finger-painting, and talking to shrinks and he’s finished with the criminal-justice system.”

There was some truth in this. It was the moral and ethical dilemma of the times: what to do with juvenile murderers. Twelve-year-old murderers. And younger.

“We’d like to talk to him.”

“For what good it’ll do. We’re waiting for the social worker to show.”