of the kerb and badly graze both knees.
‘Okay, you little shit. You’re nicked.’ Just like
Hugo French stood in the doorway, still with his dressing gown over his pyjamas, soft slippers on his feet. He’d never imagined the police would respond as speedily as they had, half-prepared to be fobbed off with some excuse or other when he’d phoned, but pleased now that he’d gone ahead and everything had panned out the way it seemingly had. A little excitement no bad thing, he supposed, straightening his back automatically as the female officer made her way towards him, the young oaf that she’d dealt with so competently now handcuffed in the back of the police car and, from the sound of it, reinforcements on the way.
Memory not what it was, he’d taken the precaution of jotting down a few things on a scrap of paper, what he’d heard and seen. You never know, he might even be called on to give evidence somewhere down the line. Now wouldn’t that be something, name in the local paper he’d not be surprised. Mary would have liked that, in her quiet way been proud. Not that she’d have said.
‘Mr French?’
He held out his hand.
41
There were more beggars on the street now, Karen thought, as she made her way to work, several sitting crouched up against the walls outside the Tube. Earlier in the year it had been two, then four, then five; this morning, between the edge of Highbury Fields and the station, she’d passed half a dozen. Two women, one of them little more, seemingly, than a girl; four men. Three of the men with mangy dogs beside them, bristle-mouthed, whippet thin, all sheltering, as best they could, from the rain.
Inside the forecourt, two more men, collecting for charity, stood shaking buckets at the incoming travellers: flood disasters here, AIDS sufferers there, poor and disabled everywhere.
Karen fished into her purse for stray coins, slapped her Oyster card down on the reader and joined the throng. The train was crowded, people standing cheek by jowl, but by some good fortune she managed to squeeze into a seat. A few minutes along, they slowed to a halt. Due to a signal failure at King’s Cross, they were being held in a queue. Mutual groans, shaking of heads. The last time this had happened, it had been a good thirty minutes before they moved. No signal that far underground, there was no sense in trying to phone ahead, warning she’d be late. With a scowl, she reached her book from her bag.
Tim Costello was waiting at her office door when she arrived, sporting a new jacket in industrial denim from somewhere like G-Star — a couple of hundred at least, Karen guessed, plus change. Someone with money enough to spare.
‘Want my opinion?’ Karen said, treating him to a quick up-and-down. ‘A little short, maybe, in the sleeves.’
Costello, bless him, essayed a faint blush. ‘This guy,’ he said, ‘Brendan Cullen, brought in a couple of nights back, Kentish Town. Doing smack off the roof of his car right under a bloody street light, if you can believe that.’
‘I can believe anything. But what’s it got to do with us?’
‘When they searched the car they found a 9mm Glock and ammo in the boot, hidden beneath the spare. Intel reckon it’s the one used at Woodford. Double-checking now.’
Karen’s eyes brightened. ‘He’s been charged?’
‘Possession of a firearm and ammunition in a public place.’
‘That’s all?’
‘So far.’
‘What’s he saying about the gun?’
‘Not his.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’
‘Thought maybe I should get myself down there, Kentish Town, ask a few questions.’
‘Okay, but don’t go stepping on any toes.’
Costello grinned. ‘Fairy footsteps, I promise.’
Costello stood looking at Cullen through one-way glass as he stonewalled question after question, smirk like a razor cut across his face.
Brendan Cullen. Bren.
One leg was hooked nonchalantly across the other, tapered jeans, white T-shirt under a grey hoodie, one studded ear, a neat blue tattoo along his neck. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? He’d been practising for this since the local beat copper had first dragged him in, kicking and blaspheming, eight years old. Dad and granddad both doing time. Brother, one of them, in care. Another, the oldest, in the army, overseas; matter of time, Cullen thought, sad bastard, before he came home in a box.
So far, he’d admitted little or nothing. Possession of a small amount of a Class A drug for personal use only. Taking and driving away.
And the handgun found in the boot of his car?
Not his.
Not your gun?
Not my car.
Ba-boom!
Stolen, like he’d said, from the free parking area close to the Forum a couple of nights before. As for the unlicensed weapon tucked under the spare, together with a box of shells, no idea they were there. Nicking a motor, you didn’t exactly hang around to search the boot now, did you? A grin, switched off as easily as it had been switched on. Just shows, can’t trust nobody nowadays.
Cullen leaned back even farther; peered at Costello through lowered lids as he came into the room and one of the other officers left. Costello identifying himself for the tape.
‘The pistol, you say you’d no idea it was in the car?’
Cullen looked up in the direction of the camera and yawned. ‘We got to go through all this again?’
‘Before you went off and met your mates, you didn’t tuck it away under the spare yourself?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Jesus, how many more times-’
‘Then how come one of your prints is on the gun …?’
‘What?’
‘Up against the trigger housing, underside of the barrel.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘Okay, it’s a partial, but enough there to bring it up on the database. Ridges, bifurcations, whorls — amazing what they can do with AFIS nowadays. But you’re a bright boy, you probably know all that kind of stuff, right?’ Not over-egging it, just enough to spread a little confusion, plant a sliver of doubt in Cullen’s mind.
Cullen staring at him and Costello holding that gaze and, without too much hostility, passing it back, beginnings of a smile around the eyes, willing him to believe the lie.
‘Of course,’ Costello said, ‘your brief will tell you a partial print on its own may not be enough to convince a jury, might not even stand up in court, but if I had as much as a partial print of mine on a weapon that had been used in at least one near-fatal shooting, I wouldn’t like to take that risk. Would you?’
‘What shooting?’
‘Woodford, not so many nights back. Unlawful wounding, grievous bodily harm, could be attempted murder, depends which way the CPS want to go. Kid doesn’t pull through, likely turn out to be the real thing. Go down for that and by the time you get out you’ll be lining up for your Freedom Pass and your old age pension both.’
‘Bollocks,’ Cullen said again, but without conviction.
