You might be in danger. I don’t think you should go home tonight.
What a damn thing to say to him. It was bouncing around in his head like a pinball. The desire to return home, get back to Katie and snuggle up was intense, yet he pulled into a bus lay-by and grabbed his mobile off the floor, and booted up the Internet. He had to know more. He typed: TILE KILN LANE ATTACK
Three months ago a guy walking his Labrador had been accosted and robbed by a low-life hoodie who took the dog’s sparkly collar.
Not that.
ELIZABETH SMITH
There was a Liz Smith with a silly blog about her pregnant cats. Another Liz Smith was collecting for a charity parachute jump. Grunge band singer Liz Smith was followed by a plethora of LinkedIn and Facebook Liz Smiths. None of them.
A memory: his Liz had mentioned Kensington.
ELIZABETH SMITH KENSINGTON
Christ. There was a Liz Smith, online boot store owner, who was showcasing her gear at the Kensington Shoe Event this month.
ELIZABETH SMITH KENSINGTON PAW PRINT TATTOO
He almost laughed. There was a Liz Smith who ran a kennel called Pawprints, in Kensington Park, Adelaide, Australia, which had been picked up by a newspaper because she had tattooed an advertisement for her business across the whole of her back.
A memory: his Liz had called her husband Ron.
ELIZABETH SMITH KENSINGTON PAW PRINT TATTOO RON
Jackpot. Top of the search results. Online edition of Home & Fashion magazine, dated six years ago. The story was titled: HOLLYWOOD-STYLE WEDDING: THE JOURNEY BEGINS
He clicked it and up came the story, with a photo.
He skimmed the article. Local businessman Ronald Grafton last week married his long-time girlfriend, Elizabeth Smith, at Kensington Palace, at a serious price tag for one afternoon. The lavish outdoor ceremony on the Orangery Lawn had been attended by hundreds, and protected by the police. Home & Fashion were the important words here, though, because while the article made a big song and dance about hats and flowers and fancy fabric, it didn’t reveal much about the newlyweds.
But there she was, glowing, like an angel, in a white wedding dress. The husband, a good-looking man in his late thirties, was facing her, left arm around her waist, right hand raised and pressed flat against her left hand. Karl saw the paw print tattoo on both their hands, and he understood. A split tattoo, like the broken heart ones he’d seen on some young lovers, with the paw prints denoting the beginning of a long and harmonious journey. Sweet, but only worth one line of text. Geraniums got two.
He impatiently flicked back to the search page, ready to type in a new name.
LIZ GRAFTON
But then he saw the link in second place on the list, and the words: GANGLORD MARRIES CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART
Ten
Mac
After the pleasant shock of learning that the mighty Ronald Grafton was dead, Ramirez quickly realised why he was sitting where he was, and turned down No-Comment Street. But he didn’t yell for a solicitor, so the detectives were still happy. Maybe he was aware that in a murder case police could question a suspect for a day and a half without legal aid if a senior officer authorised it. But he wouldn’t know that their superintendent, aware that the tactic was a dog that could bite the owner once a case hit court, had already said, Don’t even ask.
A pretty gruesome murder, they said. No robbery, this. Revenge. By enemies. Ramirez and Grafton had a long-standing beef, right?
‘No comment,’ Ramirez shot back.
Tit-for-tat vandalism of one another’s property. Violent Braveheart-style clashes between their minions in the streets. Drug zone wars. Then there was that episode with Ramirez’s prized restored Cortina, up in flames. Enraged him, surely? Could such a thing be forgiven?
‘No comment.’
Question after question about his volatile relationship with Grafton got the same response, altered now and then only by the injection of a swear word. He gave them nothing, but at least that included a request for a solicitor.
Just because he was travelling down No-Comment Street, it didn’t mean the detectives couldn’t steer the conversation where they wanted. Grafton, as Ramirez had said, was known as Mr Invincible on the streets, and in the media as Teflon Ron, which was a play on the nickname The Teflon Don given to infamous mobster John Gotti because charges never stuck. Most of London’s big criminals had these daft names, some they’d picked themselves. Grafton called himself The Boss these days, an inert title he liked because he was trying to project a straight businessman image, and who’d trust someone with a macho tag?
Had Ramirez heard that nickname for Grafton?
‘No comment.’
A stretchy name, The Boss. It didn’t say much about the man behind it. Bosses could be fair, good, kind, approachable, or completely the opposite. You didn’t know which sort you were dealing with if a man was simply The Boss, did you? But Bosszilla, that was different. That painted a certain picture, didn’t it? Ever heard that name?
‘No comment.’
A few years ago there was a gang of idiots called the GodZillas, in Lewisham, where Ramirez was born. Just kids, runts, fools who thought it would be cool to pretend to be bad boys and collide with other gangs on the streets of London instead of going to school. One chap, now doing twenty for aggravated robbery, was called Rodan, right? Was the youngest of the members called Godzooky?
‘No comment,’ Ramirez spat over the detectives’ laughter.
But the boss, he was Bosszilla, and, according to the Trident files, Bosszilla was a guy called David Ramirez.
‘No comment.’
Gondal’s phone beeped.
SHOW HIM
He showed Cooper the text and plucked out a plastic bag.
‘Found at the murder scene,’ he announced, loud and proud.
They noted the puzzlement on Ramirez’s face as he scrutinised the dog tag inside. There was no brave attitude now. Just fear.
In the room next door, Mac studied the video closely, looking intently at Ramirez’s face.
In that split second No-Comment Street turned onto Lawyer Lane.
‘Lawyer? Won’t your mum kick your butt for that?’ Cooper asked.
Gondal said: ‘You’re saying this dog tag isn’t yours?’
‘Lawyer.’
‘You’re saying that we couldn’t find people to say they’ve seen you wearing this?’ Cooper questioned.
‘Lawyer.’
Gondal asked: ‘You’re saying we won’t find your DNA on this when the results come back? Or Ronald Grafton’s?’
‘Get me a damn lawyer.’
They had no choice. The police station duty solicitor had an office upstairs, which was a nice touch to ensure that the arrested didn’t wait long for their tax-paid defender to arrive, as long as you got collared before 5 p.m. So, they needed to call a guy in, which meant a wait, and they weren’t going to let Ramirez do that on a comfy chair. He got a phone call first, then an hour in a cell. An hour alone in a stone box could feel like a long time.
* * *
It felt longer for Mac, who found himself experiencing something he hadn’t for a long, long time. Worry. He slid by the cell and peeked in, and saw Ramirez pacing. He couldn’t read him.
His fears grew worse when Cooper approached with an update. He had called the Crown Prosecution Service, but the government lawyer he reached hadn’t been impressed.