Simon Kernick - The Murder Exchange

‘I’m sure that whoever killed Matthews was also responsible for the murder of Craig McBride, although God knows why. To me, that level of organization suggests someone like Neil Vamen.’

‘But you haven’t got much of a motive.’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Whatever did happen, it wouldn’t have been Vamen inflicting the fatal dose, although I suppose it’s possible he could be behind it. Remember this, though: he doesn’t do things that are going to bring attention on himself. In the end, unlike Krys, he’s first and foremost a businessman. A nasty one, admittedly, but still someone who’s not going to risk his position by committing rash crimes. And even if he had something to do with it, you’re going to have a sod of a time proving it.’

I nodded wearily, having already heard this several times. ‘I know, I know. No one ever said it would be easy.’ I stabbed a couple of sauteed potatoes. ‘It would be useful if I could find Matthews’s boss, Roy Fowler, as well. Do you know anything about the ownership of this club, the Arcadia? I’m hearing that the Holtzes run it, but I’ve got nothing concrete.’

Malik shook his head. ‘Not specifically. The number of front companies they’ve got is incredible; it has to be when you’ve constantly got millions of pounds to launder. I’ll ask around within the team and see if they’ve heard anything, but don’t hold your breath.’

‘So you don’t have any informants within their organization, then?’

For the first time during the course of the conversation, Malik appeared cagey. ‘I’m afraid that’s classified information, John, as you’d appreciate.’

‘Well, if you do, I’d take it as a favour if you could ask the questions.’

Malik said he’d see what he could do. ‘I’m sorry if I’m not being too much help,’ he added with a sheepish smile.

‘It’s a lunch’s worth,’ I said, ‘and, anyway, I came here more in hope than expectation. But if you can get me that info on Vamen’s associates and women, I’d appreciate it. It might even be worth buying you coffee for.’

Malik smiled. ‘Now that’s an offer I’ll take you up on.’

I ordered two coffees — a cappuccino for me, a black filter for him — and the conversation drifted on to other things, mainly what life was like back at the station. I told him I didn’t think he was missing much: Capper was still a talentless arsehole, Knox was still yearning for a detective superintendent role, the chief super was still an idiot. We had a few laughs about things, and found we got on pretty well, but soon Malik was looking at his watch and saying it was time to go.

We stood up at the same time, me a good four inches taller, and shook hands.

‘Good luck with the case, John,’ he told me, ‘but be careful as well. The Holtzes, and Neil Vamen in particular, are not people to mess about with. If it came to it, they’re not afraid to put a bullet in a copper.’

Which is just the sort of uplifting advice you need on a Wednesday afternoon.

Wednesday was Berrin’s first day back at work after his impromptu bout of summer flu, which was the reason I hadn’t allowed him to come on the lunch with Malik, but had instead got him reviewing witness statements. He wasn’t going to get a decent meal on the Met when he’d spent the last three days lolling about at home. The bastard looked quite brown, too, which made me suspicious. When I got back to the station that afternoon he was doing an interview with a man who’d been arrested for possession of eight hundred quid’s worth of counterfeit currency. Apparently there’d been no other CID available, and such was the quality of the fakes it was thought appropriate that there was plainclothes representation when they were talking to him.

While I waited for him to come out of his interview, I wrote down what I’d picked up in the meeting with Malik. I also checked my emails but he’d yet to send through the information he’d promised me, which wasn’t a huge surprise. He was a busy guy and it could wait, particularly since it didn’t sound like there was going to be anything earth-shattering contained in it. The Shaun Matthews incident room was eerily quiet again that afternoon, with me the solitary person in it. For some reason, it made me feel sorry for Matthews in a way I doubted he’d ever deserved, but there was something vaguely undignified about the way his death was steadily being forgotten by those charged with finding his killer. As if he simply wasn’t important enough.

I picked up the phone and dialled the elusive DI Burley, expecting to get his voicemail as I had on the last two occasions I’d called. He hadn’t returned either of those calls. This time, however, I was in luck.

‘Burley,’ he grunted. Even his telephone manner was obnoxious.

‘Hello, sir,’ I said, trying hard to sound as polite as possible. ‘It’s DS Gallan here.’

‘You again. What the fuck are you hassling me for now?’

‘I wondered if there was any sign of Jean Tanner yet.’

‘Listen, I told you the other day, and I’ve told your DCI since then, that when she turns up we’ll let you know.’

‘Is there any actual effort being made to find her?’ I asked.

‘What do you want me to do, run adverts on the front page of The Times ? Do a door-to-door poster campaign? We’re looking all right, but we haven’t got unlimited money and manpower, so it’s going to take some time.’

‘And what sort of progress are you making?’

‘A lot more if I didn’t keep getting my voicemail clogged up by the likes of you.’

‘If you’d let us fucking help in the first place-’

‘Don’t ever swear at me, Gallan,’ he growled, but by this time I was past caring.

‘Is someone paying you to drag your feet on this? Is that why you’re taking so fucking long about it?’

‘You piece of shit. You’ll be hearing from me about what you just said.’

I think we both hung up on each other at pretty much the same time, and I was left staring at the phone, wondering what motivated some people to join the police force. In Burley’s case, it was probably a desire to mess up people’s lives. I hoped he didn’t make a formal complaint to Knox, who had no idea I was hassling Burley.

Next, I tried Roy Fowler’s numbers, more out of habit than anything else. I knew he wouldn’t answer, and he didn’t. I then phoned the Arcadia and asked the man who picked up whether they’d heard from him, but they hadn’t. It also turned out that Elaine Toms had left, which was vaguely interesting. No one had a forwarding number for her, and there wasn’t one on the murder log, so I was reduced to scanning the phone book until I found it. She wasn’t home; a man I assumed was her boyfriend or flatmate answered. I introduced myself and asked if she could call me back. The man on the other end politely asked what it was about and I gave him the usual spiel that it was simply a routine police inquiry. In truth, I wanted to find out why she’d left the club and whether or not there was anything she might want to add to her existing statements. A bit of a straw-clutching exercise, perhaps, but if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

When Berrin came back from his interview, we discussed any new developments on the case, but there was nothing of note to report. At about five o’clock, Elaine Toms phoned back. She seemed in better spirits and was certainly a lot politer than the last time we’d talked, but that didn’t alter the fact that she had nothing further to add to her statement.

Fifteen minutes later I decided to call it a day, and on the way out I bumped into WDC Boyd in the corridor. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days as she’d been transferred to the assault case on the thirteen-year-old girl and was in charge of liaising with the victim. It was a role I reckoned her well suited to. She had the right combination of sensitive and strong.