Chosen To Kill (DI Matt Barnes Book 4) Page 8

Anna went to her, hugged her and said that everything was all right, even though she knew that everything was far from being right.

  “Sorry to have frightened you and your daughter. Are you Mrs. Gibson?” Matt said to her, holding up his warrant card to identify himself with.

  Anna nodded.

  “Where is your husband?”

  “John went out for some fresh air,” Anna said. “Why, what’s happened? Is he okay?”

  “You’ve not seen the news?” Matt said.

  “No. I was in the kitchen ironing after making a phone call to my mother. But John was watching it in the lounge.”

  “When did he leave the house?” Matt said.

  “A few minutes after ten o’clock. I thought he looked ill. He was very pale, but didn’t give me chance to ask him what was wrong.”

  Matt took a sheet of copy paper from the inside pocket of his blouson, unfolded it and held it up for Anna to see. “Is that your husband?” he said.

  Anna nodded. “What has he done?”

  “He’s a suspect in several cases of rape and murder, Mrs. Gibson. We need to find him, quickly. And I want a recent photograph of him.”

  “This is fucking insane,” Anna said. “John wouldn’t harm anyone. He wouldn’t kill a spider. He catches them in a plastic beaker and puts them outside.”

  Matt was instantly reminded of the homicidal sociopath Gary Noon, who had absolutely no empathy for people, but had kept a pet tarantula that he called Simon, and had been grief-stricken when Matt had lied to him and told him during a phone call that he’d squished the arachnid after being bitten by it.

  They waited at the house. An hour went by, but John Gibson did not return or phone. And there was no report of his car being seen.

  “He’s in the wind, boss,” Errol said.

  Matt was not unduly concerned. Gibson was no longer an anonymous killer. They would find him, because he was not a professional criminal, had panicked, but had nowhere to go. Anna was giving Marci a list of names and addresses of relations and friends. They took John’s passport, and without a warrant also removed his computer and all flash drives and disks, after first obtaining Anna’s permission and a signature authorising them to do so. All they had to do now was turn stones over until they found him underneath one. The only danger would be if their quarry broke into someone’s house, to use as a bolthole. More peoples’ lives could be at risk, because he would now be desperate, and would either think it over and give himself up, or do something stupid.

  As if reading his mind, and out of earshot of Anna, Marci said, “You think he’ll top himself, boss?”

  “I’m hoping so,” Matt said. “He’s on the run and unpredictable. This is a man who appears to have led a relatively ‘normal’ life. He has a good job, a nice home, and a wife and daughter. Something snapped, and now he’s a different person. We have to deal with who he is now, not who he was.”

  “My grandmother once said to me that we are all more than we seem to be to others.” Marci said wistfully. “She believed that loved ones and friends only saw us for what we had become, not by who we had once been. My grandfather had been a handsome young man; fit, strong and always smiling. But as time went by he got old and became frail and ill. Pain and a deepening weariness of life overlaid the person that had embraced each day that dawned. A few minutes before he died, he smiled up at my grandmother and told her that he felt young and well again, and then he slipped away.”

  “That’s food for thought, Marci, but is it relevant?”

  “I don’t suppose it is. I just sometimes think that people are defined by one act, or one mistake that seems to erase whatever else of merit that they’ve ever done. Or that we look at someone, especially if they’re old, and it’s as if they’ve come from another planet, and have ceased to be germane to the here and now.”

  “I get what you mean,” Matt said. “But being a decent and law-abiding human being for the best part of your life doesn’t give you a free pass to do something bad, or to be given a break for past good behaviour. And apart from family members, many young people do tend to disregard and see no relevance in strangers, and especially the elderly. It’s as if they look upon them as being part and parcel of history, but still around, taking up space.”

  Pete and Errol stayed at the house, just in case Gibson came back. The others walked to where they had parked their vehicles, took off the Kevlar vests that they had been wearing, and headed back to the Yard. It seemed that they had all but wrapped the case. The rapist killer had been spooked by the TV coverage and fled, but was not connected, and so had nowhere to go.

