Authors: Christopher Fowler
‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ Faraday lied, leaning back while a member of staff draped a bleached linen square across his lap. ‘I heard about your unfortunate mishap with the lease at Mornington Crescent.’
‘A technical formality, I’m sure,’ May lied back, accepting tea as pale as urine, piddled from a great height by a constricted silver spout. ‘It’s simply a matter of finding new premises.’
‘Not so simple, sadly.’ Faraday offered up a look of pantomimed injury. ‘Mr Kasavian, our security supervisor, doesn’t
feel there’s really a pressing need for operational units like the PCU anymore.’
‘One of the unit’s main remits has always been to prevent loss of public faith in law and order,’ said May.
‘A rather nebulous concept, one feels,’ said Faraday, lasciviously eyeing the sandwiches.
‘Not when it involves the potential loss of millions, perhaps even billions, of pounds.’
Faraday’s fingers had been straying waywardly toward a Bath bun, but now he was brought up short. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
May knew he had to build his case carefully. ‘London is a major global crossing point, and King’s Cross is now the crossing point of London. As the home of the largest and most complex regeneration project in Europe, it’s undergoing the biggest upheaval in its millennia-old history. It’s where the channel tunnel arrives, and is set to act as the terminus for the Olympics. The government is hoping to attract billions in overseas investment to the area, and the building schedule must be strictly maintained if contracts are to be honoured. Of course you know all of this.’
‘Oh, indeed. Of course. Understood.’ Faraday looked blankly at May as he struggled to puzzle out the connection with the Peculiar Crimes Unit.
‘In fact, the area of wasteland between Euston and St Pancras is set to become an entirely new London district, with new policing requirements. It represents a potentially phenomenal contribution to the national economy. I’m sure you were copied in on the estimates, Leslie. By 2020 there will be around sixty-five million passengers a year passing through the King’s Cross Interchange. That’s more than the number of passengers currently passing through Heathrow Airport. It’s a tricky balance—
preventing the area from descending into chaos while so much planning and building takes place. The number of undercover police officers operating in the King’s Cross area has recently been tripled. The crack dealers and con-men who used to hang about in the streets have all been moved on. And of course after seven/seven there’s always the threat of terrorism to deal with.’
‘What about the more domestic problems? Sex workers and teenage gangs are still an issue, I believe.’
‘True, they keep trying to come back. The gangs are based in the big public housing estates that border the area, but there are special units tackling those, and they’re having considerable success. Sex workers will always appear at points where so many journeys start and end, but the clip joints are closing, which means that they don’t have anywhere to take the punters. MAGPI—the Multi-Agency Geographical Panel—meets regularly with the Safer Neighbourhood Team to discuss harm reduction strategies, and the Met uses outreach services to conduct Environmental Visual Audits to reduce anti-social behaviour. King’s Cross will never again be as run-down as it once was. Teams of architects and construction engineers have already moved into key properties bordering the site. So it’s essential not to return to the bad old days of organised crime. But there are bound to be new territorial battles in the area. As it becomes more prosperous, hard-line criminals will be trying to move back in.’
Even someone as obtuse as Faraday could sense that May was getting at something. The civil servant realised there would be no easy enjoyment of the sandwiches. He raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘I mention this,’ said May casually, ‘because it looks like organised crime has already returned to the area. Today one of my
men found a headless body in a shop on the Caledonian Road, right near the main line station.’
Faraday’s eyes widened imperceptibly. He could see himself missing the 5:45 p.m. train home from Charing Cross. ‘Your men?’ he said. ‘You don’t have any men anymore.’
‘It looks to me like a professional execution, because the head has been expertly removed. The odd part is that other identifying marks remain. There are no further injuries, so I think there’s a reasonable chance that if we find his head there’ll be a single bullet wound in it.’
‘You know that Operation Trident was set up to combat gun-related activity—’
‘—within London’s young black communities, yes, but this is different. The victim is a white man in his early to mid-thirties.’
‘What were you doing there in the first place? You have no authority—’
‘It was a coincidence. One of my detective constables happened to be working on the site.’
