Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1) (17 page)

‘Call
you back, yeah?’

She
had a few minutes to wait while he ran the details through the computer.
Pessimistically she started the car and pointed it back in the direction of
Croydon. As she passed Meadow Music Roy Gillam was pulling the shutter down. She
tooted, and he looked round, but didn’t see her. The phone rang as she drove
on.

‘Four
surname matches,’ the operator said. ‘Only one D. Pegley. Record for burglary
and possession of controlled substances.’

‘Can
you give me his vitals?’

His
name was Darren James Pegley and he was twenty-two. He was white, five feet
eight inches tall, slim with brown hair and blue eyes. Distinguishing marks,
surgical scars on his left arm from where a break had been repaired with pins.
No known tattoos, piercings or other identifiers. ‘D’you want his inside leg?’
the operator said.

‘No,
thanks,’ Anne said, oblivious to the witticism. It was him. If Roy Gillam’s
recollection was anywhere close, it had to be. Pegley was the right age, the
description and previous fitted. After five years there’d be no trace of
fingerprints on the receipt, but there would be a sample of his handwriting on
file and that could be compared with the signature. She couldn’t believe he’d
used his own name. She said, ‘What’s the last known address?’

The
operator told her. She couldn’t believe that, either.

She’d returned to
Croydon in confident mood. It was past seven. Jeff had gone home, but a
weary-looking Jasmin was still in the office, as was Zoltan.

‘You’re
that sure it’s him?’ Zoltan said. ‘From a five year old description?’

‘I
checked again. There are no other stolen Böhm flutes in the PNC, then or
since.’ Anne said, ‘Pegley has form for burglary, his age and build tie in with
the rapist’s, and his record starts not long after the attack on Miranda
Hargreaves. Remember he comes across in her statement as a bit of a novice?
Worth giving him a pull, surely.’

‘For
handling, possibly. No sex offender record?’

‘No.’

‘We’d
be pushing our luck.’

She
patted her notes. ‘He was born and brought up in Croydon, which places him
close to most of the attacks. Also, listen, there’s a Michael Bayliss
cross-referenced as a known associate. They went to school together; they might
still hang out. Bayliss only had a juvenile record, and it’s been expunged now
he’s an adult, but I talked to a DC at Gipsy Hill who remembers interviewing
him a couple of times. Bayliss likewise is a burglar, no previous for sex
offences, but get this: his MO is ground floor entry, and he looks for low
security access, open windows, drop catches. Sash windows.’

‘So
do most burglars.’

‘I
know. But,’ she smiled, ‘how many are six foot four and described as gaunt?’

‘What
is gaunt?’ Jasmin said.

Zoltan
told her what gaunt was.

‘Tall
and thin,’ Jasmin said, with suppressed excitement. ‘Again and again the
victims say this.’

‘Where
is he now?’ The DI stroked his beard.

‘There’s
an address for the family on the Monk’s Orchard,’ Anne shrugged. ‘I checked but
they’ve moved. That’s why I reckon we should pick up Pegley. He might be
willing to tell us.’

‘Did
you try here?’ His finger tapped the bagged receipt with Pegley’s address on
it.

She
shook her head. ‘Camberwell reckon he’s moved out. His mum still lives there,
though, so I thought I’d better not call round.’

‘Good
plan. Don’t want her broadcasting the fact we’re after him. Where’s he moved
to?’

‘Still
in Camberwell, flat in Glazebrook Road.’

Zoltan
said, ‘Well, there’s no way he can know we’ve taken an interest, so at this
point it’s not worth ruining his evening, or ours. Especially yours, Jasmin.
You look all in.’

‘I’m
OK,’ Jasmin said stoically.

Just
looking at her made him yawn. He said, ‘If Sophia OKs it, we’ll pick him up in
the morning.’

Jasmin
stirred as if to say something.

‘Early,’
Zoltan said. ‘Go home.’

She
looked at him as if he’d suggested something obscene.

An
adolescent female voice answered the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi,
that Michaela?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is
Juliet in?’

‘I’ll
go and see.’

The
phone slammed down on a hard surface; receding footsteps, labouring as though
climbing stairs. The adolescent voice distantly calling a name. A faint,
indecipherable conversation; then silence. Time to think; for a thumbtip to
hover over the end call button. At last, a rattle as someone picked up.

‘Hello?’

‘Juliet?
It’s Larissa. Sorry, your mobile’s off.’

