Barry Maitland: Chelsea Mansions

‘Sorry, I’ve only just arrived. But I’ll certainly keep my eyes open.’

‘Just so long as you don’t try to tackle him if you do see him.’

‘No, I’d give you a call, I guess. If I had your contact details.’

Kathy gave him her card. He seemed pleasant, but there was something odd about his manner, the rather intense way he looked at her. ‘What was your name again?’

‘John, John Greenslade, from Montreal.’

W hen Kathy got back to Queen Anne’s Gate she again found Brock with Zack and another analyst in the new computer suite, heads down, checking maps.

‘We’ve been tracking the motorbike on CCTV cameras. They headed north, Park Lane, Edgeware Road, then east to Camden Town, where we lost them.’ Brock took Kathy over to a screen with an enlarged map and pointed out the route.

‘So far, none of the camera sightings we’ve got give us a clear view of the bike’s number. We were tracking a yellow bike, possibly a Kawasaki Ninja, with two riders, and it took a while to see what happened.’

Zack typed in a command and a film began to play.

‘This is on the A503 heading north out of Camden.’

Kathy said, ‘He’s dropped the pillion passenger.’

‘Yes, we think somewhere near Camden Town tube station. The bike continues north with the single rider through Finsbury Park to Seven Sisters, where we lose him again. We’re pretty sure he’s ended up somewhere near by.’

‘Tottenham Green.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘So what do we do now?’

Brock said, ‘They must have been in touch by phone down in Chelsea, so they knew how to meet up after the murder. Then after they reached their destinations, in Camden Town and Tottenham Green, odds are they’d have been on their phones again, don’t you think? So if we could trace two mobile numbers that are used in those areas at the critical times, we’d have them.’

‘Big job,’ Zack said.

‘That’s what computers are for,’ Brock replied. ‘And I’ve got a stack of paperwork on my desk. That’s what humans are for.’

It was late afternoon when Zack found it. A mobile phone had made a call from Chelsea soon after the time that Nancy and Emerson had left the flower show and begun walking up Sloane Street, and then fifty-two minutes later, shortly after the last sighting of the single rider, from Tottenham Green in North London. The number was registered to Captain Marvel.

‘A comedian,’ Brock said.

‘Yeah,’ Zack agreed, ‘but we know where he lives. The Quarry Estate. That’s where the call came from.’

Brock put a call through to CID at Haringey Borough Operational Command, covering Tottenham Green. It didn’t take long to get an answer.

‘Sounds like Danny Yilmaz,’ the inspector at the other end said. ‘He’s used the name before. Drug courier, get-away driver. Murder’s a bit out of his league though. Want us to pick him up?’

‘Wait till we get there,’ Brock said. He grabbed his coat and turned to Kathy. ‘Come on.’

As well as Kathy, Brock took Mickey Schaeffer, a detective sergeant who had recently joined the team at Queen Anne’s Gate. He had an excellent record and seemed tough and intelligent, but Brock hadn’t yet watched him in action and wanted to see how he’d perform. He left Kathy at the Tottenham police station to liaise with their inspector and went on with Mickey and two cars of local men to the Quarry Estate, a collection of three-storey walk-up housing blocks spread out around the base of a pair of towers. Danny Yilmaz lived on the top floor of one of the walk-ups. There was no sign of a yellow motorbike in the parking areas outside, and they went up the stairs to Yilmaz’s front door. Before ringing the bell, Mickey crouched at the letter flap and peered in. They heard the faint sound of a cough, the flush of a toilet, and Brock nodded to the copper beside him, who rang the bell. There was silence.

‘Come on, Danny,’ Mickey called loudly through the slot. ‘It’s the police. Open the door, please.’

He repeated this, then nodded to a uniformed man who raised the ram he was carrying and swung it against the door, which burst open with a crash.

A cigarette was burning in an ashtray on the floor beside a rumpled sleeping bag. There was the sound of something breaking-crockery clattering to the floor. In the kitchenette at the back they were presented with the spectacle of a man’s rear end struggling to squeeze through the narrow window above the sink, his flailing legs kicking plates off the draining board.

‘Stupid bugger,’ Mickey roared. He grabbed the legs and heaved. For a moment there was no movement, but then the man shot backwards into the room. He gave a shriek as his face connected with the window frame. Blood spurted from his nose as Brock caught him and they lowered him, howling, to the floor. Brock wiped a hand across his face, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

Mickey said. ‘You all right, Chief?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Brock went over to the sink and ran the tap while one of the local cops behind him said, ‘This isn’t Danny Yilmaz.’

According to the Ugandan driver’s licence they found in the man’s pocket, he was Peter Namono, a resident of Kampala, though he seemed unable or unwilling to confirm this as he sat moaning on the floor, clutching his bloody nose. One of the locals took a call on his radio and turned to Brock. ‘Our lads have picked up Danny Yilmaz. They spotted his bike outside the Haringey Sport and Social Club. They’re taking him to the station.’

Brock dabbed at the bloodstain on his shirt with a grubby cloth. ‘I’m getting too old for this. Next time I’ll leave the exciting bits to you lot.’

They all laughed.

Danny Yilmaz was waiting in an interview room when they arrived at Tottenham police station.

Kathy conducted the interview with one of the local detectives while Brock watched on a screen in an adjoining room. Danny was small, wiry, dark, with curly black hair that covered much of his face, which appeared prematurely aged. He appeared to be mystified by why he was there. Kathy cautioned him and asked him if he had given a lift to a man in Sloane Street the previous day. Sure, Danny said, it was all perfectly straightforward. He had his own courier services company, Shazam Limited.

‘Shazam,’ Kathy repeated.

‘Like in Captain Marvel, yeah?’

‘Go on.’

‘This bloke hired me to give him a lift. Said he’d need me to be available for the whole day Thursday, from Chelsea, to run him around. I spent the day hanging out down by the river, waiting for him to call, dead boring, but he’d paid in advance. Then, about four he gives me a ring, tells me where to wait for him on Sloane Street, and to call him when I get there. Soon after he comes running out of nowhere, hops on the bike and tells me to get going, up to Camden Town tube station, where I drop him off. That was it.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Couldn’t tell you. He had his own helmet in his backpack. I’d brought one for him, but he didn’t need it.’

‘What else?’

‘Um, dark grey shirt, jeans… oh, and gloves. He was wearing black gloves.’

‘But you’d seen him before, when he hired you, gave you the money.’

‘No, no, that was somebody else.’

Something changed in Danny’s posture and appearance. His expression of helpfulness became brighter.

‘Who?’

‘No idea. I only spoke to him on the phone. He said he had a friend coming to London, needed someone to drive him around for the day. Offered me twice my going rate, so I wasn’t complaining.’

‘What name did he give you?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘How did he know about you?’