Buried-6 (14 page)

Stone stopped whistling between his teeth for a few seconds. ‘This is funny,’ he said. ‘They’re dropping hints in here about some “popular daytime TV presenter” who’s having it away with his male researcher. Who d’you reckon that is, then?’

The Latif enquiry had been as frustrating as any Kitson had known, and every murder case she’d caught since seemed to involve her running headlong into a series of brick wal s.

The wal she was supposed to be trying to get over that morning had built up around a disturbing rite of initiation into a Tottenham drugs gang. New members would drive around the streets in a car with no headlights on, and in order to prove they were worthy they would have to fire a gun into the first car that flashed its lights at them. It was brutal in its simplicity, in the casual y random way that the unsuspecting victim was selected.

The first driver unlucky enough to try and be helpful.

Five days before, having been shot at for no obvious reason, the man behind the wheel of a Toyota Landcruiser had mounted a pavement on the Seven Sisters Road, kil ing himself and a young woman waiting at a bus stop. One of the city’s newest gang members had moved straight from low-grade crack dealer to double murderer, and though Kitson and the team knew very wel which gang was responsible, had spoken to half a dozen young men who knew equal y wel who had pul ed the trigger, nobody was saying anything.

Sometimes the brick wal s had wide smiles, and gold teeth, and enough attitude to make Yvonne Kitson want more than anything to punch them into the middle of next week.

She badly needed a result. For the way it would feel, far more than for the way it would look. And now, if Dave Hol and’s eyesight and instinct weren’t both seriously screwed, she might achieve one.

Stone turned to the back page of his paper. ‘No real surprise, though,’ he said. ‘I reckon a lot of those TV presenters are batting for the other side, don’t you?’

Kitson mumbled something that could have been ‘yes’ or ‘no’, every committed part of her brain focusing on the group that was crossing the road, and on her first glimpse of Adrian Farrel . On the fact that she owed Dave Hol and a very big drink.

‘Is that him?’

Kitson held up a hand to silence Andy Stone, as though the boy they were talking about were no more than a few feet away; as though his hearing were as wel developed as his arrogance. She watched him walk slowly down the main road, every bit as hard to miss as she had been led to believe. He was chatting idly with two other pupils, a boy and a girl.

Although he would be off the premises for no more than an hour, Kitson watched as he, along with most of those around him, went through the transformation that Hol and had described.

She watched as Farrel took off his blazer and tossed it over his shoulder; as he loosened his tie.

She watched, holding her breath, as he put in the earring. From school to cool.

A hundred yards or so from the entrance, Farrel eased away from his schoolmates and joined up with two new boys who were crossing the road fast towards him. These boys wore uniforms of their own: Nike caps; New Balance trainers; Kappa casuals. They moved like men but looked young enough to make Kitson question why they weren’t in school themselves.

The three hailed each other, though it was impossible to make out the words being shouted. Fists were clenched and proffered. Kitson was reaching for the door handle as the knuckles kissed in greeting and the trio moved off together towards the shops.

‘We on the move?’ Stone asked.

Kitson opened the door. Stepped out, buzzing as she thought about Adrian Farrel ’s interesting new mates. His nice, white friends.

‘Let’s get some air,’ she said.

Porter came through on the radio. She suggested to Thorne that they should meet somewhere between their two vehicles. Put their heads together.

They walked up Fairfield Road, crossing over the Docklands Light Railway towards Old Ford. ‘Barry Hignett came down about half an hour ago,’ Porter said. ‘He was keen to get cracking.’

‘Like the rest of us aren’t?’

‘I mean
really
on the hurry-up. So we sent a couple of the lads in to see if there might be any help around. See if we can get a bit closer.’

They stopped to let a lorry back out of a goods yard. The driver scraped a wal , pul ed forward a yard or two and tried again. This time, they walked around, ignoring the exhaust fumes and the beeping of the reversing alarm.

‘Thanks for tel ing me.’ Thorne’s tone made it clear that he wasn’t the slightest bit grateful; that, in his opinion, he should have been told half an hour earlier.

‘I’m tel ing you now, so there’s no point getting snotty.’

‘Hignett getting shit from your detective super, you reckon?’

