“I want to see you in my office in five minutes,” Sir Henry snarled.
“Yes, sir,” Powell said in his most insufferably pleasant manner.
The Assistant Commissioner stormed off, and Powell proceeded to his office whistling tunelessly. He had a short conversation with Detective-Sergeant Black and
then made some phone calls. He walked into Merriman’s office a few minutes late.
The AC glared at him. “What do you think you’re playing at, Powell?”
“Sir?”
“I’ve had a request from Osborne at West End Central. He wants you to take on the Morton file. What the hell is this all about?”
“Sorry I haven’t kept you in the loop, sir, but Superintendent Osborne feels there could be a connection between Clive Morton and the Brighton case, which as you know I’ve been—”
“Don’t tell me something I already know!” Merriman exploded. Then he sat in silence glaring at Powell, who could almost hear the wheels turning. Eventually, he turned his attention to some papers on his desk. “I want you to assign the file to Detective-Sergeant Evans,” he said dismissively, signing something off with a flourish. “We need more women in the force with experience investigating serious crimes. As I have no doubt that both she and Black are capable of carrying out their duties with minimal supervision, this arrangement will enable you to assist me with a comprehensive planning report I’m preparing for the Commissioner.” He looked up with a chilling smile. “I call it ‘A Strategic Vision of Humane, Inclusive, and Flexible Policing for the Twenty-first Century.’ And, oh, yes, Powell, don’t mention anything to the press about a possible link between the two murders. We wouldn’t want to start a panic, would we?”
* * *
The meeting in Powell’s office later that morning with Detective-Sergeants Black and Evans was awkward for all of them. Evans’s elation at being assigned to a murder investigation was tempered somewhat by the circumstances: Black was miffed at having to share the glory with Evans, and Powell, for his part, was furious.
When he had calmed down sufficiently, he tried to set the right tone with a positive note. “The main thing is we now have additional resources to work with—that means you, Evans. And, just to be clear, we will work together as a team; you may think of me, if you like, as your captain. I suggest we convene first thing each morning to compare notes and plan our next steps so we’re not tripping all over one another. Are there any questions?”
“What about Merriman’s report, sir?” Evans asked, concern sounding in her voice. “Won’t he be expecting you to—”
“Merriman can shove his report up his arse,” Powell replied brusquely, belying the inner turmoil he was experiencing. Recalling his Cambridge rock-climbing days, he felt like he was soloing an Exceptionally Severe without a rope.
Charles Mansfield’s office was located in the ghastly London Bridge City complex that had risen in the last few years like an eruption of boils on the south bank of the Thames between the London and Tower Bridges. Mansfield, in his bespoke pinstriped suit, looked to be in his mid-thirties—surprisingly young for a Conservative these days—with wispy blond hair and pudgy features.
“Do make yourself comfortable, Chief Superintendent,” he intoned ponderously. “Can I get you a drink—sherry, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
They sat at a polished round table, placed a strategic distance from Mansfield’s desk and intended to create an impression of relaxed collegiality but implying just the opposite.
“I understand you’re a Cantabrigian, Chief Superintendent,” Mansfield began smoothly.
Powell looked surprised.
The solicitor smiled. “I have my sources. I’m an Oxford man, myself. Nevertheless, it’s heartening to see that the Metropolitan Police Service is in good hands.”
“I think it would be accurate to say that the old-boy network is intact at the Yard,” Powell responded coolly.
Mansfield seemed momentarily nonplussed, as if he was unsure how to interpret Powell’s remark. “Yes, well, how exactly can I assist you, Chief Superintendent?”
“I’m looking for some background information on Richard Brighton. I was hoping you could help.”
Mansfield looked amused. “We were hardly what you’d call the best of chums.”
“I suppose rivals would be a better word,” Powell suggested.
“
Political
rivals, yes. As you might expect, we didn’t agree on many issues that came before council.”
“Really? What about the proposed Dockside development in Rotherhithe?”
An almost imperceptible hesitation, then, “What about it?”
“I understand that both you and Brighton support it.”
