‘How did you even—’
Michelle laughed. ‘It’s my superpower. Love you. Night.’
Ramouter shook his head and laughed as the call ended. His wife never ceased to amaze him. ‘Oh, bollocks,’ he said when he saw that West Bromwich had conceded a goal. Also, on the sofa were printouts of Laurence Durant’s previous convictions. He’d been arrested for threatening words and behaviour on the day that his wife’s killer walked out of court but it hadn’t risked his teaching career as the CPS had taken no further action against him.
‘It can’t just be you,’ Ramouter muttered as he opened the video player again and pressed play. It was said that London was the most surveilled city in the world but that didn’t mean there was a CCTV camera on every street, and video doorbells, although helpful, were limited in their view. The CCTV that Ramouter had been looking at was from Lordship Lane leading towards Cullen Lane. Even if Durant was involved, Ramouter couldn’t believe that this was a grieving man acting alone. Thirty minutes later, Ramouter felt his eyelids droop, as he continued watching the passing traffic, and the referee blew the whistle on the game. West Bromwich Albion had lost 3-1.
‘No, no way,’ said Ramouter as he sat up, the empty beer bottle rolling onto the floor. He paused the footage and rewound it. He watched again, paused the video, watched it again. Paused,made a screenshot and texted it to Henley. The phone rang almost immediately.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ Henley asked.
‘That’s Laurence Durant’s car on Lordship Lane twelve minutes after Graham Ashcroft was hit,’ said Ramouter.
‘That’s good enough me,’ said Henley. ‘We’ll arrest him first thing.’
34
‘Thanks.’ Josh took the pint of beer from Don’s hand.
‘You could sound a bit more appreciative than that,’ Don said.
‘Sorry. Thank you,’ Josh replied quickly, wincing slightly at the pathetic tone of fear in his voice. He took a large swallow of beer as if to show how appreciative he was. He coughed loudly, his eyes watering as the beer went down the wrong way.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Don asked, his disgust clear. He pushed himself back against the stained fabric of the booth that he’d squeezed his solid frame into, as Josh wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth.
‘Nothing,’ Josh answered, taking another sip of beer to show that he wasn’t pathetic. Josh felt out of place in this bar on Bermondsey Street. The people around him, laughing and talking loudly about their latest deals and successes and couples sitting close together, knees touching as they talked intimately, overwhelmed him. He was grateful he’d chosen a booth that was like a cocoon. It was impossible for his neighbour to see that he was scared.
Don placed his thick fingers into the bowl of mixed nuts and picked out all the cashews. ‘You wanted to talk,’ he said.
‘Aren’t we going to wait for—’
‘No,’ Don cut him off. ‘Whatever you need to say, you can say it to me.’
Josh drank his beer and tried to settle his nerves. The last timehe’d seen Don, his hands had been around his neck. When he touched the back of his head, he could feel the flaking scab, the flesh still tender.
‘I want out,’ said Josh. He waited for a response, but there was nothing, just the sound of cashew nuts being pulverised in Don’s mouth.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I agree with what we’re doing. 100 per cent I agree with the cause,’ he said. ‘Giving the people what the police and courts aren’t prepared to. Delivering justice.’
‘So, what’s your problem?’
Josh leaned on the table and put his left hand to his forehead. ‘I can’t do this,’ he whispered. ‘It was one thing, harassing people, putting shit through their door, exposing them on … but this—’
Josh caught Don’s cold eyes and quickly lowered his head. He’d seen that look before – when Don had taken the sledgehammer to Nathan Hall’s pelvis. Josh rubbed at his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. He was constantly on edge, shouting at his children, sleeping in two-hour bursts. The over the counter sleeping tablets didn’t work, neither did trying to silence the noise with alcohol. He could still hear Nathan’s screams in his head as he slept, could still hear Graham Ashcroft hitting and smashing the windscreen. Almost worse were Don’s shouts of delight.
‘It’s too much,’ Josh said. ‘I want to hold these arseholes accountable but not like this.’
‘You know longer support our cause?’ Don challenged.
‘Of course, I support it but it’s dangerous. The police… they came to my work.’
Don downed the remainder of his pint. ‘We’re going,’ he said. He wriggled from the booth and walked briskly out of the bar.
‘Who came?’ Don demanded once Josh had joined him in the churchyard opposite.
‘I picked it up from my boss’s desk,’ Josh said. He took acrumpled business card from his jeans pocket and handed it to Don.
‘Detective Inspector Anjelica Henley,’ Don read. ‘Serial Crimes Unit. When did she come by?’
