Brock And Kolla - 09 - Spider Trap (25 page)

‘
The Death of Nelson
, see? Never mind the quality, feel the width—all forty-five feet of it. Look at the ceiling above . . . Can’t show you the only really old bit,unfortunately,Westminster Hall. Can’t crash Liz’s party.’ He chuckled.

They finally arrived at the Strangers’ Dining Room, where they took a table by the window against the terrace overlooking the Thames.

‘This view is very important, very symbolic,’ Grant said.‘Over there is the real world.’ He nodded at the bulk of St Thomas’ Hospital across the river. ‘That’s where they took the boy who found the bodies, wasn’t it? And beyond that, a short ambulance ride, is Lambeth and Brixton and Cockpit Lane. The river is like the Styx, separating the living world from the beyond. Monet captured it perfectly. He sat over there on the south bank and painted the towers of Westminster across the river,glowing through the fog like the city of heaven. Over there people die violent deaths; over here we are immortal.Did you know that?’He grinned.‘Truly.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It’s a tradition. Nobody dies in the Palace of Westminster. If one of us has a fatal heart attack or stroke, we remain, be we stiff as a board, technically alive until the ambulance crosses the river to St Thomas’, where we are pronounced dead.Whereas on the other side, the boy was found dead on the railway tracks and brought back to life in St Thomas’s. A nice symmetry.’

Grant leaned forward, lowering the volume of his voice a little, though not its intensity. ‘I’m not playing with words, David. This distinction is a living thing for me. It is what motivates everything I do. My mother and father met briefly in Kingston docks. She was a whore and he was possibly an American sailor,though she was necessarily vague about that. They exchanged infections—she gave him clap and he gave her me, which was worse for her. As soon as I was born she did what she’d done with my brother before me and gave me to our grandmother, who made some kind of an honest living from the Dungle in Riverton City,which I think I mentioned to you.I grew up on a rubbish dump,literally.It sounds like some Victorian fable, doesn’t it? But it’s true. So when I look at myself sitting here, when I show a visitor around my palace, when the Home Secretary jokes with me in the corridor, I am in a state of suspended disbelief, and it is very important that I should remain so.’

Their lunches arrived, fish and chips and a bottle of Paramounts’ white burgundy.

‘Old parliamentary joke,’ Grant said. ‘The Lord Chancellor hired a new research assistant called Neil. He told him to report for work in the Central Lobby—remember it? The one with the statue of Gladstone and the golden chandelier. Seeing him there the next morning, the noble Lord, resplendent in wig and scarlet gown, cried “Neil!” And all the tourists did.’

Grant grinned, pouring the wine. ‘You see my point? For a while I’ve joined the immortals, and while I’m here I have to do what I can for those people on the other side, in the world where people kneel to get a bullet in the head.’

‘Father Guzowski must be very proud of you.’

‘I like to think he would be. He died several years before I got into parliament, gunned down by a young kid stoned on crack. But I still feel him here, at my shoulder.When I get too big for my boots I feel him turning my head back, across the river.’

‘I’m told you have a reputation for cutting corners.’

‘That depends on where you stand. If you come from a comfortable background and believe the world is basically on track, give or take some minor adjustments, then yes, I take outrageous liberties. But if you grew up on a rubbish dump and know that most people are doomed to spend their whole lives in some version of the Dungle unless somebody does something about it, then no, my methods are painfully law-abiding and slow. And I do abide by the rules.When we arrive here, freshly elected and full of ambition, along with our security pass and our Parliamentary Intranet access, they give us a book, the Members’ Handbook, which tells us the rules of their gentlemanly game. I studied that book very closely, believe me.’

They ate for a while in silence, finishing their fish.‘Pudding?’ Grant offered. ‘Treacle pudding and custard for a cold February day? It’s extremely good.’

‘That sounds hard to refuse. I don’t know how you keep so lean, Mr Grant.’

‘Michael, please. I use the gym in the old police buildings across the road, and I don’t usually eat lunch.’

‘Then why am I so honoured?’

Grant laughed.‘Down to business,eh?’

‘You said you weren’t surprised that we hadn’t been able to press charges against the Roach brothers.’

‘Let me guess—obstructive tactics by the best lawyers money can buy, intimidation of witnesses, fabricated alibis, inside information on police moves . . . Am I right?’

Brock nodded.

‘It’s all happened before. So what do you do now? Are you giving up?’

‘As things stand, I have no hard evidence that any of the Roach clan were involved in the murder of those three men on the railway ground. But the case is open; I’m still looking.’

‘Another symmetry—three Roach sons and three victims. One side lives and flourishes, the other dies. But maybe there’s another way to even the score.’

‘You think so?’

‘Oh yes. I’m a very low form of life in this great institution, David. There are 659 MPs and I’m one of the youngest and most junior of them, but even so, I have important resources available to me. I have my own research staff and access to a remarkable range of information sources through the House of Commons Library. I am also a member of committees, in particular the Home Affairs Committee, which I mentioned to you when we last met. It is one of eighteen committees set up by parliament to scrutinise the work of government departments, in our case the Home Office, and we’re broadly interested in anything to do with public order, including organised crime and its impact on the community.We don’t investigate crimes,of course,but we can affect the climate in which they are investigated.We have the power to call witnesses and have them give evidence under oath.We can broadcast their evidence on live webcast and through transcripts, and we can do all this under the cover of parliamentary privilege—you know what that means?’

