Brotherhood of Blades (11 page)

SEVEN

I
t was seven o’clock on Saturday morning and Georgia Johnson was on tenterhooks. She had slept for less than an hour before getting up and making her way into the shower for the second time that morning. She allowed the hot water to stream over her taut body as she scrubbed it all over with soap again and again.

She dressed quickly in a freshly laundered white T-shirt, black sweatshirt and expensive ice-blue jeans, then pulled comfortable white socks over her feet and slipped them into pristine black trainers. As she grabbed her short black leather jacket, her heart sank. Her keys were still in the pocket of the coat she’d thrown out last night. She would have to go through the process of putting on the thick, black elbow-length plastic gloves and tipping up the bin liner containing the ruined clothing. Then she’d have to push her hand inside the coat pocket to retrieve the keys. She took a deep breath and headed for the door.

When she came back into the flat she dumped the gloves in the pail, stripped off her jacket and sweatshirt and ran her hands and arms under hot running water before lathering them with soap. The rinsing water was so hot it turned her skin bright pink, and the towel seemed to scour off a couple of layers.

Before she left the flat she smeared Vaseline over her mouth and dropped two eye drops in each eye, then flicked a mascara wand over her dark lashes and blinked herself awake.

When she arrived at the station, the forensics on the blood spatters on Haley Gulati’s door and hallway hadn’t come back. That was only to be expected. It could take at least forty-eight hours to get those results; the problem was they couldn’t hold Reilly all that time without charging him or getting an extension. Applying for an extension would mean committing to paper the first-hand evidence Chantelle Gulati had given regarding the visit Reilly had paid her after her aunt’s murder. Georgia didn’t want to jeopardize Chantelle’s safety by making that information public. Reilly was one of the most powerful gang leaders in South London; he had ways of putting Chantelle’s life in grave danger, even from a police cell.

Right now they were closer to nailing Reilly than ever before. Previously he’d always slipped through their fingers; well, not this time, Georgia vowed. But first she had to get his statement, and also make sure he was refused bail. Even if he claimed he knew nothing about the murdered woman, the forensics would prove different; it might take a few days, but that test would put Reilly’s DNA in Haley’s blood on Chantelle’s door. Then she had the bastard for first degree murder, and no bent solicitor would get him off. But she needed time, and right now without naming Chantelle she had no sound evidence to hold him. She could charge him for breeding illegal pit bulls; that could mean a custodial sentence, but it wasn’t cut and dried. First they had to prove the pit bulls were pit bulls, and when they’d tried it before his crook of a solicitor had found someone to swear they were crossbreeds and therefore perfectly legal.

She tapped her papers into a neat pile. She had never needed quick DNA results more than today. Every police officer in London would raise a glass when Reilly was behind bars; she wanted the honour of putting him there, and soon. The sight of the victim had set the bee loose in her bonnet. She wanted justice.

Reilly had already made the phone call he was allowed, and brought in Alan Oakwood, solicitor to the lowest of the low in the criminal world, specializing in the rich drug barons around South London.

Oakwood was there when Georgia walked into the custody area, bending every ear that would listen: his client was innocent, they had nothing to hold him; even his dogs, which the police had wrongfully seized and locked in a pound, weren’t pit bull terriers at all, but crossbreeds. Once that was proved, he would insist that the dogs and his client be released immediately.

‘Change the record,’ Georgia said to Oakwood as she walked past. She called the custody sergeant aside. On no account, she told him, was he to listen to Oakwood’s drivel, or release anyone without her say-so. The sergeant told her the youth who had waved the knife at her had been released, with Oakwood’s help of course, and bailed to appear in court charged with carrying an offensive weapon with intent to harm a police officer.

Georgia was less than happy about that, but she had bigger fish to fry. She had to find a way of persuading the Lambeth lab to get those tests done at speed, then Alan Oakwood could shout his hairy head off about the pit bulls. Once Reilly was banged up, Georgia was confident crime in South London would calm down for a while. Of course a new gang would appear, or one of Reilly’s crew would move up to the role of chief Elder, but Georgia would face that when it happened. It was unlikely anyone else would be as big a threat as Reilly.