‘Hang
on a sec.’ More rattling. ‘Got to be careful. I was in the middle of doing my
nails. That’s better. So how’ve you been? I haven’t heard from you for ages.’

‘Yeah,
well. Things on my mind.’

‘How’s
being a detective? You started that yet?’

‘Last
week.’

‘So
what’s it like? Do CID really treat uniform like second class citizens?’

‘Not
really. This lot I’m with - Special Crime - they’re a bit different. Besides,
I’m not really a detective yet.’

‘No?’

‘Trainee
investigator.’

‘I
see. So you make the tea?’

‘Not
all the time.’

‘Yeah,
right.’

‘No,
honest. I’ve been working on this thing... I’ll tell you later. Listen, why I’m
ringing - ‘

‘No,
I bloody don’t!’

‘What?’

‘Sorry.
That miserable child getting under my feet again. Look,
I
don’t know - ask Mum.’ An
exasperated sigh. ‘As if I knew anything about ocean currents.’

‘Got
your geography GCSE, didn’t you?’

‘That
was six years ago.’

‘Ha.’

‘Anyway,
you were saying?’

‘Was
I? Oh, yeah. I was wondering, you doing anything Saturday night?’

‘Don’t
think so. What’s on?’

‘Wondering
if you fancied going out. It’s somebody’s leaving do. Kind of a police thing,
but they say anybody can come.’

‘And
you haven’t got a date? Come off it, Larissa. New job, CID,
somebody
must want to get their leg
over.’

‘No.
They’re mostly women, for one thing.’

‘
What
?’

‘I
know. It feels weird. Anyway, so you wouldn’t be out of place or anything. It’s
just I don’t know most of them that well yet, so - ’

‘Where
is it? Anywhere we know?’

‘Not
sure. They’ve been having a big debate about it, but I think they eventually
decided on Barkeley’s.’

‘Oh,
right.’ Juliet sounded brighter. ‘Hang on a minute. The nightclub Barkeley’s?
In Purley?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Gets
raided for drugs every five minutes?’

‘Meant
to be half the fun, apparently.’

‘Oh,
great.’

‘I
didn’t mean - ’

‘No,
I know what you mean. Yeah, all right, I’m up for it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll
get myself a book out of the library, though, case you get a better offer.’

‘I
won’t.’

‘Doesn’t
sound like you, Larissa. “I won’t.”’

‘Won’t
be the chance.’

‘Pressure
of work?’

‘Something
like that.’

Suddenly,
a note of concern. ‘You all right? You sound a bit funny.’

‘Do
I?’

‘Only
normally I can’t get a word in.’

‘Tired,
I s’pose.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Might
sound like a contradiction, but it’s the not working shifts any more. It’s
thrown off my circadian rhythms.’

‘They’ll
adjust. Hey, listen.’

‘What?’

‘If
I
get a better offer, can I
bring him?’

Lucky
gripped the phone tighter.

‘Hello?’
Juliet said.

Across town,
another phone call.

Nina
had wound herself up tighter than the rubber band on a child’s toy aeroplane.
To hear from her father, when finally she did manage to dial, that Paul had
gone that afternoon to stay at his parents’, almost snapped her resolve. Tough
enough to psych herself up again, without having to reassure Dad first. Among
other things, he’d asked whether she, or Paul, had been unfaithful. Fielding
his anguished questions, she’d admired Lucia’s restraint; her normally
garrulous younger sister was the only member of the family who knew. Such was
her state of mind she now wondered whether Lucia’s reticence was due to
her
being the object of Paul’s
adultery. She dismissed the notion with a shudder. This was enough of a mess
without turning into a melodrama.

She
wiped sweat from her hand and forced herself to hit send. The phone rang once,
twice, then was answered. Paul’s mother. Her condemnatory silence reverberated
down the line. She wondered what Paul had told his parents. Then her husband’s
voice rang in her ear.

‘Nina?’

‘Yeah,
it’s me.’

‘Hi.’

‘How
are you?’

Guarded,
flat voices. Like strangers, Nina thought. No: like relatives. Distant,
burdensome relatives.

‘I’m
OK. You?’

‘How
d’you think?’

‘Yeah,’
he muttered. ‘Don’t blame you.’

‘For
something.’

‘What?’

‘You
must blame me for something, else why’d you do it?’

He
hesitated. ‘We need to talk. Not like this, over the phone.’

‘Why’d
you move out?’

‘The
atmosphere. Your mum and dad worrying and wondering. I’d’ve caved under the
pressure. I needed to get out from under.’

‘They
deserve to know, Paul.’

