Barry Maitiland - Spider Trap

‘We should get ballistics to review all the evidence,’ Bren suggested.‘They’ve got better equipment now.’

They discussed the individual cases for a while, Brock listening in silence, then he sat up and told them what they would do. There were three urgent lines of inquiry, he said. The first, to be investigated by a team led by Bren, would reopen the six Brown Bread cases that Tom had discovered; a second team would scour the dozens of possible sources of film and still photographs taken in Brixton on the night of the riots;and the third,led by Kathy,would work the area from Cockpit Lane down to the centre of Brixton looking for eyewitnesses from that night, starting with whatever sources Michael Grant had promised to find.

‘Tom,’ he added, ‘you’ve been a great help with this, and I’m sure there’s more about Brown Bread and the Roach family tucked away in Branch files. Are you interested in spending a bit more time helping us?’

‘Yes, absolutely.’

‘Then, if you’re agreeable, I might ask your boss if you could be spared to work over here with us for, say, a couple of weeks. What do you think?’

‘I think he’ll probably be delighted,’ Tom grinned.

He was right, apparently, and the next morning he arrived with several boxes of files, as well as a carrier bag containing assorted bits and pieces, including his coffee mug, as if he were moving in for the duration. Bren gave him a desk next to his own, and they settled down to work on the old case files.When Kathy later went to see what they were up to, she was surprised to find the two of them in the basement, in the Bride of Denmark, the curious little private snug bar which the previous owners, a publishing firm, had lovingly constructed out of bits retrieved from bombed and demolished London pubs. Bren and Tom were leaning on the ancient bar, beer bottles in hand, heads together as if they were old mates at their local. The Bride was, to say the least,an anachronism in a Scotland Yard office building,studiously overlooked by Admin, and only Brock had ever invited outsiders down there. Kathy had never seen any of the team take a drink except at Brock’s invitation. Bren knew this, of course, and there was an awkward moment as he saw Kathy stoop through the low vault to come in.

‘Kathy, hi. I was just showing Tom around.Would you, er, care for one?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Isn’t this just the most amazing place?’ Tom said. He waved the hand holding the bottle, almost empty. ‘The stuffed lion, the salmon, the mahogany. I mean, who would believe it?’

‘Well, just don’t go telling any of your mates at the Branch,’ Kathy said.‘If head office hears we’re down here boozing all day they’ll have the wreckers over in no time.’

‘Relax, Kathy,’ Tom said expansively.‘I’m not likely to let them in on this now, am I?’ As if he were no longer one of them.‘And you know you’re partial to a drop now and again. I was telling Bren about Red Stripe. Maybe I’ll buy a case for the Bride next time I’m down Cockpit Lane.’

Kathy frowned at Bren, who winced with embarrassment. ‘I just came down to see how you’re going with the case files.’

‘It’s coming along,’ Bren said.‘Tom dug up a lot of useful stuff. How about you?’

‘Yes, making some progress. I’m going over to see the MP soon,to see what he’s come up with.Well,see you.’

‘Yes.’ Bren hurriedly finished his bottle and began gathering up the bottle tops as if cleaning up a crime scene.

Tom followed Kathy out.‘Hey, you okay? You sound fed up.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Um, I’m going out with some of the blokes tonight to play squash, otherwise . . .You free tomorrow evening?’

‘No, I’m going to see some friends this weekend.’ It wasn’t quite true, but she suddenly felt she wanted a bit of time to herself.

‘Are you sure you’re not mad at me over something? Is it Amy, me springing her on you like that?’

‘No. I liked Amy.’

‘I’m glad. She’s been talking a lot about you. She had some idea you were taking her to a path lab, but I told her that wasn’t possible.’

Kathy didn’t remember actually saying she’d take the girl to Dr Prior, but she said, ‘I may have mentioned something along those lines.Yes,I will try.When would she be free?’

‘Oh well, if you’re sure . . . any afternoon after school, I suppose.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Tom. No promises.’

She got on the phone when she returned to her desk. Dr Prior was cooperative.

‘Yes, no problem, but could you make it tonight? I’m off to a conference in Germany on Monday and I won’t be back for a while.’

Kathy phoned Tom, who phoned Amy’s school (a small domestic emergency, he explained) to speak to Amy, and within twenty minutes it was arranged.

Tom gave Kathy a lift to Michael Grant’s constituency office in Cockpit Lane in his Subaru, saying he would pick up his daughter while she was busy.

‘I really appreciate you doing this for Amy,’ he said. ‘She’s beside herself.’

‘It’s a pleasure.’ Kathy felt she’d maybe been too defensive about Tom moving into Queen Anne’s Gate. Perhaps things would be all right.‘What do you think about Brock’s idea that the Roaches are behind all the killings?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t like it at first, though I could be convinced. But really, all we’ve got is a possible sighting of two white guys in a crowded pub, twenty-odd years ago. The witness could have got it completely wrong, you know how these things are. Maybe the two guys weren’t white, or maybe they had nothing to do with whatever was scaring Joseph.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t think Brock’s got himself a mission, do you, putting the past to rights? That’s worrying you, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but you’ve doubted him before, don’t forget, on the Tracy Rudd case, and he was right then. I trust his instincts.’

‘Yeah,’Tom said,as if to himself.‘Loyal Kathy.I like that.’

Tom turned into Cockpit Lane and pulled over to the kerb. ‘Half an hour?’

‘Fine. See you.’ Kathy watched the grin form in his mouth and around his eyes, and realised how much it was growing on her.

A chill east wind buffeted her as she hurried forward. More snow was promised and the wind tasted of it. She noticed a slight, dark figure standing at a shop window filled with PlayStations and digital gear. The face was covered by the hood of a parka and she was almost past before she recognised the glint of Adam Nightingale’s glasses.

‘Hello, Adam. How are you?’

He shrugged, pushing his glasses back up his nose.‘Saw them packing up from the school window. Leaving are they?’

‘Yes.’

He looked forlorn, as if a moment of meaning or excitement in his life was coming to an end, and she felt sorry for him.‘You’re interested in that forensic stuff, are you?’

He nodded.

‘Actually I’m on my way over to the laboratories where they’re working on the skeletons, reconstructing their faces.’

‘Wow. Cool. I wish . . .’ His sentence trailed off into inarticulate silence.

‘Well, I could probably arrange for you to come, but we’d have to get your mother’s permission.’

‘She’s at work.’ He whipped a mobile phone out of his jacket pocket and offered it to her.Kathy watched him press the keys,then she took the phone and spoke to his mother, who was delighted that someone was willing to take Adam off the streets for an hour or two.

‘Okay,’Kathy said to the boy.‘I’ve got some business to do.Be here in half an hour.’

The shopfront next to the pub was plastered with pictures of the MP’s handsomely smiling face alongside public service posters reading, ‘Stop the Guns’, ‘Crack Kills’, ‘Let’s Work Together’. She pushed open the door and stepped into a fug of heat and clamour, Magic FM competing with clattering keyboards, a whistling kettle and a group of women arguing loudly over the messages on a noticeboard. An electrician stood on top of a stepladder fixing a light, and in the middle of it all, oblivious to the turmoil, Michael Grant posed for a photograph being taken by a reporter from the local paper. Grant was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan OUR STRUGGLE and a clenched black fist.