The Reckoning Page 17

  ‘The Mayhew Estate.’

  I had seen that on the map and from Barry Palmer’s road: the estate consisted of eight grey concrete tower blocks, stained and square. A social experiment in twelve floors, they had been designed to be the new wave of modern living in the 1960s, and they loomed over the neighbouring streets threateningly.

  ‘What about this one?’ I tapped ‘Forgrave’ with the end of my pen.

  He flipped through the pages, scanning them intently. ‘William Forgrave. He’s thirty-six, lives in Camford Mews.’

  I opened the A–Z that was on Belcott’s desk and found Camford Mews in the index. It was not exactly a surprise when I found myself just outside the triangle made by the previous three victims’ addresses. ‘Widening the search,’ I said, almost to myself. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Forgrave was convicted in 1995 of raping a fifteen-year-old girl the previous year and the attempted rape of two thirteen-year-olds in 1993. He got ten years.’

  I was working it out. ‘In 1995, he would have been twenty. Sounds as if he got started early. I’m surprised he didn’t get life.’

  ‘Maybe they were asking for it.’

  I shuddered and slid off his desk as if it was suddenly red-hot. ‘Thanks for the help anyway.’

  ‘Just doing my job.’ No more than the truth.

  The door at the end of the room opened and Derwent walked in, looking as if he had been hurrying to get there. He saw me straightaway and raised his eyebrows. What’s going on?

  I started towards him but before I got anywhere near, Godley put his head out of his office. ‘Josh, don’t take your coat off. You and Maeve need to go and check on a few potential victims. Maeve, did you and Peter manage to get the contact details of the people on the list?’

  ‘Peter’s given me the first three. He’s still looking for the rest.’

  ‘It’s somewhere to start. Get going. Colin and Rob can work through the next few names.’

  Derwent was looking wary. ‘Do I have a few minutes? I wanted to check up on a couple of things.’

  ‘Delegate it. Harry Maitland is free. You can call him from the car and brief him that way. Just don’t hang around here. If we’ve got a chance of preventing another murder, we need to take it or we’ll be crucified by the media, and rightly so.’

  ‘I’d rather do it myself.’

  ‘I’m sure. But Harry is capable. Get on with it, Josh.’

  I had already grabbed my bag and jacket. I stood by the door, waiting for the DI, who walked past me as if I wasn’t there. I trailed after him down the corridor.

  ‘Do you want me to drive?’

  ‘What?’ He didn’t even look around.

  ‘If you’re going to be making calls on the way it might be easier if I drive.’

  He swore under his breath. I didn’t dare ask again, and when we got to the car, he got into the driver’s seat without saying anything further about it.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Anthony Merriman is first on the list. Talavera Road.’ I read out the postcode and he set the sat nav, poking at it bad-temperedly, then reversed out of his parking space with a squeal from the tyres. I settled back in my seat, resigned to another silent drive across town. The best I could hope for was better traffic on the way.

  ‘Another lovely place to live,’ Derwent observed as we parked down the street from Camford Mews. It was a bleak back street where a developer had slotted in a small block of flats between the yard of a funeral home and a vacant industrial unit. From where we sat, we could see the front doors of the flats, four on each floor, twelve in all.

  ‘Forgrave is in number nine.’ I peered. ‘Bet it’s on the top floor.’

  ‘It’s always the top floor. Go and check it out, but don’t knock on his door yet. I’ll be right behind you. I’ve just got to phone a man about a dog.’

  I got out of the car, feeling slightly uncomfortable. We were on a courtesy call, so we weren’t tooled up with CS spray or the extendable batons known universally as Asps – a pleasingly lethal name, though it was the abbreviation for the company that made them, Armament Systems and Procedures, rather than anything more descriptive. I would have liked to be wearing a stab vest at the very least but Derwent hadn’t suggested it and I didn’t like to. The breeze had picked up and this early in the year it still had an edge. It cut through my clothes, pressing my shirt against my body as I walked towards the flats. It was a reminder that I had nothing to protect me and I put my hand in my bag, checking for my radio, scanning the street to see if there was anything out of place.

