“Have we got any actual evidence, yet?” Charlie White, a bow-legged Scotsman with a badly broken nose and a thick Glaswegian accent asked.
Jack nodded. “Prudence Hardy provided a very compelling statement outlining the admissions that her neo-Nazi client made to her.”
“What exactly did he tell her?” DS Wilkins asked.
“Basically,” Susie Sergeant said, “he bragged that their night out was being financed by the money they had made from selling the two darkies – his words, not Prudence’s – the guns that had killed the policeman during the hospital escape. He also boasted that they had plenty more guns to sell, and said if she knew any gangster boys who were in need of a shooter, she should send them his way and there would be a drink in it for her.”
“Do we have anything to corroborate what she said?” Wilkins asked.
“Afraid not, Tom,” Jack said.
“Wi’out anything to corroborate her accusation, those nasty wee buggers will all go ‘no comment’ and we willnae have enough to charge them,” Charlie White predicted.
Jack thought that he sounded a bit like Frazer from Dad’s Army, and he half expected the gloomy DS’s prophecy to end with the sitcom character’s catchphrase, ‘We’re doomed!”
“I know,” Jack said, “which is why it’s all going to come down to if we find anything incriminating at any of the addresses that we’ve linked them to. On that subject, Deano, how did you get on with your research?”
“Well,” Dean said, lowering his reading glasses to focus on his fellow detectives. “I’ve got home addresses for all four, but those are family addresses, so I’m not expecting us to find much there. However, as luck would have it, I stumbled across a CRIMINT entry dated three days ago, and there was something about it that made me want to dig a little further. Glad I did because, as a result, I found out that Dobson is renting a lockup behind a little parade of shops near Rathbone Market in Canning Town.”
Jack leaned forward in his seat, intrigued. “How exactly did you stumble across this information, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well, I had no luck looking for addresses that were linked to our suspects so I thought I’d try different search parameters. I ran one looking for any recent incidents involving skinheads and property. There were only four hits, so I worked my way through them and this one was the last on my list.”
“So, what’s the information, Dean?” Steve Bull asked.
“A few days ago, the owner of all the lockups complained to his local Beat Bobby about a skinhead who’s renting a unit from him. The bloke’s causing him problems by not complying with the terms of the rental agreement. He wanted the PC to go around and have a quiet word with the yobbo, but the PC wasn’t interested. He said it was a civil matter and told him to go to his local Citizen’s Advice Centre or speak to a solicitor. I’m surprised the PC even bothered to put the CRIMINT on, to be honest.”
“That’s it?” Steve asked, sounding surprised.
“That’s all that’s on the CRIMINT,” Dean confirmed, “but I wanted to know more. On a whim, I rang the informant, a bloke called Aaron Stein, and he told me he was renting the unit to Charlie Dobson. The terms of the rental are that it can only be used for storage or parking, not as a workshop, and he’s been getting it in the neck from all the shopkeepers because Dobson’s got machinery set up in there, and he’s coming and going at all times of the day and night, often bringing what appear to be dodgy looking customers with him. Not only that, but there have been strange banging noises coming from the lockup during the night – like someone setting off fireworks.”
“Or someone test-firing guns?” Jack suggested.
“Exactly,” Dean said. “Anyway, When Mr Stein popped around to the lockup to have a word with Dobson the other day, he was promptly seen off by some of Dobson’s skinhead mates.”
“That’s a great bit of work,” Jack said, “and it sounds quite promising.” He turned to George Copeland. “George, can you check the property page of Dobson’s custody record, see what keys he’s got on him?”
“Stand by,” Copeland said, hurriedly sorting through the pile of forms on his lap. “Here we go,” he said, reading from the printout. “Five keys in total, two Yale, two Chubb, and a chunky padlock key.”
“Fingers crossed, one of those will fit the lockup,” Jack said. “Fingers, toes and everything else crossed, the lockup will contain something we can use against him.”
“Mr Stein told me that, as long as Dobson isn’t being taken along, he’s happy to meet the searching officers and point out the lockup. They just need to phone him ten minutes before they get there,” Dean said.
“Okay,” Tyler said. “Susie, now that we know all the addresses we want to search, can you liaise with the PACE inspector at the relevant stations and get all the Section 18 searches authorised?”
“I’ll get straight on it after the meeting,” she promised.
“Kevin, how did you get on with Sonia Wilcox, Errol’s fiancée?” Jack asked.
“Miserable cow was totally unhelpful,” Murray told him sulkily. “Blamed us for lover boy getting himself shot, silly tart.”
“I’m sure you were very tactful in your reply,” Jack said, very much doubting that was the case.
“I literally bled sympathy,” Murray assured him. “Although, at one stage, I did feel obliged to point out that if her fella hadn’t just murdered a policeman, hijacked a car, and then pulled a gun on the officers who stopped him, he might still be alive. I assure you I said this very politely, but it still seemed to cause offence.” Murray appeared genuinely surprised by this. “I guess there’s just no pleasing some people,” he