  After smoking a second cigarette and calming down enough to think straight, John came up with a short-term plan. He would need to make sure that the car was not found, and then find a place that he could stay at for a few days, or even longer, to give him time to alter his appearance before moving to a different part of the country and starting over. His previous life was now behind him. He was faced with a blank page; a new beginning. Self-preservation was foremost on his mind, and he would do whatever was necessary to not only remain free, but construct a new identity.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  With John Gibson being a high-profile wanted man, there was not a lot Matt’s team could do, apart from checking out everyone that he knew. They were working the case differently now. This had become a manhunt. They knew who they were after, and Matt was optimistic that they would find him. The only question was when?

  “C’mon,” Matt said to Pete at eight the following morning. “Let’s go and talk to Lister’s driver, Clements.”

  Pete drove a pool Mondeo south of the river to a small industrial estate not far from The Den in New Cross; home to Millwall F.C. in the borough of Lewisham.

  Pulling in through the open gateway of Lister Transport, Pete parked behind a Mercedes-Benz E 350; its Palladium silver metallic finish sparkling under the morning sun. As Pete and Matt climbed out of the car, a guy the size of a tank came out through an office door and strode over to the Mondeo, to place his large hand on Pete’s shoulder and push him back into the seat.

  “Start this junker up and move it over to the other side of the yard,” Travis Lawson said in a low bass voice.

  “Hey,” Matt said, rounding the front of the car as he reached for his wallet to ID himself.

  Travis turned away from Pete, lashed out and struck Matt high on the right shoulder with the heel of his hand, to spin him sideways and then follow up with a kidney punch that he knew would put the man down and keep him there.

  It hurt, but not enough to stop Matt from twisting round and bringing his right foot up between his assailant’s legs with all the power he could generate.

  Travis clasped his balls with both hands as his knees gave way and he sank to the ground, and Matt took full advantage and hit him square on the chin to fold him backwards. The back of his head thudded against the concrete and he lost consciousness.

  Matt thought himself lucky. The blow to his lower back would have definitely laid him low if there had been a kidney beneath the scarred flesh to suffer trauma. It was the first time since having it surgically removed that he had in any way benefited from the loss.

  “You okay, boss?” Pete said as he kneeled down next to the big guy on the ground, to turn him over on his side and cuff his wrists behind his back.

  “I’m fine, but I think I’ve bruised a couple of knuckles,” Matt said, flexing his fingers. “That was like hitting a tree.”

  “Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Ricky Lister said as he walked out into the sunlight and saw that Pete was handcuffing Travis.

  Matt ID’d himself to the man he recognised as being Lister. “Your trained ape got physical,” he said. “He assaulted two police officers.”

  “Must’ve been a misunderstanding,” Ricky said. “Did you tell him you were coppers?”

  “He didn’t give us chance.”

  “So how about we start afresh and you let it go this time. L
ooks like Travis has already paid for the error of his ways.”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” Matt said. “In the meantime we need to talk to another of your employees.”

  “Who would that be?” Ricky asked.

  “Sam Clements.”

  “And what exactly is it that you think Sammy has done?”

  “Let’s go inside your office and take the weight off,” Matt said. “We can stash Travis here in your Merc until he comes round and has time to cool down.”

  “He’s covered in dirt,” Ricky said. “I don’t want my upholstery shitted up, so put him in the boot.”

  Matt and Pete duly helped the still groggy man to his feet and manhandled him into the boot of Lister’s Merc and shut the lid.

  The office was a little Spartan. There was a grey metal desk with a computer and a couple of trays full of paperwork on its top, and four inexpensive stacking chairs with chrome frames and black plastic seats and backs set around it. A coffeemaker gurgled on a file cabinet in one corner, and a Mercedes-Benz calendar hung on a wall.

  “Take a seat Inspector Barnes,” Ricky said. “If you want coffee, your sidekick can do the honours.”

