The Crime Trade (23 page)

It had been the answer we'd been anticipating. On the way over here we'd checked with the incident room to see if Fanner's name appeared on the list of Desmarches suit owners, and it hadn't. It still wasn't conclusive proof that Fanner and our killer weren't one and the same, but it was getting close to it.
Malik took back the e-fit, and now it was his turn to speak again. 'You said just now that you thought he might have gone too far by coming here and firing a gun. Was that the first time you'd ever seen him with a firearm, then?'
She gave a barely perceptible nod. 'Yeah, it was.'
'But he'd hit you before?'
'Oh yeah,' she said matter-of-factly, as if this was par for the course in her life. 'He used to knock me about quite a lot, especially if I wasn't making enough money for him, or I was threatening to quit. But this was different.'
'I can imagine.'
'No, not like that. It's just that normally he works himself up before he does it. You know, shouts about, smashes a couple of things. But this time he was only in here two minutes before he pulled the gun. He waved it in my face, then fired it into the ceiling.' She shuddered. 'I couldn't believe it. And in front of Jack as well, poor kid. Scared him shitless. He was crying all night.'
'What happened at that point?' asked Malik. 'After he'd fired the gun.'
'Well, that was it. He told me not to say anything to anyone about what he'd just done, then he turned round and walked out. Didn't say another word. It was weird.'
Malik and I glanced at each other. She was right. It was weird, and just more confirmation that Fanner wasn't our man. He was just too much of an amateur. But then, if he wasn't, who the hell was?
'He didn't say anything about you going back to work for him, then?' I asked.
Jack was shouting again something
unintelligible but loud, in a futile bid to get attention and I had to repeat the question. She told him to be quiet, then turned back to me.
'He did when he first came in, yeah. Told me that he was sick of me pissing him about, but he didn't go on about it like he normally did.'
Malik changed the line of questioning. 'Do you know if he ever did anything else for money?'
She said he dealt crack and blow now and again, and occasionally smack, but that was all, as far as she knew.
'Does he, or did he, carry round large sums of money?'
'He always had a few quid on him, yeah, but then he took money off me, and the other girls he had working for him, plus he made money on the gear, so it ain't really surprising, is it?'
Malik then asked whether there were any occasions when Fanner had suddenly come into very large sums of cash, but she said she wasn't sure, didn't think so. He looked at me again, and his expression mirrored my thoughts. He wasn't the O'Brien shooter.
'It's important we find Mr Fanner,' I said.
'You've found him already, but you let him go. Even though he pulled a gun on me and Jack, and fired it. It don't exactly make us feel safe, does it?'
'I can't comment on that, Miss Ragdale. It wasn't our inquiry. But if we find him this time, it's very unlikely he'll be seeing anything but prison walls for a good few years to come.'
She managed a cynical smile. 'What's he done this time, then?'
'We can't tell you that at the moment, I'm afraid.'
Thought not.'
'Can you tell us where you think he might be? We've got his bail address.' I reeled it off to her. 'Any other ideas?'
'I ain't had much to do with him these past couple of months, thank God. I know there were another couple of girls working for him. One was called Nicki, and I think another one was Dora. I dunno where they live, though.' She must have seen the disappointment in our expressions, because she tried to justify herself. 'Honest, I'm not trying to protect him. I hate the bastard. If you do ever get hold of him, I hope you throw away the key, but I honestly can't think where he'll be. He moves around a lot. He's got a lot of enemies, people he owes money to, so he's pretty slippery when he wants to be.'
And that was it really. I stood up, and Malik followed suit. Thanks for your time, Miss Ragdale. Bye, Jack.' Jack shouted a very long 'bye' back, and gave me a wide grin. Malik pulled a card from the pocket of his suit. 'If you do hear from Mr Fanner at any point in the future . . .'
'Don't worry,' she said. 'I'll be on the blower like a shot. I don't want that bastard coming anywhere near us.'