“I still do, but I’m not so sure about Richard—perhaps you could ring the Inferno and find out.”
Powell regarded him impassively but said nothing.
Mansfield smiled easily. “I’m sorry, Chief Superintendent. That remark was in poor taste. It is true that we did agree on Dockside, but for fundamentally different reasons. Mine were born of principle, Richard’s of expediency.”
“Would you care to explain what you mean?”
“It is quite simple really. The Conservative Party believes in economic growth to create wealth and employment, thereby reducing the tax burden of the state on individuals and the social burden of individuals on the state. The Labour Party, on the other hand, has always stood for big government and big unions, both of which poison the well of the free market, leaving the rest of us to pay for their inept attempts at social engineering.” His face contorted into a sneer. “
New
Labour, socalled, is no different—it’s the nanny state in sheep’s clothing, if I may coin a phrase. But, unfortunately, they’ve managed to deceive the entire bloody country.” It was obviously a subject that was near and dear to his heart.
Powell sighed heavily. “I didn’t ask for a speech, Mr. Mansfield. I simply want to know why you think Richard Brighton would lend his support to a project that, on the surface of it at least, conflicted with his political ideology.”
A bitter laugh. “Richard’s only ideology was opportunism. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to further his own political interests.”
“I should have thought that in this case, at least, he would have been concerned with the welfare of the hundred or so council tenants who are facing eviction from their homes.”
Mansfield looked indignant. “What are you insinuating? That the Conservative Party is unmoved by the plight of these people?” He shook his head condescendingly. “It is so easy to take a simplistic approach to complex problems.”
Powell’s patience was stretching thin. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said.
“Very well, Chief Superintendent. I’ll make it easy for you to understand. Richard Brighton supported Dockside because he thought it would win him votes. End of story.”
“Forgive me, but I thought that’s what politics were all about.”
“Political ambition is a noble impulse when it is informed by principle, Chief Superintendent.”
“And what principle is that? Survival of the fittest?”
Mansfield’s eyes narrowed. “I would very much appreciate it if you could get to the point, Chief Superintendent.”
“I understand that Brighton was favored to be the next mayor of Southwark,” Powell observed offhandedly.
“He made no secret of his desire in that respect,” Mansfield replied frostily.
“I’ve also heard it said that you were considered to be his chief rival for the job.”
“I have yet to declare my interest in the position.” His tone was guarded now.
“I would imagine that with Brighton out of the picture, you’d have a clear field.”
Mansfield affected a solemn demeanor. “I’ve learned in this business that
there is many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip
, Chief Superintendent. However, if I
were
to be selected by my colleagues, I believe I could make a contribution to the borough.”
Pompous little twit, Powell thought. He consulted his watch. “Is that the time? I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Mansfield, but I may need to talk to you again.”
Mansfield smiled, except for his eyes. “The pleasure will be entirely mine, Chief Superintendent, I assure you.”
Powell turned as he was going out the door. “Just one more question … The vote on Dockside—how do you think it will turn out in the end?”
“I have little doubt the project will eventually receive planning approval.”
As Powell stepped into the sunlight, he could not dispel the curious notion that Mansfield had not sounded particularly enthusiastic about the prospect.
The proposed Dockside development site was located on the Thames in Rotherhithe, midway between Tower Bridge and Limehouse Reach, where the river loops south to enclose the Isle of Dogs and Canary Wharf. As she drove east along Rotherhithe Street, Detective-Sergeant Evans, being something of a history buff, recalled the area’s storied past. Rotherhithe, the thumb of marshy land jutting out into the Thames east of Bermondsey, had been a shipbuilding center long before the development of the Surrey Commercial Docks in the nineteenth century. Home of Edward III’s palace, this is where his son the Black Prince fitted out his fleet, where the Mayflower set sail for America, and where Gulliver was born. The docks, which specialized in lumber trade with Scandinavia, burned for weeks during the Blitz and fell into gradual decline after the war.
