Barry Maitiland - Spider Trap

‘Shouldn’t really. Oh, what the hell.’

He handed her his empty glass and she went to the bar and ordered a rum and Coke for herself. When she returned he glanced at it and said, ‘Switched to Coke now? Not much nutrition in that either.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised. So, are you ready to share your theory?’

He sipped, wiped his beard and nodded. ‘Whatever Joseph planned to tell me when he first asked to see me, he couldn’t have realised it implicated Spider. If he had, he’d never have suggested meeting here, right on Spider’s doorstep. But then he must have realised. He was no longer safe in the Lane. He headed into the heart of Brixton to be among black folk, as Winnie told me. But Spider’s boys tracked him down.’

Kathy thought. ‘If they were Spider’s boys. Winnie’s first thought was that they were cops. Is that possible?’

‘I’ve wondered about that too. It was the time of the riots, maybe a time of settling old scores . . . But no. I’ve thought back over the people I knew then, and I’m sure there was nobody . . .’

‘Was Bob McCulloch here then?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘And Spider’s still alive?’

‘I believe so.He’d be in his late-seventies now.The last time our paths crossed was over ten years ago. I was investigating a murder in Epping. The victim turned out to be a drug dealer and the Drugs Desk got involved. Then the trail turned up a drug-smuggling route and Customs and Excise got in on the act, followed by the Fraud Squad and Special Branch. Before long we realised that Spider Roach was at the centre of it all, and a joint operation was mounted.It was a fiasco-too many cooks,all trying to outdo each other. The whole thing was so badly bungled that it led to a major review of joint operations. Several senior officers took early retirement. And once again Spider’s teflon magic had worked. By the end he was better off than ever-nobody wanted to know about him.’

‘I see. This is why you’ve been so cautious?’

Brock nodded.‘If we pursue him now we’ve got to be very sure of our ground,and we’ve got to keep it very quiet until we’re ready. In the meantime we’ll continue checking every detail of what Dana and Dee-Ann did when they came south of the river and who they met. I’m meeting DS McCulloch later this afternoon to work out how his team will help.’

He checked his watch.‘Come on, time we met the priest.’

Father Maguire offered them coffee in front of a gas fire in the sitting room of the presbytery.

‘The warmest room in the house,’ he said.‘It’s far too large this place,impossible to heat,but there you are.I bumped into Winnie on the way back just now, and she told me something of what you’re after.’

A vigorous elderly Irishman with rosy cheeks and given to explosive gestures with his hands to punctuate his words, he wasn’t much taller than Winnie. Kathy could picture the two of them together, a formidable pair.

‘Those poor souls. So you’re still trying to identify them?’

‘We think they may have been buried in April 1981,’ Brock explained.‘You were here then, is that right?’

‘Yes, I arrived in ’76. Winnie mentioned the name Joseph. I couldn’t immediately remember.’ He tapped his head. ‘Getting to the stage where if a new name comes in an old one drops out to make room. Ha! Anyway, fortunately I keep a diary of parish matters.’ He went to a bookcase behind his desk and ran his fingers across the spines.‘Yes,here we go,1981.’

‘We might need 1980 as well, if he arrived that year.’

‘True.’ The priest brought both volumes.

‘Winnie thought some time before Christmas.’

They waited while he thumbed back through the 1980 diary, clicking his tongue, until finally his finger shot into the air. ‘Got you! Thursday September eighteenth,“08.55 Gatwick, BA 2262, Joseph Kidd 19 amp; Michael Grant 15.JK to WW,MG to AL”.Well, well, he came over with young Michael then. I do remember that morning. A fine pair of likely lads.’

Kathy was making notes.‘What does that last bit mean?’

‘“JK to WW” means Joseph went to stay with Winnie Wellington, as you know, and young Michael was taken in by Abigail Lavender, just down the street here.’

‘Is that Michael Grant the MP?’

‘Oh indeed! The star of Father Guzowski’s boys, you could say.’

‘Father Guzowski?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well. Father Guzowski is a saint,or at least he will be,I’ve no doubt of it.He was an American priest,from New York,and he went down to Jamaica to run a mission in the slums of Kingston, with the poorest and most desperate. He worked miracles in the worst of circumstances. He saved lives and brought hope to thousands. And one of the things he did was to help lift young people out of the pit and offer them a new start,a new life,overseas.They were Father Guzowski’s boys, and in New York, in Toronto, and elsewhere in London, there are people like me who met them off the planes and helped to get them a job and a place to stay.

‘It didn’t always work out, of course. They came from violent backgrounds, some of them, and found it difficult to shake that off.’

He stared at the diary entry again.‘You know, I’d forgotten that they came over together. I suppose you could say they represent both ends of the spectrum of Father Guzowski’s boys.We worked hard on Joseph, as I recall, especially Winnie, but he was only interested in fast money and girls. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been dealing drugs. And now, it seems he died a violent death. Michael, on the other hand, was younger and more malleable, receptive to Abigail’s encouragement, and very bright. From the most rudimentary education in one of Father Guzowski’s schools, he developed remarkably fast. By his early twenties he was studying at university, and a few years later he was a union official with UCATT, back here in our area. Soon he came to the attention of the local politicians, and was adopted as our parliamentary candidate.Michael Grant MP is now the member for Lambeth North.’

He said the final words with a flourish of his arm, as if proudly presenting not only Michael’s but his own triumph over life’s many obstacles, the draughty old presbytery, the recalcitrant youths, the shortage of funds. ‘You might talk to Michael about Joseph, you know.’

‘Yes, good idea,’ Brock said.

‘His constituency office is in the shop next door to the Ship.’

‘Where Spider Roach had his pawnshop? You’ll remember Spider Roach, of course.’

‘Oh indeed.’ Father Maguire seemed suddenly wary.

‘He must have been a thorn in your side. He certainly was in mine.’

‘He was a powerful figure around these parts, all right, and a baleful influence on many lives. But I hear he’s a changed man now, a great giver of charity. In point of fact . . .’ Kathy thought she detected some embarrassment here,‘. . .he paid for the repairs to the church spire last year, and donated computers to the school. A sinner’s repentance is a wonderful thing.’

He met Brock’s stony gaze.

‘Does he still come down here then?’

‘No. I haven’t seen him in years.’

‘What about his sons?’

‘Nor them. I heard they all moved out to Shooters Hill.’

‘Doyouhave anything else that might help us then,Father? Any particular friends of Joseph? Or any recollections of that night,Saturday the eleventh of April 1981? It was the time of the riots in Brixton.’

The priest thumbed through the second diary but found nothing. He couldn’t remember the surname of Joseph’s friend Walter, or anything about a third member of the group. Abigail Lavender’s husband had died and she’d moved away, but he wasn’t sure where to.