The Kill (25 page)

‘Yeah, well, why wouldn’t I? You know I love your peasant superstitions.’

‘You are far more superstitious than me.’

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ he said loftily, knowing that it was true. ‘Look, I wanted you to be on my team and Twatflaps Burt did not. I was never going to back down without a fight, but I didn’t mean to upset you. That wasn’t what I wanted. Not at all.’

He looked sincere. I felt my eyes suddenly swim with tears, to my horror, just because Derwent was being nice. ‘Well, don’t do it again.’

‘I promise.’

‘Just make sure you don’t.’

Derwent shifted in his chair, irritated. ‘I promised. That means something.’

‘It means you said you wouldn’t. But we both know you’re a liar.’

His eyebrows went up. The temperature in the cafe suddenly seemed to drop twenty degrees. ‘Explain.’

‘You let Superintendent Enderby think you didn’t know the names of the officers who died last night.’

‘So?’

‘So that was a lie,’ I said patiently. ‘You know the names. You probably know more than that. You probably know all about them.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I know.’

‘You know.’

‘Yes. I got the sergeant’s name wrong just now and you corrected me as if it mattered to you. There’s no way you didn’t find out all you could about the men who died.’ I motioned encouragingly. ‘Come on. Let’s hear them.’

He didn’t want to prove me right but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘Mark Greyson, aged thirty-seven. Sergeant. Promoted six years ago. Two children. Martin Wade, thirty-one, separated from his wife, two kids. Adam Levington, thirty-five, married, first child on the way. Jordan Makepeace, twenty-eight. Not married. No kids. Stuart Broderick, twenty-nine. Not married. No kids.’

‘Wade was divorced, not separated. It came through last week. And Broderick’s girlfriend is pregnant. Otherwise, word perfect.’

‘You knew them too,’ Derwent said accusingly.

‘I didn’t say I didn’t.’

‘I’ve taught you well.’

‘I didn’t need you to teach me compassion for the victims of violent crime. Knowing who died is sort of basic, for a murder investigation.’

‘Yes, it is, but you’d be surprised how many people working on this haven’t bothered to find out anything about them.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ I said. ‘Una Burt didn’t ask any questions about them at all. She’s not big on human emotions like grief and empathy.’

‘She’s a lump of suet in a trouser suit.’ Derwent checked the time. ‘We should go back. Might as well waste the day on the estate as anywhere else.’

‘You think it’s a waste of time.’

‘I do. I don’t know yet why those officers were targeted but I bet the answer isn’t on the estate. It was someone from outside who set them up because you don’t bring that kind of shit to your own front doorstep. If this had originated on the Maudling Estate, that’s the last place the shooting would have happened.’

It was a good point and I thought about it for a bit. ‘Is it connected to Hammond?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We’ve been looking at Hammond as if it was personal. We assumed it was something he’d done that made him a victim. Maybe it was just the fact that he was a police officer. On duty, off duty, a legitimate target.’

‘That’s a cheery thought.’

‘It would explain why we’ve made no progress with the Hammond investigation.’

Derwent pulled a face. ‘I still don’t think he was an innocent policeman going about his business. Look what he was doing when he died. Look at the comments from his colleagues.’

‘There aren’t that many people who could stand up to the kind of scrutiny we give murder victims,’ I pointed out. ‘Godley always says everyone has secrets.’

‘I just don’t like Hammond.’

‘That’s so strange. Usually you like everyone.’

‘It’s his memorial service tonight. You can go.’

‘Can I? Thanks,’ I said, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in my tone. It would be just exactly what I felt like doing after spending the day on door-to-door enquiries.

‘You’re welcome.’ Derwent smirked at me for a moment, then got serious again. ‘I think we need to stay on Hammond. The boss may be distracted currently but I don’t want him turning round and asking us what we’ve been doing about him when the answer is nothing.’

‘And the two cases might be connected.’

‘They might,’ Derwent allowed. ‘Bit of a coincidence, having two people with a grudge against the police and heavy-duty weapons to hand at the same time. But they don’t feel the same, to me.’

‘The boss seems convinced.’

Derwent snorted. ‘The boss would say black was white if he wanted it to be. He was determined to run this case and I don’t know why. This is not a career maker. He wanted to get stuck with it. Do you have any idea?’

