Mark Billingham - Buried

Stone stopped whistling between his teeth for a few seconds. ‘This is funny,’ he said. ‘They’re dropping hints in here about some “popular daytime TV presenter” who’s having it away with his male researcher. Who d’you reckon that is, then?’

The Latif enquiry had been as frustrating as any Kitson had known, and every murder case she’d caught since seemed to involve her running headlong into a series of brick walls. The wall she was supposed to be trying to get over that morning had built up around a disturbing rite of initiation into a Tottenham drugs gang. New members would drive around the streets in a car with no headlights on, and in order to prove they were worthy they would have to fire a gun into the first car that flashed its lights at them. It was brutal in its simplicity, in the casually random way that the unsuspecting victim was selected.

The first driver unlucky enough to try and be helpful.

Five days before, having been shot at for no obvious reason, the man behind the wheel of a Toyota Landcruiser had mounted a pavement on the Seven Sisters Road, killing himself and a young woman waiting at a bus stop. One of the city’s newest gang members had moved straight from low-grade crack dealer to double murderer, and though Kitson and the team knew very well which gang was responsible, had spoken to half a dozen young men who knew equally well who had pulled the trigger, nobody was saying anything.

Sometimes the brick walls had wide smiles, and gold teeth, and enough attitude to make Yvonne Kitson want more than anything to punch them into the middle of next week.

She badly needed a result. For the way it would feel, far more than for the way it would look. And now, if Dave Holland’s eyesight and instinct weren’t both seriously screwed, she might achieve one.

Stone turned to the back page of his paper. ‘No real surprise, though,’ he said. ‘I reckon a lot of those TV presenters are batting for the other side, don’t you?’

Kitson mumbled something that could have been ‘yes’ or ‘no’, every committed part of her brain focusing on the group that was crossing the road, and on her first glimpse of Adrian Farrell. On the fact that she owed Dave Holland a very big drink.

‘Is that him?’

Kitson held up a hand to silence Andy Stone, as though the boy they were talking about were no more than a few feet away; as though his hearing were as well developed as his arrogance. She watched him walk slowly down the main road, every bit as hard to miss as she had been led to believe. He was chatting idly with two other pupils, a boy and a girl. Although he would be off the premises for no more than an hour, Kitson watched as he, along with most of those around him, went through the transformation that Holland had described. She watched as Farrell took off his blazer and tossed it over his shoulder; as he loosened his tie.

She watched, holding her breath, as he put in the earring. From school to cool.

A hundred yards or so from the entrance, Farrell eased away from his schoolmates and joined up with two new boys who were crossing the road fast towards him. These boys wore uniforms of their own: Nike caps; New Balance trainers; Kappa casuals. They moved like men but looked young enough to make Kitson question why they weren’t in school themselves.

The three hailed each other, though it was impossible to make out the words being shouted. Fists were clenched and proffered. Kitson was reaching for the door handle as the knuckles kissed in greeting and the trio moved off together towards the shops.

‘We on the move?’ Stone asked.

Kitson opened the door. Stepped out, buzzing as she thought about Adrian Farrell’s interesting new mates. His nice, white friends.

‘Let’s get some air,’ she said.

Porter came through on the radio. She suggested to Thorne that they should meet somewhere between their two vehicles. Put their heads together.

They walked up Fairfield Road, crossing over the Docklands Light Railway towards Old Ford. ‘Barry Hignett came down about half an hour ago,’ Porter said. ‘He was keen to get cracking.’

‘Like the rest of us aren’t?’

‘I mean really on the hurry-up. So we sent a couple of the lads in to see if there might be any help around. See if we can get a bit closer.’

They stopped to let a lorry back out of a goods yard. The driver scraped a wall, pulled forward a yard or two and tried again. This time, they walked around, ignoring the exhaust fumes and the beeping of the reversing alarm.

‘Thanks for telling me.’ Thorne’s tone made it clear that he wasn’t the slightest bit grateful; that, in his opinion, he should have been told half an hour earlier.

‘I’m telling you now, so there’s no point getting snotty.’

‘Hignett getting shit from your detective super, you reckon?’

‘For definite,’ Porter said. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if Tony Mullen had been on at him, too. Poor sod’s got it coming from everywhere.’

‘Is he still here?’

‘Gone back to base.’

‘Makes sense,’ Thorne said. Which it did. As SIO, Barry Hignett would need to stay close to Central 3000. From there, he could monitor all events, could communicate with every member of his team, while staying within easy reach of the top brass. There was a buck in this case, same as in any other. It just flew around that little bit faster before it stopped.

Porter slowed outside a swanky-looking development of flats. A map on the gate showed the location of the swimming pool, the sauna, the private shops. ‘I could do with somewhere like this,’ she said. ‘My place is a shithole.’

‘This is the old Bryant & May factory,’ Thorne said, staring through the gates. ‘Where the matchgirls’ strike was.’

Porter shook her head.

‘End of the nineteenth century.’ He pointed towards the building. ‘The girls in there went on strike for better pay and conditions. Turned into a national story. Kicked off the trade union movement, more or less.’

‘Lit a match under it.’

Thorne was already thinking ahead and missed the joke. He turned around, pointed back towards the Bow Road like a tourist guide. ‘You’ve got Sylvia Pankhurst’s original campaign headquarters over there. Votes for Women and all that.’ He tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t resist the crack. ‘And now look where we are.’

‘You asking for a slap?’ Porter leaned into him as she stepped past and kept walking.

‘So where’s this flat of yours?’

Her mobile had barely begun to ring when Porter snatched at it. Thorne knew that the phone had a ringtone he would probably recognise, but he’d never heard enough of it to place the tune.

When the call had finished, they started back towards Conrad Allen’s flat. ‘Sounds like you got that help you were looking for,’ Thorne said.

‘We’ve got an old girl in the flat next door who’s a major fan of ours. She got her front door kicked in a couple of weeks ago, and apparently the uniforms were extremely helpful. One of the tech boys is up there now setting some gear up.’

‘Reckon they’re in there?’ Thorne asked.

Porter’s look made it plain she hadn’t the slightest idea. ‘There’s been fuck-all to see, so it’s glass-against-the-wall time.’

They didn’t say a great deal else after that. They just picked their feet up, jogged back around the lorry that was still trying to back out.

Andy Stone got the formalities out of the way. Made the introductions, waved the warrant cards around.

It was a very pleasant smile. Kitson wondered how much more of it she might be seeing in the days to come. ‘We’ve already done this,’ Adrian Farrell said. ‘We spoke to a couple of officers yesterday after school.’