She saw us to the door, and as it shut behind us I suddenly felt very depressed. Ever since childhood, I've always wanted justice for people, and by that I mean seeing that they get the fate they deserve. If another kid at school was bullied for no reason, I'd intervene, because it wasn't fair, and I knew that I couldn't just stand by and do nothing. As a copper, I'd spent the last twenty years intervening in the world around me, trying to create an illusion of fairness, but what depressed me now was that I could see no justice here and, worse, I could do nothing about it either. I was leaving behind a young woman and her son to live their lonely existence in a cramped little flat high above the ground, forgotten by the world around them, except when it came calling with threats and violence, and I couldn't help wondering how long it would be before Fiona Ragdale ended up hawking herself for another pimp and escaping reality by sinking back into the dope. And what, then, would happen to Jack? A pimp and a thug in the making? A care-home kid? A street runaway dead by fifteen? Or maybe it would be a story with a happy ending. Such things are always possible, I suppose, but somehow I didn't think so. The thing with me is that I'm a pessimist who's constantly trying to be optimistic, but can't quite manage it. Experience gained through years of policework doesn't allow for that sort of naivety.
I thought about saying something to Malik about how I was feeling, but decided against it. Sometimes these things are best kept to yourself. Perhaps I could buy Jack something, or send them some money. But I knew I was deluding myself. I'd forget about the two of them soon enough, when the next crisis or tragedy came calling.
When we were back on street level, Malik pulled his mobile from his pocket and called the DCS while we made our way through the subway that led under the main road outside the Warwick estate in the direction of Royal Oak Underground station. A watery, early-spring sun fought its way out from behind the clouds as we crossed the wrought-iron bridge that passed over the train tracks heading into Paddington, and I suddenly got that uplifting feeling that the worst of the winter was over and that summer was coming.
We got back to where the car we'd brought was parked at a meter in the somewhat grander ambience of Porchester Square, a few hundred yards and a million miles away from the tower block where we'd just been, and Malik finished talking to Flanagan and hung up. 'He's very pleased with the Fanner lead,' he said, as we got in and I started the engine. 'The pressure's beginning to get too much on this one. He's doing a press conference down at Scotland Yard in half an hour, just to keep everyone in the media up to date with our progress. I think he
was getting a bit worried about it. Now with this, he's going to tell them that we're following up on several significant leads, which should keep them quiet for a day or two.'
'What's he want us to do?' I said, turning on to the Bishops Bridge Road.
'Get over to Fanner's bail address and keep an eye on the place, just until he gets a chance to set up a team from SO11 to put him under surveillance properly. But it's going to take a couple of hours. If he decides to leave the premises, we're to follow him discreetly, see what he gets up to. At the moment, it's only about evidence-gathering. We're not to apprehend him, unless we catch him in the commission of a serious crime.'
'No problem.'
'What the hell's that?'
'What?'
'Over there. Slow down.'
I looked to where Malik was pointing. On the other side of the road, in front of the railings that separated the pavement from the grounds of Paddington's Hallfield estate, a group of four men were fighting. It looked like it was one against the rest, and the one was having a bit of a hard time of it. He took a punch to the head and went down, disappearing behind a parked car, allowing the others to deliver a series of unseen kicks in his direction.
I slammed on the brakes, coming to a skidding halt twenty yards away from the action, and shoved on the hazards. Malik produced his mobile phone and called for back-up, and at the same time we both jumped out of the car. The vehicle behind us did an emergency stop and gave a continuous blast of the horn, but I was already running for the other side of the road, waving my warrant card in all directions, Malik's footsteps sounding close behind.
'Stop, police!' I yelled, unsure what else to say. It's rare these days that I come across a crime actually taking place in front of me so it's not something I have to practise a lot. I'd almost forgotten the adrenalin rush you get when you suddenly shove yourself in the path of danger.
I was now less than ten yards away and the three men, all eastern European in appearance, turned to face me, their expressions ones of surprise rather than fear. I could see why. One of them was holding a wicked-looking claw hammer in his hand, claw facing outwards, and they also had the numerical advantage. I slowed down, knowing that if they didn't run Malik and I were both in trouble. Neither of us was armed and neither of us was in a position to bring this situation to a swift end, other than through the force of our personalities.
'Police!' I shouted again, still coming forward, speeding up again now, knowing that any obvious hesitation would be fatal. 'You're all under arrest.'
