As far as Watts was concerned, Birmingham didn’t any more than any other big city, but Brophy was now on a roll. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what that problem is: years of urban planning, which has made it the city of the car. How did they do it? Buildings pulled down. A snake’s nest of new roads laid. Pedestrians pushed underground. All of it intended to accommodate massive volumes of traffic entering and leaving the city.’ Brophy took a breath. ‘Which these days is mostly at a standstill, creating exactly the conditions for this type of crime, and don’t get me started on Spaghetti Junction. An abomination is what that is.’
Brophy wasn’t entirely wrong. Back in the sixties and seventies the car was king here. Knowing that Brophy wasn’t about to come up with a solution to the problem he’d just outlined, a picture formed in Watts’ head: Brophy, red-faced, vest-clad, single-handedly digging up a major dual carriageway, planting bulbs …
‘You appear to be taking this very casually, but I can tell you, the chief constable isn’t and neither am I.’
‘No, sir.’
Brophy gave the files a push. ‘These are your starting point. They follow a pattern.’
‘They usually do and this type of carjacking is the least violent. More your grab-it-and-run style.’
‘Really? Well, there’s something I don’t regard as “usual”. The latest victim in this series says she saw a gun.’ That single detail got Watts’ full attention. ‘Each vehicle attacked while stationary at traffic lights, passenger windows smashed, belongings pulled through and away. Targets all lone females, except for one.’
‘That’s how carjackers generally work within high-volume traffic,’ said Watts. Except that in his experience a gun had never featured in this type of offence.
Brophy sent him a sharp look. ‘I don’t hold with that kind of laissez-faire attitude. I want quick progress.’
Watts averted his gaze from Brophy’s index finger jabbing the files yet again.
‘Have Jones and Kumar work the investigation with you.’
Watts was on his feet. ‘I’ll get started. What about Judd?’
‘What about her? She’s still on her training course at Tally Ho. Back on Wednesday.’
‘Judd’s familiar with inner-city car crime which could make her an asset.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘She did a good job on the murder inquiry last summer,’ prompted Watts.
Brophy glared across at him. ‘What I remember is her breaking rules, going off on her own and getting herself knocked unconscious.’ He pointed again. ‘If I do assign her, you’ll need to get a grip where she’s concerned. Keep her in place.’
‘Will do, sir.’ He reached for the files.
Outside the office, following some deep breathing, he headed to the squad room and went inside. With a glance at the clock, he asked the two officers still there, ‘What time are you off duty?’
Jones and Kumar exchanged glances. Jones answered. ‘Ten minutes ago, Sarge.’
‘Best get started, then.’
They came to the table, took seats, their eyes on the files Watts had placed there. ‘You’ve heard about the spate of carjackings around the Bristol Road interchange?’
They nodded.
‘Good, because they’ve been taken off the local lads, dropped in Brophy’s lap and he wants them sorted, as of yesterday. Six in all, starting in early November, the last one on Friday, the thirtieth. All occurred in fading light in the late afternoon. If either of you can tell me why people have valuables in full view inside their vehicles while driving, I’d be interested to hear it.’
‘Could have been worse, Sarge.’ Kumar looked from him to Jones. ‘Remember that one in the Lifford area? They weren’t bothered about nicking stuff from inside the car. They were after the Beemer and beat the paste out of the driver to get it. Left him sprawled on the road outside his house and drove off in it.’
Watts opened the files, slid them across. ‘These are more your inner-city “smash-n-grab” type.’ He looked up at them. ‘Except for one detail. The last witness says her attacker had a gun.’
‘Blimey,’ said Jones. ‘From what you’d said, I was thinking that some low-life chancer was hanging around with a rock in his pocket, waiting for the traffic to slow, and took his chances.’ With a glance at the two smooth young faces, Watts stood and hooked a finger. They followed him to a large wall map next to the whiteboard.
‘Location says this was no chancer. See this?’ He pointed. ‘The Bristol Road interchange.’ He ran his thick index finger upwards. ‘It’s fed by traffic going up this dual carriageway here, where a lot of it turns right.’ He looked at both of them. ‘And what’s at the top of that carriageway?’
‘A massive island,’ said Kumar.
‘Exactly. This wasn’t any low life just “hanging around”. He had a confederate there, watching the traffic as it moved around that island and heading down that dual carriageway to the lights.’
Jones eyed the map, then Watts. ‘And the confederate is on his phone to his mate, telling him that nice wheels are on their way, woman driver, belongings on seat. Smooth.’
Watts was back at the table, reading a printed overview of the cases. ‘Items stolen: handbags, laptops, a briefcase and the toolkit from a single male driver. Either of you care to bet he had long hair?’ He opened the topmost file. ‘The victim of the Friday the thirtieth incident described her attacker as young and athletic.’ They stood either side of him, reading.
Kumar shook his head. ‘If it’s the same attacker for all six, he’s a right cheeky bastard. That’s not a bad description: tall, dark clothing, a hoodie and a padded jacket.’
Watts shrugged. ‘Everybody looks tall if you’re sitting in your car, shocked out of your bloody wits, covered in glass, watching your property disappear, and that description could fit any number of young inner-city types. He got phones, cash, credit cards and God knows what
