Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) (12 page)

“OK, get over here, now!”

“On my way, boss.”

Leo cancelled the call, popped the phone back in his pocket. He looked down at his desk, various bits of paper adorning it. All of this mundane admin could wait until the much more pressing matter of the cop was expedited. The past few weeks had been very difficult to bear. The hunt for his attacker proved to be trickier than he thought it would be, but now he realised why.

A cop. He could hardly believe it. Sure, he'd been on the receiving end of some rough treatment from the cops in his time, but always in relation to some investigation or arrest. To be assaulted in public like that was humiliating enough, but by an
off-duty
cop? That was just salt in the wound. Saying that, he almost admired the guy; to have the cojones to attack someone like him either took huge bravery or huge stupidity. The only other option would be that this was the one cop in the city who didn't know who Leo was. However, this fucker of a cop would soon become very well acquainted with Leo Corantelli - it just wouldn't be in any way he'd find gratifying. Bravery, stupidity or ignorance; it didn't really matter to Leo which option drove the cop's thinking. All that mattered was making sure he regretted ever acting upon those thoughts.

Leo pulled out the drawer of his desk, reached for the old phone. He'd only listened to the message once but the smarmy, self-satisfied tone, the insulting words, burned into his memory. He put it in a pocket separate from the new one, walked over to the safe, spun the combination and opened the door. Taking out his gun, ensuring it was loaded, he tucked it into the waistband of his trousers in the small of his back. He also picked up the flick knife; automatically opening then closing it again. It went into a custom-made holster attached to his calf, concealed under his trouser leg.

Making his way to the front door, Leo donned a heavy overcoat, wrapped a scarf around his neck and stepped out onto the wide, gravel driveway that swept up to his impressive abode. The chill air nipped at the top of his ears and the tip of his nose. There was a change in the seasons afoot. He pulled on his gloves as Bubba coasted into the driveway, gravel crunching under the tyres of the BMW. His Chief of Security got out without killing the engine and opened the back door for him. Leo settled into the leather upholstery and thought dark thoughts of revenge.

“Bubba.”

“Yes, boss?”

“Take me to this cocksucker, right now!”

No further encouragement was required. Bubba accelerated out of the driveway and onto the street. Leo's hunt was almost complete.

22. Identity Crisis

Dwayne Clements sat in his chair in the interview room looking pretty sorry for himself. His head rested on the backs of his hands on the table-top and an untouched, styrofoam cup of tea beside him had gone cold.

The cops picked him up in the early hours of the morning. A review of the CCTV footage at the shopping centre showed him and Lamar Stokes leaving on the motorbike. It was fair to say Lamar and Dwayne were not really intellectually cut out for a life of crime. Not only had they been filmed but Lamar used his own bike, and failed to cover the registration plate. A very small amount of elementary police work led the MIT straight to them.

They'd both been dragged in and spent the last four hours stewing in cells. Lamar, uncooperative, surly, determined to hold out and give the pigs nothing. Dwayne, on the other hand, bricking it. All the bravado and swagger he'd shown his crew on the estate drained out of him in the cell. He'd not even bothered to ditch the gun; the cops found it under his mattress after the most cursory of searches. His mother collapsed in shock when she saw it. He felt really bad about that. She was a good woman, tried her best to raise him well in very difficult conditions. He knew there was no way out of this. He was going down for a long, long time.

Dwayne couldn't help but feel hard done by. Why him? Why had the sick bastard decided to pick on him for spitting out his gum in the toilet? Thousands of people did that every day; was this fucker out there stopping all of
them
by pulling out their fucking teeth? At the time, it felt good to vent his anger via the gun but that victory seemed pretty hollow now. Jail beckoned and, when he got there, he could look forward having his skinny, little, black butt relentlessly invaded. Acting tough was one thing - being tough was quite another. He let out a slight sob as a solitary tear dropped onto the floor below the table.

Stark watched through the one-way glass, sipping coffee and thinking how an already unusual case had just become even more peculiar.

