Stanford had forgotten he’d asked for a tea, so was pleasantly surprised when Jack and Mike returned with one for each of them, plus some cakes which the cleaner/serving lady had joyfully gifted to Mike once she’d discovered he was a devoted father of six. Sure enough, there was a second fish-shaped drawing on the evidence board. It sprawled across the whole of Wimbledon Common, plus all of the surrounding streets. Stanford’s target zone was now huge.
‘The CCTV for this area has been looked at a dozen times,’ Stanford was saying, eager to crack on and get the most out of Mike and Jack whilst he had them. ‘No cars or people consistently appear on the nights the burglaries took place; no one who doesn’t belong, that is. All residents and visitors have been checked and cleared.’
‘Extend the perimeter?’ Mike politely put this as a question, but it wasn’t. ‘The Common is throwing any pattern out of whack ’cos, as far as potential targets go, it’s a worthless area, but as far as cover goes, it’s invaluable. So, you’ve got to extend the perimeter beyond the Common. I suppose CCTV inside the Common is a hope-in-hell, right?’
Stanford shook his head. ‘There’s no CCTV in the majority of the Common. In the summer of 2018, a wildlife survey was done, mainly around the ponds and in the deeper areas of woodland. There were some cameras placed in trees hoping to catch owls by night and kestrels by day doing their thing. We got all of that video footage, but it gave us nothing. We’ve tried, Mike, we really have. This sneaky little fucker is driving me crazy.’
Mike smiled and repeated his advice to extend the perimeter. The only advice he then added, was that Stanford should review all CCTV footage himself, because you can’t buy experience; and besides, the neck that’s on the line should be the one to do the make-or-break work. That was Mike’s philosophy and it had always served him well.
By nine o’clock, Jack, Mike and Stanford had burned up the carbs from a heavy meat feast pizza and were trying to find their third wind with slow-release energy from nuts and fruit. But it was no use. They were about to call it a day and head for the pub, when Mike piped up, ‘Who’s this guy on the mobility scooter, Rich? He’s around every day in the winter, but not the summer. Is he cutting through the Common to get somewhere? Does he live or work nearby?’
At eight the next morning, four uniforms were working alongside Jack, Mike and Stanford, tracking the flat-cap-wearing man on a small red mobility scooter and a hooded man in tennis whites carrying a racquet case. They seemed to be the same build and, crucially, both carried an identical rucksack. One or other of these men, it turned out, was seen during the day of each burglary — but never both at the same time. Jack was certain this was the same man, using two different disguises, to hide in plain sight and recce the target house before coming back to burgle that same night.
The man, regardless of how he was dressed, behaved in a very specific manner. He would disappear into the Common and then emerge at another exit hours later. But the final time he emerged, whether dressed as a wannabe Nadal, or as an innocuous disabled man, was always at the Copse Hill end of the Common, where a light grey Mercedes was waiting for him. It was parked on a different street each time, always with a heavy treeline to hide the number plate from prying CCTV. But this, they now realised, was the centre of Stanford’s fish tail — the Merc.
Nadal or Ironside, as their Prowler was now affectionately nicknamed, would stay in the Merc until the dead of night. Then, dressed in dark clothing, he’d head back into the cover of the Common. From there, he could pop out anywhere.
Stanford split his team into two. Some uniformed officers were tasked with using the date and location of each burglary to track their suspect in and out of the Common: burglary after burglary, month after month, year after year, from the Merc, to the victim’s home, back to the Merc. Meanwhile, other officers were tasked with using backdated CCTV and Police National Computer checks — if there were any — to track the Merc in and out of London and try to establish if the car was definitely present in the capital on the night of every single burglary.
One of the uniformed officers helping Stanford now was McGinty, the fake-yawner he’d torn a strip off days earlier. Today, however, McGinty was a different man. He seemed to know his place and his role, and he was doing his job enthusiastically without question or back-chat. Mike caught Stanford watching him. ‘Is he the kid that yawned at you?’ Stanford’s rather embarrassed look confirmed that it was. ‘Get him transferred to your team, Rich. The worst trait in a police officer is apathy. That boy will give you cheek and challenges, but that can be useful.’ As McGinty left the room, he turned and gave Stanford a little nod, then he disappeared like an enthusiastic child on a mission to please a parent.
Whilst the uniforms were doing all of this arduous but vital screen work, Jack, Mike and Stanford were checking out a fish and chip shop in Manchester.
Damien Panagos was a 52-year-old, second-generation Greek immigrant, now running The Codfather in Wythenshawe with his wife and son — and the registered owner of the light grey Merc that was so often parked at the Copse Hill end of Wimbledon Common. His parents had come to the UK in the 1960s and his dad had worked as a sparky, teaching his trade to young Damien. Jack speculated that this is where he’d learnt his party trick of being able to bypass the average home security system.
Stanford was chomping at the bit to head north and get Panagos arrested, but Jack slowed him down. ‘We’re ahead of him and he’s going nowhere. Work the CCTV cameras and gather the evidence. If, while we’re doing that, he heads to us, we’ll nick him in the act. If he’s having some down time, we’ll nick him at home when we’re ready. Either way, we’ll nick him. And when we do, it’ll be watertight.’
Stanford was given four more uniforms, so that the hours of CCTV dating back to 2014 could be viewed on a 24-hour rotation. While that was going on, Mike took Stanford and Jack to the pub. ‘If all we can do is wait, we might as well wait with a pint in our hand.’
‘The thing that... gets me,’ Stanford slurred three hours later, ‘is the community bloody naysayers. I mean, I get it, I do. Someone comes into your house and takes your stuff... that’s terrible. It’s like house rape, that’s what it is. But, fuck me, Jack, people soon forget all the good you’ve done for them, just ’cos you let one little northern Greek bastard slip through your fingers.’ Mike and Jack sniggered into their pints as Stanford went on. ‘We’ll get this Panagos prick and they won’t say “thank you”, they’ll say “about time”. Because this one cuts deep. This one has impacted an entire community for far too long. They’re scared, and that’s my fault. It’s not my fault, but it is my fault. I really, really appreciate you coming here. Both of you...’ Jack took this as his cue to get Stanford home before he started telling him and Mike that he loved them.
Stanford was first in the following morning, and he was raring to go. He looked as bright as a button, as fresh as a daisy and, as long as you didn’t stand too close, you’d never know that he was probably still too drunk to be at work. Jack and Stanford set off towards Manchester, where they were due to be met at midday by DI Leticia Margate. The plan was for them all to go to The Codfather and arrest Panagos as he prepped for the lunchtime crowd. However, at half past eight, before they’d even hit the M25, Stanford got a call from DI Margate, to say that Panagos was heading south. Stanford’s excitement was palpable — he was about to get the opportunity to arrest his nemesis on his own patch.