‘From
you.’

He
was right. Though if they found out about their bed, they’d crucify him anyway.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell them. But don’t expect me to spare your blushes.’

He
said nothing for a moment while this sank in. ‘I haven’t seen her again,’ he
said, ‘since.’

‘I
don’t give a flying fuck, Paul,’ Nina said.

‘Honey - ’

‘But
you’re right. Let’s not talk about it over the phone.’

She
heard his sigh of relief. ‘When can we meet?’

‘Saturday.’

‘
Saturday
?’

‘Give
us time to think, get our heads straight. In the meantime I’m going home, and I
don’t want to see hide nor hair of you till then.’

‘OK.’
He sounded broken. ‘When and where on Saturday?’

‘Anne’s
leaving do, Barkeley’s. Pick me up at nine.’

‘Jesus,’
he said, ‘you want to discuss our future in front of a dozen coppers, at a
nightclub
?’

‘Take
it or leave it.’

‘You
sound cold,’ he said wretchedly.

‘I’m
nice and warm, thank you.’

‘Not
what I meant.’

‘Saturday,
nine p.m.,’ she repeated.

‘See
you then.’

As
she hung up, she fancied he’d said something else. Her sudden urge to listen
came too late. Sandra, always with that uncanny knack, reappeared bearing
coffee. ‘How’d it go?’

‘All
right.’

Her
vision blurred suddenly. She reached out. The tissues were already in Sandra’s
hand. Sandra said, ‘D’you want me to call you a cab?’

Nina
could only nod.

Wednesday

Jasmin Winter
couldn’t sleep. She was on call, which always put her on edge no matter how
hard she told herself that after all these years in the Job, she ought to be
able to cope. What didn’t help was a vicious headache that had wrapped itself
around her brain like a boa constrictor. She’d downed three Paracetamol before
bed but they’d had little effect. She lay in the dark, debating whether to
relinquish the relative warmth of the bedclothes for a hot drink and some toast
from the kitchen. If her metabolism had some food to occupy it, maybe it would
stop bothering her head. As if that would do any good. She’d only start
worrying about something else, like what in the name of the Blessed Virgin she
was doing in England.

What
she was doing was being a guinea pig. It was an officer exchange programme
between the Metropolitan Police and the Amsterdame Gemeentepolitie, an
experiment to find out how closely the law and order forces of the new improved
European Union could work together. Somewhere in the Dutch capital, Jasmin’s
Met counterpart was working on a similar secondment. Soon, perhaps, as internal
borders blurred, as freedom of movement and labour became a reality, such
things would be part of everyday life. But this was now, and Jasmin felt
acutely the displacement and loneliness of the pioneer.

It
was not generally known among the team that half her pay went straight home to
her mother, a widow with crippling debts accrued over twenty years
singlehandedly raising ten children. As the eldest unmarried Winter, a large
portion of the financial burden fell to Jasmin. The accommodation she was
subsequently able to afford was a room in a crumbling shared house in Selhurst,
by the main line out of Victoria with express trains to and from Gatwick and
the coast booming past her window every few minutes. The room was, but for her
vain efforts at homemaking, almost slumlike, the walls covered in ancient,
mouldy, peeling wallpaper that soaked up damp like a sponge; and often without
heat or light because of the seeming pathological obsession of the landlord not
to pay the bills. Her fellow inmates at present were the night security guard
in the upstairs front, whom she hardly ever saw; a student from Thailand who
roomed in the attic, didn’t seem to speak English and certainly couldn’t speak
Dutch; and the elderly RAF pensioner on the ground floor who seldom went out.

‘Why
the fuck don’t you move?’ Sandra Jones had once demanded, hearing of all this.

‘Too
busy,’ Jasmin had said.

‘Take
some time off.’ Sandra wasn’t put off so easily. ‘Use it to find another
place.’

‘OK,
if I find somewhere else, with my money, what would it be?’ she’d snapped.
‘Another shithole,
ja
? Look, if possible, I would be out of there like a shot.’

Wouldn’t
she just. She sat up and swung her legs out onto the floor, groping for the
bedside lamp. Unimpeded, the cold air slipped easily through her soft cotton
nightie, raising goose bumps on her skin. She held a brief and serious debate
with herself. Yes, she decided, it would make a lot more sense to get up
properly and dress, rather than exhaust herself in a futile attempt to sleep.
She didn’t know what the new day, with the hoped-for arrest of Darren Pegley,
would bring, but there was bound to be a lot more chasing about, whatever happened,
and on this schedule she’d have difficulty lasting the pace. She shook off the
doubt. Damn it, she was a cop. Long periods without sleep were part of the Job;
she could cope, had done many times in the past.

