Simon Kernick - The Murder Exchange

‘With due respect, I think it’s important. I feel certain that this man’s death is linked to that of Shaun Matthews, and therefore-’

Capper raised his arms and waved them from side to side like opposing windscreen wipers, an annoying habit of his indicating silence to the individual being gestured at, in this case me. I forced myself to fall silent. ‘John, it’s DI Burley’s patch, so at the moment it’s his investigation. There’s nothing I can do about that. We’ll certainly be able to liaise with them if there’s a consensus that the two cases are linked.’

‘Which they’ve basically got to be.’

Capper nodded noncommittally. ‘There’s definitely a possibility there.’

‘More than a possibility. Two bouncers from the same nightclub, whose owner’s been missing for days, both murdered within a week of each other.’

‘Are we sure McBride’s was murder?’

‘Definitely. He was OK yesterday. For all we know, it could even be the same poison that killed Matthews.’

‘Could be, John, could be. But it’s also possible that it’s natural causes.’

‘How? He was in a cupboard.’

‘We’ve just got to wait and see what the autopsy reveals. What we’ll do is discuss what happened at the meeting tomorrow morning and then maybe the DCI’ll get on the phone to their nick and see if there’s any scope for information sharing. In the meantime, you need to bring all the records up to date. Where’s Berrin, by the way?’

‘I took him home. He was feeling sick.’

‘Again. That’s the third time since he’s been in CID. What’s wrong with him this time?’

‘I don’t know, summer flu or something. He’s been a bit under the weather these past few days,’ I lied.

Capper nodded with some scepticism, an annoyingly serene smile on his face. ‘Well, let’s hope he gets better soon,’ he said, sounding like he didn’t mean it at all.

‘Is that everything, sir?’ I asked, starting to get to my feet. I couldn’t hack any more of Capper than I had to.

‘Not quite, John,’ he answered, still wearing the smile. It made him look like a brain-damaged Buddhist. I stopped mid-crouch and waited for him to continue. ‘I got a call this afternoon from a Mr Melvyn Carroll. He says that you and DC Berrin were harassing his client, Neil Vamen. What on earth were you doing talking to Vamen?’

‘He’s a possible suspect in the Matthews case,’ I said, sitting back down.

‘Let me get this right. A man with a lengthy criminal record, now deceased, suggested that Vamen was the boyfriend of a woman who visited the home of Shaun Matthews, and was possibly, just possibly, Matthews’s girlfriend as well, and this makes him a suspect?’

‘Yes, it does. He’s certainly a possibility, so he was worth talking to.’

‘Neil Vamen. I trust you know who he is?’

‘Yes, and that’s another reason to consider him a suspect. He’s got the resources and the ruthlessness to kill Shaun Matthews and Craig McBride.’

‘He’s also someone who’s had years of practice in knowing how to cover his tracks, so he was never going to talk to you. Even if he is involved, which I doubt, because I don’t think he’s the type to get sentimental about a woman, it’s going to be extremely difficult to prove anything.’

‘That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.’

‘The point is, Vamen’s a big fish and it’s SO7 and the NCS who are responsible for building prosecution cases against him and his associates. They’re not going to take kindly to you throwing your weight about with him. I thought you were meant to be talking to SO7 about the case.’

‘I am. I’m waiting for a call back from Asif Malik.’

‘Well, go that route, then.’

‘Look, I was doing the right thing-’

The arms started swinging from side to side again and once more I forced myself to button it. ‘You’re a good copper, John,’ he said, talking to me like I was an office junior rather than one rank and only a handful of years below him, ‘and we’re all pleased with your progress here, but don’t start to get ahead of yourself. You’ll end up causing problems both for yourself and for CID. Understand?’

I sighed, knowing that he was right and that it was a mistake to go to see Vamen, but longing for the moment when I was a DI again and didn’t have to report to him. ‘Yes, sir,’ I said reluctantly.

‘In future I don’t want you going to see Neil Vamen or any of his associates without speaking to me about it first. OK? I don’t want to sound like I’m not supporting you, but I think it’s the best way.’

I nodded, but didn’t bother responding. The conversation over, I stalked back to my desk and began the torturous task of bringing everything up to date. Only once did Capper interrupt me, to ask if we were still trying to get hold of Fowler. I said that we were but that we were still having no luck.

‘He’s the one we’ve got to concentrate on,’ he said, nodding his head as if he was agreeing with himself — another of his annoying habits, most likely brought about by the fact that no one else did. I didn’t bother to comment.

At exactly five o’clock, Capper left for the day, telling me helpfully that I shouldn’t work too hard. ‘You need to unwind sometimes,’ he said with another irritating smile. ‘That way it won’t all get on top of you.’

I didn’t bother telling him that it was a little too late for that. Instead, I put my head down and felt glad for the opportunity of some space and quiet.

Paperwork can be a therapeutic process. It’s repetitive and it’s mundane, but when there’s plenty of it to do, the person doing it can sometimes lift himself spiritually from the pile in front of him and reach an almost Zen-like state where the hand simply writes automatically and the brain sails away to calmer, happier waters where there are no interruptions and no will-sapping and pointless confrontations.

I’d reached that point and was probably wearing a serene smile as idiotic as Capper’s when the door to the incident room opened and WDC Boyd walked in. Now, I liked Boyd. She was my kind of woman: attractive, amusing, but definitely no push-over. We got on well, too. I think that if it hadn’t been for the fact that we worked together, I would have definitely fancied her, and might even have tried my luck — not that I tended to have a great deal of it where love was concerned. She appeared to be a bit worn out and hot, but her short black hair, cut into a cute bob, looked like it had come straight out of a cheesy shampoo ad, and her grey trousersuit was spotless. For a woman who’d been out tramping the dirty, sweating streets of London, she carried herself remarkably well.

It was ten past six. She smiled, looking genuinely pleased to see me. ‘Hello, John, you still around?’

‘I could ask the same question,’ I said, looking up. ‘Did you manage to get hold of John Harris?’

‘Ah, the elusive Mr Harris, former stud of the Arcadia. I found him all right,’ she said, sighing theatrically. ‘Eventually.’

‘And?’

She wandered over and sat on her desk a few yards away from mine. ‘And, I don’t think he’s our man.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s been in hospital for the past ten days. He was working the door at a place in Clapham on their garage night and he got caught in the crossfire of somebody else’s argument.’

‘That’s south London for you.’

‘Too right. It’s bandit country down there,’ she added, winking at me. ‘Anyway, he got shot in the stomach. Apparently the bullet passed straight through him and hit one of the glass collectors inside. That was three days before Matthews was murdered. What a waste of a day. It took me more than four hours to find that out when I could have been sat out in the park sunbathing.’