Barry Maitiland: Spider Trap

Brock shook his head and showed her his warrant card.

‘Coppers? I wouldn’t have thought dat-it’s the beard, I s’pose. Coppers don’t usually have beards.Well, there was one I remember, long ago. I used to tell him, if you want to get on you’d best cut off the beard.Dey don’want no Rastas in Scotland Yard.’Her face split in a laugh.

‘I think that was me,Winnie.Twenty-odd years ago.’

‘Is dat right? Oh my! But your beard is white now, like my hair. Are you taking this young lady down memory lane? Maybe she’s your daughter?’

‘We work together.’

‘Another copper? Well, there’s been some improvements in twenty years, at least.’ She winked at Kathy, then her face became serious. ‘I don’t suppose I need to ask what brings you back to Cockpit Lane. Those poor girls?’

‘That’s right.We’d like to talk to both of you,Winnie.’

The lad at her side frowned and eased back, and for a moment Kathy thought he might bolt.

‘It’s Saturday market!’Winnie complained.‘My busiest day.’

‘And this is murder. Let’s go into the shop. It won’t take long.’

She shrugged and had a word to the stallholder next to her, then led them towards the door of the shop behind her stall. The sign over the front window read WELLINGTON’S UTENSILS EST. 1930. Seeing Kathy look up at it Winnie said, ‘I’m not that old. My daddy started the business in Trench Town, in Kingston, and then brought it here, and I took it over from him.’

‘You’ve been here a long time, have you,Winnie?’

‘We came over in 1948 on the Empire Windrush , the first boatload from Jamaica.’

The front shop had every imaginable metal container stacked on the bare wooden floorboards, shelves and counter-shiny saucepans, galvanised laundry tubs, zinc washboards, colanders, hip baths, watering cans. They stood surrounded by them, like grey ghosts,as Winnie closed the door and said,‘Well,how can we help you?’

Brock handed them photographs of the two murdered girls, taken from their police records. Kathy saw George’s sulky indifference falter for a second.

‘This is dem, is it?’ Winnie said. ‘So young. Ah haven’t seen dem before.You, George?’

‘Dunno. I may have seen ’em around.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You play in a group at the JOS, don’t you, George?’ Kathy asked.

He blinked.‘Yeah, so what?’

‘George?’ Winnie was peering at his face suspiciously. ‘What do you know about this?’

‘Nothin’. I don’t know nothin’.’

Brock turned to Winnie.‘Are you two related?’

‘No, George works for me on the stall, and rents a room upstairs. He’s a good boy, Mr Brock.’ She put out a hand to touch George’s arm but he flinched and pulled away.

‘Are you from around here, George?’

‘Kensal Green.’

‘Not far from Harlesden, where these two girls came from. You do know them, don’t you?’

‘I’ve seen ’em down the club, that’s all,’ he protested, ‘but I don’t know nothin’ about them.’

‘They liked your music, didn’t they?’ Kathy said.

‘Yeah, they liked good music.’

‘So who else did they meet there? Who bought their drinks?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea.’

‘George, you tell the truth now!’Winnie sounded alarmed.

‘It is the truth!’

‘Oh no it’s not. I know when you tell me lies. I can read it on your face.’

Still George refused to say any more, so Brock said, ‘I’d like to have a look at your room, George. Would that be all right with you?’

‘No!’George yelped.‘It’s not all right with me.’

‘We can sit here and wait for a search warrant, but it would be a lot better if you did it voluntarily.’

‘George!’ Winnie admonished, and his shoulders sagged. He shook his head resignedly and said,‘You do what you want.’

‘Thanks,’Brock said.‘Will you lead the way,Winnie? I’d like you to be present too.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ the little woman said fiercely, heading around the end of the counter towards a flight of stairs at the back of the shop.