But they could only ignore Oakwood for thirty-six hours; after that he would be within his legal rights to demand Yo-Yo’s release. The guys in the lab at Lambeth were doing their best, but couldn’t work miracles. DNA testing took time, especially when there were two sets to look for: first Haley’s blood, then Reilly’s perspiration and skin cells in the blood.

Time was something Georgia Johnson was short of at this minute, and she hadn’t a lot of patience either. She had a sister who worked as a microbiologist, but unfortunately not in Lambeth.

A thought struck her. At yesterday’s meeting, when they were told DI David Dawes was coming in because he was well up on gang crime, someone had also mentioned that he was from an influential family. She didn’t recall what kind of influence they had, but maybe he knew someone who could pull strings and move her tests to the front of the queue.

She left the custody area and made her way to the incident room. Stephanie Green was sitting at her desk dunking shortbread biscuits in a plastic cup of vending machine tea. There were wet brown stains on the reports she was reading.

Georgia refrained from commenting. ‘Have you got any background on DI Dawes?’ she asked.

‘Like what?’ Stephanie dropped the remains of a wilting biscuit into her tea.

‘Like personal details?’

Stephanie scooped the biscuity mess from the cup with her fingers and shovelled it into her mouth. ‘Word is he’s been sent over from the West End. He’s an expert on London gangs, studies them all, and he’ll be an asset to this case.’ She ran her tongue over the back of her teeth to retrieve the last few crumbs of shortbread and raised her eyebrows at Georgia. ‘Apparently he has a good reputation, and a good pedigree.’

‘Pedigree, eh?’ Georgia used a manicured nail to bend a loose hair back into her ponytail. ‘Any more on that?’

‘Unlike you to take a personal interest in a new DI, ma’am.’ Stephanie tossed the last of the tea down her throat, and squashed the plastic cup and aimed it at the bin. Her eyes twinkled at Georgia. ‘Like the look of him, do you?’

Georgia gave her a look that spoke volumes. ‘I heard he has friends in high places. I’m hoping he might have a contact in forensics. I need to get this DNA pushed through.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind.’

‘You have a one-track mind,’ Georgia said sharply. ‘You can fuck each other’s brains out for all I care. I just need to get these DNA results. We can’t afford to let Stuart Reilly out this time. And I heard Dawes has influential friends.’

A voice spoke from behind her. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, but I make no promises.’ David Dawes. Georgia closed her eyes. How long had he been standing there? Had he heard the entire conversation? She caught Stephanie Green’s eye.

‘I don’t know anyone personally in forensics, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But I know a few other people that might help. I’ll try and pull a favour. At least, I’ll do my best,’ he added.

Stephanie’s complexion had reddened and mottled all the way from her chin to her hairline. She bowed her head and bit into another biscuit. Georgia was glad that blushing didn’t register on Caribbean skin, but she certainly felt the heat. She turned to face Dawes. ‘I’m so sorry, that must have sounded crass,’ she said. ‘I’m just frustrated – pulling my hair out to get this arrest. I don’t want Reilly let out in case he disappears, and I really believe the DNA results will get us the conviction.’

‘No offence taken,’ he said with a grin. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. ‘I’ll make a call. It’s private, I’ll do it outside.’

Alan Oakwood was red hot at his job. His outward appearance was of a 1960s hippy who had lived his whole life on a diet of vegetarian food and herb tea, but it belied his true personality. The multi-coloured paisley shirt, single small gold earring and silver bangles around one wrist served only to make him look what he was: a man in the wrong job. All the other solicitors who visited the station came suited and booted. Oakwood’s relaxed look fooled no one, least of all Georgia Johnson. This man was callous, deceitful and highly intelligent – a dangerous mix when it came to keeping crooks out of prison. His pale, flyaway grey hair was long and thin, matching his physique. Tiny pebble-lensed glasses, not unlike the late John Lennon’s, covered grey eyes that were small, cold and heartless, and what he lacked in weight he made up for in verbal dexterity. He had a brain sharper than any knife belonging to the low life he represented, and he savoured every opportunity to get one over on the police.

He knew his clients were far from innocent, but he cared only for the fees that they earned him. Georgia frequently said he belonged in prison with them, and she’d like to put him there, or failing that, knock his know-all brain against a wall. Right now she wasn’t about to let him see he had the upper hand, that she had nothing to hold Reilly on, at least until the DNA results came through. When they did, Stuart ‘Yo-Yo’ Reilly would no longer be running the Aviary estate or threatening innocent citizens.