Dwayne Clements was accused of murdering a middle-aged plumber called Tony Stout. According to witnesses and camera footage, Dwayne and his pal Lamar Stokes, cornered Stout in the toilets of a shopping centre, shooting him four times. Forensics reported eight shots in total but it appeared Dwayne could do with some time on the practice range. The sergeant sent to pick them up recognised Clements' name from the briefing and contacted Stark to let him know he was about to be arrested. The DCI authorised Stark to do the interviews; even though no-one knew yet whether or not the shooting had a direct link to the Citizen V case.

The team who picked them up described Stokes as being rude, aggressive, defiant, whereas Clements acted quiet and nervous; bordering on timid. It made sense to go to Clements first, then deal with Stokes afterwards.

“Katz?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Has the duty solicitor turned up yet?”

“I think I saw her a minute ago, sir.”

“Right, in that case, let's get in there and have a wee word with Mr Clements.”

Stark thought Dwayne looked awful. The sunken cheeks and scars, added to his dishevelled clothing and bloodshot eyes, made him look like a fifty year old wino rather than an eighteen year old boy.

The duty solicitor was an old stager called Eleanor Gamble. Stark admired and respected her. Unlike the usual cynical cows or rookie numpties poor sods like Dwayne could normally expect to be allocated, she still cared about doing a good job; trying to acknowledge the smallest ounce of decency buried deep within the most despicable of clients. This did not make her a soft touch though. She had a fantastic way of preventing her clients from swamping cases with oceans of bullshit. By the same token, the cops were not allowed free rein to do as they pleased in pursuit of their version of the truth.

“Hi, Eleanor. How are you today?” asked Stark.

“I'm ok, thanks, DI Stark. Nice to see you again, and you, DC Katz.”

His partner nodded and smiled rather thinly. For some unknown reason, Katz did not appear to be all that enamoured with Eleanor Gamble. Stark thought Katz could do with a spell in charm school.

Stark pressed the tape machine to start recording the interview. Such an arcane and clunky thing to be using, but considered more secure and less easy to doctor than the digital alternatives.

He reeled off the usual introductions, caveats and scene setting required for the record, then addressed Dwayne directly.

“Dwayne, why did you shoot Tony Stout dead in that toilet?”

Eleanor Gamble raised her eyebrows at the bluntness. Stark was not one to waste time with niceties.

The boy just shrugged and looked at the table.

'So, you're not denying it then?'

Again the shrug.

“Dwayne, you need to speak, son. This is a tape recorder and shrugging won't be enough if it gets played back at a later date. Did you shoot and kill Tony Stout?”

“Yeah, if that's the geezer's name, I shot him,” came the rather quiet reply.

“Do you mind telling me why, son?”

“He's the motherfucker that pulled my teeth out. He fucking asked for it, man. Ok!” This time he shouted the reply.

Stark, Katz and Gamble were taken aback by this sudden, forceful revelation.

“Sorry, Dwayne, you're saying Tony Stout was the guy who assaulted you?”

“Yeah, man! He's the fucker and I sorted him - good and proper like!” Dwayne was beginning to enjoy venting his ire.

“Right, interview suspended at 11.30am. We'll continue this in a wee while. Is that ok with you, Eleanor?”

“Yes, I have another client to sit in with, so I'm not going anywhere else anyway.”

Katz and Stark convened in the hallway.

“What do you think?” Stark asked.

“Not sure, sir. Sounds a bit implausible. I spoke to Tony Stout's boss and he said the guy was married with two small kids, wouldn't say boo to a goose. They were all devastated and couldn't understand why anyone would want to kill him,” Katz replied.

Stark needed to stop looking so intently into her eyes. He was becoming ever so slightly aroused and that would not do at all.

“Yeah, but who knows what kind of person this Citizen V is. They seem to have some sort of moral compass or social conscience thing going on. Maybe they would seem perfectly normal to the folks around them?”

“That's a good point, sir, I suppose. It's just, I don't know...in my head, I don't have a plumber as the person writing those notes and doing those violent things all over the city.”