  We had drawn a blank in Talavera Road, discovering that Merriman had moved away a couple of months earlier without informing the authorities. Black mark for him, but a name crossed off our list at least. The new residents were Pakistani, a young couple who had done their best to help, although they didn’t have a forwarding address for Merriman. Derwent had warned them to take care as best he could. Understandably, he didn’t go into details about why they might need to be wary. It wasn’t the sort of thing they needed to know.

  A pedestrian walked past me – a large man being walked by a very keen Labrador. He smiled breathlessly as he went by and I could hear him wheezing as he moved down the street, the dog pulling on its lead, powering onwards. I went past a white BT van that was parked outside the flats, two wheels up on the pavement, but the engineer was nowhere to be seen and the vehicle was locked. A car went by at speed, making me jump; it was a metallic blue Subaru, the windows tinted so dark that I couldn’t see the driver, and I noted the number plate without even thinking about it.

  The door to the flats had been wedged open. So much for security. It was probably the engineer, at work in the building on someone’s broadband and in too much of a hurry to remember the code for the door. It made it easy for me to get inside, but I went in with my heart thumping, my eyes wide, hyper-alert for signs of danger. The main door opened onto a hallway where concrete steps led up to the next storey, and I craned my neck to see up the stairwell. No sign of life. The flats’ front doors were accessible via open balconies on each floor and I looked left and right, seeing flowerpots outside one flat, a bike chained up outside another. The flats were respectable, if modest. It was noticeable that there was no graffiti on any of the surfaces, and the stairwell was spotless. The funeral home would be a reasonably quiet neighbour too, I guessed. Not such a bad place to live. Not a great place to die, though.

  Still with an uneasy feeling, I started up the stairs. I went quietly, taking my time, and had got as far as the first landing when I heard the front door bang closed. DI Derwent took the stairs two at a time, his footsteps echoing through the stairwell, and I whipped around with my finger on my lips as he turned the corner and saw me.

  ‘Anything?’ He said it quietly, but I still winced, shaking my head. ‘Carry on, then.’

  So he was happy for me to go first. I should have been pleased that he was letting me take the lead but, feminist or not, I would have given a lot to be standing behind him at that moment. I couldn’t help thinking about how solid muscle has a way of absorbing the worst a shotgun had to offer, for instance.

  Nothing to see on the first floor. I took the next flight at a steady pace, not as quickly as I would have usually, not as slowly as the first. Derwent was close behind me, almost clipping my heels. The second floor. Flats 9 to 12, a sign informed me helpfully. Forgrave’s was to the right. I stopped again and listened, hearing nothing except Derwent’s breathing behind me, slow and regular. We walked together along the open corridor, moving quietly but with purpose. I was starting to relax as we got nearer to Forgrave’s flat and there was no sign of anything wrong. He had no window boxes, no little personal touches to draw attention to himself. We passed flat 10 and I jumped sideways as a dog erupted into a volley of barks, high- pitched and sharp. I could hear it scrabbling at the wood as it tried to claw its way out. Derwent laughed.

  ‘What do you think it is, a Jack Russell?’

 
‘Something like that.’ My mouth was dry. I swallowed, then cleared my throat. ‘Good guard dog, anyway.’

  ‘Can’t be much wrong if he was quiet before we got here.’

  I was inclined to agree. Derwent shouldered past me and rapped on Forgrave’s door, waiting for a few seconds before bending down to open the letterbox. ‘Hello? Mr Forgrave?’

  No response. He stayed where he was, scanning the view through the narrow slot.

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘No.’ He put his mouth to the gap, pitching his voice lower so it couldn’t be heard outside the flat. ‘Mr Forgrave, it’s the police. Can you open the door?’

  We listened, the seconds ticking by. The only sound was the dog’s continued scratching from next door. I used the time to take a closer look at the front of the flat, not seeing any sign of a forced entry. There was one window to the front but Forgrave had chosen to fit frosted glass for privacy. Only the top of the window was clear. Derwent, straightening up, saw me looking at it. ‘Want to have a peek? I’ll give you a leg-up.’

