Gallowstree Lane

'An authentic depiction of gang life and police politics' From the author of ITV's The Tower

Kate London

• Publisher: Corvus
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781786493408
• eBook ISBN: 9781786493392
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

BOOK 3 OF THE TOWER - NOW A MAJOR ITV DRAMA 'Utterly authentic' Daily Mail Detective Inspector Kieran Shaw is not interested in the infantry. He likes the proper criminals, the ones who can plan things. As head of Operation Perseus - a covert police investigation into a powerful criminal network - Shaw is about to make the arrests of his career. But then the brutal murder of a teenager sends a shockwave through the very organization he has been targeting, threatening not only Shaw's case, but everyone with a connection to the boy who was killed on Gallowstree Lane... 'An authentic depiction of gang life and police politics with first class writing.' Sunday Express

PRESSING ON

TUESDAY 11 OCTOBER

17

Under the spell of the early morning, the station’s expansive CID office was silent and still. Lizzie, still wearing her coat, stood by the shelf outside the duty DI’s room and glanced quickly at the overnight occurrence book – eight prisoners in custody for main office, three for the domestic violence unit, a high-risk missing person outstanding. Anxiety bubbled up inside her. She really hoped she could dodge a prisoner. Today she simply had to get home on time.

She moved towards a desk in the corner and logged on. The computer booted slowly. Around her the office was coming to life. People crossing the floor, hanging coats, throwing bags on desks. It was the usual chat, the usual early morning. Lizzie nodded and said her hellos, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

Connor had been crying when Kieran left. She’d cuddled him in bed and tried to seem calm. Eventually they’d fallen asleep together, but she’d woken at 4 a.m. with a horrible sense of how reasonable Kieran’s offer had sounded. You could still see him … The city’s never-sleeping light had been seeping in around the edges of the curtain and she’d gazed at Connor, his cheeks red, his breath rising and falling. The lonely hour had made her prey to a paralysing fear that he would be taken from her. Worse: to the idea that some madness would possess her and she would give him up voluntarily.

Ash was in the office now, wearing his cycling helmet and with his trousers stuffed into his socks. He looked around and then, addressing the ranked and largely empty desks of the office, threw his arms out operatically and sang some lines in Italian.

‘Batti, batti, o bel Masetto.’

One of the younger PCs threw a hard-backed book. It landed short. Ash sang a bit more before stopping and picking the book up. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘A Practical Guide to Criminal Defence. I’ve been meaning to read this.’

He moved towards his desk, leafing the pages and humming.

‘Hello, Lizzie.’

She smiled and hoped she looked as happy and complicit in his tomfoolery as she used to be. ‘Hi, Ash.’

How to ask him not to give her a prisoner? She didn’t like to do it. He was a friend. She didn’t like to treat him as someone to get things out of, but she would have to.

Yesterday this life with its too many crimes and its childcare difficulties had felt too hard. Now she realized it had been a piece of cake. Yesterday she had been able to ask for help. She’d been texting Kieran, for God’s sake, asking if he could have Connor. It hadn’t crossed her mind that every text, every childcare difficulty, was possible ammunition in the family court. She’d have to play it differently from now on, pretend harder that everything was hunky-dory. Stop asking for help. Stop telling people that it was hard. This difficult life was one she was going to have to fight for.

Officers were arriving holding coffee cups. Others had copies of Metro that they’d been reading on the way in. One was in running gear. There was the well-established rush for the good desks. Everyone grabbed a workstation and booked on before they’d sorted their stuff. A well-thumbed edition of yesterday’s Standard had been left on Lizzie’s desk. She saw the headline. Promising footballer found dying from stab wounds. While her computer booted, she glanced at the report. A photo of the red paramedic helicopter incongruous on a wide London road. The usual blue and white plastic tape. CRIME SCENE. Another photo, taken from Facebook apparently, of a thin boy, a stripe shaved through one eyebrow and a baseball hat on backwards.

Spencer Cardoso, 15, had had a trial with local club …

The computer had booted and Lizzie chucked the paper in the bin.

She glanced at her emails. One marked priority. Urgent: Witness Inquiry. She recognized the sender’s name. Detective Inspector Sarah Collins. Their paths had crossed more than once before. Sarah had been the lead on the team investigating the deaths of her friend PC Hadley Matthews and the teenage girl, Farah Mehenni. Lizzie could still see little Farah in her green school uniform and her backpack with its polka dots. She shoved the memory away, as she had taught herself to do, and scanned the email quickly.

You arrested Ryan Kennedy yesterday. Intelligence suggests Ryan was good friends with a recent murder victim, Spencer Cardoso …

Spencer Cardoso – the promising footballer that Lizzie had just thrown into the office’s waste-paper bin. Shaved eyebrow, like his mate Ryan. Sarah had given a mobile number and, taking her seat at her desk, Lizzie called it.

Sarah got straight to business, asked about the Superdry jacket in the CCTV of the assault Lizzie was investigating.

‘Yes, we looked for one when we nicked him, but no joy.’

‘That’s a pity. I’ve got a description of a witness in a Superdry jacket. I was hoping to get lucky. What do you know about the fight?’

‘Not a lot. Nobody’s talking to us. The victim – Robert Nelson – doesn’t want to know. I’ve tried a couple of times. I’m struggling, to be honest.’