The two of them paused to think and digest what was going on.

“I need you to do a bit of digging on this Tony Stout guy. See if we can put him somewhere other than the scenes. If it was impossible for him to have done any of them, I think we need to talk to Dwayne again and see if we can get a bit more out of him.”

“Ok, sir. I'm on it. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Stark watched her go off up the corridor and through a set of double doors. His eyes never left her arse the whole time.

***

Lara Katz's parents were Bosnian immigrants; refugees from the civil war that tore Yugoslavia apart in the early 1990's. They brought nothing with them other than the clothes they wore, their daughter and some bitter memories. Her father, an eminent professor of history, was eternally grateful that the academic world of London embraced him when he needed them most. Within a few years they were living in relative comfort again, although always restless, talking of when they would return to their old home.

Lara had been a toddler when she arrived in the UK and remembered nothing of the land of her birth. Raised and schooled in London, she was bilingual, which accounted for the hint of an accent when speaking in English. A few family members lived in Sarajevo and she'd visited a couple of times since her late teens. Three months ago her parents finally found the resolve and the money to go back. Without siblings, she was alone in the big smoke. However, it didn't bother her much, she'd always been independent and resourceful.

Police work suited Lara. She was tenacious, inquisitive and intelligent, as well as fearless; mentally and physically. The manner in which her parents were forced to flee their homeland definitely helped draw her to a job involving upholding law and order. Justice seen to be done.

Lara was one of a few rising stars identified by the Met for fast-tracking into senior positions. Her appointment to work with Adam Stark in MIT was part of this training process; designed to see her ready to sit the exams and become a Detective Inspector within two years. As a woman, and a very attractive woman to boot, she needed to battle all manner of prejudice and assumptions about the process. Most young cops accepted it as part of the way things were and knew no different. However, a lot of the older guys - and they were almost always guys - had a distinct chip on their shoulder about it. She developed a thick skin and selective hearing, just got on with it. Her morose persona was part of this coping mechanism. She decided early on in her career,  if she was too sunny or chatty, it might just reinforce the misogyny of the cretins who indulged in such behaviour.

Stark seemed a decent boss as far as she could tell: even-tempered, could take a joke as well as dish it out, and treated her with respect in front of others. There were times when she felt he  might be checking her out, but it was subtle, nothing that made her feel uncomfortable. As long as Lara didn't encourage him, he seemed to know where to draw the line professionally. All in all, she could have been lumbered with a lot worse for a partner and mentor. Stark was also a damn good cop, which would hopefully mean looking good by proxy and getting the promotion she craved.

This case was a real teaser. A case that, if they managed to solve it, would gain them a great deal of recognition within the MIT. No, there was no
if
. They
would
solve it. She was sure that between her and Stark they would muster enough brain power and determination to get there.

Katz spent the next hour or so checking with Tony Stout's wife and boss on his whereabouts at the times of the attacks undertaken by Citizen V. If they were to be believed, and there was no compelling reason not to believe them, the good Mr. Stout was just that; there was no way he was Citizen V. She thanked the two witnesses and relayed the news to Stark.

Returning to the interview room, they found themselves armed with a rather different set of questions to the ones they imagined asking earlier that morning.

Dwayne was seated at the table again, with Eleanor Gamble by his side. Stark and Katz sat opposite them and Stark once again performed the obligatory formalities in terms of the tape.

“Dwayne, you told us earlier that Tony Stout attacked you. Is that right?”

“Yeah, man. That's what I said, innit.”

The reply was more surly and downbeat than before. Perhaps some more time in his cell had cooled his jets a touch; thinking of his future or lack thereof.

“Hmm. That's really interesting Dwayne because at the time you were having your teeth pulled out, Tony Stout was in a pub full of his friends and family celebrating his fortieth birthday.”

The look that crossed Dwayne's face was a mixture of disbelief and dismay.

“What do you mean, man? It was him. I saw him. He was the one what attacked me. I don't care what his homeys said - he attacked me, he wasn't at no party!”