The Murder Exchange Page 6

  ‘How can I help you, officer?’

  ‘Can I just take these for a moment?’ he asked, leaning in the window and removing the keys from the ignition.

  ‘What’s the problem? I’m in a bit of a hurry, to tell you the truth.’

  He gave the interior a bit of a nose and spotted the two dark stains on the back seat where Fowler had bled. I’d given them a clean-up earlier that morning, but they still looked a bit suspicious. I’d never been much cop at domestic chores.

  ‘There appear to be bullet holes in your vehicle, sir,’ he said, totally deadpan, like he was telling me I had toothpaste round my mouth.

  ‘I live on a rough estate, officer.’

  The other one now opened the back passenger door and began inspecting the stains more closely. ‘What happened here?’ he asked. ‘This looks a lot like blood.’

  ‘It’s red wine,’ I told him. ‘I spilled it in there yesterday. It’s a right bastard to get rid of.’

  ‘Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir,’ said the first one, opening the door for me.

  ‘No problem,’ I said wearily, and got out. Still holding the handle, he shut it behind me at just the moment I delivered a ferocious uppercut that sent him flying. He landed on his back, absolutely sparko, narrowly missing the traffic in the next lane, and his cap rolled off, only to be immediately crushed by a passing minibus full of pensioners.

  ‘Oi!’ shouted his partner, going for his extendable baton.

  There was too much traffic to cross the road before he caught up with me so I ran round the front of the Range Rover, mounted the pavement, and charged him before he had a chance to actually extend the baton. I punched him full in the face, knocking him off balance, then got my leg round his and tripped him up. He went down, his nose bleeding badly, and I ran back round to retrieve my keys.

  But cars were stopping all over the place now to watch the drama unfolding and the lights had gone red again. A well-built workman was getting out of his van and glaring at me, looking worryingly like he was about to carry out a citizen’s arrest. Then, from up the street, I heard the sound of a siren. It meant a quick decision.

  Run for it.

  So that’s what I did, and as I tore off at a rate of knots in the opposite direction to the siren, past the surprised expressions of passing civilians, it struck me then that however bad I thought my predicament was ten minutes ago, it was now a hundred times worse.

  If anyone ever wanted to kill Johnny Hexham, he would not be a difficult man to find. Every lunchtime between one and two, as regular as clockwork, he was in the Forked Tail public house, a mangy dive off Upper Street, gossiping with his lowlife cronies and plotting his next poxy moneymaking scheme. Sometimes he’d be there earlier, sometimes he wouldn’t leave until the early hours of the following morning, but, without fail, he was always in residence for that one hour. I got there at ten to two, and waited in the doorway of a boarded-up shop across the street, trying to look inconspicuous. As it was a Friday, I guessed that the lazy little shit would be in for an all-dayer, but, like the creature of habit he was, I thought he’d probably whip out for a few minutes to place some bets on the horses, having picked up some tips from the Paddy barman. I didn’t much want to approach Johnny in the bar where there were too many people with big ears, but I would if I had to. Things were not going well for me and I wanted some answers quick.

  And bang, like an assassin’s dream, there he was, coming out of the door, already filling out one of the betting slips he always carried with him. I looked at my watch – one minute past two – and crossed the street, coming up behind him.

  ‘Johnny Hexham. Long time no see.’ And it was, too. Getting close to six months.

  He swung round and clocked me straight away. He didn’t look too pleased but worked hard to hide it. ‘All right, Max,’ he said, coming to a halt. ‘How’s it going, mate?’

  I walked up and took him casually by the arm. The grip was light but firm enough to let him know I wasn’t fucking around. ‘Not good, Johnny. Not good. There are a few questions I need answers to fairly urgently, and I think you might be able to help.’

  ‘What’s the Bobby, then?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The Bobby Moore, score.’

  ‘It’s about a certain Mr Fowler.’

  ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘I knew he’d be trouble.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’ I let go of his arm and we walked down in the direction of Chapel Market.

