Post Mortem, Gary Bell [best fiction novels .txt] 📗

Post Mortem but, sure enough, that is Omar Pickett. Eighteen-year-old drill musician, former student of Leyton Sixth Form College, and the final, elusive dealer from my drug bust.’

‘A drill musician …’ I could hear my own annoyance succumbing to interest. ‘That would explain how Andre Israel recognised him in the pub.’

‘Oh, there’s more. A lot more. Listen to this …’

She played a twenty-second clip of the song. Rewound it and played it again, looking at me attentively.

I shrugged. ‘What am I supposed to be listening for?’

‘Can’t you hear it? Though to be fair it took me a few listens to pick it up myself.’

She played it once more. I shook my head. ‘I’m not getting anything,’ I said.

‘He says: “Cutthroats pulling them strings / Unlucky number’s feeling the wrath / Gaza Strip caught up in things / Sorry, Palestine–Israel’s off!”’ She tapped the screen excitedly. ‘This was uploaded a month ago!’

I frowned, working it out. ‘He’s rapping about the bust?’

‘Yes! Think about it! Unlucky number – that’s thirteen – feeling the wrath. And the Gaza Strip caught up in things –’

‘Andre Israel.’

‘Exactly.’ She silenced the music, exhaling deeply, a day’s pent-up secret finally off her chest.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘Omar Pickett might as well paint a great big target onto that mask of his. He uploaded it himself?’

‘That one, yes, though his older material all seems to have come through Banged Up Records, a YouTube channel based in the East End, which also happened to post music by …’

‘Andre Israel?’

‘Yep.’

‘Jesus. I don’t suppose Israel spent any time rapping about being either a drug dealer or an innocent jogger, did he?’

‘Never. In fact, as far as drill music goes, his material was pretty tame. Seemed to be social commentary as opposed to direct threats, from what I’ve heard.’

‘That’s good for his trial at least. The last thing you need is for the prosecution to pull out a lyrical confession. Post Mortem, on the other hand … he’s hardly Bob Dylan.’

She shrugged. ‘You don’t like hip hop?’

‘No, I like hip hop just fine. Public Enemy. Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. Run DMC. This sounds like a whole different genre to me.’

‘Hey, I’m not saying drill is my own personal cup of tea, but I do think it’s getting unfairly condemned in the media. If the papers are anything to go by, this music is partly responsible for nearly every violent crime in the city, which just isn’t true. I think it’s another case of art imitating life, not the other way around.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said doubtfully. ‘I’m not surprised it’s under fire with lyrics like those. It sounds to me like nothing but inflammatory instigation.’

She tapped her boots; the car was getting chilly. ‘You were big into punk music, weren’t you? Didn’t that cause a similar – I don’t know – moral panic?’

‘That was different,’ I said. ‘Punk was anti-establishment, it wasn’t anti-individuals.’

‘No? I bet there were plenty of individuals who would disagree.’

‘Perhaps you’re right, but this drill is –’

‘Wait!’ Zara said abruptly. ‘Look!’

Slick headlights were coming round the bend behind us; they blazed through my rear window, illuminating the inside of the car, and in unison we pushed back against our seats, Zara crouching slightly, to hide ourselves. The Audi passed. There was a speed bump at the end of the lane; it slowed there, indicating right to turn onto Markhouse Road. I noted the registration number in case we lost the car. It wasn’t hard to memorise: DM1.

‘Well,’ Zara said, ‘looks like he was only popping in after all. Now what?’

‘He’s turning south,’ I said. ‘That’s towards Leyton …’

Zara met my eye. Ahead, Deacon turned the corner, disappearing from view. ‘What shall we do?’ she asked.

‘In the films, what usually happens after a stakeout?’

She shrugged. ‘They’d put a tail on him?’

‘That’s right.’ I turned the key in the ignition. ‘They would.’

He was easy enough to follow, bright white between street lights, music blaring, carefully obeying every speed limit. He followed the same road south for a little more than a mile until it entered Leyton and turned into Church Road, at which time he indicated left past St Mary’s Parish Church.

‘Shit,’ I muttered. ‘He’s turning onto the Grange estate.’

‘So?’ Zara asked. ‘Have you got a problem with estates?’

‘No problem.’ I flicked my own indicator. ‘Don’t forget that you’re talking to a man who was raised on a slum.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ She didn’t sound glad; her voice had turned an octave sharper. She must’ve known, as I did, that we were entering the stronghold of the so-called E10 Cutthroats.

The Grange was a housing complex of ten prefabricated four-storey courts built around the bottom of a lofty block of flats called Slade Tower; it was well known as one of the most deprived areas in Waltham Forest. Shadowing the Audi had been simple enough on the straight, clear route down into Leyton, but now we were following it into a cramped maze of single lanes, tight corners and stunted roads. It didn’t help that there was nobody else around, making the presence of our headlights extremely conspicuous. Most of the flats in the courts had balconies with clothing hanging from makeshift washing lines. Some had hung sheets of cotton or hessian up there for privacy. Several of the parked cars I negotiated between had tarpaulin over broken windows.

‘Reminds me of home,’ Zara said.

Each court had caging around its outer doors and a blue sign illuminated by an overhanging lamp. I clocked them as we passed: Fitzgerald Court, Underwood Court, a sharp right to Clewer Court and a left past Cochrane, another left past Allanson and Eton Manor, then it was another two quick corners to Fitzgerald and Underwood, a sharp right to Clewer Court …

‘Hold on.’ I slowed down to double-check the last sign. ‘Bollocks.’

‘What?’ Zara sounded alarmed.

‘He’s on to us.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He’s leading us in circles.’

‘He must be lost,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet that’s why he’s on his phone.’

‘His phone?’ As we came up behind