They went down one floor. The door opened and they stepped out into a sparsely lit expanse of parking bays, about a third of them empty. It was dry and warm, with the same familiar smell of engine oil, spent exhaust fumes and rubber compounds, as most underground car parks Grace observed, other than municipal ones which tended to smell of urine, as well. But they were in upmarket territory here.
‘Are the bays allocated to specific flats, Vince?’
‘Yes, numbered.’
‘So, from the number of the bay, you can identify the building and the flat number?’
‘Sure.’
Grace strode along towards the far end, with Vince keeping pace. There was a wide range of cars down here, mostly modern and across the price spectrum, as well as a 1970s Bentley coated in dust and with flat tyres, that didn’t look like it had moved in years. A short distance along they passed what looked like the shape of a Porsche beneath a dust sheet. He reached a Golf, and checked the number plate against the one stored in his memory: TR57 GPN. It was different, but he still patted the bonnet, just to check. Stone cold, the car had not been driven today.
As they turned a corner, passing a wide concrete pillar, he saw an Audi and a Golf next to each other, some bays along. He broke into a run, and as he came closer looked at their number plates.
TR57 GPN; RW15 AVU.
It was them.
85
Sunday 13 August
13.00–14.00
Kipp Brown remained at his desk in his office, staring at the words on the screen.
Thank you. Your funds have been received. You may not reply to this message.
He took a photograph with his iPhone, then sent DI Branson an image of the severed ear, the Polaroid and the receipt, by WhatsApp. At the end he added the words,
Please do not tell my wife about the ear.
It was only seconds before Branson phoned him. ‘Are you on your own?’
‘Yes, in my office.’
‘Listen, Kipp,’ Branson said, keeping his voice low — perhaps Stacey was in nearby, he wondered. ‘I need you to do something for me. Neither Jack nor I can leave here, obviously. I need this ear and the photograph to go very urgently to Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Branch forensics in Guildford, along with some items from Mungo that would contain his DNA — his toothbrush and hairbrush, perhaps? We’ve got to establish this is a DNA match to your son, and if there is anything we can get, forensically, from it.’
‘A DNA match?’ Kipp said. ‘Does that matter? You can see the bandage over his ear in the photograph pretty clearly.’
‘We may be able to get a fingerprint off the ear,’ Branson replied. ‘We also have techniques now for reading fingerprints off a photograph. The way the man is holding the watch, palms out towards the camera, means there’s a very good chance of the fingerprint team getting something.’
‘What do you need?’ Kipp Brown was relieved to have something positive to do.
‘Would you normally take your dog out for a walk?’
‘Yes, every day at some point.’
‘In the car?’
‘It depends. Sometimes.’
‘OK, good. If you can, come back here quickly.’
86
Sunday 13 August
13.00–14.00
Roy Grace patted the bonnets of both the Golf and Audi. Each was warm, only recently driven. ‘Where are the bay numbers, Vince?’
‘On the floor.’
As Grace knelt the caretaker said, ‘No, it’s OK, I know these three bays.’
In the next one along was a black Range Rover with tinted rear windows.
‘Whose is that?’ Grace asked.
‘They rent — pay for three parking spaces.’
‘Do you know their names?’
‘No — is rented by a company.’
‘But you’ve seen them?’
He shrugged. ‘A few times. They come and go, you know.’
He went over to the Range Rover and patted the bonnet of that, too. It was also warm. ‘Are they English, Vince?’
‘No — Europeans, maybe.’
‘Albanians?’
‘Possibly. I hear them speak sometime, I don’t know the language.’
‘Do you have CCTV cover?’
‘Yes, in the car park and outside, but it stopped working yesterday. I’m waiting for the engineers to come.’
Coincidence, Grace wondered? He doubted it. ‘Right, Vince, I’m going to need your help. How many exits are there?’
‘They’re on the fourth floor. One exit is down here — the main entrance we came in and the fire exit for this car park.’ The caretaker was starting to become animated. ‘Then there is the front entrance and the rear to their building. So, this is a drugs raid?’
Ignoring the question, Grace said, ‘Vince, I’m going to be moving vehicles in here. I want you to do three things for me. The first is to disable the car park entrance door, so no one can drive out. The second is to open the front door to this block, and the third is to show my team the fire escape exits. Can you do that?’
‘Sure,’ he said, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. ‘No problem. Like James Bond?’
Grace grinned and gave him a pat on the shoulder. ‘When Daniel Craig quits, we’ll put your name forward, eh?’ Then he began giving instructions, calmly but urgently, into his radio, and ran back out, followed by the caretaker, to the front of the building, as the first of the two Local Support Team vans arrived. These contained more officers than he reckoned he would need for the raid, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
Vince opened the glass front door of the building and shoved a wedge beneath it. Inspector Ian Allchild jumped down from the passenger seat in full blue riot gear with body armour, holding his vizored helmet; the driver climbed out also. A further six officers, all similarly clad, descended from the rear, while Grace briefed the Inspector. Allchild, a tough former army officer, with a no-nonsense voice, responded enthusiastically. This was the kind of job he and his team were trained for and the kind of job which they all loved. The second van pulled up behind them and another team of eight climbed out. Allchild briefed the skipper to have his team spread out around the building, in case anyone tried to leg it.
Grace’s adrenaline was surging. He directed the two vans containing dog handlers to follow the caretaker, then said to Allchild, ‘Ready?’
‘Ready, sir.’
Grace radioed the Critical Incident Manager that they were going in, then instructed Kevin Hall to bring all vehicles in now and to block the entrance. No one was to enter or leave Boden Court until he gave the all-clear. He turned to the Inspector. ‘OK, go!’
Allchild gave the signal to his team. One officer, holding the red bosher, led the way in through the front door and up the fire escape stairs. He was closely followed by a short but very strong sergeant, Lorna Dennison-Wilkins, holding a hydraulic ram, then Allchild and his remaining five officers. Grace ran up the four flights, just a short distance behind.
At the top, the team moved silently along the corridor, halting outside a door. It was too far away for Roy Grace, panting with the exertion, to see the number. All of them pulled their vizors down.
The officer with the big red key rang the doorbell, and waited.
There was no response.
Then he knocked on the door. The classic policeman’s knock. Unsubtle and loud. Rat-a-tap-tap-tap-tap. Then, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.
Again, nothing.
He turned to Lorna and nodded.
She stepped forward, wedged both arms of the ram against the sides of the door frame, and powered it up. As the grinding howl of the machine splintered the wood, forcing the frame outwards on both sides, her colleague swung the ram against the door, sending it crashing open at the first attempt.