  I put my foot in his linked hands and steadied myself on the window frame as he lifted me. I had a couple of seconds to check the room before he grunted and let me slide to the ground.

  ‘Jesus, what do you weigh?’

  ‘Not a huge amount, actually. I thought you were fit. That was pathetic.’

  ‘I run, I don’t do weightlifting.’ He grinned at me with one of those changes of mood that caught me so off-guard. ‘See anything of interest?’

  ‘Not a lot. It was hard to see much. It’s not exactly bright in there. But everything seems to be in order.’

  ‘Right. Well, on to the next one, I suppose. Who else is on the list?’ He started walking towards the stairs and I followed, hunting in my bag for the sheet of paper.

  ‘Stanley Flanders. He lives on the Mayhew Estate.’

  ‘That’s an easy one. I can see it from here.’

  ‘Yeah, we just have to find the right flat, that’s all. Only about two thousand to choose from.’

  ‘We’ve got a number for him.’

  ‘We do, but the place is a maze.’

  We had reached the first floor. Derwent was whistling. He rattled down the last flight of stairs at speed, heading for the main door, pushing it open. I put my foot on the first step of the stairs and then stopped, annoyed with myself. I turned back and began to run up again, muttering, ‘Back in a second.’

  Derwent said something I didn’t hear as the door banged.

  ‘I just need to leave a card,’ I called over my shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time, getting back to the second floor in double-quick time. I hurried along the balcony to Forgrave’s front door, scrawling a note as I went. Please call us urgently regarding your safety. The dog was barking again, this time perched on the windowsill. The net curtains had draped themselves around its head, making it look like a mockery of a bride. It was light-brown and shaggy, not a Jack Russell after all – not anything much, by the looks of it. I stuck my tongue out at it as I passed and it fell off the windowsill in an ecstasy of rage. Moving fast, I flipped open the letterbox and shoved my card through, making sure it fell down onto the mat in case anyone saw it poking out.

  I had already turned to go when I heard the noise, and at first I thought it was the bloody dog again. It was halfway to a howl, a sound that lifted up the hairs on the back of my neck, and I stopped dead.

  ‘Kerrigan!’ Derwent was standing in the street, looking up. ‘Get down here.’

  I flapped a hand at him, still listening. Deep growls from the dog interspersed with an occasional yelp. A hearse turning in the funeral home’s yard, the engine low and throaty. Silence from behind the door. I had been imagining things. I stood for another second, annoyed with myself, then started to walk away.

  And heard it again.

  It took all of my self-control to keep walking at the same pace until I reached the stairwell, and I was already reaching into my bag for my radio when I got out of earshot of the flat. I switched to the force wide channel, cursing as I fumbled with the buttons.

  ‘MP, MP from Hotel India six four, active message. Urgent assistance required at nine Camford Mews, Brixton. Believed intruders, possibly armed with a shotgun. I can hear noises from inside and I believe the occupant is being assaulted. Request Trojan units and ambulance.’

  The controller took it in her stride, smoothly contacting a Trojan Armed Response Vehicle with the address, informing ambulance control and then passing the incident to a senior officer who would manage it while there was a chance that guns might be involved. The routine was well rehearsed.

  ‘Trojan unit with you in four minutes.’

  Four minutes was a hell of a long time to wait when you were being tortured, I couldn’t help thinking. But all the same, it was remarkable that just like that, the cavalry was on the way.

  I went to the balcony on the first floor and leaned out, looking for Derwent. He was at the main door downstairs.

  ‘The fucking thing’s closed. Let me in.’

  ‘I heard something. Back-up’s on the way,’ I said, as loudly as I dared.

  ‘What?’

  I leaned out a bit further. ‘I think there’s someone in Forgrave’s flat. I’ve called for back-up.’

  ‘The hell you have. Why didn’t you tell me?’ Derwent hissed.

  ‘There wasn’t time.’ I looked along the street, seeing a police car nose into view at the far end, sirens off thankfully. ‘Here they are. They’re sending ARVs as well.’

