Catalyst (6 page)

“Oh I do,” Tom interrupted, “well the second bit anyway. He
did
do the estate a big favour. He just about set them all free.”

Andrew stood motionless for a few moments, looking at his colleague with a quizzical frown and absorbing his words.

“Okay,” he said, finally, “let's pick up Plan A tomorrow.”

The Major Incident Team room on the ground floor at Parkside was unremarkable in almost all aspects. One wall was completely covered floor-to-ceiling with white matt-finish panels that served as write-on boards, magnetic display boards and projection screens. The room contained twenty work stations arranged in groups of five for the four teams of detectives working there, and there were four doors leading off it down one side. Two of these opened onto small meeting rooms and a third led to the Detective Inspector's office, currently unoccupied due to its normal resident being on maternity leave. The fourth door represented the single exception from the norm; it gave access to the office of Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard. Someone of David's rank would usually occupy an office ‘upstairs' with the Senior Leadership Team, but at the time of his promotion he had managed to pull a few strings in order to remain with the ‘ground forces', as he called them.

At 9.00 am prompt, he pulled on his suit jacket and emerged from the office, briefly filling the doorway as he passed through it. David Gerrard was huge – a colossus. He stood six feet five inches tall in his bare feet, and weighed in at a shade over eighteen stones – or 1.96 metres and 115 kilograms, as his official record stated. A former Saracens and England Saxons flanker, his career as a full-time professional had been cut short by recurring back and hip problems, but he had since worked hard – and successfully – to retain his physique and fitness. His craggy face was round and full and friendly – some said too friendly for a senior police officer, although his fearsome bulk more than made up for it. Now in his fifty-third year, his slightly receding dark brown hair showed only the faintest traces of grey.

As always, the group became instantly silent as he entered the room. He moved over to the large map of the estate and its immediate surroundings which spanned two A1 size sheets of fibre-board resting side-by-side on a pair of easels in front of the white-panelled wall. To the right of it, an image thrown onto the wall from the ceiling mounted Lite-Pro projector showed a blank background with a number of icons round the edges. To the left of the map were pinned photographs of the three brothers and around a dozen images from the scene of the killings. David turned to face the group, which comprised two of the four detective teams.

“Right,” he said, “before we move on, let's recap on what we've done so far. In the absence of any progress at all in finding this guy, it might be therapeutic to remind ourselves that we've been working bloody hard all the same. Catherine, tell us what we know about motive.”

He addressed DC Catherine Baxter.

“Almost certainly a revenge killing, sir. Could be personal or contract, related to drugs, protection or social disorder activities – and, just possibly, sectarian.”

David nodded, appreciatively. “Thank you, Catherine. Very snappy – you've set the standard. Omar, rationale for drug-related?”

DC Shakhir responded. “None really, sir. Doesn't fit the normal pattern for a gang reprisal. Contract killings are very rare. The Bradys would probably have recognised the guy if he'd been from a rival group and he would most likely have shot them there and then.”

“Okay, thanks. Siobhan, what about protection?”

“Also unlikely, sir.” DC Wheeler had been seated and stood up to give her reply. “It's hard to believe any of the major chains would risk hiring a contract killer – it sort of goes against their corporate charters and mission statements – and the smaller outlets just couldn't afford it. So we reckon that's a ‘no'.”

“Good enough. Geoff. Sectarian?”

“Man had a Northern Irish accent,” DC Drury answered, “and Brady clan used to live in Donegal. But no history of sectarian involvement and family relocated to London during the Troubles, long before Jimmy and the twins were born. So that's a ‘no' as well, sir.”

“Which leaves – DC Cottrell?”

“Possible link to street violence and intimidation. On the night of the killings, the man was observed at the scene of the disturbance watching the Bradys. Less than half an hour later the killer entered the Wild Boar and – it seems certain now – deliberately singled them out.”

“You said ‘killer', Detective Sergeant. Just for once, you're allowed to state the bleeding obvious. Why do we believe the man in the pub is the killer?”

Jo looked surprised at the question.

“Well, sir, he was seen by about thirty kids alone with the Bradys in the cul-de-sac where they were found dead.”

“Okay… ”

“And,” she went on, “the two hundred pounds Jimmy had taken from him in the pub was missing from the body.”

“Right. Forensic evidence? Robbie?”

“None, sir,” said DC Burns. “No identifiable prints on the stool or glass in the pub, nothing from Jimmy's clothing or the other notes in his pocket. Firearm used was 9mm, quite probably a Glock, but the gun's signature on the bullets can't be matched to any from other shootings.”

David nodded and paused for a moment.

“Okay, thanks everybody; so that's what we've got so far – not exactly sweet FA, but not much more. And without anything else, we still can't be sure exactly why this man did what he did. And without knowing
that
, we can't narrow down the search.”

He paused to look round the anxious faces.

“Now I know a number of you grabbing bastards put in a lot of overtime this weekend.”

The group relaxed for the moment into a collective smile.