‘No.’ But I had been wondering about it myself. ‘He’s not himself at the moment, is he?’

‘You’ve noticed.’

‘Maybe it’s the divorce.’

Derwent raised his eyebrows. ‘You say it like you don’t know.’

‘Because I don’t.’

‘Are you sure? He seems to confide in you more than anyone.’

‘Really, don’t start.’ I tipped back the last of my coffee and put the cup on the saucer with a clink. ‘We should go.’

Derwent didn’t move. ‘I know there’s more going on between you and Godley than you’re prepared to admit. I don’t know what yet, but I will find out.’

‘You’re wasting your time.’ I was never going to tell him what I knew about Godley – how he’d been on the take for years, how he and the crime lord John Skinner had been hand in glove since long before I’d known either Godley or Derwent. Derwent, who had been Godley’s right-hand man when they were hunting Skinner, who worshipped Godley with a blind loyalty that I found touching and very slightly irritating, would be pole-axed by the betrayal.

‘Am I?’

‘You are.’ I put my coat on. ‘Anyway, you have more important things to worry about.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the fact that we’ve got six dead police officers to investigate and no leads.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘Yeah, that.’

Derwent rubbed his eyes. ‘Do you know what I don’t like about all of this? It makes us look vulnerable. It makes it look too easy to turn us over.’

‘We are vulnerable,’ I said. ‘We just look intimidating because there are lots of us and we generally win in a straight fight.’

‘It depends, though, doesn’t it? Because if we’re too nervous to patrol the way we usually do, the scumbags own the streets. That’s what happened during the riots in 2011 after the Duggan shooting. We ran scared and they knew it.’

‘That won’t happen this time,’ I said with more confidence than I felt. ‘The courts dished out decent sentences after the 2011 riots. People have more sense than to try anything like that again.’

‘There’s a lot of resentment out there about us at the moment. And I spent a bit of time with the response officers today. They’re not happy about the support they’re getting from the bosses. They feel like they’re on the front line with no backup. If they don’t want to put themselves out there because they don’t feel safe, we will have a big, big problem.’

‘We’re not in that situation yet.’

‘Not yet,’ Derwent agreed. ‘But it wouldn’t take much.’

I had the uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling that he was right.

We walked back to the Maudling Estate together in silence, each of us occupied with our own thoughts. I was concentrating on looking calm – in control rather than wild-eyed and traumatised. On the whole, I thought I was doing well. It was simply remarkable what good coffee could do to put you back on your feet.

As we crossed the road to walk into the estate, I saw Godley in front of a collection of journalists and cameramen, giving an ad hoc press conference. Microphones and digital recorders jostled for prime position under his chin. We stopped too far away to hear what he was saying, but every time he fell silent there was a cacophony of questions from the reporters.

‘That’s the bit I couldn’t do.’ Derwent eyed them sourly. ‘All they want is something to fill their two-minute piece to camera or five hundred words. They don’t care about what happened here.’

‘You don’t know that. Anyway, they have their job to do, like us.’

‘They should get a real job. Something useful.’ He frowned. ‘Wait, what’s this?’

He was looking at a small procession that had begun to issue from one of the towers: people carrying white and red tissue-paper roses. Right at the front was a woman I recognised. She was tall and elegant, the bags under her eyes the only sign of strain. Her hair was braided in hundreds of tiny plaits, a look that had become her signature.

‘That’s Claudine Cole, Levon’s mum.’

‘What’s she doing?’

‘Making a statement,’ I said. ‘I hope that prick Geoff Armstrong is watching. There isn’t much he can teach her about making a point, is there?’

The group was about thirty strong and mainly composed of middle-aged women. They all wore white and red scarves, or small roses pinned to their coats. They gathered in the middle of the car park and bowed their heads as Mrs Cole made a short speech, or possibly a prayer. Then, at a word from her, they laid their flowers on the ground.

‘What’s the deal with the flowers?’ Derwent asked.

‘Haven’t you seen them? It’s the symbol of her campaign. It’s on all the posters.’

She walked away from them a few paces and stood waiting for the media to finish with Godley. Half of them had drifted towards her already, and the rest followed within a couple of minutes. She had a low, carrying voice, and I could hear her clearly as she began to speak. She had a sheet of paper in her hand but she didn’t look down at it.