‘They can’t sue you.’

‘Exactly. Of course privilege mustn’t be abused, but what is permissible is open to interpretation. The chair of our committee is Margaret Hart.’

Brock knew of the veteran socialist politician and union activist, famous for her frankness.

‘Margaret gives me plenty of leeway, much to the disgust of the more conservative members, and I’ve had a few successes that have made people sit up.I don’t need the hard chain of evidence that you do in order to pursue Roach, but I do need solid information to persuade my committee that it’s in the public interest that his affairs should be brought out into the bright light of public scrutiny.That’s my primary interest. Not what Roach and his people may or may not have done twenty-odd years in the past, but what they’re doing to our community today.’

‘You said that before, but I thought the Yardies controlled the drug market in your area?’

‘They’re his partners. That’s the point. To begin with, they supplied him, but now it’s the other way around. The days of the Yardie mules and swallowers, the women coming over on free plane tickets with a few ounces of coke in their stomachs, they’re finished, David. Now it comes over by the hundredweight in containers, through legitimate import companies like those owned by Spider Roach. Roach sells it on to the Yardies, who turn it into crack and peddle it on the streets. I’ve been collecting material on this for some time, but I need more.’

‘I don’t think I have any information that would help you, Michael.’

‘You have access to the police files.’

‘As I say, I haven’t seen anything that would help you. The Trident people don’t seem to have anything on Roach.’

Grant looked disappointed and unconvinced.‘What about the JIC files?’ He saw the sudden attention in Brock’s eyes and went on, ‘The Joint Intelligence Committee gives us briefings from time to time, but they’re a cagey lot.’

‘What makes you think they have a file on the Roaches?’

‘I know that Special Branch, Customs and Excise, and MI5 have all taken an interest in them at one time or another. It seems inconceivable that they haven’t pooled their information, don’t you think?’

‘Even if it exists and I could access it, I couldn’t possibly pass on confidential JIC material to you,Michael.Can’t you approach them through your committee, or through the Prime Minister’s Office?’

‘I’ve tried that, but they’ve had their fingers burnt by Roach before. They say they have nothing of relevance to the Home Affairs Committee. Look, I’m not asking you to break any confidences,just to compare notes informally,give each other pointers. I’m willing to share what I know with you,and in the light of what you may know from JIC sources or wherever, you may be able to provide a critique,help me focus my arguments.We’re very much on the same side, David, approaching the same problem from different directions.’

Brock wasn’t sure about the consistency of that last sentence. ‘There is another difficulty. If you use police evidence on your committee, there’s a risk, isn’t there, that you could compromise a future criminal trial?’

‘Our guidelines cover that. The key phrase is “matters currently before a court of law”. At the rate the police have been going, how long will it be before that happens?’

Brock nodded.‘Point taken.’

‘But I appreciate the sensitivities, and in view of that I’d like to suggest that we don’t communicate directly on this. How about you nominate a member of your team to chat from time to time with my research officer, Andrea? Keep things at arm’s length.’

It seemed innocuous enough, and Brock agreed.

On the way out they passed through the Central Lobby again, midway between the House of Commons and the House of Lords, and Grant stopped suddenly,staring at a line of people waiting at an information counter.

‘Kerrie?’

The only black woman in the queue turned, looked embarrassed for a moment, then broke into a big smile.‘Michael!’

Grant introduced her to Brock. ‘Kerrie’s the manager of my constituency office in Cockpit Lane.’

‘Yes, hello. I’ve been helping Sergeant Kolla contact people.’

‘But what are you doing here, Kerrie?’

‘I’m doing the PDVN course.’

Grant looked blank.

‘The Parliamentary Data and Video Network course, Michael.We talked about it,remember? Andrea set it up for me.’

‘Oh yes, sorry. There’s this big divide between the staff in the House and staff out in the constituencies,’ he explained to Brock.

‘It’s very important for people like Kerrie to come over and get brought up to speed.’

‘Apart from which I can move your constituency office broadband and email onto the central system and save you money.’

‘And access the intranet, yes. So what’s the problem?’

‘I can’t find the room.’ She showed Grant the memo.

‘That’s Norman Shaw South,’ he said.‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

He led the way down the steps to the lobby in front of the entrance to Westminster Hall, now screened by a temporary partition, beyond which they could hear an excited hum of conversation.

‘Sounds like the widows are having fun,’ he said, and continued on through St Stephen’s porch into the sunlight of Parliament Square, where he shook Brock’s hand and said goodbye.

That evening Tom Reeves took Kathy to a screening of Jean-Luc Godard’s 1960 film
Breathless
at a New Wave movie festival that was running at the National Film Theatre. She hadn’t seen it before, and Tom promised that she would find it interesting. She did, both for itself and for what it told her about Tom. At first it had seemed paradoxical, to say the least, that a cop should be so enthusiastic about the Jean-Paul Belmondo character, Michel, a crook who murders a cop. But then she began to notice subtle reflections of Tom in him—witty but also moody, and with a laconic smile that seemed to suggest unshakeable scepticism about the world and all its works. Even their looks found an echo, vaguely roguish and battered, though no one could look quite like Belmondo, with his concave boxer’s nose and thick Gallic lips.