Isaac could only agree with his DI’s analysis. ‘It may be a gang out of the area,’ he said.
‘I know a local gang leader who’ll talk to me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve known him a long time.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘He owes me. I’ll be safe with him.’
‘Do you want me there?’
‘Not a chance. He knows me, not you. If you’re there, he’ll clam up. Mind you, you could speak to him in Jamaican.’
‘You mean English?’
‘Yes, English.’ Isaac knew what Larry meant. The gangs in London affected their own style of talking, and with Jamaicans that would mean the patois of their parents’ home country.
***
Rasta Joe, not his real name but the only name the man with the dreadlocks answered to, was friendly on meeting Larry in the pub at midday.
‘Mine’s a pint,’ the undisputed leader of his gang in Notting Hill said.
Larry knew that Rasta Joe had been born in London and that his parents were decent, upright citizens.
Larry wondered how Isaac had avoided being drawn into the gangs; he assumed his parents had been tenacious in keeping him away from their influence.
Most gang members were benign, only causing trouble when they were in a group or high on ganja. Larry knew that Rasta Joe was one tough Yardie, the colloquial Jamaican for a gang member, and he ruled with an iron fist, or a sharp blade, or, as Larry knew only too well, sometimes with a bullet.
The man had killed, would kill again, but he had been innocent of the crime for which he had been arrested. Larry had been the arresting officer when Rasta Joe had been charged with murder, although subsequent investigations had revealed that the man had been shacked up with his girlfriend that night; the evidence indisputable.
There were some in the police station who had wanted to let him be convicted, knowing full well that he had killed others before, and the streets would be better without his offensive presence. However, Larry had gone out on a limb and had stood up in court and confirmed that the man was innocent of the crime. Not that it helped the girlfriend, as the day after giving her evidence and proving Rasta Joe’s alibi, her other boyfriend shot her. For that crime, there was no alibi, and the man was serving a life sentence in prison.
‘Rasta Joe, you know about the body in Regent’s Canal?’
‘What’s it got to do with me.’
‘I never said it did.’
‘And besides, that’s not how we work. We’re peaceful, law-abiding.’
Larry had heard it before. He knew that Rasta Joe was a drug dealer, a local villain, and he ran a few women down in Paddington. Regardless, Larry needed his help, even if the man was a villain of the first order.
‘We know the dead man had served time in prison.’
‘Is it true that he had no head?’ Rasta Joe asked. He had his glass in front of him. If Larry wanted him to keep talking, it would cost another pint.
‘No arms and legs, as well.’
‘Whoever did it must have been a callous bastard.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘To cut someone up like that.’
‘Your people cut up others with knives.’
‘Not my people.’
‘Hypothetically,’ Larry said.
‘Some gangs might.’
‘But not your gang?’
‘Right-on,’ Rasta Joe replied.
‘Could the man in the canal have been a gang member?’
‘Not from around here.’
‘Why?’
‘He was white.’
‘Somewhere else?’
‘It doesn’t look to be a gang to me,’ Rasta Joe said. ‘They’d want to make sure the body wasn’t found.’
Two more pints later, and Larry was feeling queasy, having matched the man pint for pint. He phoned Isaac. ‘It seems unlikely to be gang related.’
‘I didn’t think it would be. It was worth checking,’ Isaac said.
‘Any luck with the vehicle?’
‘Not yet. Bridget and Wendy are still working on it.’
***
Wendy, her arthritis better for sitting in a warm office with Bridget, watched the videos around the area of Little Venice. The primary locations that interested them were the junction of Harrow Road and Warwick Crescent, the junction of Harrow Road and Warwick Avenue, the junction of Bloomfield Road and Westbourne Terrace Road, and the intersection of Westbourne Terrace Road and Warwick Crescent. Both Wendy and Bridget realised that they had not included all possible entries to the area, but there was not much they could do. A myriad of cameras were installed across London, but they were there for traffic flow, to catch errant speeders and cars running red lights; not to investigate a murder.
Still, the women were upbeat about the possibility of success, although it could be a couple of long days ahead.
Isaac was anxious for a result, as was Larry, who having exhausted his gangland killing theory was waiting for a new avenue of inquiry, although there was always paperwork back at the police station.
DCS Goddard kept up his regular phone calls, but so far he had kept his presence in the Homicide office to a minimum.
Bridget methodically worked her way through the video recordings. So far, she had seen several cars that matched the information received from Mrs Gregory, although they had been discounted as they had either pulled into a driveway or had transited the area.
‘What about that one?’ Wendy asked the one time that she had squinted her eyes to focus on the computer monitor. Bridget, if she had not been her friend, would have asked her to let her concentrate.
‘It’s possible,’ Bridget had to admit. A blue car could be seen at the intersection of Harrow Road and Warwick Avenue; the time was 1.42 a.m. Its colour was the same as described by the old lady, a street lamp illuminating the vehicle.
Bridget checked the junction of Harrow Road and Warwick Crescent, a distance of sixty yards. The