‘I’ll need a copy of the CCTV from you.’

‘Fine. Ring me when you’re ready to pick it up.’

There was a pause.

Then Sarah said, ‘Let’s go back to Ryan. I’m fairly certain he’s our witness. You nicked him the day after the murder. How was he? His mood, I mean.’

‘Well, I’ve never met him before, so I can’t compare.’

‘I appreciate that. But first impressions?’

‘Up and down. A bit of a joker, then suddenly distracted. Volatile enough for me to notice it. But then most of these boys are volatile.’

Ash was tapping his watch face. Lizzie held up an outstretched palm, her fingers spread wide. Five minutes.

Sarah was speaking. ‘Did you seize his phones?’

‘Couldn’t find any.’

‘Interesting. Anything else you can tell me?’

‘He had a lot of stuff.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘All that gear they like – you know, branded trainers, a gold necklace. A real gangster chain, pricey, and he’s only fifteen. Shitty flat and no visible income to pay for it all.’

‘OK, thanks.’ Then, after a short pause, ‘You noticed a lot, very helpful.’

Sarah Collins had that tone about her. What was probably meant as an olive branch sounded patronizing. Still – and this was also vexing – Lizzie wanted to please her.

‘One other thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘When I bailed him, I took him through to the station office. There was a car waiting. His mum was with him but he split from her. These boys, usually they just walk off. Or it’s pushbikes. But having a car waiting – it looked a bit Hollywood for someone at Ryan’s level. I wrote down the registration.’

‘Can you give it to me now?’

‘Sure. Hang on.’ She reached for her daybook and read out the registration number she’d scribbled down. ‘It’s a white Volkswagen Touareg.’

‘Thank you.’

Another pause.

‘How are you doing?’

There was that other thing: the attack on Lizzie. They hadn’t seen each other since. Lizzie had sent an email thanking her and received no reply.

‘Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks for asking. And thanks for what you did.’

‘No problem. Pleased you’re doing well, back at work.’

The line cleared. Ash was sitting on the edge of the desk. ‘Well, Miss Darrow, King Kong wants to see you upstairs.’

‘Miss Darrow?’

‘Really, can’t you guess?’ Ash put his hands over his eyes dramatically and spoke with an American accent. ‘Throw your hands over your eyes and scream, Ann, scream for your life.’

King Kong – or KK as his moniker was frequently abbreviated by his officers – was Detective Chief Superintendent Trask, the borough commander. Six foot four, broad across the chest, ex Flying Squad from the time when armed blaggers were the hottest ticket in the Met and when senior officers still had bottles of whisky stashed in their desk drawers.

He welcomed Lizzie into his office, standing up and offering his huge hand. The sight of that broad palm made her smile at Ash’s stupid joke, and into her mind came Trask climbing the Empire State in his chalk-striped suit, a damsel in a silver dress clutched in one of his massive paws.

‘I’ve got a posting for you, Lizzie,’ he said, beaming. ‘Off borough.’

He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. Less enthusiastic than she felt was required by the situation, Lizzie sat.

‘Thank you, sir. That’s exciting.’

‘It’s a bastard to let you go. But what can I do? You deserve it.’

She smiled. Practically everyone admired KK, or claimed to. For all his scale and swagger, he was no idiot. If he talent-spotted you, it counted for something. Or at the very least it added to your own fledgling reputation. Nobody would want to forfeit Trask’s good opinion.

‘Can you tell me anything about the job, sir?’

‘It’s confidential.’ He winked. ‘I’m not allowed to know anything about it.’

Confidential. In spite of herself, she had a sudden surge of elation. Something new. Serious crime.

‘It’s just the kind of thing you need. Proper policing. You’ll enjoy it.’ He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘There’s your reporting details.’ He smiled. ‘You have to burn that after reading.’ He stood to hurry her out of the office. ‘They want you there today.’

She stood too. ‘Thanks, boss.’

Her hand was already on the door handle when he said, ‘Don’t take a job car, mind.’

She turned back. ‘Of course not, sir.’

‘Bad enough to lose you. I need to hold onto the cars. Christ, all this management shit. I wish I was young again and starting out like you. Have fun.’

And then he winked again, as if she was in on some tremendous joke.

The tube train rattled out from the tunnel into urban sprawl. Buddleias spread along the edges of the tracks. Beyond them the long back gardens of 1930s semis: scrubby grass, washing lines, PVC conservatories. Ash had given Lizzie a hastily improvised poster. ‘For your new office.’ She took it out of her bag and looked at it and smiled: the damsel in the silver dress sitting in the paw of the great ape. Underneath it, a caption.

It’s money and adventure and fame. It’s the thrill of a lifetime and a long sea voyage. For the rest of us it’s more work and not enough people to do it.

The train wobbled into the station. Lizzie folded the poster and put it in her bag. This was the very edge of the ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Author’s Note
• Afterwards: Friday 4 November 2016
• A Promising Footballer: Sunday 9 October 2016
• Immediate Response: Monday 10 October
• Pressing On: Tuesday 11 October
• Through The Night: Tuesday 11 October–Wednesday 12 October
• Operation Perseus: The Arrest Phase Wednesday 12 October
• Afterwards: Friday 4 November
• Acknowledgements