But if he wasn’t at work, he wasn’t at home either. We buzzed on his intercom for several minutes but didn’t get an answer. I phoned the Arcadia and double-checked the address with Elaine Toms. It was the right one. Fowler still hadn’t turned up at the club either, a fact that was beginning to irritate me and her.
We sat in the car and waited for ten minutes without result, then decided to make our way back to the station. It had been an unproductive morning and Berrin was beginning to look depressed, as if it had only just dawned on him that life in CID was a lot less interesting than it looked on the telly.
It was as we were coming out of Fowler’s complex that I saw it. A dark blue Range Rover driving by just in front of us. It only passed our field of vision for a couple of seconds at most but I noticed straight away that it had holes in the paintwork and industrial taping over two of the windows. It kept going and I memorized the number plate as Berrin pulled out, heading the other way.
‘Did you see that car?’ I asked him.
Berrin is not the most observant man in the world. ‘What car?’ was his reply.
I thought about it for a few seconds. Who’d be daft enough to be driving around in a bullet-ridden Range Rover in broad daylight? But those holes didn’t look like they’d been made by anything else — what else could have made them? — and, as I’ve said before, you should never underestimate the stupidity of criminals. It was probably wasting someone’s time but I took my mobile from my pocket and phoned the station to report a suspicious vehicle, giving its location and possible route.
‘Do you want to turn round and go after it?’ said Berrin, looking like his depression was lifting.
‘It’s probably nothing. Let’s leave it for the uniforms. I need to get something to eat.’
‘What do you think? Do you reckon he’s flown the coop?’
The loud, confident voice belonged to DCI Knox, the big boss. No question of him ever losing control of an interview. Berrin and I were sat in his office, on the other side of his imposing desk, explaining the position regarding the lack of intelligence as to Roy Fowler’s whereabouts.
‘We don’t know,’ said Berrin. ‘He was certainly aware that we were meant to interview him this morning.’
‘It seems odd, though,’ I said. ‘Him disappearing off so soon. It’s like an admission of guilt, but, if we’re honest, we haven’t really got anything on him.’
Knox nodded in his sage-like way. ‘True. But then where is he?’
It was a good question. ‘Maybe he had more pressing engagements and thought we could wait,’ I said eventually.
Knox snorted. ‘Well, he’s wrong if he thinks that. We’ll put out an alert. Any patrol that sees him, they can pick him up and bring him in for questioning. I don’t like the way these small-time villains think they’re royalty these days.’
We both nodded in general agreement. It was always good to agree with Knox, always fatal to pick holes in his pronouncements. Unlike Berrin, he was not one of life’s listeners, whatever he liked to claim. ‘My door’s always open’ was one of his favourite mantras, which might have been true literally, but that was about it.
‘What about the list of bouncers? I don’t suppose we’ve got that then, have we?’
I shook my head. ‘No. We spoke to the manager, a Miss Toms, and she told us that a company called Elite A supplied all the casual door staff they used.’
‘I wonder if she’s involved in the drugs scene at the Arcadia,’ mused Knox.
‘Has she got a record?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it? There was definitely dealing going on down there and it’s almost certain that it originated on the door. So the manager’s probably in on it. You’ll need to check up on this Elite A. I don’t suppose whoever runs them’s whiter than white.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Berrin nodding in agreement. Cheeky sod. A politician already. ‘Now,’ continued Knox, ‘we’ve talked to three of the other doormen at Arcadia who all worked there on a permanent basis, so we only really need to catch up with the temporaries who’ve been there the last six months, although that could be quite a few. They’re a busy club. I’ll leave you two to do that. Try to get to talk to them all by Monday p.m. at the latest. We need to tie up all the loose ends on this.’
‘And these other doormen haven’t told us anything useful?’
‘No. They all knew Shaun Matthews to varying degrees but none said they’d ever seen him selling drugs of any description and, of course, they all denied selling any themselves. When confronted by witness statements testifying to his extra-curricular activities, they all expressed varying degrees of surprise.’
‘Perhaps we should offer some sort of reward,’ I suggested. ‘That might persuade them to give us some information we could use.’
‘It’s a possibility if we still don’t get anywhere, but budgets are tight and I’m not sure I’d feel right doling out much-needed money to solve the murder of a violent drug dealer.’ Once again, I caught Berrin nodding.
‘It might get us a result.’
‘We’ll have to see. We’ve got pretty much our whole allocation resting on the Robert Jones case. If we have to pay out on that then we’re not going to be able to offer a reward on anything until 2010.’
I baulked at the mention of Robert Jones. Always did. It was one of the few cases that had truly disturbed me in all my time in the Met. Robert was a thirteen-year-old schoolboy who’d disappeared while doing his morning paper round six months earlier. His body had been found a few days afterwards buried in a shallow grave in woodland out in Essex. He’d been stabbed three times in the chest and his clothing had been tampered with, indicating some sort of sexual assault. I’d had to break the news of the discovery to the parents, along with the WPC who’d been their liaison officer. They’d been a pleasant, ordinary middle-class couple who’d only let Robert do the round because he’d been keen to save up enough money to buy a new bike. I’d watched, unable to do anything to help, as they’d crumbled in front of me, while the WPC had comforted his little sister when she’d appeared in the doorway, too young to understand what was going on. Robert had been their only son, his family’s pride and joy. What had got me the most was the total and utter injustice of it all. A young boy from a good home, never been in trouble — unlike so many of the little bastards we had to deal with — seeking to better himself, only to be struck down in the space of a few moments by someone who probably had no idea of the terrible damage he was inflicting. It was such a waste and, six months on, we were no nearer bringing the killer to justice, even though a reward of twenty-five thousand pounds had been offered for information leading to a conviction: fifteen thousand from the police and ten thousand from a local businessman. Unlike Robert Jones, his killer had had all the luck.
‘What about the poisoning angle?’ I asked. ‘Any more news on that?’
Knox furrowed his brow into deep, craggy lines. ‘Well, it’s coming along,’ he said without a huge amount of conviction. ‘WDC Boyd’s been liaising with the poisons department at Guy’s and doctors from the Home Office about this substance and its possible source, as you know, but I’m not sure how much help it is. I mean, it’s not as if you can pop into the pharmacy, pick some of this stuff up, and sign the Poisons Register. It’s cobra venom, for God’s sake.’
‘So there’s no place you could get it in this country?’
Knox shook his head. ‘Not officially, no. As far as anyone seems to know, the only place you can find it is in the mouth, or whatever, of the cobra. And as far as I’m aware, none of them lives within five thousand miles of here. You’ll have to talk to Boyd about all that, though. She’s now our resident toxins expert. The thing is, I don’t know how much help either she or anyone else can be. We haven’t got a clue where you actually get it from in a usable format, where this particular batch may have originated, or anything like that. All we know is that somehow someone came into possession of enough of the stuff to kill three people, and somehow got the opportunity to inject the whole lot into the left arm of a sixteen-stone bouncer without him noticing, or getting any sort of opportunity to seek medical help.’