  Johnny looked at me nervously. We might have been old schoolmates but he was switched on enough to notice that that wasn’t going to count for much in this conversation. I am a man of compassion but, to be honest, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of me.

  ‘What happened, then?’ he asked.

  ‘You put this bloke, Fowler, on to me. Why?’

  ‘There was nothing bad about it, honest. I just thought the two of you could do some business. He needed some security—’

  ‘How do you know him?’ I had to remember not to use the word ‘did’.

  ‘I don’t really. It was Elaine who put me on to him. Elaine Toms.’

  ‘Jesus. Is she still around?’

  Elaine had been in the same year as us in school, way back when Duran Duran were the kings of the rock world and furry pixie boots were all the rage. She’d always been the girl the boys liked because, without exception, she fucked on the first date, the first date only ever meant buying her one drink, and she was nice to look at. Which you’ve got to admit is something of a rare and joyous combination. Not that I’d ever managed to get her in the sack. There’d always been too much of a queue in front of me. And I’d been a bit of a skinny runt in school, too. Like decent wine, I’d matured with age. I hadn’t clapped eyes on Elaine in getting close to fifteen years, probably longer, and briefly wondered what she looked like now.

  ‘Yeah, Elaine’s still around. She’s the manager of Fowler’s club.’

  ‘The Arcadia.’

  ‘That’s the one. I still see her now and again because I drink down there sometimes. Not often, like, cos it’s a bit too young for me, all these kids jumping about, out of it on all sorts, but it’s worth a Captain Cook. Anyway, she told me that Fowler was having trouble with some people and he needed protection. She asked me if I knew of anyone who might be able to assist and so, you know, I thought about it for a couple of minutes, then your name popped up. I know you’re into all that shit. I thought you could do with the business.’ He turned and gave me his trademark boyish smile, the one I knew had got Elaine Toms into bed on more than one occasion back in the old days. Johnny Hexham, the loveable rogue.

  But it didn’t work. Not today. ‘It was a bad move, Johnny.’

  He looked worried. ‘Why? What happened?’

  We turned into Chapel Market and made our way down the middle between the two lines of stalls. As usual, it was noisy and crowded. I decided against giving him the whole story. Johnny was no grass and probably wouldn’t go to the law if his balls went missing, but it was best to err on the side of caution.

  ‘I almost got killed. That’s what happened. These people Fowler had trouble with, they weren’t messing about.’

  ‘Blimey, Max, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in the Barry. I thought it was routine stuff.’

  ‘Who are these people? And what’s the trouble he’s been having, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. Honest. It was something to do with the club. That’s all I was told.’ He exhaled dramatically. ‘Fuck, this is bad news. What’s happened to Fowler?’

  I glared at him. ‘Forget Fowler. And forget you ever put him in contact with me. OK?’

  Johnny’s head went up and down like a nodding dog. ‘Yeah, yeah. Of course. No problem. Consider it done.’

  I took his arm again, this time squeezing harder. He turned to protest but I stared him down. ‘Are you sure you’re telling me the truth, Johnny? You know nothing about that club that might help to explain why
people are getting all trigger happy with Fowler?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Because if I find out you do know something, anything at all, then I’m going to hunt you down and I’m going to kill you. Understand?’ Harsh words, but definitely necessary under the circumstances.

  ‘Fuck it, Max, I’m telling the truth. I know there’s some dealing goes on down there, charlie and all that, but that’s about it.’

  They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I slowed right down and stared straight into his. But the windows were dirty and I couldn’t tell whether he was bullshitting or not.

  ‘That’s all I know, I swear to you. Look, Max, I’m sorry. I really am. I was just trying to help.’

  I let go of his arm, and managed a brief smile, though God knows what there was to smile about. ‘Well, it’s a brand of help I can do without in the future. And remember, say nothing about seeing me to anyone. OK? Including Elaine Toms.’

  ‘No problem. My lips are sealed.’ He gave me a concerned look. A mate to a mate. ‘Everything’s all right, though, isn’t it, Max?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I told him, turning away. ‘Tickety-fucking-boo. See you around, Johnny.’

