been there, moving things and trying not to let it show. She could find nothing out of the ordinary. She went upstairs.
Towards their bedroom.
She stopped, looked round. Something felt wrong. She didn’t know what, but it wasn’t right. Fingering the knife in her pocket, she entered the room.
Crossed to the chest of drawers, opened the top one. The underwear drawer she shared with Faith.
The things in it were always neatly rolled. Now, they were all over the place.
She checked the top of the chest of drawers. Saw fingerprints in the dust. Clean smudges, small but unmistakable, telling her that someone had been there. She opened the second drawer. Same as the first. everything thrown around.
Opened the third. Neat. Just like she had left it.
She closed it again. Thought. Two messed-up drawers, one neat one. Someone was looking for something. Probably the same as her: the book. And they had stopped. Which meant one of two things. Either they had found it, in which case they must have left, or…
They were still looking for it.
And she had disturbed them.
Donna turned, tried to get the knife out of her jacket pocket. Too slow. An arm gripped her round the neck, pulled her down; a hand pushed her arm behind her back up to her shoulder blades. She felt her bones creak.
‘Thought you’d fuck me over, eh? Thought you were cleverer than me, you little whore, did you?’ Another pull on her arm. ‘Well, you feeling clever now?’
Donna knew just who it was. That bitch policewoman.
She pulled her arm further.
Donna screamed.
61
Mickey stared at the photo. Stared, stared,
Adam Weaver’s identity had been in his mind constantly, yet just tantalisingly – and irritatingly – out of reach. But now he had him. Mickey had known it was only a matter of time. Known that once he’d started his mental Rolodex spinning, it would come to him eventually.
And it had.
He got up from his desk, wanting to punch the air. Do a lap of honour round the incident room. Down a large whisky.
Glass stared over at him. Frowned. ‘Everything all right, DS Philips?’
Mickey gave a small smile. ‘Everything’s fine, sir, thanks.’ Then felt he needed more. ‘Thanks for asking.’
Glass’s eyes narrowed. Unsure of whether Mickey was taking the piss or not. Mickey just nodded at the DCI, then put his head back down, returned to what was in front of him. Adam Weaver. Well, well, well. Robin Banks indeed.
He looked round the office once more, news almost bursting from him. He wanted to tell someone, needed to share it. But none of his usual confidants were around. Anni was off at the hospital; the boss was out. And he certainly didn’t want to share it with Glass. He looked at his watch, picked up his phone, went outside.
Through the double doors, into the car park.
Phil answered. ‘What you got, Mickey?’ Noise in the background. In the car, Mickey guessed. Listening to one of his God-awful CDs. Mickey tried to listen, make it out. He should know it; after all, he’d been subjected to the stuff enough times. Midlake? Band of Horses? Probably. Sounded a bit like them. You could hear the beard in the voice. Might even be Warren Zevon, although Mickey felt sure that was something Phil played just to annoy him. He couldn’t really like it.
‘I’ve got him, boss. Weaver. I’ve got him.’
The music faded away. ‘Tell me.’
‘Well I’m pretty sure, anyway. His real name’s Richard Shaw.’
‘Richard Shaw, Richard Shaw… I know that name… ’
‘Yeah, you probably will. When I was in the Met, I was on the team working a case against these north London gangsters. Was a big one, loads of us on it. Been trying to get a conviction for years. Eventually we caught one of the inner retinue, got him bang on. Made him a deal. He turned grass.’
‘Was it the Shaws who did the electric shock thing with an old field telephone?’
‘That was the Richardsons.’
‘The maniac with the hammer?’
‘That was the Richardsons too.’
‘What did the Shaws have? What was their USP?’
‘Fear, mainly. They used anything that came to hand. Everyone knew that if they stepped out of line, that was it, they were gone. Vicious bunch of bastards. Anyway, it looked like we had this case against them. Richard Shaw. And his old man, also Richard Shaw. Tricky Dicky, the old guy was called. Used to be a real big noise back in the day.’
‘And which one have we got?’
‘The son.’
‘Why’s he turned up here?’
‘Well,’ said Mickey, ‘that’s the thing. We were moving in on them, building this case, knowing we were only going to get one shot at it, knowing it had to be a good one, the best – and then… nothing. They disappeared.’
‘What, the whole family?’
‘Whole lot. Just vanished. Like that. Thin air. And it wasn’t the first time.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘The father, Tricky Dicky, had pulled a disappearing act years earlier. He was vicious. A stone psychopath. At the time, everyone thought he’d been murdered.’
‘But?’
‘No body. No trace. Nothing. Which isn’t unusual, of course. But no one knew where he’d gone. And then his son did the same thing.’
‘What about Spain?’
‘Our first thought. But Shaw Junior and his crowd never turned up there. No one saw them. There wasn’t even any word about them arriving secretly. Nothing.’
‘So what, then?’
‘Well, rumour had it they’d been taken out of the country. But not Spain, like I just said. Other rumours had it that they were all dead. Young Richard had ordered a hit on whoever squealed, and anyone who got in the way was just collateral damage. But like I say, these were just rumours. No one knew where any of them had gone.’
‘Until now.’
‘Until now.’
‘Brilliant work, Mickey. A real breakthrough. Well done.’
Mickey smiled. ‘Thanks, boss.’
‘What you going to do now?’
‘Get back on it. Hunt down all the files I can about the Shaws. See if anything matches, if I can get a handle on what’s happening here.’
‘Good stuff.’ Phil gave a small laugh. ‘You must be keen. That’ll involve paperwork, you know.’
‘I know.’
It was well known just how much Mickey detested paperwork. Even among naturally report-writing-averse police officers, Mickey’s hatred of it was legendary.
‘What about you, boss?’
