Simon Kernick - The Crime Trade

In the end, I’d been seen by a doctor at St Mary’s who’d put some antiseptic cream on the wound before patching it up, and finally we were in a position to drive back to the station. Now that Panner had committed a serious crime while violently resisting arrest, Flanagan had decreed that he should be brought in as soon as he was apprehended. A surveillance team from SO11 would still set up shop outside his bail address but it was thought unlikely he’d head back there now that he was aware the police wanted to talk to him. I only hoped that we hadn’t messed up by giving him advance warning of our interest. If he was as slippery as Fiona Ragdale had suggested, then he wasn’t going to be easy to find.

‘I think we’re lovers, not fighters, Asif,’ I told Malik as we were heading down the Euston Road in the direction of the station. Traffic was heavy, bordering on ludicrous, and progress predictably slow.

‘I prefer to see us as the brains rather than the brawn,’ he said with a smile.

I think we both felt vaguely humiliated that we’d been outfought and outrun by a low-life pimp who’d already taken something of a beating himself, but neither of us said anything. Sometimes that’s just the way it goes.

My mobile rang. It was Tina. She was back at the incident room, had heard what had happened and wanted to know how I was. ‘I think I’ll live,’ I told her, and almost let slip that my injuries wouldn’t affect my performance in the bedroom before realizing just in time that I had company.

‘Panner wasn’t driving a Megane by any chance, was he?’

‘No, an ancient BMW. Why?’

‘I think I might have a lead.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘You know I’ve been going back on HOLMES looking for similar cases to the O’Brien hit? Well, there was an unsolved murder at the beginning of last year in a pub car park in Harrow. The victim was a garage owner called Paul Bailey who owed money to a lot of people. He was shot twice in the head at point-blank range with a.38 revolver, and was dead before he even knew what was happening. A couple coming out of the pub at the same time caught a glimpse of the killer, as did a man walking his dog, and a woman driving past. The descriptions were sketchy but they all tallied with what we’ve got for the O’Brien killer. Dark hair, late twenties, five ten to six two. I reckon it’s got to be the same one.’

‘Could well be.’

‘But that’s not all, John. The man walking his dog was further down the road from the pub. He heard the shots and saw a man hurrying down in his direction on foot. Before the man got to him, he got into a car that was parked up and drove off. The car passed directly by the dog walker and, because he was concerned about the shots, he made a mental note of the model and registration. The plates turned out to be false, but the car was an old-style black Renault Megane coupe, and the investigating team made a list of every black Megane coupe owner in Greater London with that particular model.’

‘Christ. How many was that?’

‘A lot. Three thousand three hundred and twelve in all, including, I expect, plenty of dark-haired young men, and to be honest, nothing ever came of it. With that many people there were only the resources to speak to those with a criminal record, and in the absence of any other evidence the case finally ground to a halt. But if that list contains our man, and he also comes up on the list we’ve got of people who bought Desmarches suits, then. .’ She let the sentence trail off, the meaning clear.

‘You’re on a roll, Tina. Well done.’

‘Thanks. It’s good to know we’re getting somewhere.’

‘Changing your mind about retiring, then?’

‘That was last week. Things have moved on since then, and anyway, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.’

‘So, you’ve spoken to Harrow CID?’

‘They’re going to fax me over the list.’

‘Great. I’ll give you a hand going through it when I get back.’

After we’d said our goodbyes, I told Malik what she’d found out.

‘The clues are appearing with a bit more frequency now,’ he said. ‘Which is what we need. I just wonder where they’re going to lead.’

I nodded in agreement. ‘And to who.’

Stegs was sitting on the lounge sofa alongside the missus. They were watching Celebrity Wheelchair Challenge in which three so-called celebrities, for reasons better known to themselves, travelled across the country in wheelchairs in aid of charity, or something like that anyway. Stegs wasn’t really paying much attention. The only reason he was sitting there at all was because he didn’t know what else to do. He was suffering from writers’ block, having spent three hours that day in a pub in Mill Hill trying to pick up where he’d left off at the beginning of chapter three of Undercover Cop . Five pints of Stella, a pack of fags and half a gram of speed later, and he’d written about a page of absolute shit. He’d read somewhere that booze and drugs were meant to get the old creative juices flowing, but whoever was claiming that was either a liar or a crap writer.

He’d got home a couple of hours earlier, somewhat the worse for wear, and had had a stand-up row with the missus, who’d smelt the drink on him and had told him that either he got help or she and Luke were leaving. Promises, promises, he’d thought, but hadn’t said anything, recognizing that once again he was the one in the wrong. It annoyed him, because the previous day he’d picked up many a brownie point by taking her and Luke on a trip to Odds Farm, a place out in the country near Beaconsfield where kids could go on tractor rides and feed farm animals. Luke was a bit young for it all really, but it made a nice day out, and the weather had been OK, with the sun putting in its first appearance for as long as he could remember.

In a bid to return to the good books, Stegs had gone out and got fish and chips for them both while she’d put Luke to bed, and had bought her a bunch of flowers from the Co-op at the same time. She’d given him a stern look but had accepted them with the beginnings of a smile, and by the time they’d finished eating he’d even begun to sober up as the effects of the speed had worn off. It had been the last of his stuff as well. He was going to have to get some more.

So now he and the missus were back on an even keel and Stegs was bored. Bored and restless. Wanting to get the next stage of his plan moving. It was a risky one, there was no denying that. And one that could get him into a lot of trouble. But as he sat watching Gaby Roslin in her wheelchair looking very irate as a taxi driver ignored her outstretched hand and drove on by, and wondering where the fuck his life was going, he decided that the risk was more than worth it.

‘It does annoy you when they don’t stop just because someone’s handicapped,’ said the missus. ‘It’s not like they don’t charge an arm and a leg for a trip anyway.’

‘It’s not worth taking a leg off her,’ said Stegs, ‘not when it’s in that condition. That’s probably why he’s not stopping. That, and the fact that it’s Gaby Roslin.’

‘I’m serious, Mark. It’s not right, and it’s not a laughing matter. If you were handicapped, you wouldn’t be laughing.’

Stegs immediately regretted speaking out of turn. It was always best simply to agree with the missus. Start contradicting her pronouncements and you ended up in a bigger quagmire than the Americans in Vietnam. And with about as much chance of victory.

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said with suitable vagueness. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

He was saved from further admonishments by the sound of the home phone going. It was on the missus’s side of the sofa, and she reached over and answered it, quickly immersing herself in conversation. It was her sister. Stegs knew that because the missus kept saying stuff like ‘Don’t worry, Linda’ and ‘It’ll be all right, Linda, honestly’. He got up and took the opportunity to go outside for a fag.