Edie pulled off her hairnet and shook her hair out. ‘When Hector Welles tried to do a runner, they all jumped on him at once. Or at least, three of them did. And then they went back to their roles. And they all have a strict role to play, don’t they? Somebody to speak. Somebody to film. Somebody to watch. And somebody to be executioner.’
‘Judge, jury, witness and hangman,’ I said. ‘But what are the signatures, Dr Joe?’
‘A strong facility for organisation. An ability to be totally ruthless. A strict hierarchy that has room for individual endeavour before the hierarchy reasserts itself.’
‘You really think they’re cops?’ Edie said.
‘Not necessarily, although it’s a possibility. I think that at least one of them has some kind of specialist training in upholding social control. And I believe that probably more than one of them has experience of some kind of public service. Someone with experience of an institution that sanctions those who violate laws or harm the state. Someone who has been disappointed in the limits and failures and compromises of that institution. So a serving or ex-police officer is one possibility. But equally we could be looking at one or more unsubs who has experience in the prison service or some other branch of criminal justice.’
As I watched Dr Joe thinking I knew what he was going to say next, and I had to stop myself from saying it out loud, from blurting it out, as into my mind leapt the image of my oldest friend and his gap-toothed grin.
‘Or even the military,’ Dr Joe said.
My phone began to vibrate.
The woman on the other end of the phone was crying and apologising all at once. It took me a moment to realise that it was Alice Goddard, the widow of Steve Goddard, kicked to death outside his own home.
‘I’m sorry to call you, Max, I didn’t know who else I could call . . .’
‘Slow down. Take a breath. What’s wrong?’ I said.
But all she could do was to keep apologising and crying.
In my line of work, we move on. There’s always the next case, there is always some fresh human misery coming down the line. But the victims of crime, they don’t move on. They can’t move on. They remain forever stuck in the moment that their life changed, the shock and the pain never diminishing with time. And beyond all the grief that never dies, there can be practical problems. When justice is done, there is usually someone out there raving about the injustice of it all.
The three pieces of pond life who killed Steve Goddard all had friends and families. And sometimes, after pond life has been locked up, these friends and families feel they have a point to prove and a debt to settle.
It can take the form of low-level harassment. It can be petrol poured through a letterbox. It can be anything in between. That’s why I had given Alice Goddard my card and told her that she could call me any time. If the friends and loved ones of the pond life came calling, then I wanted to know about it.
But this was something else.
‘It’s my son,’ she said, her voice breaking.
I parked outside the Goddard house and took a moment to adjust. The first time I had seen this quiet suburban street, the uniforms were putting up a tent and tape, the CSIs in their white Tyvek suits were dusting, filming and photographing. And Steve Goddard was lying dead, his body half on the pavement and half in the road.
I remembered that there wasn’t much blood. And I remembered the devastated family who were inside: Steve Goddard’s wife and son and daughter, Alice and Steve Junior and Kitty, the three of them holding on to each other as this brutal new reality kicked in and they started to unravel.
I blinked my eyes and the memory faded and it was just another suburban street on a summer evening. I took a few deep breaths and walked up the short garden path to the door of the Goddard family.
Alice greeted me with a warm, embarrassed smile. Her eyes were red raw, but she had made a real effort to regain control.
‘It’s Steve Junior,’ she said. ‘He’s got a knife.’
I found the kid in the local park.
He was in the deserted playground, sitting on the swings, puffing on a cigarette.
The last time I had seen Steve Junior was at the Old Bailey. What was he? Fifteen? Sixteen? He had looked like a young boy that day, overawed and baffled by his surroundings, his shirt too big and wearing a tie that his mum had done up for him. Now, just weeks later, he looked like a bitter young man.
‘Steve? Remember me? DC Wolfe.’
His eyes met mine and then slid away. There was some shouting in the distance and we both looked over to where it had come from. A group of boys and one girl were sprawled over a distant park bench.
I sat down on the swing next to Steve Goddard Junior.
‘Is anyone bothering you?’ I said.
He looked at me with disbelief. Then he laughed and shook his head.
‘Is anybody bothering me? Is that your question? My dad gets kicked to death and you ask me if anyone is bothering me?’
‘Since then, I mean. Is anyone getting on your case since the trial?’
I watched his eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m going to be bothering them,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’
‘Is that what the knife is for?’
Silence.
‘I understand why you want to get even,’ I said. ‘It’s natural. What happened to your dad – to your family – it’s not fair, is it?’
‘No. It’s not fucking fair. You got that right.’
‘So what you going to do? What’s the plan? Stick a knife in one of them when they get out? Stick your knife in all of them?’
Two teenage girls went past arm in arm. They looked at me and Steve sitting on the swings and walked away consumed by mocking laughter.
‘Why are you even here?’ he said.
‘I don’t want anything worse to happen to your family.’
His mouth twisted.
‘What could possibly be any worse than my dad going outside to ask for a bit of peace and quiet, and then getting his head kicked in? What could be worse than that?’
‘You getting locked up in Feltham.’
He frowned. I wondered if he had the knife on him. Then I saw the bulge in the pocket of his hoodie and I didn’t have to wonder any more.
‘What’s Feltham?’ he said.
‘Feltham Young Offenders Institution,’ I said. ‘It’s a prison for male juveniles near Hounslow. If you stick your blade in one of those creeps who killed your dad, that’s where they will send you. Because you’re under eighteen.’
He looked at me and for the first time I thought that I might be getting through to him.
‘I understand how you feel, Steve. I understand why you want to do it. And I can even understand why they deserve it. I saw your dad the night he died.’
The boy flinched as if he had been slapped.
‘And I saw you that night,’ I said. ‘And your sister Kitty. And your mum. And I was there in the Old Bailey when those three bastards got off with a slap on the wrist. But that doesn’t mean you should take the law into your own hands. Because if you do, then the law is going to come down on you. And I promise you, Steve, you are not the kind of lad who thrives in Feltham.’
I stood up.
‘Get rid of the knife,’ I said. ‘On your way home – drop it down a drain. The first drain you see. Then go home and take care of your mum and your sister. They need you more than you can imagine.’
I began to walk away.
His voice called me back.
‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘Is that the only reason I can’t get even with the bastards? Is that the only reason I can’t stick a blade in those bastards who killed my dad? Because of what will happen to me if I do?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s the only reason. But it’s the only reason you need.’
16
In New Scotland Yard’s Room 101, Sergeant John Caine put the kettle on while I walked into the Black Museum and stared at the hanging tree. More than twenty ropes were draped over the three-legged gallows’ pole, arranged with the loving care of decorations on a Christmas tree. Next to the hanging tree there was a framed photograph of Albert Pierrepoint and a quote from 1974.