  Gallan

  I didn’t have to work that night but, with my home life being as non-existent as it was, I decided to stay late in the incident room and catch up on paperwork. Berrin wasn’t so keen and took off bang on five-thirty, something I duly noted. There was an all-units out on the car I’d spotted with the bullet holes in it. Two of the station’s uniforms had stopped it and there’d been an altercation with the driver, who’d fled the scene on foot, having assaulted and injured both officers. Suspected bloodstains had been found in the vehicle, which was registered in the name of Max Iversson, an exsoldier with no previous record, who matched witness descriptions of the driver. Thankfully, it was nothing to do with me any more, but I was pleased that my observance had paid off, even if the uniforms who’d done the stopping and who were now off sick probably weren’t.

  It was ten to nine when I left the station. I went to a cheap Italian off Upper Street I occasionally frequent and had a bowl of pasta and some garlic bread, washed down with a couple of welcome bottles of Peroni now that I was off duty. I suppose you could say it was a lonely way to spend a Friday evening, and you’d be right, it was, but I was beginning to get used to it. This time barely a year ago, it had all been a lot different. I’d been a DI at another station south of the river, heading up through the ranks in the direction of the DCI slot, with three commendations under my belt. Crime down there was bad, the hours were tough … Paradise it wasn’t. But it wasn’t a bad life and, unlike alot of my colleagues, I still had a stable domestic situation. A wife of fifteen years, an eleven-year-old daughter, a decent house in an area where the weekly mugging tallies were still in single figures …

  Then, on the night they brought in Troy Farrow, it all changed.

  Troy Farrow was a seventeen-year-old street robber who specialized in making victims of schoolkids my daughter’s age, relieving them of their mobile phones and pocket money, and old ladies, who he liked to pick off on pension day, sometimes breaking a few frail bones in the process. He had nine convictions altogether but had only spent a total of three months inside, so the law didn’t exactly have him shaking in his Nike trainers. He was shouting and cursing and threatening all sorts as the arresting officers booked him in for what was likely to be his tenth conviction: the violent removal of a mobile phone from the ear of a young secretary foolish enough to have been walking down a busy street early evening without keeping her wits about her. Unfortunately for him, the street was under surveillance by officers in plain clothes and he was caught within minutes. I was detailed to interview him, along with a DC, because we were interested in getting information from him regarding the near gang rape of an eleven-year-old by a group who’d also robbed her of her mobile and the bag of sweets she was carrying. We didn’t think Farrow had been involved – it wasn’t his style to molest his victims, and the suspects had been described as being aged between twelve and fourteen – but we were pretty sure he would know who was. There wasn’t much that went on in Farrow’s estate, crime-wise, that he wasn’t aware of, and kids like that would almost certainly have bragged about what they’d done.

  Farrow calmed down as he was taken down to the interview room by two of the arresting officers, with me and the DC following a few yards behind. What happened next is still something of a mystery. As Farrow and the arresting officers turned and entered the room, he turned and said something to one of them that I didn’t quite catch but which I was told later went along the lines of ‘You pussies can’t do nothing with me’. The officer had then made a fatal mistake. He’d let his frustration with the legal system and the cocky criminals who frequented it get the better of him, and had apparently called Farrow ‘a black bastard’, causing a further, much more violent struggle to ensue. We’d hurried into the interview room at just the moment when one of the officers slammed Farrow’s head into the wall. Not hard enough to knock him out, but enough to open a nasty cut across his forehead. ‘Assault! Assault!’ he’d screamed. ‘They’re killing me! Get me a fucking brief! Now!’ The two arresting officers had let go, and we’d helped Farrow, who was handcuffed behind his back, into one of the chairs. ‘Get my brief,’ he’d said, all calm now, blood oozing out of the wound. ‘I want to make a formal complaint. I ain’t saying another word until I’ve seen my brief.’ And he didn’t. Not a word.

