In the Dark (17 page)

Or sometimes, as evidence.

Once she'd visited the toilet, Helen showed her warrant card at the reception desk and filled out a form detailing the dates and locations for which she wanted to see footage. She'd been through the process before, knew that it would take fifteen minutes or so to set up. There were a couple of magazines to read while she waited; Kandinsky prints on the walls to look at if she fancied it.

It was a bright Thursday morning. She walked to the window, enjoying the sun on her face as she looked out across Piccadilly Circus, the treetops of Green Park just visible in the distance.

‘DC Weeks?'

The woman who stepped from the lift and called out Helen's name was probably younger than she looked. Helen hoped, for the woman's sake and for the sake of everyone who knew her, that she wasn't as miserable. She heaved herself up from the sofa, clocked the woman's expression.

People's reactions to her pregnancy - the touching, the giving of unsolicited advice, the patronising comments - were often unwelcome. Nevertheless, Helen found it disconcerting to see someone so visibly unimpressed; to be looked at as if she were . . . showing off.

She smiled and tried not to judge. She came into contact every day with those who could not have children, or had lost them: unborn; as babies; and older - to drugs, abuse or violence. She knew there were plenty of people around for whom her swollen belly would be anything but beautiful.

‘A bit more notice would have been nice.'

Mind you, this one was a sour-faced cow . . .

They travelled in silence to the top floor and Helen was shown into the viewing suite. The carpeted floor and wall tiles absorbed most of the sound and the woman raised her voice a notch or two, which wasn't pleasant: ‘Say when and I'll run the first tape.'

They still called it ‘tape', even though all the footage was now stored on a series of hard disks, with sufficient memory for many thousands of hours. This meant that most of it could be stored for months, and in some cases years, before it was erased.

Helen gave the nod and the woman began tapping at her keyboard.

There were three large screens, showing images from the three cameras nearest to the location that Helen had specified. One was positioned directly above the car park's entrance ramp and Helen knew that there would be footage of Paul driving in, just a few minutes before the scene they were now watching had been captured.

Friday, 11 July, 1.12 p.m.

She stared at the screen that gave the best view: from a camera on the opposite side of Brewer Street and twenty or so feet to the right as she looked. She knew she wouldn't have to wait very long. The exact time was printed on the ticket stub and Paul would almost certainly have come out onto the street a minute or so later.

She glanced down as she shifted position in the chair, and when she looked back, there he was. Stepping through a grey door to the side of the main entrance, stopping for a second to get his bearings, then walking to the pavement.

Helen felt a little dizzy. She looked around to see if there might be a water jug anywhere; buggered if she was going to ask for one.

‘He looks like a dodgy so and so,' the woman said.

At 1.15 on 11 July it had been raining heavily. On the screen, water ran in dark lines down the grainy, black-and-white image. Helen could not make out the expression on Paul's face, but she watched him standing there in his blue suit, leaning into the weather, and couldn't find much reason to argue with the woman.

She had requested footage from a number of other CCTV points in the vicinity, so that she could follow Paul in whichever direction he walked from the car park; tracking him from camera to camera as he went. In the event, it wasn't necessary.

She watched the black cab draw up and Paul step towards it. She saw the door open and Paul exchanging a few words with the passenger in the back before getting in. The cab drove away fast. Flicking her eyes to the screen on the far right, Helen saw it from another angle, heading straight towards the camera, before passing it and going out of shot.

‘That's fine,' she said. ‘Run the next one.' She reached into her bag for a mint while the woman sorted out the second piece of footage. Pressed her hand to her chest and watched it tremble.

Hearing Paul's voice on her mobile phone had been difficult enough, but seeing him hit harder. It was something about the silence, and the quality of the image - broken down and streaked in shadow. Something about watching past lives as they bled into the present.

Now, she glanced at the woman, at her fingers moving easily across the keys. She was probably trying to decide what to have for lunch, where to go on holiday, whether to buy the shoes she'd been coveting for weeks.

