Banks wouldn’t be joining them for the raid. Far too early in the morning for him. He saved his skull-cracking for a short window between elevenses and long liquid lunches. With maybe a small window of opportunity after said lunch, as he made his way to whatever bar in which he had heard someone of significance to his career might be drinking.
They made their way in two Wolseley police cars, large but elegant jet-black saloons, with the word ‘POLICE’ on a light-blue plate, bolted to the radiator grille at the front and a single blue light mounted on the roof just behind the rim of the window screen. Three of the uniformed officers travelled in one car, whilst Ray and Joseph were ferried in the second. A fourth uniformed officer drove. He went by the name of Mawby.
They headed west along the river to the flat where Gerald Trainer had lived with his three room-mates. The whole area was slowly being eaten by the Morris Walk estate. The silhouette of a new tower block emerged nearby. Tumble-down two-storey Victorian slum buildings made up the street Gerald had lived on. The last vestiges of a bygone age, no longer fit for habitation by most. It looked a thoroughly depressing place, Joseph thought, as the car pulled up alongside the house just as the sky lightened behind them.
Everyone formed up at the front of the property. Ray led the way, knocking on the door; Joseph perched just behind him on his shoulder. The four uniformed officers stood on the other side of the door, ready to rush in if needed, or simply stand and be the visible presence to deter anyone from doing anything that everyone would later regret.
“Police. Open up,” Ray boomed, his voice echoing down the street. Joseph knew that lights would soon be going on as people peered through windows through half-drawn curtains, watching the drama unfold. He couldn’t afford to look back at them, though, his eyes fixed on the door as Ray hammered on it once more, repeating his announcement.
At first the house remained silent. Maybe the other occupants were out. They could have been on an early shift at the docks. Or even a very late one. Then came a disgruntled shout from inside the building. Something barely coherent muffled by the door so it lost all its semblance of language. Footsteps came down the stairs, then more shouting, clearer this time: “What d’you want?” A chain dropped and struck the door as locks were removed and finally the door opened.
A thin Black man opened the door, dressed only in a dirty white vest and light blue boxer shorts. He took a step back as he saw the mass of officers at the door. Ray flashed his warrant card before walking in, not waiting for an invitation. “Where’s everyone else?” he asked as Joseph and the uniformed officers followed.
The man shut the door. “They’re up in bed still. What do you want?”
“They need to get up. I’m DI Ray Cribbs. This is DS Walsh.” He nodded at Joseph. “With the help of these officers here, we’re going to carry out a thorough search of the premises, in relation to the death of Gerald Trainer.”
“Gerald? Gerald’s dead?” The man’s face dropped and he looked from Ray to Joseph. If he had any involvement in the murder, he should head over to the West End and audition for every role he could. Then it hit Joseph. No one had told him his friend was dead.
“I’m sorry you’re finding out this way, sir,” Joseph apologised, which drew a sideways glance from Ray. It started out as disapproving, but then turned to a nod as he weighed up the impact it had on the man, who had slowly stumbled past them into what passed as the living room and sat down on a rickety-looking wooden chair.
“My God,” he gasped, running his hand through his hair. “Poor Gerald.”
“I’m going to need you to make a statement to my officers, mister…?” Ray took on a conciliatory tone. Perhaps he too had been convinced.
“Johnson. Vincent Johnson.”
“Thank you, Mr Johnson,” Ray said. “We’ll begin our search, then speak with you. If you can remain here,” he started then changed his mind. “Actually, get some clothes on. Blooming freezing in here. Then we can talk. Mawby, follow him up, make sure he just dresses. The rest of you, off you pop. Wake the others up.”
The three uniformed officers left the room, two heading upstairs, one working through the living room, back towards the small kitchen area.
“What are they doing?” Vincent asked looking around, a look of confusion on his face.
“Searching the premises.”
“Why?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Ray said formally, as if searching the home of a murder victim was normal procedure. “We just need to try and work out what happened to your friend and there’s every chance we might find something here.”
One of the uniformed officers took a dumbfounded Vincent out of the living room and upstairs, muttering as he went. “I didn’t even know he was dead.”
Ray sighed and to Joseph it sounded like resignation. “Let’s get this done,” he said.
*
They searched downstairs quickly. The men didn’t have much between them. Spartan furniture which, where it wasn’t already falling apart, looked as if it wasn’t far off. In the kitchen, a basic collection of crockery and cutlery had been laid out on the side. A small cupboard held rice and a few vegetables. The fridge had a couple of bottles of milk and a whole chicken waiting to be cooked. Joseph took extra care when handling anything. The men had so little, he didn’t want to break or spoil anything they did have. Not that it looked as if they would find much of note here.
As he scoured the empty cupboards, someone shouted from the floor above, followed by the clamour of footsteps as the officers congregated in one room. Ray looked to Joseph and, without a word, the two of them followed the sound upstairs.
Gerald’s room-mates had been lined up against a wall with Mawby and another constable standing watch when Joseph and Ray reached the landing. Vincent had a few more clothes on: a jumper, trousers, but his feet were still bare. The other two wore less. One had on trousers and a vest, the other just a T-shirt and shorts. They glanced despondently at Ray and Joseph as they reached the top of the stairs. Vincent’s shoulders shrugged, almost by way of apology. What had they found?
“Sir,” the other uniformed officer beckoned them into one of the bedrooms. Two well-worn single mattresses lay on the uncarpeted floor, one on either side of the room. It smelt of damp, of sweat and God knows what other bodily fluids. Thin curtains had been pulled open, letting a faint light start to seep in through the dirty window. Dust and mould collected on the ceiling, bunched in black congregations along the coldest corners nearest to the window. The officer moved towards one of the mattresses, lifting it up. “Caught them trying to hide it. Silly bleeder sat there with his head in his hands when we walked in. Jumped a mile when he saw us and tried to shove this down here.”
The constable pointed to the floorboards. One of them had been pulled upwards. It didn’t appear to have taken much effort. It had no nails pointing out from the bottom of the floorboard. An oft-used hidey-hole, then. He handed a tin to Ray. Ray opened it and peered inside.
“Nice,” he said, sounding like it was anything but.
Joseph looked inside the tin. It held a small block of brown resin and a pack of cigarette papers. He smelt it. Cannabis. “We’re going to need a van to transport them all back,” he said to the officer, who nodded back at him.
“I’ll go down to the car, call it in.”
“Thanks.”
The constable left, and Joseph turned to Ray. “Stroke of luck.”
“It’s something. At least it will give us a chance to talk to them and crank up the pressure a little bit.” Ray stopped and Joseph could tell he wanted to say more.
“But?” Joseph asked.
“We’ve only talked to one of them, really, and he didn’t strike me as our guy. But we both know what will be said at the station. We’ve got a drugs link now and we need to follow it.”
“Isn’t that a lead?”
“It is. If it leads us somewhere. Otherwise, it’s a waste of our time.” Ray sounded disappointed.
“You were hoping not to find anything.”
“You look at them three out there. The first chap looked broken when we told him. The guy with this was so shocked by what he’d been told he didn’t even think to hide a tin of cannabis with a house full of Old Bill. These aren’t criminals, or murderers. They’re three lads caught on the hop, grieving for their pal. Annoying thing is, Banks is going to have us chasing this down now. The real killer is going to be given more time to get their story straight.” He let out another sigh. “I hate these things.”
