Simon Kernick - The Crime Trade

‘As you know, we recovered a mobile phone from the body of Robbie O’Brien on which a number of calls had been made to Stegs Jenner’s police mobile. There were also several other unidentified numbers on there, the most recent of which, according to the phone company, was phoned on Wednesday afternoon at three thirty-five p.m.’ His suspicious little eyes scanned the whole room as he paused yet again, before continuing. ‘We’ve just identified that number as the Donmar Hotel. It looks very much like it was Slim Robbie who made the call that got Vokes Vokerman killed.’

Now this was an interesting one, but it was also a revelation that we could all have done without, mainly because it made no sense whatsoever. Why on earth had Robbie made that phone call? Had he had a sudden fit of nerves and made a last-ditch attempt to save himself from the Colombians’ wrath by warning them about what was going to happen? It was possible, but highly unlikely, because at that point, with the police next door, the Colombians were doomed anyway and would hardly have turned round and forgiven him.

For the next ten minutes we debated this apparent paradox, not really getting anywhere. The closest we came to a theory was that Robbie O’Brien had somehow managed to find out about the location of the meeting and had set up the robbery with Tyndall, knowing full well that when the robbery went down Tyndall’s men would be caught. The theory went that he’d done this because he was setting up Tyndall in order to remove him as a potential rival in the north London coke trade. The phone call, then, was a deliberate attempt by O’Brien to ingratiate himself with the Colombians by warning them about what was going to happen and therefore making things even worse for Tyndall, while at the same time hopefully removing all suspicion that it was in fact he, Robbie, who’d been the source of the set-up in the first place.

If so, it was a clever plot. Unfortunately, as a theory, it was also one with a hell of a lot of holes in it. First and foremost, why would Tyndall have got involved in the robbery in the first place? As I’ve said before, he was no fool or short-timer, and would have known that he’d become number one on the Cali cartel’s hitlist as a result of his actions. Why too did Slim Robbie end up dead if he’d masterminded the whole thing, and who’d killed him? And, of course, how had he been so sure of the location of the meeting that he’d made that phone call?

Tina asked this last question, adding in the same breath that Stegs hadn’t been a hundred per cent convincing in explaining away the calls made to his mobile by O’Brien in the days leading up to Operation Surgical Strike — a none-too-subtle hint of the possible involvement of the SO10 man. Thankfully, she didn’t mention Joey Cloud and his disappearing fingers. I think that, on that day at least, it would have been a complication too far. It was hard enough as it was getting our heads round the possibilities on offer for O’Brien’s death and the car park robbery without putting in yet another angle.

Flanagan nodded sombrely to show he was taking WDS Boyd’s comments on board. ‘How did you think Jenner came across last night?’ he asked her, studiously avoiding my gaze.

‘He seemed uptight.’

‘Did you go through all his movements on Wednesday?’

She nodded, opening up her notebook and reeling out what Stegs had told us the previous night. When she’d finished, the room was silent for a few moments.

‘Is Stegs a suspect, sir?’ I asked Flanagan, deciding to get it out into the open. ‘Because I can’t see what he’d be gaining from it.’

‘No, I don’t believe he’s involved,’ he answered, choosing his words carefully, ‘but it is important that he’s fully eliminated from the inquiry. We wouldn’t want doubts to remain.’ He let the last words hang in the air for a couple of seconds, and it made me think that he was more than happy for any doubts to stay put. Poor old Stegs. He really did have enemies.

Finally, Flanagan continued. ‘I am, however, getting the feeling that the solution to this crime is not going to stand up and smack us right in the face. It’s going to take a lot of legwork. What we’ve got to do is keep digging. Keep asking around. See what clues, what physical evidence, we can turn up. If we can get O’Brien’s shooter, then we’re going to be able to crack the whole thing. At the same time, Tina, you have raised an important point, so I want you and John to look into the backgrounds of Stegs and Vokerman and see what, if anything, crops up. As I’ve said, it’s important that everyone involved in Wednesday’s operation is eliminated from the inquiry.’ I noticed he didn’t include himself in this. ‘And the pressure for a result is going to be massive. More intense than any case I can remember for a long, long time.’

Final pep talk over, he then brought the meeting to a close, checking with each pair of detectives what their tasks were for the day, and making sure that every angle was covered. When he got round to Tina and me, he gave us both a grim smile. ‘Nicholas Tyndall, Strangleman Grant’s boss. He operates off your manor, so I want you two to pay him a visit and rattle him a bit, make out that we know a bit more than we do. Get him down here to make a statement and see what you can get out of him.’

‘He probably won’t talk,’ I said. ‘We’ve never got anything out of him before.’ Which is the case with a lot of the more serious criminals. They don’t build up their little empires and stay out of nick by being co-operative. I guessed that Tyndall would do nothing more than point us at his lawyer.

‘Well, see what you can do. This is important.’

He gave me a look that suggested he didn’t think my attitude was positive enough, but I looked away, deciding that I didn’t like DCS Noel Flanagan. I’d met his sort before. Ones who think they’re born to lead and everyone else is born to be led.

The annoying thing is they’re often right, but what they tend to forget is that it doesn’t actually mean they’re going to be any good at it, and Flanagan was a case in point. In Vietnam, he’d have been shot by his own men.

And would probably have deserved it.

Trevor Murk was annoyingly good-looking. He had finely chiselled features, unblemished olive skin that hinted at summers spent in warmer climes and ancestors from the mysterious south, naturally tousled jet-black hair and deep-brown eyes that twinkled with mischief and easy charm. He was six feet two and he always dressed in clothes that fitted him perfectly and flattered him to just the right degree. It was annoying not only because his first name was Trevor rather than Enrique or Antonio and his last name Murk rather than something exotic, but because, for all his physical advantages, coupled with no small measure of intelligence, he would never amount to anything more than a petty criminal and grass. Put bluntly, he was too fucking lazy. Trevor Murk wouldn’t get off his arse if it was sat on a nest of fire ants, and it was well known that he’d never completed a morning’s work in his life, let alone a full day’s, and, moreover, was proud of the fact. He wasn’t work-shy, he was work-allergic.

However, it was still difficult not to like him (although Stegs tried hard enough) because in the end he was a good laugh, and his cheerily amoral demeanour was somehow infectious. Spend too long in his company and even a Godsquadder like Brian the vicar or Vokes’s missus would have probably ended up mugging old ladies or sacrificing chickens as an offering to the Dark One.

The place where he and Stegs met on those occasions when they had business to discuss was the quaintly named Cherry Tree Inn, a huge, hellish place of fruit machines, loud carpets and all the atmosphere of your local job centre, situated in Enfield, a short drive from Barnet. It suited their purpose because it was big and soulless with plenty of space between the tables, making eavesdropping or even accidentally picking up snippets of conversation a near impossibility. It also had eleven different lagers and a similar number of bitters on tap, and served big chips with the food, so it at least had a few things going for it. Not that Stegs was hungry as he pitched in there at five past one that afternoon, waiting to hear what interesting tip Murk had for him. He’d already had a McDonald’s Big Mac happy meal down the road and it had just started to repeat on him. That was the thing he hated about Big Macs: they took about ten seconds to eat and about ten hours to get rid of.