Judas Horse Read online

  Mike could see the fascination on Stanford’s face.

  ‘Weird, innit, Rich. But this sort of subconscious pattern is very common according to the boffins at Bramshill. They’re the brains who spend their time making sense of the senseless, so I can stand here sounding clever. After we’d caught him, this pattern also allowed us to go back and find every single burglary he’d committed and do him for the lot. Your man won’t be being random either, Rich.’

  Jack loved that Mike, as retired Job, was able to call DS Stanford ‘Rich’. It brought an informal friendliness to a situation full of tension because of the hole Stanford was in. Mike ended his stint at the evidence board with ‘I’m gonna need a cuppa soon, Rich, if that’s OK with you, mate’.

  Energised by Mike’s informal approach and easy confidence, Stanford had suddenly found a new lease of life. ‘Take yourselves to the canteen and bring me back a tea, will you?’ he said. Jack and Mike threw each other a quick grin. They knew that when they returned, there’d be a second fish scrawled on the evidence board.

  The canteen was empty, and the cleaner was taking advantage of the fact that most coppers were out on patrol. From the doorway, Jack and Mike could see the glistening wet floor and they wondered why on earth she’d started mopping from the doorway, ending up in the corner of the room with no way out other than back over her pristine floor. They watched in silence as she walked backwards towards the serving counter, sweeping broadly left and right, leaving the lino as clean as the day it was laid. The only marks that defeated her were the black rubber heel scuffs from police issue boots.

  Then, without slowing, she dipped under the serving hatch and reappeared behind the counter. That’s why she’d started mopping at the doorway, because this cleaning lady was also the serving lady.

  Mike looked at Jack. His face was serious, and his expression clearly said, ‘I may have been a copper for thirty years, dealing with the toughest of the tough, but there’s no way I’m going to be the first one to walk on her wet floor.’ So, Jack took Point, and ventured forwards. For some reason, Jack thought it best to take huge strides towards the frowning woman behind the counter, leaving behind as few dirty footprints as possible.

  As they sat with two pots of tea and two full English breakfasts, they talked like old friends. ‘Are you gonna be at the birth?’ Mike asked, as he slurped his piping hot tea through pursed lips. ‘I was there for all of mine. It’s the most disgustingly fabulous thing you’ll ever see.’ Mike, it turned out, had six kids – ‘two of each,’ he joked. ‘Two girls, two boys and two as-yet-unidentified. They’re amazing. Have more than one, Jack. Mine fight now, ’course they do, they’re still young, but it’s good to know that, when me and the missus have gone, they’ll have each other.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll see how we cope with one first,’ Jack replied. And then, quite unlike him, Jack found himself talking about very personal things, to this relative stranger. ‘We left it quite late,’ he explained. ‘Maggie’s a doctor and, with me being Job, we always seemed to be working towards something, rather than arriving. Moving to London, her promotion, my promotion. The baby wasn’t planned, which, if I’m honest, was the only way it was ever going to happen.’

  Jack smiled an unexpected smile as he recalled the moment Maggie had told him he was going to be a dad. They were on a flight to St Lucia, to collect his own dad from a cruise and bring him home to die. It wasn’t a morbid memory. It was a moment that told him to live life to the full, because, all things considered, it’s so very, very short.

  When Mike took over the conversation again, he went into great detail about the birth of his third and Jack tried to filter out some of the more gruesome parts of the story as he was still eating. ‘He was blue ’cos the cord was round his neck. I tell you, Jack, there’s nothing more terrifying at the birth of your baby than silence. Scream! I was thinking. And he did. Then the little bugger carried on screaming for the first seven months of his life!’

  Jack nodded, as if he’d been paying attention. ‘When your wife was pregnant, did you . . . did you . . .’ Jack searched for words that didn’t make him sound like a complete bastard, but he couldn’t find them. ‘Did you enjoy being at work, more than being at home?’ he said finally.