‘For definite,’ Porter said. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if Tony Mul en had been on at him, too. Poor sod’s got it coming from everywhere.’

‘Is he stil here?’

‘Gone back to base.’

‘Makes sense,’ Thorne said. Which it did. As SIO, Barry Hignett would need to stay close to Central 3000. From there, he could monitor al events, could communicate with every member of his team, while staying within easy reach of the top brass. There was a buck in this case, same as in any other. It just flew around that little bit faster before it stopped.

Porter slowed outside a swanky-looking development of flats. A map on the gate showed the location of the swimming pool, the sauna, the private shops. ‘I could do with somewhere like this,’ she said. ‘My place is a shithole.’

‘This is the old Bryant & May factory,’ Thorne said, staring through the gates. ‘Where the matchgirls’ strike was.’

Porter shook her head.

‘End of the nineteenth century.’ He pointed towards the building. ‘The girls in there went on strike for better pay and conditions. Turned into a national story. Kicked off the trade union movement, more or less.’

‘Lit a match under it.’

Thorne was already thinking ahead and missed the joke. He turned around, pointed back towards the Bow Road like a tourist guide. ‘You’ve got Sylvia Pankhurst’s original campaign headquarters over there. Votes for Women and al that.’ He tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t resist the crack. ‘And
now
look where we are.’

‘You asking for a slap?’ Porter leaned into him as she stepped past and kept walking.

‘So where’s this flat of yours?’

Her mobile had barely begun to ring when Porter snatched at it. Thorne knew that the phone had a ringtone he would probably recognise, but he’d never heard enough of it to place the tune.

When the cal had finished, they started back towards Conrad Al en’s flat. ‘Sounds like you got that help you were looking for,’ Thorne said.

‘We’ve got an old girl in the flat next door who’s a major fan of ours. She got her front door kicked in a couple of weeks ago, and apparently the uniforms were
extremely
helpful.

One of the tech boys is up there now setting some gear up.’

‘Reckon they’re in there?’ Thorne asked.

Porter’s look made it plain she hadn’t the slightest idea. ‘There’s been fuck-al to see, so it’s glass-against-the-wal time.’

They didn’t say a great deal else after that. They just picked their feet up, jogged back around the lorry that was stil trying to back out.

Andy Stone got the formalities out of the way. Made the introductions, waved the warrant cards around.

It was a very pleasant smile. Kitson wondered how much more of it she might be seeing in the days to come. ‘We’ve already done this,’ Adrian Farrel said. ‘We spoke to a couple of officers yesterday after school.’

Kitson took a step closer, flashing a pretty decent smile of her own. ‘It’s not about Luke Mul en,’ she said. ‘We’re investigating another matter.’

They were gathered outside a bakery and sandwich bar in a smal , pedestrianised precinct off the Broadway. The place was busy, with workers from local shops and offices zigzagging between pushchairs to grab lunch or do a quick bit of shopping. Farrel and his two friends leaned against the window, eating sausage rol s from paper bags. They’d stopped talking, elbowed each other and stared as Kitson and Stone had walked up the gentle slope of a long wheelchair ramp towards them.

One of the boys in the basebal caps nudged his companion, nodding towards Farrel . ‘They’ve final y come to get you, guy.’

‘Yeah, the cops is wel on to you for sure.’ His friend spluttered the words through a mouthful of hot food and started to laugh.

Farrel grimaced at the pair of them. ‘Shut it.’ Then, back to Kitson: ‘Sorry about them. Bloody rabble.’

‘A student was murdered a couple of miles from here,’ Kitson said. ‘Last October, in Edgware, you probably saw it on the news.’ Farrel ’s expression scrunched up, like maybe he
thought
he had. ‘Ring a bel ?’ Kitson watched his eyes drop for half a second to her tits, then back up again. ‘His name was Amin Latif.’

Farrel certainly looked as though the name meant nothing to him.

‘You don’t remember it? I’m quite surprised.’

‘I remember our chaplain leading a special prayer in assembly. Right before the hymn. He does that, you know, for disaster victims, stuff like that. Yes, there was definitely one for some poor bugger who’d been murdered. It would probably have been around that time.’

There was loud music coming from the record shop opposite. Something cheery and pointless.