“Three hundred and thirty-odd records checked – very impressive – but, I'm afraid, nothing to celebrate. Geoff and Murray have got a couple of leads to follow up, but I won't be asking anyone to hold their breath. So, where do we go from here?”

He turned to the map which was exhibiting signs of wear, with frayed edges and finger marks all over it, reflecting the amount of attention it had received, being the only material focus of the meetings – and the case – so far. The scene of the disturbance, the location of the Wild Boar Inn and the place where the Bradys died – on the very edge of the area covered – were marked with red circular stickers. Scattered over the rest of the map were a number of smaller green ones, fifteen in all.

“I know that the initial team visited every house and apartment on the estate during the door-to-doors. I am also aware that some residents were not at home when they called the first time and that they followed up with further visits to talk to them. In fact, I know by that time some of you were involved in follow-up visits.” He pointed to the map. “These green dots represent houses where residents have not yet been spoken to. These are the addresses – DS Cottrell.”

Jo clicked on an icon on her laptop and the image next to the map changed to display a list of addresses with the tenants' names. David continued.

“I'd like, say, three or four of you, to split this list and do a final check this morning, and speak to neighbours if we still draw a blank at the addresses themselves. Any questions?”

No-one spoke.

“Detective Sergeant?” he said, inviting Jo to add anything.

“Nothing, sir, except that copies of the list are on my desk.”

“Right, we'll get back together again here at four o'clock for an update. Okay, let's go.”

“What exactly are we looking for, sir?” asked Jo, as they strolled through Cullen Field Estate.

“Anything,” said David, “and just as likely, nothing.”

“Will we know it when we see it?” she asked, smiling.

“Doubt it,” said David.

The Cullen Field Estate was home to around 3,000 people. It had been conceived twenty years ago as a celebration of council accommodation, providing aesthetically pleasing housing with a sense of individuality. Throughout the estate there were wide margins of grass, expansive flowerbeds and small parks dotted around, avoiding any over-concentration of red brick and white rendering. One third of the residences were apartments, but these were accommodated in three-storey blocks designed to look like large houses. The houses themselves, of which there were six different designs, were built to the highest architectural and environmental specifications, and each one had an open plan front garden and enclosed rear one. From the air, the estate as a whole was precisely symmetrical, but at ground level it was pleasingly varied from road to road, close to close, which achieved that feeling of individuality.

On the edge of the estate was a large shopping mall, designed to attract shoppers from a wide surrounding area as well as to provide for the residents themselves. Cullen Hall, like the estate itself, was a high quality show-piece, with domes, arches and manicured gardens giving it the appearance of a huge ancient temple from the outside.

Early signs had been encouraging. Community pride was clear to see in the neatness of the gardens and quality of both internal and external décor. Coach parties flocked to the mall and local businesses thrived. Then the street gangs took over, culminating in the iron grip of the Bradys and their disciples. For the past few years, the estate had been in freefall.

David and Jo turned into the road leading to the square where the disturbance had taken place on the evening of the killings. As they walked together towards the end of the road, Jo stopped and looked round, getting her bearings.

“I have a feeling there's a green dot around here somewhere,” she said. Taking a battered notebook from the inside pocket of her jacket, she opened it and removed a folded A4 sheet with the list of addresses. “This is Kingdom Road and the four closes off it are St Andrew's, St David's, St Patrick's and – bet you can't guess. And here we are,” she added, as they arrived at St George's Close. She checked the sheet. “Number 12 is on our hit list. A Mrs Alma Deverall. Shall we take a look?”

They walked down the close. The front gardens were all lawned and fairly well tended. The houses themselves looked neat and clean.

“I spent nearly a full day around here just after the disturbance – and the killings,” she said, “and it didn't look anything like this. It fits the pattern of pride returning to the community. All these gardens were overgrown and full of rubbish only a week ago, and there were broken windows and graffiti all round the close. Whoever our killer is, he's touched this place with the hand of God.”

The one exception was Number 12, where the grass was over a foot high and the weeds were already wrapping around the ‘For Sale' sign which reached up out of the undergrowth. The front door was slightly damaged but someone had daubed a couple of coats of paint on it to try and make it look respectable.

“I'm sure the sign wasn't here before, either,” said Jo. “Mind you, they make great kindling, don't they? I couldn't imagine one lasting very long on this estate before the Bradys left us. Do you know that over three hundred of those five-hundred-and-odd cases involved arson, usually along with something else?”

“Those bastards really did run the place, didn't they? Run it
and
ruin it,” said David. “Good riddance, I say. Not officially, of course,” he added.

They walked up the path to the front door of Number 12. There was no point in knocking; it was clear no-one was living there even though a few items of furniture remained inside.

“Stuff must have been moved out since I was here,” said Jo, consulting her notebook. “I would have made a note if any of the houses had been unoccupied.”

“So someone might have moved out immediately after the killings,” said David. “Killed the boys and ran away… ” But he seemed unable to link the fact to anything relevant. “Anyway, worth checking, I suppose. Could you find out who the vendor is and the timing and stuff?”