  ‘I loved being at work,’ Mike laughed and he could see how relieved Jack was to hear a wiser man’s experience. ‘We love ’em, Jack, but, fuck me, being pregnant affects a woman’s senses. Fact! She can suddenly see every knife you put into the fork section, she can smell your fear when she mentions a shopping trip. Work was my sanctuary.’

  After this twenty-minute breakfast session with Mike, Jack found he had spoken more about the upcoming birth of his first baby than he had in the previous eight and a half months. But then, who did he have to talk to? Ridley was his boss, not his friend; DS Laura Wade was his partner but had shown no interest in the pregnancy at all – possibly because it drew a solid line under her fantasy of ever stealing Jack from Maggie; and DC Anik Joshi . . . well, Anik had become a bit of a dick since Jack got the Sergeant’s position instead of him. Jack’s only real friend, in fact, was Maggie. But he could hardly talk to her about how he felt like he was drowning. Which is why it had been so liberating to speak with Mike: he was a safe pair of ears, who Jack would know for a week or so, and then never see again.

  *

  Stanford had forgotten he’d asked for a tea, so was pleasantly surprised when Jack and Mike returned with one for each of them, plus some cakes which the cleaner/serving lady had joyfully gifted to Mike once she’d discovered he was a devoted father of six. Sure enough, there was a second fish-shaped drawing on the evidence board. It sprawled across the whole of Wimbledon Common, plus all of the surrounding streets. Stanford’s target zone was now huge.

  ‘The CCTV for this area has been looked at a dozen times,’ Stanford was saying, eager to crack on and get the most out of Mike and Jack whilst he had them. ‘No cars or people consistently appear on the nights the burglaries took place; no one who doesn’t belong, that is. All residents and visitors have been checked and cleared.’

  ‘Extend the perimeter?’ Mike politely put this as a question, but it wasn’t. ‘The Common is throwing any pattern out of whack ’cos, as far as potential targets go, it’s a worthless area, but as far as cover goes, it’s invaluable. So, you’ve got to extend the perimeter beyond the Common. I suppose CCTV inside the Common is a hope-in-hell, right?’

  Stanford shook his head. ‘There’s no CCTV in the majority of the Common. In the summer of 2018, a wildlife survey was done, mainly around the ponds and in the deeper areas of woodland. There were some cameras placed in trees hoping to catch owls by night and kestrels by day doing their thing. We got all of that video footage, but it gave us nothing. We’ve tried, Mike, we really have. This sneaky little fucker is driving me crazy.’

  Mike smiled and repeated his advice to extend the perimeter. The only advice he then added, was that Stanford should review all CCTV footage himself, because you can’t buy experience; and besides, the neck that’s on the line should be the one to do the make-or-break work. That was Mike’s philosophy and it had always served him well.

  By nine o’clock, Jack, Mike and Stanford had burned up the carbs from a heavy meat feast pizza and were trying to find their third wind with slow-release energy from nuts and fruit. But it was no use. They were about to call it a day and head for the pub, when Mike piped up, ‘Who’s this guy on the mobility scooter, Rich? He’s around every day in the winter, but not the summer. Is he cutting through the Common to get somewhere? Does he live or work nearby?’

  At eight the next morning, four uniforms were working alongside Jack, Mike and Stanford, tracking the flat-cap-wearing man on a small red mobility scooter and a hooded man in tennis whites carrying a racquet case. They seemed to be the same build and, crucially, both carried an identical rucksack. One or other of these men, it turned out, was seen during the day of each burglary – but never both at the same time. Jack
was certain this was the same man, using two different disguises, to hide in plain sight and recce the target house before coming back to burgle that same night.

  The man, regardless of how he was dressed, behaved in a very specific manner. He would disappear into the Common and then emerge at another exit hours later. But the final time he emerged, whether dressed as a wannabe Nadal, or as an innocuous disabled man, was always at the Copse Hill end of the Common, where a light grey Mercedes was waiting for him. It was parked on a different street each time, always with a heavy treeline to hide the number plate from prying CCTV. But this, they now realised, was the centre of Stanford’s fish tail – the Merc.

