Mac sighed. ‘Dad, listen to me. I don’t have long. I’m going aw—’
Dad was fumbling in a pocket for something. A sheet of folded paper was thrust out, which Mac took and unfolded. It was a printout of a newspaper story from a website. An old murder. A cold case. Mac sighed again.
People who knew he was a detective made up the four types on the planet. Like the receptionist, some blanked him, as if fearful that he could read their minds and arrest them for some traffic crime or ancient barroom fight. Some cops loved that. Like the nurse chatting to the receptionist, there were those who latched onto him to satisfy their thirst for gossip, and what better subject to natter about around the water cooler than murder and rape? The staff who sneered at him made up the third kind: those who treated him like scum because of some brother or uncle who had been targeted by the police. Worst of all, though, the fourth – amateur sleuths. Because of all the fictional detectives clogging up the bookstores and TV channels, detectives had become real-life superheroes. And every amateur thought he needed their help. Because his son was in the game, Dad had started reading Inspector Morse and Kim Stone and all those other famous characters, and he’d caught that same damn disease.
He pointed past Mac, but he didn’t look. ‘This is important, Dad—’
‘That’s John. He’s from Clapham. Read it, read it.’
He gave it a quick scan. Some murder in the 1990s in Clapham. Woman’s body found in the woods one morning by a dog walker. Run-of the-damn-mill.
‘Dad, can we talk? I might not be able to visit for a while.’
‘Clapham, you bloody see that? Last night, Mac, he woke up screaming in the night. Screaming he was sorry. You understand?’
Dad had all his marbles, but could turn as single-minded as a dog in heat when something obsessed him. Mac knew his dad wouldn’t pay any other subject much attention until after he’d slept it off, but today he couldn’t just leave and return after he’d napped.
He knelt on the paving stones so they were eye level. ‘Listen to me, Dad. I’ve got something on. It means I might not be able to visit. Do you understand that?’
‘Sure, son, I do. But you’ll still be by next week?’
The guy who still followed politics and could argue it with the best of them wasn’t understanding. ‘No, Dad. This will be a much longer time. I wanted to tell you that I’ll phone you when I can. If I can.’
Dad jerked his head to one side, staring past. ‘Look now, look, you’ll get a face-on view.’
So, Mac looked, just to satisfy his father. Some old guy in a wheelchair, grey stubble, big glasses, a bandage on his nose. Feeding the ducks in the pond.
‘Did you see?’
And that was that, Mac decided. This was no kind of goodbye. But he wanted to leave his dad with a happy smile.
He said: ‘Yes, Dad, I’ve seen him. We’ve been watching this place for a few days now, but we never knew who our killer was. Now, thanks to you, we know it’s the man in the wheelchair. Well done. But I need you to keep quiet about this.’
‘Of course, son. I don’t want to jeopardise your investigation. I know you policemen these days are caught up in all the rules and regulations. I’ll keep quiet. But is there anything I can do?’
‘No, thank you, Dad. This is all thanks to you. You’ve done your bit already.’
His father smiled as Mac’s phone rang. DS Gondal.
‘Hey, Gondal. What’s up?’
‘Good and bad news,’ Gondal said, then relayed the bad: DC Shaun Downey, the fool, had just been caught red-handed calling a female journalist with details of Operation Nook, the investigation into the triple murders.
‘Christ. And the good?’
‘We’ve found the Volvo.’
Sweet tone: ‘Excellent.’
According to Gondal, it was found in a lock-up garage near Danson Park. A local guy, who’d recently set-up CCTV on the abandoned garages because of ongoing vandalism, saw the superintendent’s morning press conference and thought he might have spotted the Volvo. Responding uniforms opened a garage up, and there it was. Confirmed. Gondal was en route.
‘Touch nothing till I get there,’ Mac said. ‘I’m coming now.’
He hung up.
‘Is that about the case?’ his father asked.
Mac shook his head, grabbing the books he’d brought. ‘A different case, Dad. I’ll pop these in your room.’
* * *
He moved quickly. Into the building, through the dining area and up the stairs. Two staff stopped him to say his father was outside, and he explained the books. Sixty seconds later he was in his dad’s cramped but neat room. At the window, staring down East Lane towards Park View Road. Just across the junction, 500 feet away, he could see the lock-up garages.
And two police cars.
A couple of weeks ago, he’d stood here and stared at the same location, intrigued, before heading over there for a better appraisal. A nice spot, quiet, somewhat remote and accessible from two directions. And no CCTV. Not a place he’d ever imagined would be crawling with cops. His jaw started to throb. His busted ear, too, because the injury might just be his undoing.
As he popped another mint into his mouth, he noticed a drop of Król’s blood on the matchbox. One little speck. Enough to send him to prison for the rest of his life, of course, but he’d been lucky.
No, not luck, he corrected himself. None of this had been luck. Luck hadn’t put this evidence back in his hands. Luck wasn’t going to see him walk right out of this whole mess untouched. Skill, ingenuity and grit would determine the winner, and he had more of each than anyone else.
The guy called Nikos should have already been warned not to talk to the police, and the Volvo should have been completely destroyed, or at least transported out of the area. A pair of fuck-ups, and in the game of murder you didn’t get away with that shit. Now he was going to have to go over there for damage limitation. From now on, clear thinking, and no more fucking mistakes.
His mobile pinged. A reply from Alize to the message he’d sent her from the shop that morning.
HI, SWEETCAKE. ALL WELL? DID U GO 2 THE CEMETERY 2DAY?
He replied:
I go every Thursday, babe, but I know I shouldn’t. Still on for seeing you later this week. Can’t wait. XXX
He felt better now that he’d heard from Alize.
He got as far as the stairs, then cursed so loudly that a resident in a nearby room came to her door. He found an alcove and called Gondal back.
Sweet tone: ‘I forgot in the heat of the moment. Where’s the lock-up garage?’
Maybe Gondal would have assumed he’d got the address elsewhere. Not the point. Still a fucking daft error.
* * *
‘Hey, what, you think I’m blind? If they’d been here, we would have seen them. They’re not coming, okay?’
‘Fair enough,’ he replied on the phone on his way down the stairs. ‘Calm down, Brad. Remember that legendary tepid demeanour of yours. It wasn’t an accusation. I never believed he’d try to go home, anyway. So now we’ll concentrate on the Dunstan thing. Get over there and get ready. Where’s Dave?’
‘Three feet from me, and just as pissed off that we wasted time sitting here. Listen, have you thought about a plan to get the cops off my back yet? It’s gotta happen quick. If Ian finds—’
‘Later, Brad. I’m up to my neck. But I’ll get a plan. A mother of a plan, just you wait and see. But I’ve got a job for Dave before we do the Dunstan thing. Put him on. And then I’ve got to go save all our asses. The damn Volvo’s been found. Hundreds of vehicles to check, and it’s been found in a day. I knew we should have hung, drawn and quartered that thing. And there’s CCTV at the garages now. I’m headed there, maybe into waiting handcuffs. You sure you sterilised it properly?’
‘CCTV? Since when?’
‘Some old guy must have put it up in the last week, after I scoped the place out.’
‘Okay, but it shouldn’t even be a problem, should it? We had masks.’