Good Bait (25 page)

Hugo French lay there, blocking out the sound, for as long as he could. Turning over, turning back. Moving the pillow beneath his head. Covers tugged this way and that. Kids. No, not kids. Older. Young men by the sound of them, their loud, overlapping voices rising up to the second-floor bedroom where he slept. Young blokes, not so very long out of the pub, standing around outside the house, arguing the toss. About what, Hugo didn't know. Couldn't tell. Just the odd word clearly audible, the pattern of phrases repeated over and over, the slightly dodgy double glazing unable to keep them out. ‘No, wait. Wait, wait, wait. Listen. Just fucking listen!' Every second or third word, the swearing. Like some kind of punctuation, like breathing.

Time was, it would have been Mary awake before him, pushing back the duvet and padding to the window, thinking nothing of throwing it open and sticking her head out, complaining.

People sleeping …

Haven't you got a home to go to …

Call the police if you're not careful …

Not any more. The space beside him cold and uncomprehending. He rolled over on to his side and as he did so, the noises seemed to falter and fade. Thank Christ! They were moving away.

But then again …

‘Listen, you bastard! Listen, will ya! Fuckin' listen!'

Over and over and over …

Hugo levered himself into a sitting position, feet seeking out his slippers; tightening, as he stood, the cord of his pyjamas; reaching his old dressing gown down from behind the door. For heaven's sake let me buy you a new one for Christmas. That old thing's a disgrace.

Carefully, he shuffled to the window. Stood there for several moments, nervously, before easing a small space between the curtains and squinting down through the gap.

Yes, he was right. Four young men, standing in a tight little group, facing one another, hands every now and then gesturing, heads lifting with the rise and fall of voices. On their way back from some party, he supposed, an extension at the pub on the corner. Nothing wrong with his eyesight, he didn't recognise any of them. Not from this street, he was certain. Not from round here. Why they'd chosen this street, he'd no idea. Unless that was their car, parked right by where they were standing. He hadn't seen that before, either. Nothing flash, nothing racy. Could be theirs, no saying.

One of them turned abruptly and started to walk away, and Hugo thought, okay, this is it, at last they're going. But right off he seemed to change his mind and turn back again and now … now what were they doing? One of the others leaning over the roof of the car, something being tipped out onto a piece of … foil, was it?… yes, a piece of foil … and one of the others dipping his finger and then putting it inside his mouth, rubbing it across his gums. Hugo didn't believe what he was seeing. This perfectly ordinary, quiet street, not yet two in the morning, four blokes, illuminated by the nearest street light, not giving a bugger about who saw or heard them, messing around with drugs – cocaine, he supposed that's what it was, cocaine – he'd read about it enough times, seen it on TV. Maybe that's what they'd been arguing about all along, buying or selling, he didn't know, the price, who was to pay, how much.

It angered him; knotted inside him.

And the blank windows opposite, blinds down, curtains closed, none of the neighbours, not that he really knew most of them, not now, not any more, no one interested, sleeping through it all, not caring.

Below, one man pushed another and laughed, then went back to what they were doing.

The telephone was on the bedside table.

The community support officer when he'd called round – some kind of scheme they had, crime prevention – had left a card with the number of the local station. You keep it there, where it's handy. Any strange noises, anything untoward, don't be afraid to use it. What we're there for. Your taxes.

Not my taxes, Hugo remembered thinking, not now it was just a few bits and pieces and the pension.

He dialled the number.

Dawn Pritchard was parked up outside the twenty-four-hour convenience store near the junction when the call came through; her partner, Richie Stevenson, inside buying God knows what. Snickers, Peppermint Aero, KitKat, Bounty. Likely a can of Coke or Red Bull. Whatever it took to get him through the rest of the shift without dropping off. The wonder was, all the sugar and stuff he gorged on, he still looked like a stick insect, so thin when he turned side-on it was just possible to miss him altogether. Whereas Dawn, as she knew to her cost, only had to look at a bar of chocolate or even a Diet Pepsi and she was having to loosen the buttons at the front of her uniform jacket.