One of them aimed another kick at their unfortunate victim, shouting something in a language I didn't understand, and then, without warning, all three turned and made a dash for it up the road. I ran up onto the pavement, gave a half-hearted five-yard chase more
to make sure they didn't come back than anything else (I'll be straight: there was no way I was tackling a man with a claw hammer when he was hot-footing it in the opposite direction) then
turned in the direction of the victim, who was being pulled to his feet by Malik, one hand covering his face where he'd been kicked.
He looked familiar, but then he would have done: I'd seen his photograph often enough that day, although he was a lot bulkier in the flesh. Malik recognized Robert 'Pretty Boy' Fanner at exactly the same time, and took his arm, starting to speak.
Fanner might have taken a bit of a beating but he didn't appear too much the worse for wear, and his eyes widened as he realized who we were. Knowing he might make a run for it, I
took a step forward to secure his other arm, but before I could reach him he lashed out, hitting Malik in the gut, then swung him bodily against the bonnet of the nearest car. Malik's not the biggest of guys, and he went straight over it. I jumped forward, trying to grab Fanner's jacket, but he was a fast mover and did a nice little ballet-style twirl before accelerating away down the pavement in the direction of Paddington station.
I looked over at Malik, saw that he was OK as he clambered up from behind the car, then took off after Fanner. He might have been fast, and obviously keen to get away, but I was also very keen to catch him, and now that I'd started going to the gym (albeit erratically) in an effort to get myself fit again and impress Tina, I thought I was in with a chance.
But clearly my fitness regime needed some improving because Fanner had the edge and slowly but surely he opened up a gap between us, helped no doubt by the fact that a group of schoolkids across the street were enthusiastically cheering him on. Whatever happened to rooting for the good guys?
As he came to the north-eastern corner of the Hallfield, he turned into Gloucester Terrace. There were ten yards between us now, twelve when I had to dodge an old lady who looked like she was trying to cut me off. Or maybe it was just that I was getting suspicious of everyone. I rounded the corner and saw another schoolkid lying on the pavement where Fanner had evidently knocked him over. He was surrounded by a group of his mates who were all staring after the fugitive's rapidly disappearing figure. That bastard could have been a promising athlete if he'd put his mind to it, instead of spending his days pimping, threatening women and children, and getting beaten up. He had a natural swiftness of foot that made it look like there was lead in my brogues. But I was going to get him, I was sure of that.

'Police! Out the way!'
The group scattered, but the kid on the ground sat up and tried to crawl away, and I was forced to jump over him, losing my footing as I landed back on the pavement and stumbling forward onto my hands and knees. Behind me I heard laughter, but I didn't have time to worry about that as I ran on, my breathing getting heavier all the time as the full enormity of my unfitness finally became apparent.
Up ahead twenty
yards away at least, probably more -Fanner had stopped by a battered old BMW and was fishing round in his pocket for the key. I made a final burst, ignoring the pain in my lungs, knowing that I'd hardly have the strength to stand up, let alone nick him, by the time we were face to face, but knowing that I couldn't stop. Glory beckoned.
He found the key, opened the door and jumped inside. I was ten yards away now. The engine coughed and roared into life, and he reversed straight into the car behind him, smashing its headlights. Eight yards, six, four ... He turned the wheel as far as it would go, at the same time moving forward, but a car coming the other way prevented him from pulling out. Two yards, one, and then I was pulling open the door and yelling at him to stop, reaching for the keys.
The other car passed, and Fanner slammed his foot on the accelerator and roared out on to the road, with me clinging desperately to the door as my legs were dragged from under me. I had to make a split-second decision, and I made it.
'You fucker!' I screamed at the side of Robert Fanner's head, then I let go of the door and tumbled hard onto the road, rolling over and praying that any traffic coming my way would have enough time to stop, all too aware that grabbing hold of speeding cars rarely results in a happy ending.
I heard the shriek of brakes, loud in my ears. A car stopped
much too near, and there was the sound of a metallic impact combined with the shattering of lights as another car hit it from behind, shunting it forward. I could smell the heat of the engine, my eyes remaining tight shut, hands covering my head, my shoulder burning where it had struck the tarmac.