Nowadays, the area was being transformed by property developers. Upscale warehouse conversions facing the river now existed cheek by jowl with decaying
housing estates facing inward, emphasizing the gulf between rich and poor, home owner and tenant. Crime was rampant on the council estates—burglaries, racial offenses, and petty crimes committed mostly by young people—representing a serious social problem. Bored kids with little to do and even fewer prospects. Sarah Evans had been born and bred in the East End, raised by a single mother, and was no stranger to the stresses imposed by poverty and peer pressure. While she could not countenance using deprivation as an excuse for antisocial behavior, she could sympathize with the anger and frustration experienced by people like Tess Morgan who were leading the charge to oppose the Dockside development. Such were Evans’s thoughts as she turned into the Southwark Park Council Estate.
The council estate consisted of two squat concrete blocks of flats with a weed-infested playground on one side and a car park on the other. Across Rotherhithe Street, fronting the river, was a derelict brick warehouse. Tess Morgan lived in the block closest to the road on the ground floor.
The door of Number 11 opened to reveal a slight woman in her early forties with long, curly red hair.
Detective-Sergeant Evans introduced herself. “I hope I’m not late,” she said. “The traffic on Tower Bridge was unbelievable.”
Tess Morgan smiled sympathetically. “I know what you mean. I can’t wait for the new tube station to open at Jamaica Road. Assuming we’re still here, that is,” she added on a somber note. “Look, why don’t we go for a walk—I’ve been cooped up all day.”
Evans smiled. “Fine.”
“I’ll just leave a note for my daughter in case she gets home from school before we get back. I’d ask you in for a cup of tea, but things look rather a fright at the moment. Monday’s my day off—I work at a bookstore in the village—but I seem to spend all my spare time these days writing letters.” She looked apologetic.
“Shall I meet you outside then?” Evans asked.
Tess Morgan brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “Give me a few minutes.”
Detective-Sergeant Evans sat on a bench in the deserted playground beside a rusting jungle gym, pondering a seesaw that looked oddly askew. A few moments later, Tess Morgan appeared.
“It’s a lovely day,” she said. “Why don’t we go for a walk along the river?”
They crossed the road and walked south along a chain-link fence behind the derelict Dockside warehouse until they came to a new apartment complex consisting of two converted warehouse buildings with a cobbled walkway between them providing access to the river.
“This is what Cool Britannia is all about,” Tess remarked bitterly as they walked out onto the quay. “Three hundred thousand pounds for a one-bedroom flat. While the rest of us struggle to put food on the table for our families.”
Evans looked up at the smart brick buildings with their blue balconies. “I’ve often wondered who can afford to pay those prices.”
“There’s no shortage of people queuing up for the opportunity, I can tell you that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve
no problem with having a mix of luxury and affordable housing in the community. I wouldn’t even object to Dockside if it was confined to the old warehouse site.” Her eyes flashed angrily. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit back and let a profit-mad developer and his friends on council put ordinary people out of their homes. There’s nothing wrong with our flats that a lick of paint won’t put right.”
Evans frowned. “What about the council? Surely they must have the interests of the community at heart?”
Tess looked at her. “You’re joking. It all comes down to money. The value of property along the Thames has soared, and the council only sees pound signs. Of course they argue that selling off the more valuable estates will raise money to improve social housing elsewhere in the borough. But the bottom line is they don’t want ordinary people living here anymore. Gentrification is the euphemism for what’s happening in this community, but it’s really a kind of social cleansing.”
Evans could think of nothing to say as they walked along the quay, the Thames sparkling in the sunlight and off to the right in the distance the gleaming glass tower of Canary Wharf. Soon they stood in front of the old warehouse, which was situated on a piece of derelict ground between the block of flats with the blue balconies and another new development with a terra-cotta facade farther along the quay.
“Well, this is it,” Tess pronounced. “Doesn’t look like much now, does it?”
The five-story warehouse, with its crumbling masonry, rusting ironwork, and blank, staring windows,
had obviously seen better days. In black letters on the front face at the top of the building, and just barely legible, was painted
DOCKSIDE SHIPPING CO.