‘So?’

‘So what?’

Kitson tried hard to meet his eyes. ‘Did you say a prayer for Amin Latif?’

Farrel sniffed and looked away from her, stepping aside as a group of teenage girls came out of the bakery. One of his friends made a comment under his breath. A girl told him to piss off.

‘Should you be talking to me?’ Farrel asked.

‘Sorry?’

‘Without the presence of any legal representation. Without my
parents
.’

There was an impressed whistle from beneath one of the basebal caps.

‘It’s just an informal chat, Adrian.’

For the first time the boy looked slightly alarmed, though only for a second or two. ‘How d’you know my name?’

‘The police know everything,’ one of his friends said.

The other pointed at Farrel , mock-serious. ‘They know when you last had a
wank
, guy.’

Andy Stone stepped forward, corral ed the designer-clad double act into an adjacent doorway. ‘Why don’t I get
your
names? Just so we don’t feel like strangers.’

‘You’re seventeen,’ Kitson said. ‘Which makes you legal y responsible.’

Farrel watched his friends, nodding his head to the rhythm of the pop song.

‘Anyway, there’s real y no need to get worked up.’

‘Who’s worked up?’ Farrel said.

‘That’s al right, then.’

‘It’s not true, though, is it?’ He leaned towards her, conspiratorial. ‘You don’t
really
know the last time I shook hands with my best friend?’

She smiled, not quite so easily thrown. ‘As it goes, we’d be delighted to fix you up with whoever would make you more comfortable. A lawyer, if you want; your mum and dad. Maybe that nice chaplain of yours, if it would help. We could al reconvene at the station, do everything properly.’

‘I don’t actual y have to do anything, though, do I?’

‘No, absolutely not. We’re just talking.’

‘Fine then.’ He put al his weight on one foot, preparing to leave. ‘Nice to talk to you.’

‘But when that happens, we just sit around and start asking questions. Of ourselves, I mean. We wonder why you don’t like us. Why you’re so reluctant to help. What you might be trying to hide.’

Farrel started to shake his head, grinning like he thought her efforts were clumsy and amateurish. ‘I’m going back to school now,’ he said. ‘It’s double history this afternoon, and that’s my favourite.’

Kitson wanted to slap him stupid.

‘Come on, wankers.’ Farrel shouted across to his friends and started to walk away. Once there was breathing space between themselves and Stone, the other boys puffed out their chests, fel into step with each other and quickly caught Farrel up.

Stone moved across to Kitson. ‘They’re not afraid of very much, are they?’ he said.

They watched the boys swagger down the ramp. As they reached the bottom, one of Farrel ’s friends tossed his empty bag towards a litter bin. The others jeered at the miss and the three kept on walking.

‘It’s easy when there’s a few of you,’ Kitson said.

Farrel glanced back, a couple of steps before he turned the corner; looked round as though he’d forgotten something, just for a second or two before he disappeared.

His hand was slapping the side of his leg in time to the music.

Kidnap or not, as operation posts went, the security was fairly relaxed. Thorne had taken part in plenty of intel igence operations – usual y involving the Serious and Organised boys –where a steady stream of visitors to the target address had meant days on end in the back of a stinking van, pissing in plastic bottles and living on biscuits. In this instance, the surveil ance provided by the cameras meant that there was no need for any vehicle to be located within direct sight of Conrad Al en’s flat. So there was a degree of flexibility in terms of individual movements, and conditions within the team vehicles themselves were not quite as spartan.

Less than a minute on foot from Al en’s flat, Porter had spent most of her morning south of the Bow Road, on a one-way street between Tower Hamlets cemetery and the tube station. After their brief meeting on Fairfield Road, Thorne had joined her in the back of a dirty Transit, its panels boasting the logo and contact details of a local roofing contractor.

That had been just after three o’clock. Nearly an hour before.

A trestle table ran down one side of the van. Two smal monitors displayed the black-and-white shots from the cameras front and back, while a scarred metal speaker broadcast communications from the assortment of unit vehicles in the vicinity. A strip of grubby brown carpet had been laid on the floor, and a plastic bag was wedged into one corner, bulging with Styrofoam containers, newspapers, empty cans and cartons.