Barry Maitiland: Spider Trap

Bren offered Kathy a lift to the tube station, and along the way she told him about the raid on Teddy Vexx and his interview. Bren swore softly.‘There’s got to be some forensic evidence to put Vexx in the building with the girls, surely?’

‘That’s what we’re banking on now,’ she said. Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly tired. Bren’s car was warm, and there was an indefinable smell of something she associated with childhood.What was it? Some kind of soap? Shampoo? With a sigh she closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine, for just one self-indulgent moment,that she was a little girl again,like one of Bren’s,in a warm safe world free of guns, drugs, oral rapists and Mr Teddy Vexx.

She woke with a start and saw a familiar row of shops rush past the window.‘Hang on,’ she said.‘This is Finchley.’

‘You were out for the count,’ Bren said. ‘Couldn’t very well turf you out in the snow.You’ll be home soon.’

‘You didn’t need to do that.’ ‘You looked all-in.’ ‘Christ, Bren, I’m not one of your little girls.’ He smiled. ‘No, but we all need a ride home from time to

time, Kathy. Even you.’ He pulled into the forecourt of her block.‘See you tomorrow.’ ‘Yeah, thanks. Give the girls my love. Tell them they’re lucky

to have such a nice dad.’ Bren waved her away, embarrassed, and put the car into gear.

Everyone at the station seemed fraught,Brock thought.He desperately wanted to soak in a bath with a big glass of whisky, but there were things to do first. Keith Savage was at his desk, and he didn’t need to say anything for Brock to see that it had gone badly.‘No luck?’ he asked.

‘Forensics haven’t come up with anything. I had to let him go.’ Savage cupped his hands to his face and rubbed. ‘Maybe the bastard’s telling the truth.’

‘I don’t think so. He murdered those girls, all right.’

‘Maybe.You think I pushed for the raids too soon?’

Brock shrugged.‘Wouldn’t have made any difference.It could have been a brilliant success.’

‘But it wasn’t. I let our glamour Member of Parliament push me into it.We should have staked out Vexx and found out everything about him before we moved.’

‘There’s still plenty we can do-his associates, phone records, financial dealings . . .’

‘Yeah, but you know, I think I was right the first time. I think the girls were killed because of something that happened back in Harlesden. Vexx may have lent a hand, some local muscle. And you

know what? I think he knew we were coming for him last night.’

‘You think so?’

‘Sure of it. I think he and his poncy lawyer put on a performance for us. They had it all worked out between them beforehand.’

‘Any idea how?’

‘This place …’Savage spread his hands.‘No security.Anyway, what’s this I hear about another old corpse on the railway land?’

Brock told him about the discovery of the second body. Savage eased back in his chair and said,‘McCulloch told me you were interested in that, but I don’t understand why. I mean, Mr Teddy Vexx would have been in nappies when those bodies were buried, yes?’

‘Probably. I’m just curious. Anyway, I thought it would be better if we handled it ourselves rather than have another crew tripping over us.’

Savage studied him thoughtfully.‘McCulloch also told me you were in CID here some time ago. These wouldn’t be skeletons in your closet, would they?’

Brock gave him an enigmatic smile.‘You never know.I thought I’d arrange a press conference on the site at noon tomorrow.’

‘To be honest, I’m not interested. Last year we investigated over fifty shooting murders.The discovery of a couple of ancient skeletons with holes in their heads doesn’t rate. But you go ahead. I’m going home for a drink and a hot meal.You want a lift anywhere?’

Brock thanked him but declined the offer. Instead, he phoned for a cab to take him across the river to his office in the Scotland Yard annexe in Queen Anne’s Gate. The place was deserted and in darkness as he tapped in his security code at the door and made his way up to his room. He settled at his desk and switched on his computer, checked his emails, sent several of his own, then keyed in access to the Police National Computer database.

He’d had one of McCulloch’s detectives checking incidents reported in Lambeth Borough during the previous three weeks for any that might have involved the two girls. He’d come up with a couple of housebreakings and a bag-snatch that were possibles, but they didn’t suggest a motive for murder. He went through the Lambeth listings once again, finding nothing else. Then it occurred to him that Cockpit Lane wasn’t far from the boundary with the neighbouring Borough of Southwark, and he tried that. It wasn’t long before a name leapt off the screen at him. He stared at it, feeling a tightness in his chest, then tapped a key and read the report.

On the previous Monday, January the thirty-first, just four days before the girls died, a woman had had her car hijacked by a pair of black youths outside a house she was visiting in Camberwell. She had been thrown to the ground in the struggle and her injuries were sufficient for her to be taken to Maudsley Hospital, from which she was discharged later the same day. The woman’s name was Adonia Roach.

Brock reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of Scotch, from which he poured himself a sizeable measure, and read the entry again. Adonia, he thought, placing her: wife of Ivor Roach, accountant and Spider’s second son.

He returned to the menu and entered the name Roach, selecting four names in turn: Edward, nickname ‘Spider’, now aged seventy-eight, and his three sons: Mark, fifty-four; Ivor, fifty-two; and Richard, fifty.

‘So old,’ he murmured to himself, remembering their youthful selves. Their criminal convictions were almost all familiar to him, petering out sixteen years ago with a substantial fine for tax fraud. Their old addresses near Cockpit Lane were listed, as well as new ones. They were still living close together it seemed, some eight miles to the east, in the suburb of Shooters Hill.

The following morning, Kathy picked up the constable she’d contacted at Peckham. Brock had been very specific in his instructions when he’d briefed her. This was to be an innocuous follow-up visit, the PC was to take the lead, and, above all, Brock’s name was not to be mentioned.

The threatened bad weather hadn’t materialised and sunlight glittered off the snow on Blackheath as they took the Dover road east. The constable was a cheerful young Asian woman called Mahreen, who chatted about her family and friends and seemed delighted by the change of routine. She had attended the original incident and thought Mrs Roach would remember her,although she’d been very shaken up. At least she’d sounded cooperative over the phone.

They turned off the main road at the sign for Shooters Hill and Mahreen map-read them through quiet suburban streets until they came to the entrance to a golf club. Beyond this the street became a private lane leading only to a set of tall wrought-iron gates and a sign announcing The Glebe.

Kathy drew to a stop. She took in the camera mounted on the high perimeter brick wall and the security panel on the buttress beside the gate.

‘I’ll have fries with mine,’ Mahreen said with a laugh. Kathy pressed one of four buttons labelled ‘Roach’, selecting ‘I. Roach’, and said who they were. A tinny voice told them to drive to the second house on the left and the gates swung open.

The houses, in their mellow brick and dark timber, looked old at first glance, but only one, the first on the right, really was, Kathy guessed. It would originally have been the glebe house or parsonage belonging to the church whose spire they could see beyond the trees. The others, with their diamond-pane windows and classically columned porches, had the air of overblown reproductions. They sat around a large garden, brooding over the tennis court and tarpaulin-covered swimming pool laid out in the centre. Kathy followed the encircling drive, tyres crunching on the icy gravel, towards the woman who stood in the doorway of the far house, watching them approach.