  ‘You’d better be sure about this, Kerrigan.’

  I had a moment of sheer panic. If it was a mistake … if I’d imagined something, and called in the troops for no reason … the flat had looked empty. Derwent had neither heard nor seen anyone. But I had, I thought. I had heard a cry of pain that was like nothing I had ever heard before, and yet I had instinctively known it for what it was.

  The uniformed officers had got out of their car and another patrol car was parking behind the first. Two of them headed towards the back of the building, keeping close to the wall so they wouldn’t be seen out of the windows. They wore stab vests as a matter of course, but it wasn’t much protection really, and I waited, cringing a little, for a shot that would tell me they’d been spotted, targeted. The other two joined Derwent and I saw them conferring. He leaned back, looking up to me.

  ‘Come and open the door, for God’s sake.’

  I slipped down the stairs and pressed the button that released the door lock. Derwent pushed in, closely followed by one of the uniformed officers who was, it turned out, an inspector, the shift supervisor. He had a pepper-and-salt beard and a reassuring manner.

  ‘Paul Lancaster.’ I introduced myself and he smiled. ‘Bit of a drama, isn’t it? I think we’re going to need to clear the building in case things kick off when the armed units arrive.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’ I looked at my watch, trying to remember how long it had been since I’d called it in – a couple of minutes but it felt like twenty.

  Lancaster turned to Derwent. ‘I’ll leave you to clear this floor. PC Snow will help. I’ll take DC Kerrigan up to the next floor so we can check for any other occupants. We’ll have to wait to deal with the top floor when the AFOs get here.’

  ‘I should go up with you. It’s too much of a risk to send DC Kerrigan. She’s not wearing body armour.’

  ‘And neither are you,’ I pointed out. ‘There’s absolutely no need to take my place.’

  ‘Still, I’d prefer to.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Want me to pull rank?’

  ‘Stop bickering and get on with it.’ Lancaster headed for the stairs and Derwent followed, giving me a last look as if to check I was staying where it was reasonably safe. With bad grace I went to the first flat and knocked on the door as softly as I could, while PC Snow did the same next door. It was something to do, anyway – something that might take my mind off what was happening two floors above.

  We had cleared
the ground floor (one occupant, an old lady who angrily refused any help from Snow and left the premises carrying her most precious possessions in a Tesco carrier bag) when a marked silver BMW pulled up, the yellow sticker in the window announcing that the first armed officers were on the scene. Lancaster and Derwent had seen them from the floor above and came down at speed for a briefing that lasted all of twenty seconds. In the meantime, another two teams had arrived along with their commander and the nine of them headed for the stairs, more like soldiers than police officers in their black helmets, blue fatigues and body armour. Six were armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns that looked more or less like the most lethal things imaginable, while another two carried square-muzzled Glocks that weren’t far off the pace. The last was hefting an Enforcer, a mini battering ram that was known in police slang as the Big Red Key because it could open pretty much any door.

  Lancaster and Derwent had taken cover on the opposite side of the road and I ran to join them, squatting behind a parked car that would be about as useful as tissue paper if the submachine guns started firing in our direction.

  ‘Not hanging about, are they?’ Lancaster turned to grin at me as the armed officers fanned out along the balcony, checking the other flats for signs of life. Satisfied, they moved into position around the door of Flat 9. I had the distinct impression Lancaster was enjoying himself. Derwent was chewing gum, his jaws moving rapidly, tension written on his face.

  From our position down on the street, we only had a limited view, but it was easy enough to reconstruct what happened next. At a word from the commander, the officer with the Enforcer stepped forward and shouted ‘Police’ at almost the same moment he swung it into the door. I saw the timber frame splinter with the first blow, break with the second, and give way completely with the third impact. As the officer fell back, his colleagues pushed into the flat, shouting to disorientate anyone inside who might have considered putting up a fight. My heart was pounding as if I was in there with them. I had never wanted to be a firearms officer but I could see the attraction. There was something atavistic about charging into a confined space while armed to the teeth, backed up by eight equally well-equipped colleagues who were trained to respond to aggression with targeted, measured violence.