Ghigau 18

Alan Terence O’Donnell lived in Dongola Road, Plaistow, in a small, two-up-two-down, pebble-dashed house, probably built around 1900.

       In the intervening years the once pretty, terraced property, had acquired additions in an ugly hotchpotch of periods, styles and materials. On the ground floor a painted timber-framed porch, with frosted glass and a tiled, hipped roof, had been added on. Now rickety from age and lack of maintenance, and with cracked and peeling paint, the porch covered two-thirds of the front of the house and projected into the tiny, pointless garden, overcrowding the site and concealing the front door and canted bay-window with its original plaster columns and ornate capitals.  On the first floor, the old sash windows had been replaced by white PVC double-glazed panes, discoloured to grey over time, their sills stained by a film of green algae. Grimy net curtains hung limply behind the unwashed panes. A rusting satellite dish jutted awkwardly from the brickwork, its cable connection severed and hanging loose. The general impression was one of tatty decline.

    About six doors down, and on the other side of the road, Sam Tate and Tench sat in their dark-blue, unmarked Ford Mondeo and waited. Tench was in the driving seat. They both had a good view of the street, and O’Donnell’s house, from here. They had already knocked on his door and found no-one in. The Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. They’d decided to wait it out and had sent the two uniforms to watch the rear of the house, which backed on to Plaistow Park. The inside of the car was very warm, almost unbearably so.

    Sam took a swig from her bottle of spring water which was already tepid and left her mouth feeling furry. Tench was drinking coffee despite the heat.

          “The park round the back here used to be called ‘Balaam Street Rec’ you know,” she said. “I preferred it. 'Plaistow Park’ sounds like a recording studio or something.”

    “Oh yeah?” Tench seemed unimpressed. “How’d you know that?”

    “I grew up around here. Just down the road in fact. I went to school at Plaistow Primary.” She sounded wistful.

    “Happy days were they?” Tench said flatly. He’d hated school. Tubby Tench they’d called him. He’d smacked a few heads for that.

    “I guess they were.” Sam sighed. “That was when Mum was alive.”

    Tench thought about that for a minute. “What about your dad?”

    “What about him?” Sam snorted derisively.

    “Oh, like that is it?” Said Tench.

    “Fucking waste of space.” Sam said. “He came and went. In and out of the nick for most of his miserable life. Beat the crap out of my mum when he felt like it.”

    “Sounds a right charmer.” Tench was looking at Sam with what passed for a look of respect on his face. He could identify with this kind of story. He’d always assumed his Sergeant was a privileged little princess with a charmed upbringing. This revelation that she’d had a less than perfect start in life was news to him.

    “Where is he now?” He said.

    “He got kicked to death outside a pub in Kentish Town, ten years ago. Good riddance,” said Sam, without emotion.

    “So you’re an orphan.” Said Tench.

    Sam looked at him, checking if he was trying to be funny, she decided he wasn’t. “I don’t think you can be an orphan at my age can you?”

    Tench gave this some thought. “Good point,” he said.

    “Anyway enough idle chat, what’s done is done, right?” Sam sucked on her vape and blew a cloud of peach flavoured steam at the windscreen. 

    Tench sensed that was the end of the conversation. “Right.” He said. He shifted his bulk and opened his window. He went to throw his empty paper cup out onto the street.

    “What do you think you’re doing?” Sam said incredulously.

    Tench stopped mid-throw and turned his head. “What?” he looked like a child caught stealing sweets.

    “You can’t throw that out for fuck’s sake.” Sam held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

    Tench handed his cup over, looking slightly sheepish. “You got OCD or something Sarge?”

    “No, just a basic level of respect for the environment.” She crumpled the cup in her hand and stuffed it in the glove box. “Throw it the bin later.”

    Tench saluted. “Yes M’am”

    She shot him a look that said, ‘Don’t push me.’

 

A black car pulled in to view, approaching from behind them. It was driving slowly, perhaps ten miles an hour. Every thirty yards or so its bonnet raised up and then bounced down as it passed over one of the many traffic calming humps in the road. 

    “Car,” said Sam, who was first to see it coming.

    “Ours?” said Tench.

    “Could be, definitely black, and big.” Sam said, keeping her eyes on her mirror in which the vehicle was looming larger.

    “Said the actress to the bishop.” Tench quipped, his concept of humour having stalled around 1970.

    “Mind on the job please Tench,” Sam was in no mood for jokes.

The black car was close enough now to see the three pointed star on its bonnet and read the registration. It was the Mercedes. Sam clicked her radio on, keeping it below the level of her window. She needed to let uniform know what was going on.

    “Sierra 45, Sierra 45 from Charlie 6. Over.”

    “Go ahead Charlie 6, Sierra 45 over.”

    “Sierra 45, target vehicle approaching on Dongola Rd travelling east towards Plaistow         Road A112, over”

    “Charlie 6, received, over.” 

The Mercedes slowed as it passed them and they sank back in their seats. Sam caught a glimpse of the driver’s profile. A bald head and white shirt was all she had time to register. It pulled over to the roadside outside O’Donnell’s house and came to a stop. The engine stayed on, tell-tale wisps emerging from the exhaust, and the brake lights remained illuminated.  There was no discernible movement from within.

    “You think he’s spotted us?” Said Tench.

    “I don’t think so.” Sam said. “Maybe he’s waiting for someone.”