Casually calling up a ghost on request.

‘Here you go . . .'

Friday, 18 July, 7.33 p.m.

Paul walked out of the same grey door and waited; looked at his watch; walked up and down the narrow strip of pavement.

‘Same bloke,' the woman said.

‘Same.'

‘He the one you're after?'

Helen watched him, standing in that stupid way of his, with one foot crossed over the other. Watched him tug the cuffs of his shirt down from his sleeve, check his reflection in a shop window, then turn as he heard the cab pull up. She saw it straight away.

‘Must have a few quid, jumping in taxis right, left and centre.'

‘Can you punch up the end of the first clip again,' Helen asked. ‘Freeze-frame the taxi for me?'

When the two images were side by side on adjoining screens, and Helen had double-checked, she scribbled down the letters and numbers. The same number plate, the same taxi, on both occasions.

But no extra passenger the second time. Pre-ordered or sent.

‘Got what you wanted?'

Helen dropped the pen and paper into her bag, zipped it up, and thought, Got something to do this afternoon . . .

 
There was an empty seat between Clive and the man at the end of the bar. Clive ordered a lemonade, nodded. ‘And whatever
he
wants.'

When the man saw who was buying, he asked for tea . . . and a pint of lager.

‘You want something to eat?' Clive asked.

‘Toast with brown sauce.'

‘It's on me. Have what you want.'

‘That
is
what I want.'

Clive took his lemonade. ‘Suit yourself.'

‘It's got all the goodness you need, see. All the major food groups.'

‘Come again?'

‘Bread. Fruit. It's a fruit-based sauce.'

The woman behind the bar raised an eyebrow at Clive before she turned away, as though she'd heard these ramblings far too many times.

‘Don't take too long, Jacky,' Clive said. ‘We haven't got all day.'

Jacky Snooks had a proper name, of course, but it had got lost somewhere during twenty-five years as an all but permanent fixture in the Cue Up. Story was that he'd been a useful player in his time. There'd been talk about turning professional until someone he'd fleeced on the tables once too often had slipped a couple of balls into a bag and whacked him across the back of the head while he was lining up a long black.

Glasses had helped with the consequent eye problems, but they couldn't do too much about the tremor in his cueing arm. Now, he was the one being hustled, robbed by the fruit machines he spent all day feeding, and though he could probably still beat most of the club's customers left-handed, he had found easier ways to make a living. There weren't too many problems with his vision these days.

As soon as Clive had finished his lemonade, he was away. He didn't look back as he made for the stairs; he knew Jacky would be following. Outside, Clive walked briskly and Jacky stayed a good distance behind, keeping the big man in sight, trying to finish what was left of his toast and sauce as they walked away from the main shopping area towards Brookmill Park.

The car was parked on a side street. Frank got out when he saw Clive approaching, and the two of them stood side by side, waiting for the slight and shambling figure to come round the corner.

Jacky Snooks hurried the last few yards, then stuck out his hand. Said, ‘Not as quick as I was, Mr Linnell.'

Frank turned to Clive. ‘We got a serviette or something in the car?' He pulled a face. ‘Looks like he's had his fingers up his arse.'

 
The Child Protection Unit from which Helen had taken leave was based in one small office at Streatham station. It was a small team, too: one DI, a couple of sergeants, four detective constables and two PCs.

Helen wasn't thrilled to see almost all of them there when she walked in.

The only unfamiliar face belonged to the woman at the workstation nearest the door, and Helen guessed that she must be her maternity cover. The woman stood up, hesitated as though she were unsure which to do first - offer congratulations or pass on condolences. Helen saved her the trouble by looking away and kept on walking, all the way across the office and into the open arms of DS Andrew Korn.

He held her close, rubbing her back; gently ‘shushing' even though Helen was making no sound.

It was Helen, finally, who said, ‘It's OK.'