They climbed past the next floor and up to the attic, where George led the way into his room beneath the slope of the roof. A dormer window was cracked open, despite the cold. Winnie switched on an overhead light and Kathy looked around, surprised at the neatness. She thought that anyone conducting a sudden search of her flat would find it a good deal more untidy than this. There was a keyboard and some CDs and sound equipment on a table near the window, and posters and notices stuck to the walls. Some were printed and others handmade with felt pens on coloured paper, like mock-ups for the printer. On one of these she read:

War amongs’ the rebels,

Madness, madness, war.

George saw her studying it and, when she caught his eye, he said truculently,‘Linton Kwesi Johnson,yeah?’

She turned her attention to other posters with various versions of the name Black Troika.‘Is that your group?’

He nodded.‘Yeah.’

Brock, meanwhile, had slipped on latex gloves and was making a rapid search of the corners of the room. At one point he pulled a small pouch of marijuana from behind a pile of CDs, glanced over at George, then put it back again.

‘All right,’ he said at last.‘We’ll be on our way.’

Winnie said,‘You see? He’s not a bad boy.’ She seemed to have collected her thoughts as she went up to Brock.‘You let him go, Mr Brock. It’s Saturday, I need him to run my stall. I’ll tell you who’s behind any trouble around here. Everybody knows.’ She formed a contemptuous curl of her lip. ‘It’s Mister Teddy Vexx, dat’s who it is.’

‘Winnie!’ George said sharply. ‘She don’t know what she’s talkin’ about.’

‘What’s Mr Vexx up to,Winnie?’ Brock asked.

‘Anythin’ and everythin’ crooked. You want to know about drugs?’

‘Winnie!’ George cried again, sounding in pain.

‘You want to know about guns?’

‘I didn’t mention his name, okay?’ George said desperately. ‘You can’t say I did.’

‘Dat’s all I’m goin’to say.’Winnie folded her arms.‘You’ve got the wrong boy here, Mr Brock. Mr Teddy Vexx is the one you want to speak to.’

They made their way back out to the street, and Brock thanked them for their cooperation, which Winnie, at least, graciously acknowledged.

As they tramped back to the car, Kathy’s phone rang. She put it to her ear and heard a familiar voice. ‘Kathy? It’s Tom, Tom Reeves.’

She was startled to hear from him again, and stopped and turned quickly away from Brock, who carried on walking.

‘Tom?’

‘Hi.’ She sensed him registering the caution in her voice. ‘Bad time?’

‘I’m at work.You’re back?’ The banal words seemed absurd.

‘Yes. I’d like to catch up.’

She couldn’t think what to say. Or rather she could think of too many things to say and so said nothing.

‘Can I buy you dinner tonight?’

‘Sorry,’ she said.‘Not tonight.’

‘Ah . . . Another time?’

She saw Brock reach their car up ahead. ‘All right. Give me your number and I’ll call you.’ She didn’t think she would, but she wrote it down anyway.‘Got to go now.’ She hung up and took a deep breath before hurrying on to let Brock into the car, feeling the burn in her cheeks, though he seemed oblivious.

As they drove slowly back through the crowded streets, Kathy gazed out at the drab little brick terraces sliding past and tried to decide how she felt about DI Tom Reeves. How long had it been? Seven weeks, she calculated, since he had disappeared. They had met the previous October when she and Brock were working on the abduction of a child from Northcote Square in an artists’ quarter of the East End. Tom had been on protection duties at that time, escorting a judge whose life had been threatened and who came regularly to a studio in the square to have his portrait painted. Their paths had crossed, and when the case was over Kathy and Tom had gone out a few times together. He knew the detective boyfriend of Kathy’s friend Nicole Palmer, and they had made a foursome to a concert, and gone to Nicole’s birthday party together. Tom was good company, widely read and witty, but Kathy was also aware of how skilled he was at avoiding giving away information about himself,something she put down to his being in Special Branch. She knew he was thirty-six, and divorced, and assumed from his accent that he was a Londoner-and that was almost all.