Then the cars lights extinguished and the Mercedes settled as its electric parking brake engaged. A few seconds later the driver’s door opened and a man got out. He looked around fifty years old, short, perhaps five-eight or nine, with the wiry build of a featherweight boxer. He was wearing charcoal grey trousers with black shoes, a white shirt and grey tie. His bald head glinted in the sun; he carried his jacket over his arm and what looked like a phone in his hand.

    “Let’s go,” said Sam.

They exited the Ford and walked in the direction of the Mercedes. The bald man didn’t register them at first, but when they crossed the road and quickened their pace he paid attention.

    “Alan O’Donnell?” said Sam, taking out her ID card from her inside pocket.

The man, who had been about to go through the front gate of the house, froze and looked at them.

    “He’s going to run,” said Tench under his breath, breaking in to what was a remarkably swift jog for a man of his size.

    “Mr Alan O’Donnell?” repeated Sam.

In a flash O’Donnell was off, arms pumping, tie flying over his shoulder, jacket abandoned on the pavement. A few doors down there was a cut between two houses, that presumably led to the park behind, and he disappeared down it. Sam was glad she’d posted the two uniforms back there, she hoped they were on the ball. 

    Tench was ahead of her but only just. She could hear him wheezing and thought for a second how annoying it would be to have to call an ambulance for him. As they rounded the corner they caught sight of O’Donnell just disappearing from view, twenty yards ahead, where the cut through opened onto the park. She shouted into her radio as she ran — “Sierra 45, Sierra 45, this is Charlie 6, suspect has absconded on foot, we’re giving chase, IC3 male, bald, approximately 50 years, white shirt, dark trousers. Heading direction of Plaistow Park. He’s coming through a cut about six doors east of your position. Over.”

    There was no response, but as she rounded the corner (to her dismay still struggling to overtake Tench) and ran onto the green she’d played on as a child, now bleached to the colour of sand by the unrelenting sun, she saw one of the uniforms rugby tackle O’Donnell who went down so hard it knocked the wind out of him and sent a cloud of dust into the air. He offered no resistance when the officer knelt on his back and handcuffed his wrists. 

 

Sam arranged for the uniforms to bring the Mercedes to the pound and she and Tench returned to the station with O’Donnell in handcuffs. He was checked over for injury and pronounced fit to interview. Fingerprints were taken and he was formally identified. A team had been sent to the house in Plaistow to conduct a search and by four o’clock that afternoon Sam and Tench were ready to ask questions.

    O’Donnell, looking a little worse for wear and accompanied by a duty solicitor, sat in the interview room tapping his heels nervously. Close up, he had a mean, weasely face, with small black eyes, a little too close together, flanking a bony, once broken, nose, thin lips and a weak chin, dotted with shaving cuts. When he talked, spittle formed on his lower lip which he licked periodically, reptile like.

    After the formalities of identifying those present for the tape were over, Sam opened her file, laid it out in front of her and looked O’Donnell in the eye. 

    “Do you know why you’re here Mr O’Donnell?”

    He glanced at his solicitor before answering, “No. I don’t.”

    Sam showed him a photograph, a still taken from the cctv footage. The rear of the Mercedes as it had driven away from Regents Park Road on the Monday, its number plate clearly readable.

    “Is that your car Mr O’Donnell?” Sam asked.

    O’Donnell’s tongue flicked out and swept the shine from his lower lip. He stared at the photograph for a good twenty-seconds before replying, “Could be.” His voice was reedy and  nasal, as if his sinuses were blocked. When he inhaled it made a loose sound like a child sucking a straw.

    “Do you own a black Mercedes registration AOD 500?” Sam asked.

    “Yeah, what of it, s’not a crime is it?”

    “No, it’s not a crime. Which begs the question, why did you run when you saw us?” Sam said evenly.

    O’Donnell looked at his solicitor, “Do I have to answer that?”

His solicitor, who looked as if he had barely taken up shaving, told him he didn’t.

    “No comment,” said O’Donnell looking pleased with himself.

    Tench interrupted. “If you keep that up sunshine, it’s going to be a long night.” He was standing next to Sam, arms folded, looking down at O’Donnell with an expression that said — I’d like to smash your head onto that desktop.

    O’Donnell leered at him, “I’m in no rush.”

    “Where is Nikki Talbot?” Tench said through gritted teeth as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like a bull getting ready to charge.

    O’Donnell flinched. “Nikki who?” he glanced at his solicitor who shrugged as if to say, ‘I don’t know any more than you do’

    “Nikki Talbot, the woman who got into your car in Regents Park Road a week ago; the woman who has been reported missing by her very concerned husband. We have it on camera Mr O’Donnell.” said Sam. She put more stills taken from the cctv in front of him. 

    “That’s your car” — another still. 

    “That’s Nikki Talbot” — another still. 

    “And that’s Mrs Talbot getting into your car.” 

The last snapshot showed Nikki bent down, one foot already inside the black Mercedes.

    “Where did you take her?” Sam said, “And where is she now?”

    “I didn’t take her anywhere, I don’t even know who she is.”

    Tench let out a derisive snort and leaned forward, resting his big hands knuckles down on the table, and fixed his eyes on O’Donnell. “Where were you on Monday between 5pm and 7pm O’Donnell, and don’t lie to me because I’ll know and I won’t take kindly to it.”

    At this, the solicitor, who looked more afraid of Tench than O’Donnell did, protested that his client was being intimidated and requested a toilet break.