But
with Ovaltine and toast prepared she found herself sitting on the bed,
wondering what to do with the rest of the night. She wondered if inhaling mould
spores was affecting her health. It was probably the cause of her headache, not
to mention the nasty gastric bug that had kept her off work for three days last
month. She’d contemplated asking the landlord to bring someone in to take a
look, but she’d learned that landlords like hers invariably had relatives in
the trade who could not, in their expert opinion, find anything to worry about.
Really she ought to call someone herself. Environmental Health, for a start.
Except that with her luck Mr Aloneftis would probably have a cousin working
there as well. Added to which, any resulting work would cost money she was far
from sure she had.

Eventually
she decided sitting around moping was doing no good, and picked up the copy of
Nostromo
she’d got from the library.
Her first language was Dutch and this was a novel in English by a Pole who’d
lived in France until his mid-twenties. Not surprisingly it was hard going.
After a fortnight of abortive attempts she was on page forty and this was
probably not the smartest thing to try and do after twenty hours without sleep
and with a head like a ball of barbed wire. But it was about the only thing to
do at half past two in the morning.

She
was on page forty-five when her mobile rang.

Zoltan Schneider
arrived at Camberwell Green police station at seven, just as the local Drugs
Squad were starting to assess the haul from their night’s work. From a club
called the Bluebell, in Denmark Hill, the arrest of Darren James Pegley and one
other male, now being questioned by other members of the squad at Peckham.
Visual and video evidence of them selling Ecstasy, LSD or similar drugs. When
searched, small quantities of tablets, which they claimed to be aspirin, found
in their possession; samples sent to Forensic for identification.

From
the subsequent raid on a flat in Glazebrook Road, Camberwell, one further
arrest for possession of controlled substances. Colleen O’Dwyer, age
twenty-three, an unemployed agency nurse from Limerick. No previous, either
here or in Ireland. Small amounts of LSD and cannabis resin hidden in a metal
bedpost and under the base of an anglepoise lamp in the bedroom. It would be
hard to prove anything against her, but they couldn’t afford to let up. So when
further, substantial, findings of LSD, cannabis, and this time Ecstasy and
cocaine had been unearthed from beneath a loose floorboard, and also from the
feedpipe and battery compartment of the gas cooker in the kitchen, the
detectives had felt justified, their stony intolerance of O’Dwyer’s tearful
bewilderment vindicated. Anyone daft enough to shack up with a slag like Pegley
shouldn’t be surprised by a gang of coppers drumming her out of bed at four in
the morning.

As
if that weren’t enough, a DC, availing himself of the loo, had been puzzled by
the length of time the cistern took to refill and discovered, in an airtight
Tupperware container in the cold water tank, a complete kit of burglary tools,
neatly arranged as to use in various small cases and boxes.

Assuming
the drugs found in the flat turned out to be from the same batch as those in
Darren Pegley’s possession, the squad had enough to bury him good and deep.
What they were worried about was Special Crime’s interest, and whether it was
going to sod up their collar. Jasmin Winter had found herself the object of
some cold looks.

Zoltan
heard this in the Brummie-accented voice of Gareth Beaumont, the DI who’d
commanded the raid, as he led the way upstairs. Jasmin walked over when they
came into the room the Drugs Squad had requisitioned. Zoltan studied her with a
solicitous expression.

‘Could’ve
rung me, rather than dragged yourself out of bed,’ he frowned. ‘Considering how
rough you were feeling yesterday.’

‘I
was on call,’ Jasmin said stoically.

He
shrugged, unwilling to argue. ‘Mr Beaumont’s kindly agreed to let me have a go
at Pegley before he does,’ he said. ‘Soften him up.’

‘Do
you want me with you?’

Zoltan
cast a slow gaze over the trestle tables piled high with clear plastic bags
containing the exhibits from Pegley’s flat, the Drugs Squad officers beginning
their task of logging them, preparing them as evidence for court. ‘Somewhere
among all that,’ he said, ‘may be the smoking gun that ties in Darren Pegley to
one or more of the attacks. I’ve no more idea than you what that might be, but
look anyway. I’d like to have a time bomb ticking while I’m downstairs talking
to him.’

Jasmin
looked disgustedly round the room. She nodded.

‘Come
and fetch me,’ Zoltan said.