Slowly, very slowly, I opened my eyes. The driver's-side tyre of the lead car was a foot from my head. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
We were at the scene for more than an hour. Back-up had duly arrived a few minutes later but Fanner was long gone, and I hadn't been able to get the registration of the car he was driving. I also had to act as witness in the three-car crash caused by my rolling about in the road, having been rudely ejected from Fanner's BMW, and had to give my details to a succession of drivers most of whom didn't seem to understand why I'd felt the need to act like Jackie Chan, all the time rubbing my injured shoulder in a vain attempt to gain even a modicum of sympathy.
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 Fanner 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 Huston 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.
'Fanner 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.'
20
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.
When he got back inside a few minutes later, the missus had come off the phone.
'What's happened with Linda?' he asked.
She gave him her wide-eyed expression that signified that some sort of minor drama had occurred. 'Well, Clive's away in Abu Dhabi on business and she's just had a crank call. Some man saying he wants to become a porno star and telling her the size of his you-know?' She lowered her eyes in the direction of her groin, just in case he didn't know what she meant by a 'you-know'.
'That's terrible,' said Stegs. 'How big did he say it was?'
She laughed in spite of herself, and he thought he saw a twinkle in her eye. 'Oh, Mark, I'm serious. She's very worried. You know what Linda's like.'
'He didn't threaten her, though, did he?'
'Apparently not; in fact, he was talking like she was someone else. But she said he got very annoyed when she claimed she
didn't know what he was going on about. He even told her to fuck off.'
'She'll be all right. The excitement probably did her good. Especially after a few years married to Clive.'
'At least Clive provides,' she said sternly, her good mood evaporating almost as fast as it arrived.
Stegs couldn't help thinking that where his missus was concerned he was incapable of saying the right thing. She lightened up; he spoke; she darkened again.
'Yeah, well,' he said, sitting down. 'He's got to be good for something.'
The conversation dissolved into sullen silence. Celebrity Wheelchair Challenge came to an end and the missus went channel hopping across the whole gamut of Sky's satellite offerings, including such gems as When Good Pets Go Bad and Britain's Worst Plumbers Part 2, before settling on one of the early editions of Friends.
The sound of Mission Impossible came from the pocket of Stegs's jeans. The missus sighed theatrically and turned up the volume as Ross tried to justify himself to Rachel about something he'd said to Phoebe which had subsequently been misinterpreted. Stegs had seen variations of this sub-plot a hundred times before on Friends. He'd liked the programme once, in the old days before the arrival of Luke, when he and the missus would snuggle up on the sofa and watch it with a bag of popcorn and a bottle of wine. Now it had just gone on too long. Like the relationship, really.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and went out into the hallway. If it was that hound Trevor Murk phoning again to find out what was happening with his reward, then he was going to get a serious ear-bashing. But it wasn't. It was Tino. Stegs walked into the back garden and lit another cigarette.
It was a nice evening, mild for the time of year.
'Hello, Tino. I hope you've got some good news for me.'
'I still do not know what you are trying to do here, man.'
'I'm trying to keep you out of jail-That's
what I'm trying to do. Now, have you made contact?'
'Ja, I went by her work tonight, the cafe you told me about. We got talking. She says she will go out with me later. It was pretty easy, man. She was, how you say, very keen. I think she likes me.'
'Well, you're a handsome fellow,' said Stegs, pleased that it had gone smoothly. It hadn't been that easy finding out where Judy Flanagan did her part-time job, but it seemed the effort had been worthwhile.
'Thanks, man. That's a nice compliment.'
'So, you're going to take her back to your room, OK?'
'I think she wants to go out somewhere a bit nicer. She was talking about a bar, maybe a meal.'
Trust Flanagan's flesh and blood to go for a freebie. 'Wine her and dine her a bit, then. But make sure you get her back to the apartment.'
'I don't have a lot of money, Mark. Things are not going so well for me at the moment.'
'Maybe you should flog some of those pills you've got.'
'Flog?'
'Sell. It means sell.'
'Do you know any buyers?'
Stegs was getting tired of this conversation. Tino had got the power to wear out men as well as women, though for very different reasons. 'Listen, there's still three years in jail hanging over your head. Find some money-I'm