Chelsea Mansions (17 page)

‘We can but try. Leave it with me. There’s been a hell of a lot of speculation while you’ve been away—TV, papers, blogs, questions in the House. Well, you’ll know of course. Marilyn says we need to give them something. Maybe something on the Scottish angle? What do you think?’

‘Not yet, sir. Could prejudice our inquiries.’

Sharpe gave a growl like a pit bull with toothache. ‘Twenty-four hours, Brock. Give me
something
.’

The enthusiastic mood in the team meeting quickly went flat as Brock’s unhappiness with progress became apparent. He listened with a frown to the reports from each of the groups and finally pointed at Emerson Merckle’s photograph of the man at the Chelsea Flower Show, enlarged and enhanced until the pale scar down the left cheek of his brooding face was apparent.

‘What happened to this man after he got off the motorbike at Camden Town tube station? We’ll have to go over it all again, every station on the Northern Line, every camera, every eyewitness. Where does a man go after he commits a murder? Church, brothel, pub, betting shop, Turkish bath? There’s got to be a trace of him somewhere. Kathy, I want you to take charge of this. Bren, you and I will go up to Tottenham and interview Danny Yilmaz again. Come on everyone, twenty-four hours. Give me something.’

He felt bad afterwards, repeating Sharpe’s demand without any clear hope of a result, and he felt worse when they finally had Danny Yilmaz sitting hunched in front of them in an interview room, waiting for his brief to arrive. There was something about the glare of the fluorescent lights, the indefinable smell in the stale air, the scrape of metal chairs on plastic floor tiles, that seemed deliberately calculated to make him feel nauseous.

‘Danny,’ he said softly, ‘the tape’s not running yet, nothing’s going on the record, but before we begin I want to do you a good turn.’

‘Oh yeah, sure.’

‘We know you were lying to us. And we know why. It was a favour for your cousin Barbaros, wasn’t it? And we know that it was Barbaros that you picked up on your bike after he killed that woman in Sloane Street.’

Danny was eyeing him with a glassy, unfocused look and Brock felt his heart sink. This was absurd, a wild stab in the dark, and Danny knew it. But he had to press on.

‘We can’t prove it, not yet, but we know it’s true. So we are going to make Barbaros’s life hell until we do. We are going to rip his house apart and his car and that TV repair shop he owns, and his mother’s house and your mother’s house and everything they own until we find what we’re looking for. So make it easy for us. Tell us where to look.’

He sat back and waited. He sensed Bren beside him shift in his seat, probably thinking the old man had lost it. He was right, it had been a truly terrible impersonation of a cheap cop show interrogation, and when Danny told his brief there’d be trouble. Brock felt ashamed.

Danny lifted his head and stared at Brock, who thought he saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. ‘It was nothing to do with Barbaros,’ he said finally. ‘I swear. He was a Scotchman.’

‘The man on the phone or on the bike?’ Brock said calmly.

Danny bowed his head. ‘The guy I picked up on Sloane Street.’

‘A Scotsman, you say?’

‘Yeah. Well hard. Listen, it was nothing to do with Barbaros. You’ve got that totally wrong, I swear.’

‘We’ll see,’ Brock said. ‘So where did he go when you dropped him at Camden Town?’

‘I dunno. Back to Scotland for all I know.’

‘You think he came from there?’

‘Well, he came from somewhere. That’s what the bloke on the phone said.’

‘And you’re sure the one on the phone wasn’t the same man?’

‘Oh yeah. The one on the phone sounded like a Londoner.’ He paused and slumped lower in his seat. ‘The one on the bike had flash shoes, Nike Air Jordans, blue with orange trim. Listen, I feel sick . . .’ And then he turned his head and threw up on the floor.

They called the duty sergeant to look after Danny. ‘We’ll leave it for now,’ Brock said. ‘Tell his lawyer he doesn’t need to bother.’

On the way out Brock phoned Kathy, passing on the information about the shoes and the Scottish accent. ‘It’s possible he got the Northern Line from Camden Town to Euston, to catch a train back up north.’