‘I assume you’ve turned the case straight over to Islington.’ The London Metropolitan Police did not come under Faraday’s control, and out of sight was out of mind.
‘I’m not sure whose jurisdiction the case falls under. The boundary line between the policing areas lies somewhere along the Caledonian Road. Besides, a crime like this fits our exclusive remit, Leslie, you know that.’
‘Your remit died with the closure of the division.’
‘If organised crime returns to the area, public confidence will be undermined and overseas investors will start to pull out. There are literally hundreds of buyers waiting to see how the regeneration is handled before they commit, and something like this could do a lot of damage. It’s a contract killing; the head has
been cut off with the kind of professionalism you usually only get from a surgeon—or maybe the butchers in Smithfield Market. We’ll be lucky if it ever turns up at all. Maybe the killer was intending to remove the hands, but was disturbed before he could do so. The case requires special attention and the Met is simply not equipped—’
‘Neither are you,’ Faraday interrupted. ‘The unit would have to be rehoused and staff and facilities reassembled before you could touch this. No, I’m sorry, John, it’s impossible, there’s no way I can sanction it. I wouldn’t be able to without Mr Kasavian’s approval anyway, and you know how he feels about the unit. You really should never have crossed him. When you leave here, you need to report your findings to Islington, who’ll probably pass them on to SOCA. Give their officers everything you know and take them into the site at once; otherwise, I’m afraid it will be my sad duty to report you for obstruction. Pass me one of those salmon fingers, would you?’
John sank back in his chair, defeated. He knew that the only person who might be able to change the situation now was Arthur Bryant, because he had old friends in the Home Office who operated on levels above Faraday and Kasavian. He had spoken to Alma Sorrowbridge a few minutes earlier, but she had warned him that any visit would be met with a rebuff. When Bryant made up his mind, it stayed that way.
Late that afternoon, members of Islington’s Operational Command Unit turned up at number 73 Caledonian Road to remove the freezer and its grisly contents. They also took Rafi Abd al-Qaadir into custody for questioning. Despite May’s best efforts the case was lost to the Met and divisions beyond, and the PCU remained in a state of limbo.
Leslie Faraday went home with a guilty weight on his mind and chronic indigestion in his gut.
9
STAG NIGHT
T
he sifting silver rain had not managed to dampen anyone’s spirits. Most of the partygoers had made their way along the broad, empty road to the club as if taking a stroll on a summer’s night. Certainly many seemed dressed for hiking, in boots and jeans, browns and greys, baggy woollen sweaters and padded jackets. The idea of donning outrageous outfits at the start of the weekend was losing its appeal in the capital, as if the young were too worried about their places in the world to appear frivolous. Besides, it was considered provincial to be seen wandering about in white-feathered angel wings and bare midriffs, which better belonged on teenagers from unfashionable towns. London’s nightclub denizens associated dourness with sophistication, although they still bellowed into the dawn sky and woke whole neighbourhoods after a night of dancing and a few happy pills.
Among the drifting clusters a small handful were fancy-dressed: a droopy-looking chicken, some Playboy bunny-types and cavemen, groups on obligatory hen and stag nights determined to see out their last moments of unmarried freedom in tests of alcoholic endurance. As the two women left, they passed a girl dressed in a St Trinian’s school outfit sitting on the kerb, oblivious of the rain, trying to heave up the last of her fried chicken while her friends held her hair out of her face.
Sometimes Meera Mangeshkar studied her peers and regarded them as an alien race. She felt no connection to other women of her age. Meera had not marked her teenage birthdays by hiring a white stretch limo and driving around the West End screaming from the windows. A third-generation Asian Londoner, she often felt stranded between cultures, too sensible for England, too eccentric for India. She had agreed to come out with Sashi to prove that she could still have fun.
The Keys club hosted Friday night specials in a Victorian train shed at the rear of King’s Cross Station. Those who left it on foot were forced to walk back along the desolate S-bend of York Way to one of the termini, but the route had been further twisted by ongoing construction work, taking them onto a makeshift tarmac path that curved over a field of churned earth. On either side, yellow earthmovers stood beneath tall spotlights with rain sparkling on their steel canopies. A thin river of brown mud was creeping across the path as if trying to obscure it.