‘Richie!' Passenger door open, she shouted across the pavement at the figure standing chatting at the counter. ‘Come on, let's shift it.'

The call from the dispatch room had been graded S for soonish, as opposed to I for immediate, which Dawn knew gave them an hour's window in which to respond, as against a maximum of eight to twelve minutes, but so far the night had been quiet as the proverbial, and anything was better than nothing.

‘What is it?' Stevenson asked, peeling back the wrapping from a KitKat, snapping it in half and offering her two fingers.

She shook her head. ‘Group of men causing some kind of disturbance. Possible drug involvement. That part's uncertain.'

‘Lady Margaret, you said?'

‘Lady Somerset.'

Big houses, semi-detached for the most part; a few still family homes, but not many; the majority divided into flats, two, three or even four to a building. The address she'd been given, another hundred metres along on the left side, before the road curved downhill.

‘Where they supposed to be, these blokes?'

‘I don't know, just standing around.'

‘Well, no bugger here now, they've scarpered.'

‘No, wait up. There, over there.'

‘Where?'

‘There.'

They were sitting inside a silver Saab, silver-grey, four men; the interior light on and then, as the police car approached, swiftly switched off.

‘What do you think?' Stevenson said.

Dawn pulled up just sufficiently ahead of the Saab to block any attempt to drive away.

Both officers got out of the car.

While Stevenson went around the rear of the Saab and on to the pavement, Dawn knocked on the driver's window and motioned for him to wind it down.

Stevenson shone his torch from the other side: four faces, young and white, blinking away from the light, heads down, avoiding his eyes.

‘Now I need you,' Dawn was telling the driver, ‘to step out of the car.'

No movement.

‘That would be now.'

He swore not quite beneath his breath, loud enough for her to hear, and, with all the disdain he could muster, did as he was told. Early twenties, Dawn thought, if that. Dark hair, curling up against the collar of his leather jacket, perhaps unfashionably long. Not bad-looking, she could see that; a fit-looking bloke and no mistake, but too young. Too young for her, at any rate.

‘Driving licence,' she said. ‘Any other identification.'

‘What for?'

‘Licence, don't argue.'

‘We weren't doin' nothin', just talkin'.'

‘Just do as I say.'

His eyes caught hers, decision made. Flung out an arm, catching her high across the face, as he turned and started to run.

Dawn thrust out a leg, tripping him so that he fell, half-fell against the bonnet of the car, rolling awkwardly away, one hand pushing up from the ground till she brought her baton down hard against the bone, the elbow, the crack clear and loud and lost in his scream as she struck him again, a full swing down against the top of his shoulder, the reverberation jarring her own arm, making her fingers tingle.

The moment the driver had tried to make off, all three passengers had bolted from the car, the near-side door slamming against Richie Stevenson's legs and sending him stumbling back against the privet hedge; Stevenson recovering quickly enough to give chase and bring down the slowest of the runaways with a rugby tackle that wouldn't have looked out of place at Twickenham or Murrayfield, even if it did tear his trouser leg against the edge of the kerb and badly graze both knees.

‘Okay, you little shit. You're nicked.' Just like
Life on Mars
.

Hugo French stood in the doorway, still with his dressing gown over his pyjamas, soft slippers on his feet. He'd never imagined the police would respond as speedily as they had, half-prepared to be fobbed off with some excuse or other when he'd phoned, but pleased now that he'd gone ahead and everything had panned out the way it seemingly had. A little excitement no bad thing, he supposed, straightening his back automatically as the female officer made her way towards him, the young oaf that she'd dealt with so competently now handcuffed in the back of the police car and, from the sound of it, reinforcements on the way.

Memory not what it was, he'd taken the precaution of jotting down a few things on a scrap of paper, what he'd heard and seen. You never know, he might even be called on to give evidence somewhere down the line. Now wouldn't that be something, name in the local paper he'd not be surprised. Mary would have liked that, in her quiet way been proud. Not that she'd have said.