The truth was, Georgia doubted Reilly had actually murdered Haley Gulati; three stab wounds to the heart simply wasn’t his style. But he was behind it, she was sure of that, and the last nail in his coffin was that he had boasted to the victim’s niece.

What she needed to find out was why he’d had Haley killed. Reilly was known for wreaking revenge on the relatives of someone who crossed or owed him; Georgia had seen that Chantelle was a user, so putting two and two together she had her answer. She needed to talk to Chantelle again, but not until the girl was calmer. Meanwhile she was going to have a crack at getting Reilly to give up the lowlife who did the stabbing; that would take another of his gang off the street.

She pulled out a chair, settled herself beside Stephanie Green, and switched the recording machine to ON.

Reilly had been given a white forensic suit to wear while his clothes were taken for testing. He looked like an oversized snowman.

‘Where were you between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m. last night?’ Stephanie asked him. Alan Oakwood noisily clicked the catches of his briefcase, drowning out her voice. She repeated the question.

Oakley let out a sigh of irritation and, without looking up from his briefcase, he replied in a flat, condescending tone. ‘My client has already told you that. He has witnesses.’

Georgia leaned across the table until her forehead nearly touched Oakwood’s nose. He pulled his head back, ostrich-like, and met her eyes.

‘Detective Sergeant Green is asking your client to tell her again,’ she said. ‘So, for the tape, will you please answer the question, Mr Reilly?’

Reilly leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘I was having a fuck,’ he said, widening his ugly mouth into a grin and displaying a gold tooth at the side of his mouth.

Reilly and Oakwood looked like Laurel and Hardy sitting side by side. Reilly was heavily overweight, his brief was built like a string bean. It was clear he was shrewd enough not to indulge in the class A drugs he dealt. None of the big dealers ever did, Georgia thought angrily; they didn’t give a toss that a high percentage of the kids they lured into the habit lost their lives to it. In Georgia’s book, dealers were only one rung below rapists, and Reilly was probably both.

She stared at him. His dark hair fell over his forehead, shining with grease, badly in need of a wash. He was twenty-seven-years-old and weighed nearly as many stones.

‘Her name?’ Stephanie asked crisply.

Yo-Yo shook his head and shrugged. ‘Never asked,’ he said, letting out a loud fart.

‘Unfortunate,’ Stephanie said. ‘We have a witness who says you had a falling out with Haley Gulati, and stabbed her in the heart.’

Reilly shrugged again. ‘They’re lying. I was having a shag.’ He looked at Oakwood, who was wiping his pebble glasses with a white handkerchief. ‘Shame I didn’t ask her name,’ he said to Oakwood. ‘She was a good fuck as it happens.’ He turned back to face Georgia and Stephanie, jiggling his crotch.

‘What did it cost you?’ Georgia snapped. She longed to fling herself across the desk and smack him hard in the face. Patience, she told herself; when she had him for first degree murder, she’d wipe that disgusting grin off his disgusting face.

Just for a moment, she succeeded anyway. The smile disappeared, and his eyes grew small and dark. ‘I’ve never paid for it,’ he answered coldly.

‘It’s your charm they fall for, is it?’ Stephanie goaded. ‘Not the free drugs, then. Or your ill-gotten riches.’

‘You don’t have to answer that,’ Oakwood chipped in.

‘Do you have a contact for her?’ Georgia again. ‘This shag whose name you don’t recall?’

‘My client has already told you . . .’

‘That he doesn’t know her name.’ Georgia cut Oakwood off in mid-sentence. ‘But not where he picked her up, or what she looked like. See, we have a problem, Mr Reilly. You say you were having a shag, but can’t provide a witness, and we think you killed Haley Gulati, and do have a witness.’

‘You haven’t charged my client,’ Oakwood pointed out in a clipped upper-class tone. ‘So do you have proof to back up this accusation? If not, you know as well as I do that this conversation is going nowhere. I suggest that what you have is merely circumstantial.’ He pinned his eyes on her. ‘So bring out your evidence, or else I insist you release my client.’