Malik changed the line of questioning. ‘Do you know if he ever did anything else for money?’
She said he dealt crack and blow now and again, and occasionally smack, but that was all, as far as she knew.
‘Does he, or did he, carry round large sums of money?’
‘He always had a few quid on him, yeah, but then he took money off me, and the other girls he had working for him, plus he made money on the gear, so it ain’t really surprising, is it?’
Malik then asked whether there were any occasions when Panner had suddenly come into very large sums of cash, but she said she wasn’t sure, didn’t think so. He looked at me again, and his expression mirrored my thoughts. He wasn’t the O’Brien shooter.
‘It’s important we find Mr Panner,’ I said.
‘You’ve found him already, but you let him go. Even though he pulled a gun on me and Jack, and fired it. It don’t exactly make us feel safe, does it?’
‘I can’t comment on that, Miss Ragdale. It wasn’t our inquiry. But if we find him this time, it’s very unlikely he’ll be seeing anything but prison walls for a good few years to come.’
She managed a cynical smile. ‘What’s he done this time, then?’
‘We can’t tell you that at the moment, I’m afraid.’
‘Thought not.’
‘Can you tell us where you think he might be? We’ve got his bail address.’ I reeled it off to her. ‘Any other ideas?’
‘I ain’t had much to do with him these past couple of months, thank God. I know there were another couple of girls working for him. One was called Nicki, and I think another one was Dora. I dunno where they live, though.’ She must have seen the disappointment in our expressions, because she tried to justify herself. ‘Honest, I’m not trying to protect him. I hate the bastard. If you do ever get hold of him, I hope you throw away the key, but I honestly can’t think where he’ll be. He moves around a lot. He’s got a lot of enemies, people he owes money to, so he’s pretty slippery when he wants to be.’
And that was it really. I stood up, and Malik followed suit.
‘Thanks for your time, Miss Ragdale. Bye, Jack.’
Jack shouted a very long ‘bye’ back, and gave me a wide grin.
Malik pulled a card from the pocket of his suit. ‘If you do hear from Mr Panner at any point in the future. .’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be on the blower like a shot. I don’t want that bastard coming anywhere near us.’
She saw us to the door, and as it shut behind us I suddenly felt very depressed. Ever since childhood, I’ve always wanted justice for people, and by that I mean seeing that they get the fate they deserve. If another kid at school was bullied for no reason, I’d intervene, because it wasn’t fair, and I knew that I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. As a copper, I’d spent the last twenty years intervening in the world around me, trying to create an illusion of fairness, but what depressed me now was that I could see no justice here and, worse, I could do nothing about it either. I was leaving behind a young woman and her son to live their lonely existence in a cramped little flat high above the ground, forgotten by the world around them, except when it came calling with threats and violence, and I couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before Fiona Ragdale ended up hawking herself for another pimp and escaping reality by sinking back into the dope. And what, then, would happen to Jack? A pimp and a thug in the making? A care-home kid? A street runaway dead by fifteen? Or maybe it would be a story with a happy ending. Such things are always possible, I suppose, but somehow I didn’t think so. The thing with me is that I’m a pessimist who’s constantly trying to be optimistic, but can’t quite manage it. Experience gained through years of policework doesn’t allow for that sort of naivety.
I thought about saying something to Malik about how I was feeling, but decided against it. Sometimes these things are best kept to yourself. Perhaps I could buy Jack something, or send them some money. But I knew I was deluding myself. I’d forget about the two of them soon enough, when the next crisis or tragedy came calling.
When we were back on street level, Malik pulled his mobile from his pocket and called the DCS while we made our way through the subway that led under the main road outside the Warwick estate in the direction of Royal Oak Underground station. A watery, early-spring sun fought its way out from behind the clouds as we crossed the wrought-iron bridge that passed over the train tracks heading into Paddington, and I suddenly got that uplifting feeling that the worst of the winter was over and that summer was coming.
We got back to where the car we’d brought was parked at a meter in the somewhat grander ambience of Porchester Square, a few hundred yards and a million miles away from the tower block where we’d just been, and Malik finished talking to Flanagan and hung up. ‘He’s very pleased with the Panner lead,’ he said, as we got in and I started the engine. ‘The pressure’s beginning to get too much on this one. He’s doing a press conference down at Scotland Yard in half an hour, just to keep everyone in the media up to date with our progress. I think he was getting a bit worried about it. Now with this, he’s going to tell them that we’re following up on several significant leads, which should keep them quiet for a day or two.’
‘What’s he want us to do?’ I said, turning on to the Bishops Bridge Road.
‘Get over to Panner’s bail address and keep an eye on the place, just until he gets a chance to set up a team from SO11 to put him under surveillance properly. But it’s going to take a couple of hours. If he decides to leave the premises, we’re to follow him discreetly, see what he gets up to. At the moment, it’s only about evidence- gathering. We’re not to apprehend him, unless we catch him in the commission of a serious crime.’
‘No problem.’
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘What?’
‘Over there. Slow down.’
I looked to where Malik was pointing. On the other side of the road, in front of the railings that separated the pavement from the grounds of Paddington’s Hallfield estate, a group of four men were fighting. It looked like it was one against the rest, and the one was having a bit of a hard time of it. He took a punch to the head and went down, disappearing behind a parked car, allowing the others to deliver a series of unseen kicks in his direction.
I slammed on the brakes, coming to a skidding halt twenty yards away from the action, and shoved on the hazards. Malik produced his mobile phone and called for back-up, and at the same time we both jumped out of the car. The vehicle behind us did an emergency stop and gave a continuous blast of the horn, but I was already running for the other side of the road, waving my warrant card in all directions, Malik’s footsteps sounding close behind.
‘Stop, police!’ I yelled, unsure what else to say. It’s rare these days that I come across a crime actually taking place in front of me, so it’s not something I have to practise a lot. I’d almost forgotten the adrenalin rush you get when you suddenly shove yourself in the path of danger.
I was now less than ten yards away and the three men, all eastern European in appearance, turned to face me, their expressions ones of surprise rather than fear. I could see why. One of them was holding a wicked-looking claw hammer in his hand, claw facing outwards, and they also had the numerical advantage. I slowed down, knowing that if they didn’t run Malik and I were both in trouble. Neither of us was armed and neither of us was in a position to bring this situation to a swift end, other than through the force of our personalities.
‘Police!’ I shouted again, still coming forward, speeding up again now, knowing that any obvious hesitation would be fatal. ‘You’re all under arrest.’
One of them aimed another kick at their unfortunate victim, shouting something in a language I didn’t understand, and then, without warning, all three turned and made a dash for it up the road. I ran up onto the pavement, gave a half-hearted five-yard chase — more to make sure they didn’t come back than anything else (I’ll be straight: there was no way I was tackling a man with a claw hammer when he was hot-footing it in the opposite direction) — then turned in the direction of the victim, who was being pulled to his feet by Malik, one hand covering his face where he’d been kicked.
He looked familiar, but then he would have done: I’d seen his photograph often enough that day, although he was a lot bulkier in the flesh. Malik recognized Robert ‘Pretty Boy’ Panner at exactly the same time, and took his arm, starting to speak.
Panner might have taken a bit of a beating but he didn’t appear too much the worse for wear, and his eyes widened as he realized who we were. Knowing he might make a run for it, I took a step forward to secure his other