She
watched him go, then lowered her head and let out a deep sigh that, before she
could stop it, turned into a yawn. Her vision blurred for an instant and she
rubbed her eyes to clear it. To stay sharp she wandered over to one of the DCs
and offered to help.

Half
an hour later something on one of the other tables caught her eye. She waved to
get the attention of the DC who’d just buried the object of her interest under
something else.

‘Can
I have a closer look at that?’ she said, pointing.

Experience had
taught the two men facing each other across the table what they needed to know.

For
Detective Inspector Zoltan Schneider, the ability to judge what manner of
person he was dealing with was vital in determining his approach to an interview.
With a first-timer, often so scared they’d crumble and start babbling under the
slightest probing, he need say little. Prompt them where necessary, but let
them dig their own hole, or climb out of it. On other occasions his opponent
was more formidable, a hardened villain or a sociopath with no remorse or fear
of legal sanction. Question, keep at them, wear them down, gradually build up
and confront them with the evidence, goad, befriend them, keep working away
until they confessed or copped a plea out of sheer frustration or boredom.

Darren
James Pegley was about halfway along the spectrum. First and foremost, he was a
burglar, with a string of convictions for the offence. He had another string,
shorter, for petty drug offences. He was not bright. Faced with interrogation,
he knew three things: ask for a brief, keep shtumm, and bow to the inevitable.
Let the pigs do the legwork, nail him if they could. Six months in a young
offenders’ institution had been, in the past, no hardship.

Today
was different. For the first time, Darren Pegley had been arrested for dealing
Class A drugs. Furthermore, he’d been seen and recorded doing it. To make
matters worse, he was now twenty-two years old. No cosy borstal this time. It
would be the real McCoy.

Zoltan
read the consternation as his suspect realised this copper was not Drugs Squad,
nor even regular CID, and was not the slightest bit interested in questioning
him about what had gone on in the club. He could picture files riffling through
Pegley’s memory as he tried to think which undetected offence he was about to
be nailed for.

‘Mr
Beaumont,’ he said pleasantly, ‘has very kindly agreed to let me talk to you
before you sort out this Bluebell business with him.’ Tempting him, paying out
the briefest length of line.

Pegley’s
eyes flickered.

Zoltan
said, ‘Aren’t you curious as to what this is all about?’

Sticking
to familiar ground, Pegley said nothing. But he was watching Zoltan keenly.

‘What
I’m trying to do,’ Zoltan went on, amiable still, ‘is a bit out of the ordinary.
There’s this piece of property someone lost, very valuable to them. It was
stolen, but for some reason they didn’t report it. Until now. Even though it’s
so long ago, we’ve managed to trace the property. Up to a point, anyway.’

‘Speaking
of points,’ the duty solicitor, Baker, a supercilious, tired man in a tired
blue suit, stirred from his note-taking, ‘what’s yours, Mr Schneider? I don’t
think any of us are up to riddles at this hour.’

Zoltan
gave the solicitor one of his nastiest, most sardonic looks. Making sure Pegley
saw it, he transferred it to him, made it pleasant. ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘this
property was last seen sold on by a secondhand shop near here. And they say
they bought it from you.’

He
was pushing it. In his mind’s eye was Anne, hurrying over to Meadow Music to
catch Roy Gillam as he arrived to open up. He knew this was a gamble that
relied on faded memories; that Pegley would not associate the theft of a
musical instrument with another, far more serious crime.

He
said, ‘I’m talking about a flute, stolen five years ago from a house in Sutton.
It was sold shortly after the theft to Meadow Music in Camberwell High Street -
just down the road from here. Quite a distinctive flute. Antique. Worth tens of
thousands.’ He watched Pegley’s face. ‘Would you, perchance, remember anything
about a flute like that?’

Pegley
assumed an expression of deep thought that wouldn’t have passed muster in the
ropiest of amateur dramatic productions. ‘No.’

‘That’s
odd,’ Zoltan said, ‘because what I’ve got here is a carbon copy of a receipt
issued at about that time by Meadow Music for a flute like the one I
described.’ He pushed it across the table, informing the recording apparatus
that he was doing so. Baker intercepted it, studied it with feigned suspicion, then
handed it to his client.

‘The
signature, Darren,’ Zoltan said. ‘What name would you say?’

‘Can’t
read it,’ Pegley said.

‘It’s
no fainter than the rest of the chit,’ Zoltan said calmly. ‘Try a bit harder.’

‘No,’
Pegley said at once, ‘sorry.’