Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

‘Had it away with one of the suspects’ girlfriends,’ said Carey. ‘We’re not sure which of the suspects’ girlfriend she was and, get this, two of the other suspects are her brothers. If they’d been Muslim I’d have said this was an honour killing.’

The media always calls this sort of thing senseless, but the motive made sense – it was just stupid, is what it was.

Still, this was the kind of case that Seawoll liked — simple, straightforward and easy on the clear-up rate. They were going to go in and grab all six suspects the next morning in a series of raids. Carey had been given responsibility for one of them, which was pissing Guleed off no end, because she was stuck on my Falcon case. You can always tell when you’ve pissed Guleed off because of the bland look of polite interest on her face whenever you speak to her. This was why when she announced that she was going to head over to St Paul’s School for the effortlessly posh to put the frighteners on the sixth form, I decided to stay where I was and work my way through Operation Marigold’s action list just to see if anything popped out.

What popped out was a cross-reference from Bromley Crime Squad who had busted someone with a suitcase full of Magic Babar pills. Not just the same brand but, according to the lab report, from the same batch as those found at One Hyde Park.

So the next morning I actioned myself to take a little trip across the river.

Bromley nick is, like Belgravia, a redbrick 1990’s build resembling an out-of-town Morrisons that was repurposed at the last moment and fitted with offices and a custody suite. A middle-aged PC from the local Case Progression Unit met me in the reception and walked me into the interview room where Aiden Burghley, wannabe suburban drug dealer, was waiting with his solicitor.

Aiden was a young white man, about my age, but smaller with a soft bland face, brown hair and watery blue eyes. He looked like he should be selling insurance or houses rather than drugs, but according to his nominal a sad second from Warwick University had landed him back in his parents’ semi in Bromley. No record of a job but he did own an ancient Vauxhall Vectra, so I could see he might be desperate enough to turn to crime.

You can understand the temptation – you pop over on the ferry to Holland, pick up some pills, drive around, visit a dope café, go clubbing, hop back on the ferry. It’s pills, so the dogs don’t smell them. You’re not buying in huge bulk, so your shipment’s not going to show up on police intelligence. Shit, you’re practically at personal use levels anyway, and the chances of a random search picking on you at customs are thousands to one, really hundreds of thousands to one.

Had Aiden Burghley been sensible enough to pop the pills himself or just share them with his friends he’d have been alright, but no – he had to try to flog them to a pair of surprised off-duty female police officers at Glitrrz, a club just off Bromley High Street. After weighing up whether an easy collar would be worth the stick they’d get for frequenting a notorious trouble spot, they went for the collar and now Aiden had spent a night in the cells and was looking at a long list of charges with words like ‘intent’ and ‘supply’ in the title.

He had an equally young and fresh-faced solicitor from the local Legal Aid specialist firm at his side. You always have to be careful around legal aid solicitors because not only do they spend more time in police interview rooms than you do, they’re also usually in a really bad mood because their clients are idiots and because the government is always cutting the legal aid budget. This one was a white woman with slate-grey eyes which she narrowed at me when I introduced myself.

One way or another Aiden was going up the steps. But, as a young white middle class first offender, if he pleaded guilty there was a good chance he’d walk away without a prison sentence. My strategy was simple – I threatened to add him to the suspect pool in the death of Christina Chorley.

‘The pills that killed her came from the same batch as those you brought back from Holland,’ I said. ‘And that puts you in the frame for manslaughter—’

And that was as far as I got before the solicitor objected to the evidence that Aiden’s drugs had been the same drugs that allegedly may have caused the death of Christina Chorley. Thank god she didn’t have access to the PM report yet. Had she known about Christina’s pre-existing condition it might have been all over. I waited for her to wind down, suspended the interview and then asked the solicitor if I might have a word in private.

The solicitor, whose name was Patricia Polly – seriously, Patricia Polly – said she needed a cigarette anyway, so we repaired to the car park.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t want your boy for this, but it’s a high profile case and someone is going to get done for it. Even if I walk away now, any review team that comes in is just going come to the same conclusions I have.’

Which, while not an out and out lie, was probably at the far end of wishful thinking.

Ms Polly took a deep drag of her Silk Cut and nodded.

‘So what do you want?’ she asked.

‘I know he claims that he did the run for his own personal use and that he wouldn’t have sold any except he was unexpectedly skint,’ I said. ‘But I reckon he sold a big bag to somebody else – I just want to know who.’

‘I’m not going to have him admit to that,’ she said. ‘Even if it is true.’

Wait for it.

‘Unless there was a bit of mutual consideration.’

‘Why don’t you ask him in confidence if he can help,’ I said. ‘Because if there’s somebody else, not only will he be volunteering vital information but he’ll be making sure somebody else steps into the frame for the manslaughter.’

I could tell she was doubtful, but I reckoned she’d figure it was worth a punt.

I gave her my card and had time for a full English in the canteen before she called me back.

Apparently there’d been this posh girl.

‘Did she have a name?’ I asked – we were on the record because he was still under caution, and I might need the evidence for court. There’s no point knowing who done it if you can’t prove it.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Aiden.

I asked what she looked like.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Curly hair and . . .’ Aiden made chest expanding gestures with his hands. ‘You know.’

‘Black or white?’ I asked.

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Maybe tanned?’ said Aiden. ‘I really wasn’t looking at her face.’

I asked if he’d seen her car.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘BMW X5, the one with the three litre turbo diesel.’

‘What colour?’

‘Imperial blue.’

‘Imperial blue?’

‘That’s what that colour is called – Imperial Blue,’ said Aiden.

‘Can you remember what she was wearing?’

‘No, mate. Sorry.’

Which is a good demonstration of why eyewitnesses have all been a caution since Marc Anthony said ‘I dunno mate, they were all wearing togas.’

‘Did you notice the year on the plate?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It was a 63.’ But crucially he didn’t remember the area code or the rest of the index. Some things are more important to some people than they are to others. 63 meant the car was registered between September 2013 and February 2014 – which might narrow it down a bit.

I terminated the interview and gave him back to Bromley CID and told them what a good boy he’d been – for whatever good that might do him. Then I headed back across the river and settled back at my corner of the desk at Belgravia nick. Carey grumbled and shifted over, but he was too busy doing the metric ton of paperwork involved in organising a raid to chat. Guleed was out – presumably still terrorising the sixth form at St Paul’s.