‘I wanted to make a statement with regard to what happened here last night. This dreadful act – the murder of these policemen – is an outrage. Our community completely rejects this kind of violence, especially if it is in Levon’s name. We don’t want to see any more innocent blood shed on London’s streets. We don’t want to see any more lives lost. It’s not what Levon would want, and it’s not what we want.’

‘Do you think this was a reaction to what happened to Levon, Mrs Cole?’

‘Are you worried about further violence and protests against the police, Mrs Cole?’

‘Mrs Cole, are you concerned about the delay in publication of the report into your son’s death?’

Instead of answering any of the journalists’ questions, she said a quiet ‘Thank you.’ Then she walked back into the centre of her group of friends. They gathered around her, forming a physical barrier between her and the shouted requests coming from the media.

‘Well, it’s not often I lose an audience that quickly.’ Godley had come to stand between us.

‘She had the home advantage,’ Derwent said.

‘It was all about reclaiming the initiative from opportunists like Armstrong who are blaming the campaigners for making the estate unsafe. And I applaud her for it.’ Godley narrowed his eyes as he watched the reporters mill around. ‘I wish they’d be more critical about the kind of rubbish he’s peddling.’

‘Did he get an easy ride?’ I asked. I hadn’t seen any interviews with him yet.

‘Very much so. He’s making a lot out of it.’

Still moving with tremendous dignity, Claudine Cole led her group of supporters back inside. They left the flowers scattered on the ground, where the van had been. A cameraman, walking away, kicked a couple to one side.

‘It was a nice gesture from her, but I don’t think it will have any affect. If people want to riot, they’ll riot,’ I said.

‘And there are plenty of people who want to complain about us.’ Derwent looked sideways at Godley. ‘Think it’s significant that this shooting happened here? Where Cole died?’

‘Maybe.’ Godley’s jaw was tight. ‘Maybe not.’

‘Another coincidence?’ I had made the remark without thinking Godley might interpret it. I saw him flinch and played it back, puzzled. What did he think I meant?

‘We’ll have to wait and see.’ Godley turned to walk away. Over his shoulder, as he went, he said, ‘I don’t think you’ll have to wait too long either.’

Derwent looked baffled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked me.

‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘And honestly, I’m not sure I want to know either.’

Chapter 17

The memorial service for Terence Hammond was short, which was a good thing for me. By the time I made it to Kingston and the small church where the service was taking place, I was so tired I could barely drag myself into a pew. As the sole representative of the investigation into Hammond’s death I couldn’t allow myself to be seen yawning, so I adopted a stern expression and sat bolt upright in my pew. The ceremony was just starting when I got there, and I had found a spot near the back. It was a good place to be: I had a view of the whole congregation. There were a couple of hundred people there and I recognised a handful of them: the family, of course, and Dan West, Hammond’s inspector. The pews were full of uniforms, both police and school. Superintendent Lowry was listed as a reader. I was surprised Julie Hammond had agreed to let him be involved. Maybe she didn’t care any more. She had aged, I thought. Her face was thin, her eyes hollow, her cheekbones pronounced. She sat between her children, but Vanessa had left a very distinct gap between them. There was no question of her mother hugging her. I’d seen strangers on the Tube share more personal space. Ben was twice his mother’s size, his bulk meaning that he took up all of the space she’d allowed for him and then some. Their shoulders touched but she didn’t have an arm around him. I found myself wondering if Julie Hammond was actually cold to the touch as well as by nature. It was cynical of me, the product of tiredness and stress. It wasn’t up to me to tell her how to be around her children, or how to grieve for a husband who had been far from perfect.

The memorial service was standing in for the funeral they couldn’t have until Glen Hanshaw released Hammond’s body. I wondered why it hadn’t happened already. It worried me that the pathologist was working while he was so unwell. He couldn’t possibly be giving the cases his full attention. More than that, I wondered if he lacked the confidence in himself to sign off on his cases. He had to be afraid he would miss something. I’d never liked him but I had trusted him. I wondered if Godley would remain loyal to him for as long as he wanted to keep working or if he would gradually come to rely on the other pathologists who handled our cases. Godley was a professional to his fingertips, usually. I’d seen him put his personal friendship with Derwent aside more than once to do the right thing for an investigation. I thought I could trust him to do the same with Glen Hanshaw.