‘This Jean Tanner’s got herself a nice pad,’ I said, taking a sip from my mineral water and wishing it was beer. ‘How much do you reckon it’s worth?’
‘Just the location’s got to be worth a fair bit. The thing is, we don’t know what her actual place is like.’
‘Well, say it’s a one-bedroom flat. It’s a nice area of Finchley, it’s still got to be worth — shit, I’m no estate agent, help me out here.’
‘Two hundred grand. Maybe more.’
‘And it’s probably bigger than one bedroom. I don’t reckon we’d be looking much short of two fifty. That’s a lot of money for a prostitute, the type who hangs about with a lowlife like Shaun Matthews. Particularly if she’s got a drugs habit.’
‘So what are you saying?’
And this was where the interest went out of the injection. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It just seems odd.’
The fourth address was on a residential road of run-down whitebrick terraces, less than half a mile away from Highbury stadium. The traffic was appalling on the way there, mainly due to the fact that Arsenal were playing at home, and it was half two and about ninety degrees when we finally parked up almost directly outside the lower ground-floor flat of Craig McBride. According to Case, McBride had worked for Elite A for the best part of a year in a freelance capacity and was still used by them at fairly regular intervals. He was twenty-seven years old and had prior convictions for ABH, threatening behaviour, theft, and possession of Class A and B drugs, a fact that had been discovered when we’d run his name through the computer. It wasn’t strictly legal any more for someone with his record to be employed as a door-man, unless he’d somehow convinced the council that he was a reformed character, which I doubted. But I knew it happened, and for the moment it wasn’t worth taking the matter up with Warren Case.
A set of greasy steps led down to McBride’s abode. The front door was shabby, the once-white paint peeling off in strips to reveal dull-coloured wood beneath, while an ancient-looking hanging basket containing nothing but dry earth and a cluster of weeds hung limply from one of the outside walls. There was a small dirty window to the right of the door. I wondered briefly whether it had ever been cleaned. It didn’t look like it. Straightening my tie, I peered through it and immediately my spirits lifted. Eureka. Just what we needed.
Within a Western country’s somewhat limited means of coercion, there’s no surer way of getting someone to talk than to give them the alternative of criminal charges, and it looked like Craig McBride was indulging in an activity that left him very much exposed to the latter. Even through the stains on the window, I could clearly make him out sitting on a sofa in his front room behind a coffee table on which a plate piled with white powder was sat. Next to the plate was a large tub of baking soda, and next to that were small transparent plastic wraps, each containing more of the powder. Sherlock that I was, I hazarded a guess that the contents of each one weighed pretty much exactly a gram. McBride himself, dressed only in a pair of shorts, was leaning forward, head down, fiddling with what looked like a small electronic weighing machine. As if confirmation of what he was doing was needed. Criminal mastermind young Craig was not. He might as well have put up a sign on the road saying ‘Drugs this way’, such was his total and utter recklessness. Never underestimate the stupidity of criminals. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps a lot of us going.
I turned to Berrin, put a finger to my lips, and motioned for him to have a look. Berrin peered in, then stepped back, smiling. ‘It seems a shame to disturb him,’ he whispered. ‘He looks so busy. Do you think it’s worth knocking on the window?’
I shook my head. ‘No, he might make a dash for it, or put up some resistance. Let’s spring it on him once we’re inside.’ I stepped forward and knocked hard on the door.
There was no immediate answer, which was to be expected. He would now be desperately trying to hide the stuff before someone spotted him through the window. I gave him a few seconds, then knocked again. This time, I motioned for Berrin to take a look through the window, knowing that we had to play this right. I wanted McBride to see Berrin but not me (I looked too much like a copper), but I also wanted him to see him after he’d got rid of the stuff. That way he’d probably open the door.
As it turned out, we timed it perfectly. I stood back and watched while Berrin gave him a friendly wave and a smile through the window, like a particularly enthusiastic door-to-door salesman, before receiving a muffled ‘Who the fuck are you?’ in return. Berrin just kept smiling and moved away from the window.
By the time the front door opened a few seconds later and McBride’s head appeared round it, already mouthing abuse, we’d removed our warrant cards and were lifting them for him to see. His eyes widened momentarily and I spoke quickly before he thought about making a dash for it. ‘Mr McBride? We’re here to ask you a few questions regarding the murder of Shaun Matthews.’
He looked nervous, which was to be expected. ‘Who?’
‘Shaun Matthews. I believe you worked with him on a number of occasions on the door of the Arcadia nightclub.’
‘Oh yeah, yeah, Shaun. That’s right.’
‘Can we come in?’ I said, pushing the door open and stepping confidently over the threshold like I owned the place.
McBride tried to stand his ground, but without a great deal of success. ‘Look, it’s not a good time right now.’
‘It won’t take more than a few minutes,’ said Berrin, pushing his way in behind me.
‘Oi, you can’t come barging in like this. Don’t you need a warrant?’
I smiled and looked him directly in the eye, an easy feat since we were only inches apart. ‘Why? Have you got something to hide, Mr McBride?’
‘No, course not.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I’m just going out. Can’t you come back later?’
But he spoke this last sentence with defeat on his breath, and I knew we had him.
‘We’ll be very unhappy if we have to come back later, Mr McBride,’ I said, ‘and we’ll be asking ourselves why you wouldn’t let us in, and that might mean we have to investigate you further.’
‘All right, all right, you win.’ He moved away from the door and led us through the cramped hallway and into the kitchen, well away from the room where he’d been dividing the drugs.
The kitchen was a mess with a big pile of empty plates and cups in the sink. The tops were dirty and there was a vague smell of grease in the stale air. He leant back against one of the tops while we stood in the middle of the floor facing him. ‘Ask away,’ he said, seemingly a little more confident now. Probably thinking what he was going to tell his friends about this near miss and how stupid the coppers were for not having a clue what he’d been up to when they arrived. I decided to put a pin in his balloon and establish control immediately.
‘We’ll level with you, Mr McBride. This is a murder investigation, so it’s information relating to the murder that we’re interested in, nothing else. The fact that you’ve got a load of white powder hidden somewhere in your sitting room, and that that white powder’s very likely a Class A substance, and that possession of such powder with intent to supply is an offence which always ends in a substantial custodial sentence, particularly for someone who already has a lengthy criminal record’ — the blood was draining from McBride’s face and his body had tensed — ‘is not our primary concern. However, if you don’t answer our questions truthfully, then we may suddenly become very interested in that white powder and what it represents. Do we make ourselves clear?’