  Pete grinned and walked over to where the machine was bubbling, took two plastic cups from an open pack and filled them. He didn’t ask Lister if he wanted one. If he did he could get his own.

  “So what’s this all about?” Ricky asked Matt.

  “I’d have thought you’d know,” Matt said. “Hasn’t Eltringham been on the blower?”

  Ricky gave Matt the hint of a smile as he sat down, crossed his legs and eased up the material of his trousers at the knee, so as not to stretch it. “Okay, cut to the chase,” he said. “Ask your questions.”

  “Like I said, we want to talk to Clements,” Matt said. “Is he here?”

  “I can have him here in ten minutes,” Ricky said, taking a mobile phone from an inside pocket of his jacket. “But humour me, Inspector. What has he supposedly done to arouse your interest in him?”

  “He bought the handgun used in that Heathrow job off Eltringham. We need to know if he’s still got it.”

  “Al wouldn’t have given you the time of day,” Ricky said.

  “If we hadn’t convinced him that you were calling round to see his wife and keep a smile on her face, then maybe not,” Matt said. “But he wasn’t too happy with you or Claudine when we left Maidstone nick. Being banged-up for a few years can make a guy paranoid. I’m hoping that the next time we call to see him he’ll give us enough to put you inside for a long time.”

  Ricky’s cheek muscles bulged as he clenched his teeth. Matt knew that although the gangster was grey-haired and sixty years old, he was still a strong and capable man. The scar tissue around his dark brown eyes, and a nose that had obviously been broken, were permanent reminders that he had once been a boxer. He was still trim and muscular beneath his Armani suit, but was a scumbag who imported and distributed death in the form of Class A drugs, was known to be involved in gambling, prostitution, protection, loan sharking, and also ran many legit businesses like the transport company to launder his money and keep one step ahead of the law.

  “I’ve got nothing to worry about,” Ricky said. “I’m an entrepreneur who pays his taxes and gives to worthy causes. Should anyone like Eltringham say otherwise, then it’s just the word of a con with no proof to back up his lies.”

  “You’ll go down, Lister,” Matt said. “It’s just when, not if. The law is patient.”

  “Salus populi suprema lex,” Ricky said with a smile that could have curdled milk. “That’s the Lewisham motto, Barnes, which translates to ‘The welfare of the people is the first great law’. I look after people, and in return they rarely say or do anything that would disappoint me, if you get my drift.”

  Matt had no intention of getting into a debate or argument with the hoodlum. He was here to see Clements. He just waited.

  Ricky scrolled the list of numbers in his phone, made a call and said, “Where are you, Sammy?”

  “Bromley Road, boss. I just made a collection.”

  “Get back to the office,” Ricky said and disconnected.

  It was less than fifteen minutes later when Clements and an older black guy got out of an Insignia saloon and walked into the office.

  “Go and find something to do for a few minutes,” Ricky said to Henry Norton, a tall Jamaican who hardly ever spoke, but was big, strong and mean, and could generate enough menace with a drilling glare from his deep-set eyes to frighten most small business owners to part with the monthly payments that Ricky demanded from them. Protection did not come cheap, and sometimes when an incentive to pay became necessary, Henry inflicted enough pain to concentrate the mind. He liked to break fingers, or even arms.

  Henry nodded and went back out into the yard, to light a cigarette and lean against the highly polished black Insignia.

  “This is Detective Inspector Barnes,” Ricky said to Sammy. “He needs some information. Tell him what he wants to know.”

  Sammy saw the look in his boss’s eyes. It was telling him to be very careful what he said.

  “You bought a Beretta handgun from Al Eltringham,” Matt said. “Where is it?”

  Sammy shook his head and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never owned a gun.”

  Matt smiled. “You’re lying to me, Sammy. You paid two hundred quid for it. I need to know where it is. Fuck me about and I’ll start thinking that you’ve got it stashed somewhere, and that it was you that used it to kill at least four people.”