‘I can’t see where I’m going,’ said Sashi, staring down at her shoes. ‘My feet are soaked. Couldn’t we have got a minicab?’
‘This evening has already cost a bloody fortune,’ Meera replied. ‘I won’t be going back there in a hurry. Twenty quid entrance fee, just to have the bouncer run a light over my arse and joke about me with his mates.’
‘Did he do that?’ asked Sashi. ‘You should have told me; I’d have threatened him with harassment.’
‘I think that’s my job,’ said Meera. ‘I’ve still got the badge, if nothing else.’ The young detective constable had come clubbing with her old schoolfriend, but had hated every minute of the evening, which had mainly consisted of queuing for the entry stamp, the cloakroom, the toilets and the bar. She had forced herself to come out and be sociable, if only to prevent herself from thinking about the PCU and how it had screwed up her
career. Her sister had called to suggest a part-time job in her coffee shop, but Meera had so rudely refused the offer that she had upset both of them. If things got bad she would have to sell her Kawasaki, but for now she was determined to hold onto the motorbike until something decent came along.
‘It’s only half past one,’ said Sashi. ‘They don’t shut until six a.m. Everyone else is still inside. Look, there’s no-one around now.’ She was right; the streets outside the club were suddenly deserted.
‘You could have stayed. You didn’t have to come with me.’ Meera sulkily stomped around a water-filled ditch. ‘I’m capable of seeing myself home.’ She suspected that Sashi had taken something earlier, because she hadn’t stopped talking for the past half hour. Meera enjoyed a few beers but drew the line at taking recreational drugs, which meant that she gained no pleasure from watching those around her jabber into each other’s ears while their limbs tightened and their pupils dilated. She knew Sashi thought she was no fun, but Meera cared too much about her career to risk it for so little.
She wanted to hate the PCU, but never thought she would miss it so much. She had spent the week hanging out with old friends with whom she now shared nothing in common. Watching Sashi cut loose on the dance floor tonight, flirting with guys who stared at her breasts as if they were fillet steaks, she felt like she had turned the clock back five years. She tried to understand how she had come to leave so much of her former life behind. Bryant and May had encouraged her to observe the world with a kind of detached amusement. In doing so, they had shown her another way of living. The unit had changed her; she had gone too far now to change back.
‘Damn, I’ve broken my heel. Hold on, I can’t see.’ Sashi raised her foot and examined it.
‘Don’t take your shoe off, there could be glass around.’ Practicality came naturally to Meera. She waited while the damage was assessed. Sashi hopped and squinted and complained. They were in the centre of the city, but could have been in the heart of the English countryside. The canal ran nearby, and a gaggle of ungainly Canadian geese shook themselves as they passed, making her start.
‘Come on, Sashi, I’m getting drenched here.’ She set off again, moving from the circle of dim light that fell across her path.
Sashi hobbled up behind her. ‘There was this guy, right, the tall one with the tied-back blond hair? He wanted to tell my fortune.’
‘It looked like he was trying to do it by staring down the inside of your shirt.’
‘What’s wrong with that? Honestly, Meera, ever since you joined the police you’ve become so boring about men.’
‘Maybe that’s because most of the ones I see are drunk, abusive, vomiting and in handcuffs.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you’re a lesbian. Hey!’ Meera looked back. Sashi had come to a sudden halt. ‘What’s he doing?’ She pointed to a low ridge of turned earth on her right. About fifty feet away a man stood beneath a spotlight in the drifting rain, his head down, his legs braced.
‘Is that a sculpture or something?’
‘No,’ said Meera, ‘that’s a guy.’
He seemed abnormally tall and thick-legged. There was something odd about his legs; the trousers were low-slung and made from a strange kind of furry brown material. Something on his head glittered in the overhead light. For a moment she was reminded of the Highwayman, the murderous figure they had tracked across London, because this man too was dressed
up in some kind of weird outfit. Not a historical costume filched from a fancy dress shop, though, but something rough and hairy, so that he looked oddly mythical, like a large animal standing on its back legs.