Korn stepped away and looked at her. He was thickset and fresh-faced; a couple of years younger than she was. ‘What the hell are you doing here?' he asked.

‘Desperate to see you all,' she said. ‘And, you know, trying to keep busy.'

Korn nodded his understanding and Helen felt a pang of guilt. It was only half a lie.

She realised that she'd spent much of the previous few days feeling guilty; that this was what grief had come to feel like for her. It felt like anger as well. And fear: shit-in-your-knickers terror.

Korn dragged out chairs. ‘Well, it's good to see you.'

A look, a wave, a few words. One by one, Helen made the appropriate connection with each member of the team. Then, while her replacement fetched some tea, and despite Korn's insistence that there were other things she should be thinking about, she caught up with developments in her absence.

The Crown Prosecution Service was still dragging its feet over whether there was enough evidence to prosecute a father of three, seeing as only one of his children showed signs of abuse. A woman had recanted her story and was now refusing to give evidence against her boyfriend, claiming that her son's bruises were all self-inflicted. As were her own.

‘You sure you've been missing this?' Korn asked.

It was the usual story of frustration and fuck-ups, and Helen was well used to it by now. They talked most about a case she had been working where the right result looked imminent. Clinging as usual to the victories; knowing that each one was hard fought and well worth the effort.

‘I'd come back tomorrow,' Helen said, ‘if I wasn't lugging this thing around.'

‘Have you got any help?' Korn asked.

‘I'm doing OK, Andy. Honest.'

Korn was distracted by a query from one of his PCs, and while he was looking through the notes, Helen slid across to an unused computer terminal and logged on.

‘I've got loads of stuff needs typing up.'

Helen looked up and saw DS Diane Sealey grinning at her from above her own computer screen.

‘That's good of you, Di.'

‘You know, if you're desperate to do something.'

‘I'm going to check a few emails and get out while I still can,' Helen said. ‘Go and have a word with the guvnor, see about making this leave permanent.'

Sealey laughed.

As soon as she was into the Police National Computer, Helen reached into her bag for the piece of paper and typed in the number plate.

‘We're all thinking about you,' Sealey said.

Helen nodded, said that she knew, and dropped her eyes back to the keyboard; to the results of the search. She leaned across the desk and grabbed a pen. There was plenty to write down.

Frank had planned on talking in the car, but it was too hot, and he tried to walk whenever he had the chance. Laura told him it was good for his heart.

‘Nice to be outdoors for a change,' Jacky Snooks said.

Brookmill Park had been extensively redeveloped during construction of the Docklands Light Railway. There were ornamental gardens and a decent-sized nature reserve. The footpath that wound alongside the Ravensbourne River was part of a longer one running south from the Thames at Creekside all the way to the coast at Eastbourne.

They sat on a bench near one of the ponds, with Jacky perched between Frank and Clive. The water was thick at the edges with brown blanket-weed, and butterflies moved near the surface, dancing over the heads of moorhens and Canada geese.

‘It's drugs, for definite.' Jacky slapped a hand down on his leg for emphasis. ‘I've caught a conversation or two and I know exactly what those toe-rags are talking about.'

‘Coke? Crack? What?' Clive asked.

‘Doesn't make any difference,' Frank said.

He wasn't surprised - it usually came down to drugs in the end. But he had wanted to make sure. If the gang whose members frequented the Cue Up was the one he was after, he preferred to know what manner of animal he was up against. He knew that some of these crews were simple strong-arm merchants; postcode gangs, fighting over territory. Others were no more than oversized rap groups. There were even a couple, just a couple, formed out of a sincere commitment to non-violence. Frank sensed he was looking for an altogether different type, one whose upper echelons had a highly developed and determined business ethic.

It didn't matter what they were selling. The simple fact that they
were
selling told him enough. Frank knew very well that businessmen could be a damn sight more dangerous than thugs.