  Nadal or Ironside, as their Prowler was now affectionately nicknamed, would stay in the Merc until the dead of night. Then, dressed in dark clothing, he’d head back into the cover of the Common. From there, he could pop out anywhere.

  Stanford split his team into two. Some uniformed officers were tasked with using the date and location of each burglary to track their suspect in and out of the Common: burglary after burglary, month after month, year after year, from the Merc, to the victim’s home, back to the Merc. Meanwhile, other officers were tasked with using backdated CCTV and Police National Computer checks – if there were any – to track the Merc in and out of London and try to establish if the car was definitely present in the capital on the night of every single burglary.

  One of the uniformed officers helping Stanford now was McGinty, the fake-yawner he’d torn a strip off days earlier. Today, however, McGinty was a different man. He seemed to know his place and his role, and he was doing his job enthusiastically without question or back-chat. Mike caught Stanford watching him. ‘Is he the kid that yawned at you?’ Stanford’s rather embarrassed look confirmed that it was. ‘Get him transferred to your team, Rich. The worst trait in a police officer is apathy. That boy will give you cheek and challenges, but that can be useful.’ As McGinty left the room, he turned and gave Stanford a little nod, then he disappeared like an enthusiastic child on a mission to please a parent.

  Whilst the uniforms were doing all of this arduous but vital screen work, Jack, Mike and Stanford were checking out a fish and chip shop in Manchester.

  Damien Panagos was a 52-year-old, second-generation Greek immigrant, now running The Codfather in Wythenshawe with his wife and son – and the registered owner of the light grey Merc that was so often parked at the Copse Hill end of Wimbledon Common. His parents had come to the UK in the 1960s and his dad had worked as a sparky, teaching his trade to young Damien. Jack speculated that this is where he’d learnt his party trick of being able to bypass the average home security system.

  Stanford was chomping at the bit to head north and get Panagos arrested, but Jack slowed him down. ‘We’re ahead of him and he’s going nowhere. Work the CCTV cameras and gather the evidence. If, while we’re doing that, he heads to us, we’ll nick him in the act. If he’s having some down time, we’ll nick him at home when we’re ready. Either way, we’ll nick him. And when we do, it’ll be watertight.’

  Stanford was given four more uniforms, so that the hours of CCTV dating back to 2014 could be viewed on a 24-hour rotation. While that was going on, Mike took Stanford and Jack to the pub. ‘If all we can do is wait, we might as well wait with a pint in our hand.’

  ‘The thing that . . . gets me,’ Stanford slurred three hours later, ‘is the community bloody naysayers. I mean, I get it, I do. Someone comes into your house and takes your stuff . . . that’s terrible. It’s like house rape, that’s what it is. But, fuck me, Jack, people soon forget all the good you’ve done for them, just ’cos you let one little northern Greek bastard slip through your fingers.’ Mike and Jack sniggered into their pints as Stanford went on. ‘We’ll get this Panagos prick and they won’t say “thank you”, they’ll say “about time”. Because this one cuts deep. This one has impacted an entire community for far too long. They’re scared, and that’s my fault. It’s not my fault, but it is my fault. I really, really appreciate you coming here. Both of you . . .’ Jack took this as his cue to get Stanford home before he started telling him and Mike that he loved them.

  Stanford was first in the following morning, and he was raring to go. He looked as bright as a button, as fresh as a daisy and, as long as you didn’t stand too close, you’d never know that he was probably still too drunk to be at work. Jack and Stanford set off towards Manchester, where they were due to be met at midday by DI Leticia Margate. The plan was for them all to go to The Codfather and arrest Panagos as he prepped for the lunchtime crowd. However, at half past eight, before they’d even hit the M25, Stanford got a call from DI Margate, to say that Panagos was heading south. Stanford’s excitement was palpable – he was about to get the opportunity to arrest his nemesis on his own patch.