When they got into the car Bren said, ‘Smart work, Chief.’

‘It may be nothing. Anyway, I didn’t deserve it.’

Bren laughed, but didn’t disagree.

‘Scotland?’ Zack shook his head. ‘Is he having us on?’

‘Apparently not,’ Kathy said, although the same thought had occurred to her. She began contacting the teams with the new information, moving some to Euston, Kings Cross and St Pancras rail stations to check CCTV records. But it was Zack who first spotted the shoes, coming out of Camden Town tube station a few minutes after the killer had gone in, but this time on the feet of a man wearing a pale cream jacket and a cap.

‘Got him,’ Zack said. ‘He must have put on the jacket and cap inside the station, and now he’s heading north up Camden Road.’

They picked him up again going into Camden Road rail station on the London Overground network, a couple of hundred yards away, buying a ticket and catching a train heading east.

Again Kathy called up the teams to check the stations along the North London Line—Caledonian Road and Barnsbury, Highbury and Islington, Canonbury, Dalston Kingsland, and then Hackney Central, where they retrieved images of him leaving the station and disappearing into the streets leading south.

Meanwhile the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency had got back to them with an identification of the man at the flower show. His name was Harold Michael Peebles, thirty-six years old, known as Hard Harry Peebles, and his last known address was HM Prison Barlinnie, Glasgow, from which he had recently been released after completing a six-year sentence for manslaughter. A check confirmed that Peebles had been a passenger on a British Midland Airways flight from Glasgow to London on the morning of Wednesday 26 May. There was no record of him taking a return flight.

Everyone converged on the Hackney police station, where the CCTV coordinator began the search through local sources for the afternoon of 27 May. After an hour they had found one brief sighting on a bank security camera of the man in the blue and orange shoes, then nothing more. They moved their search to the following day, the mood of frustration growing among those who waited. Bren and the borough detectives were impatient to get out and canvass shops, pubs and betting shops with pictures of the wanted man, but Brock held them back, not wanting to spook him if he was still in the area. The trawl through camera footage continued through the twenty-eighth, the twenty-ninth, but in the end it was Glasgow that provided the answer. The office at Barlinnie Prison had run the word ‘Hackney’ through their computer and come up with a next-of-kin address for one of the inmates in C Hall, where Harry Peebles had been housed. The address was for the man’s sister, a Mrs Angela Storey of 13 Ferncroft Close, Hackney. A check soon established that Mrs Storey was divorced, childless and currently serving time in nearby Holloway Prison.

A helicopter from the Air Support Unit at Lippitts Hill was called in, giving them aerial surveillance. Ferncroft Close was a quiet residential cul-de-sac of just twenty houses in two terraces facing each other across a roadway jammed with parked cars. One end was blocked by a railway embankment and there was a rear access laneway running behind the back gardens of the terrace in which number thirteen was located. Brock called for an armed response unit and made his plans.

After his experience at Danny Yilmaz’s flat, Brock didn’t go in with the team, but instead watched from Queen Anne’s Gate, through the helicopter’s camera, the unmarked car and two white vans arriving at Ferncroft Close. There was a sense of unreality in seeing it unfold like this, like a computer game, with sound effects, a sudden burst of dogs barking coming through the headphones. Brock remembered other such raids in years gone by, when communications meant a shout and a dodgy radio.

There was nothing unreal about the raid as far as Kathy was concerned, sitting squashed up in the white van with a gang of uniforms. One of them was the operator for a device new to the Met, the Black Hornet, currently on operational field trials from its Norwegian manufacturer. Looking over the operator’s shoulder, Kathy watched him open the small aluminium case that he was carrying and take out one of three tiny black helicopters, as small as a child’s toy. They opened the rear doors of the van and the man released the device, which rose with a soft purr into the air. He settled back down with a control panel and screen, guiding the Hornet down the street to hover silently outside the windows of number thirteen, sending pictures back to the van. A neat toy, Kathy thought, but nothing could shield you from the reality of a forcible arrest, the shock of violent contact, the spontaneous decision that could take a life or ruin a career in a millisecond.