  “I haven’t whacked anybody,” Sammy said, his face going as pale as lard as he contemplated being stitched up for murders he had not committed.

  “The gun,” Matt said. “Talk or you leave here in cuffs. Your call.”

  Sammy gave it some thought. Eltringham had never liked him, so had obviously tried to drop him in it. But that’s all they had, the lie of a convicted robber. He had nothing to worry about.

  Sammy smiled at Matt. “I wish I could help you, Inspector,” he said. “But like I said, I don’t own a firearm, and never have.”

  “We’ll discuss it and a lot of other stuff in more suitable surroundings,” Matt said.

  Ricky got to his feet and attempted to stare Matt down. Neither of the men blinked. After several seconds Ricky said, “Let’s go outside and have a private word, Inspector. I’m sure that we can sort this without you having to resort to heavy-handed tactics.”

  Matt followed Ricky out of the office and over to where they stopped to stand facing each other in front of a large Scania cab that had recently been blasted clean and shone bright orange in the sunshine.

  “You’re beginning to piss me off, Barnes,” Ricky said. “Who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with?”

  “I’m not dealing with you, Lister; I’m investigating cold-blooded murders that were committed using a nine-millimetre handgun that I know was at one time in the possession of a man that was in your employ.”

  “What Eltringham and those other two fuckwits did on their own time was their business. I had no knowledge of the robbery that they were nicked and went down for.”

  Matt smiled. “You wear nice threads, drive an expensive motor, live in a big house out in the country, and have a pile of money stashed away, Lister, but you’re still a lowlife; the product of poverty, a bad environment, and with no worthwhile values. You don’t care what misery you cause. You’re a parasite that needs to be cut out of society.”

  Ricky took a deep breath and somehow stopped himself from laying into Matt. He knew that the cop was goading him, but he had no intention of biting. “You’re a stupid man, Barnes,” he said. “If the Organised Crime Unit can’t find a shred of evidence against me, then why would you want to poke your nose into my affairs? I’m a businessman, not a gangster.”

  “I’m impressed that you could say that with a straight face,” Matt said. “We both know exactly what you are, and if I can assist the OCU in any wa
y to bring you down, then I will.”

  “Gordon Rennie,” Ricky said in a whisper as he turned and walked back across the yard to the office.

  Matt followed him in. He knew that he was going to get nothing worth having from Lister or Sammy Clements. He had no leverage, just a statement from a con whose word was of no value without some form of substantiation.

  “Your coffee was crap,” Matt said to Ricky as he gave Pete the nod. It was time to leave.

  “What about Travis?” Ricky said.

  “You can keep him,” Matt said. “Attempted assault doesn’t float my boat. I like to charge dickheads with murder, to make doing the paperwork worthwhile.”

  Pete opened the boot of Ricky’s Merc and Travis flopped over onto his back, squinting against the sudden bright light that invaded the hot, dark compartment.

  Pushing the big man over onto his side, Pete unlocked and removed the cuffs.

  “If my coffee’s that bad, don’t call again,” Ricky said as Matt and Pete went over to the Mondeo.

  “You drive,” Matt said. “Let’s stop for a pint and go over Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?” Pete said as he started the Ford up, swung it round and drove out of the open gates.

  “I haven’t got one, yet,” Matt said.

  Ricky was livid. He sensed that Barnes was a danger to him: the type of man that didn’t know when to back off. “I want to know everything about him,” he said to Sammy. “He needs to be aware that it isn’t safe to fuck with me.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He retraced his steps to the Nissan and climbed in, after having walked along the bank of the reservoir and found a dirt track that led to it from the direction of the B road he had driven through the forest on.

  Finding the track from the highway, he drove through a narrow avenue edged by trees, to turn off it when he reached the reservoir. Double gates in the tall wire fence were locked, but the padlock on the chain holding them together was small and rusted. He used the flat end of the wheel brace from the car’s boot to force it open, and then opened the gates, drove through and took the time to get out and close them, and put the padlock back in place. That it was broken would only be discovered on close inspection.