  A few hours later Wimbledon Common was scattered with undercover officers disguised as dog-walkers, joggers, litter-pickers, duck-feeders, young lovers . . . all lining the pathways just waiting for a red mobility scooter to trundle past. They communicated back and forth for hours as Panagos weaved around the Common, then out into the streets, then back into the Common. After four hours, it became clear that Panagos had his sights set on one particular house on Parkside, just along from the private hospital: by early evening, the owners of this property were making no secret of packing their BMW with small suitcases for a weekend away. As expected, Panagos made his way back to his Merc parked on Copse Hill, he folded his scooter and placed it in the boot, then got into his car, made light work of a packed lunch and took a nap.

  As night fell, Panagos, dressed in dark clothes and carrying a rucksack, set off again through the Common back towards Parkside, strolling unhurriedly as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  After arriving at his destination, Panagos jimmied the skylight in the loft conversion and made his way downstairs. On the landing, a cat’s cradle was hooked over a radiator and, as he stroked the tabby in passing, it stretched and purred loudly. By torchlight, Panagos made his way into the hallway and towards the front door, where the alarm box was situated. He got his toolkit from his pocket and . . . suddenly the hall light flicked on.

  Stanford stood tall in the kitchen doorway, PC McGinty at his shoulder.

  A key opened the front door and Jack stood in the porch, flanked by four more officers. Panagos froze in silent shock for a second, then, with a banshee wail, he dipped his head and charged at Jack. Panagos’s broad shoulder hit Jack in the ribcage, lifted him off the ground and out into the front garden, knocking the four officers over like skittles. Panagos dumped Jack hard onto the lawn, flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him. The four officers scrabbled onto Panagos, grabbing any moving limb and holding it to the ground. Panagos roared and fought as the officers held on for dear life, making no attempt to cuff him until he’d completely run out of steam.

  Upstairs lights from neighbouring houses flicked on and faces appeared at windows. As Panagos finally slowed to a stop and sank back onto the grass panting for breath, Jack crawled out from underneath the scrum of sweaty bodies. McGinty stepped forwards and, using two sets of handcuffs to stretch across Panagos’s broad back, he finally secured their man.

  *

  Stanford walked calmly past the mayhem, towards Mr Liam Newark-Bentley, the owner of the property, who was now standing in the middle of the street. He and his family had not gone away for the weekend as planned; they’d got as far as the end of their street before being pulled over by Stanford, who’d explained the situation. Newark-Bentley had quickly agreed that the Met could use his house as bait, as long as not one single carpet fibre was left out of place. ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ Stanford now said politely. ‘We’re grateful to you for agreeing to allow us to use your home like this. The skylight will be fixed now. If you’re happy to stay in the hotel we’ve provided, just for tonight, you’ll be able to come back tomorrow.’

  And then Newark-Bentley said those words that Stanford had waite
d five years to hear. ‘We’re very happy to help, DS Stanford. And thank you for keeping us safe. You have a very difficult job.’

  On the periphery of the action, Mike got out of an area car and walked towards Jack, who was still seated on Newark-Bentley’s front lawn trying to breathe. ‘Well done, Jack. I love the way you distracted him so the uniforms could pounce.’

  Jack held his ribs as he squeezed out the words, ‘Fuck off, Mike,’ then Mike’s hand reached down and dragged Jack to his feet. By the time Jack was fully upright, Stanford had joined them.

  ‘PC McGinty, read him his rights,’ Stanford instructed. The look of excitement on McGinty’s face gave Stanford a far better feeling of satisfaction than he would have got if he’d taken the honour for himself. Mike beamed his approval and shook Stanford’s hand. Mike thanked them both for a great few days and for being allowed to briefly feel like a copper once again. ‘If you ever need my old brain again, you have my number. It’s been a pleasure, boys.’ And, with that, Mike returned to the area car and was driven away.