‘Mr French?'

He held out his hand.

41

There were more beggars on the street now, Karen thought, as she made her way to work, several sitting crouched up against the walls outside the Tube. Earlier in the year it had been two, then four, then five; this morning, between the edge of Highbury Fields and the station, she'd passed half a dozen. Two women, one of them little more, seemingly, than a girl; four men. Three of the men with mangy dogs beside them, bristle-mouthed, whippet thin, all sheltering, as best they could, from the rain.

Inside the forecourt, two more men, collecting for charity, stood shaking buckets at the incoming travellers: flood disasters here, AIDS sufferers there, poor and disabled everywhere.

Karen fished into her purse for stray coins, slapped her Oyster card down on the reader and joined the throng. The train was crowded, people standing cheek by jowl, but by some good fortune she managed to squeeze into a seat. A few minutes along, they slowed to a halt. Due to a signal failure at King's Cross, they were being held in a queue. Mutual groans, shaking of heads. The last time this had happened, it had been a good thirty minutes before they moved. No signal that far underground, there was no sense in trying to phone ahead, warning she'd be late. With a scowl, she reached her book from her bag.

Tim Costello was waiting at her office door when she arrived, sporting a new jacket in industrial denim from somewhere like G-Star – a couple of hundred at least, Karen guessed, plus change. Someone with money enough to spare.

‘Want my opinion?' Karen said, treating him to a quick up-and-down. ‘A little short, maybe, in the sleeves.'

Costello, bless him, essayed a faint blush. ‘This guy,' he said, ‘Brendan Cullen, brought in a couple of nights back, Kentish Town. Doing smack off the roof of his car right under a bloody street light, if you can believe that.'

‘I can believe anything. But what's it got to do with us?'

‘When they searched the car they found a 9mm Glock and ammo in the boot, hidden beneath the spare. Intel reckon it's the one used at Woodford. Double-checking now.'

Karen's eyes brightened. ‘He's been charged?'

‘Possession of a firearm and ammunition in a public place.'

‘That's all?'

‘So far.'

‘What's he saying about the gun?'

‘Not his.'

‘Surprise, surprise.'

‘Thought maybe I should get myself down there, Kentish Town, ask a few questions.'

‘Okay, but don't go stepping on any toes.'

Costello grinned. ‘Fairy footsteps, I promise.'

Costello stood looking at Cullen through one-way glass as he stonewalled question after question, smirk like a razor cut across his face.

Brendan Cullen. Bren.

One leg was hooked nonchalantly across the other, tapered jeans, white T-shirt under a grey hoodie, one studded ear, a neat blue tattoo along his neck. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? He'd been practising for this since the local beat copper had first dragged him in, kicking and blaspheming, eight years old. Dad and granddad both doing time. Brother, one of them, in care. Another, the oldest, in the army, overseas; matter of time, Cullen thought, sad bastard, before he came home in a box.

So far, he'd admitted little or nothing. Possession of a small amount of a Class A drug for personal use only. Taking and driving away.

And the handgun found in the boot of his car?

Not his.

Not your gun?

Not my car.

Ba-boom!

Stolen, like he'd said, from the free parking area close to the Forum a couple of nights before. As for the unlicensed weapon tucked under the spare, together with a box of shells, no idea they were there. Nicking a motor, you didn't exactly hang around to search the boot now, did you? A grin, switched off as easily as it had been switched on. Just shows, can't trust nobody nowadays.

Cullen leaned back even farther; peered at Costello through lowered lids as he came into the room and one of the other officers left. Costello identifying himself for the tape.

‘The pistol, you say you'd no idea it was in the car?'

Cullen looked up in the direction of the camera and yawned. ‘We got to go through all this again?'

‘Before you went off and met your mates, you didn't tuck it away under the spare yourself?'

‘No.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Jesus, how many more times—'

‘Then how come one of your prints is on the gun …?'

‘What?'

‘Up against the trigger housing, underside of the barrel.'

‘Bollocks!'