  The formal complaint made, all four of us who’d been in the interview room were later questioned by representatives of the Police Complaints Authority, and all of us stuck to the same story: that Troy Farrow had stumbled during the struggle and had accidentally knocked his head against the wall. The arresting officer who Farrow claimed had racially abused him denied the charge but did admit calling him a bastard, and I couldn’t comment on this because I hadn’t heard the exchange. I know that a lot of people would think it was wrong for me not to say what I saw but at the time I thought no lasting harm had been done. Farrow was patched up by the station’s doctor and needed two stitches, and, anyway, it was no more than he deserved. Plus, I didn’t want to be the whistleblower. The police get enough flak as it is, and sometimes when you’re a copper it does feel like the whole world’s against you, so you don’t want to be putting the knife into your own side. In the end, I was never going to be the one who ruined a colleague’s career (which is what I would have done) over one second’s stupidity and hot-headedness. I just couldn’t justify it to myself.

  And, at first, it looked like we might have got away with it. I don’t think the people from the PCA believed us but it was our word against that of a known criminal, and we weren’t budging, so eventually they had little choice but to conclude that the incident was accidental, and that Farrow had misheard what the arresting officer had said.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. A couple of months later the second arresting uniform, the one who hadn’t pushed Farrow’s head into the wall, admitted what had happened to a bloke in his local pub after one beer too many, only to find out afterwards that the bloke was a local investigative journalist, doing an exposé of racism in the Force. With the conversation recorded, the story appeared two days later in the local paper, and the case was suddenly reopened. I found the local media and even London Tonight parked on my doorstep, asking me if I was a liar and a racist. I might occasionally be the one, but I’m definitely not the other. The whole thing was a nightmare and, although my boss, DCI Renham, a guy I’d worked for for getting close to five years, fought to keep me in my position, the tide of attention was overwhelming, and in the end, with the story refusing to go away, the Brass were forced to act. Both arresting officers lost their jobs; the DC, with me, was put back in uniform; and I was demoted to DC.

  It was a shameful episode, the whole thing, and for a long time I found it difficult to come to terms with. You see, in my eyes, I hadn’t done a lot wrong. I’d made a mi
stake but I thought the punishment far outweighed the crime. I took it out on my wife, made life difficult for her, and maybe things between us hadn’t been quite as strong as I’d thought, because three months later, after one argument too many, we separated. It turned out she’d been having an affair. I suppose this would have been understandable were it not for the fact that the other man happened to be the intrepid journalist who’d broken the story in the first place. The cheeky bastard had gone round to interview her about what effect the story was having on her and the family, and clearly it was having quite a big one because somehow, not long afterwards, maybe even that day, they’d ended up in the sack.

  What do you do in that sort of situation? What can you do? Nothing except pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and remember that what goes around comes around. There is justice in this world, it’s just that sometimes it takes a long time before it bothers to show itself. I had no choice but to cling to that fact as I gathered up my possessions, put in for a transfer, and headed north of the river for the first time in my career, ending up at probably the most controversial station in the entire Met, a place still haunted by the betrayal of one of its most senior detectives.

  DS Dennis Milne was without doubt Britain’s most corrupt police officer: a valued and long-standing member of CID by day, a hired killer with God knows how many corpses to his credit by night. His shadow still hung over the station like a noxious cloud, even though it had been close to two years since his grim secret had been uncovered and he’d disappeared into thin air. It didn’t matter. Time would be a slow healer here, and there were a number in CID, including DCI Knox, who’d be forever tainted by their long association with the station’s most infamous son. Mud sticks, and maybe that was why I’d settled in so easily there.

  Since my arrival, I’d rented myself a half-decent flat in Tufnell Park, and had managed to pull myself back up to the rank of detective sergeant. A far cry from the old days, and I was still waiting for justice (my ex and the journalist were now shacked up together and my daughter even claimed that she quite liked him), but things could always have been worse. I still had a job and, against all the odds, I still got something out of it.