been raped or brutalized by one or more of the gang members that run the estate. At the Centre was a list of names, mobile phone numbers, addresses, and alleged crimes, from sexual assault through to drug-dealing and fire-arm supply. All in all, a complete shit storm.’
‘Shit storm?’
‘Absolutely. Also supplied were various social media accounts, from Facebook to Flickr and everything in between, on which are what appears to be recorded conversations of the alleged rapists boasting about their prowess to other gang members, and generally being complete bastards. Also given were the phone numbers of the local radio stations, both pirate and legitimate, and the telephone numbers and email addresses of all the alleged rapists’ relatives and work colleagues.’ Stone pauses to allow her boss to take in everything she has said.
‘OK. Shit storm,’ agrees Loss. Police officers in riot uniform are milling around nervously, not sure quite what to do, but knowing that, whatever they do, it is almost certainly going to be the wrong thing. Above them a press helicopter is visible between the tower blocks.
‘When the group arrived back at the estate, they spray-stencilled the names of the alleged rapists, along with their phone numbers, Twitter accounts, Skype numbers,
hang-out
addresses and everything, plus links to the recorded conversations of them bragging about what they’d done.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Quite. These stupid pain-merchants actually filmed themselves talking about this stuff!’
‘And now none of it admissible in court.’
The detective is interrupted by a commotion above them.
‘I swear it wasn’t me, Gran!’
Stone watches as a woman of about sixty hurls a laptop over the balcony, closely following it with a bin bag full of clothes. The laptop shatters as it hits the tarmac.
‘I don’t want you ever coming back here. Ever. Some of what you did happened in my house! In my house!’ The woman is screaming as she slams the door shut.
‘I don’t think they give a toss about the courts, sir. In about five minutes we’re going to have a mob of very angry brothers and sisters gunning for this lot. I’d say the balance of power has taken a bit of a swing.’
All around the estate young men and women are quietly leaving their flats and coming to stand with the girls in the courtyard.
‘Sir?’ a young officer approaches the two detectives. She is holding a piece of paper and looking nervously at the growing group of people next to them.
‘What is it, Officer?’
‘The weapons used in the attack outside Candy’s, sir? The blindings and the fatality?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, the report has just come back, sir. The crossbow pistol was made in the early nineteenth century by a Frederic Siber, and the flare gun was made in 1941, and was last used by the Luftwaffe in the Second World War. It looks as if this might have been the same weapon that was used on the kebab house.’
‘Brilliant. Doesn’t this girl like the twenty-first century or something?’ Stone takes the report from the officer.
‘If you’re not connected to gangs then it’s quite hard to buy guns, round here. And I don’t think they’d like to sell her one, do you?’ But she isn’t listening. She is scan-reading the report.
‘Sir, both these guns were stolen from the Antique Arms Fair at Earl’s Court last year, and prior to that had been loaned to the Imperial War Museum.’
Something clicks into place in Loss’s brain, and then clicks out again.
‘I’m too bloody tired for this,’ he says, desperately searching his pockets for the cigarette packet that hasn’t been there for three years.
‘Right. Officer …’ He looks fixedly at her badge, shining in the light from the fires being made from all the clothing thrown off the balconies. ‘Swallow, I want you to liaise with the righteous vigilantes gathering over there,’ he indicates the young men and women standing by the people sitting in the play area,
‘Shit storm?’
‘Absolutely. Also supplied were various social media accounts, from Facebook to Flickr and everything in between, on which are what appears to be recorded conversations of the alleged rapists boasting about their prowess to other gang members, and generally being complete bastards. Also given were the phone numbers of the local radio stations, both pirate and legitimate, and the telephone numbers and email addresses of all the alleged rapists’ relatives and work colleagues.’ Stone pauses to allow her boss to take in everything she has said.
‘OK. Shit storm,’ agrees Loss. Police officers in riot uniform are milling around nervously, not sure quite what to do, but knowing that, whatever they do, it is almost certainly going to be the wrong thing. Above them a press helicopter is visible between the tower blocks.
‘When the group arrived back at the estate, they spray-stencilled the names of the alleged rapists, along with their phone numbers, Twitter accounts, Skype numbers,
hang-out
addresses and everything, plus links to the recorded conversations of them bragging about what they’d done.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Quite. These stupid pain-merchants actually filmed themselves talking about this stuff!’
‘And now none of it admissible in court.’
The detective is interrupted by a commotion above them.
‘I swear it wasn’t me, Gran!’
Stone watches as a woman of about sixty hurls a laptop over the balcony, closely following it with a bin bag full of clothes. The laptop shatters as it hits the tarmac.
‘I don’t want you ever coming back here. Ever. Some of what you did happened in my house! In my house!’ The woman is screaming as she slams the door shut.
‘I don’t think they give a toss about the courts, sir. In about five minutes we’re going to have a mob of very angry brothers and sisters gunning for this lot. I’d say the balance of power has taken a bit of a swing.’
All around the estate young men and women are quietly leaving their flats and coming to stand with the girls in the courtyard.
‘Sir?’ a young officer approaches the two detectives. She is holding a piece of paper and looking nervously at the growing group of people next to them.
‘What is it, Officer?’
‘The weapons used in the attack outside Candy’s, sir? The blindings and the fatality?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, the report has just come back, sir. The crossbow pistol was made in the early nineteenth century by a Frederic Siber, and the flare gun was made in 1941, and was last used by the Luftwaffe in the Second World War. It looks as if this might have been the same weapon that was used on the kebab house.’
‘Brilliant. Doesn’t this girl like the twenty-first century or something?’ Stone takes the report from the officer.
‘If you’re not connected to gangs then it’s quite hard to buy guns, round here. And I don’t think they’d like to sell her one, do you?’ But she isn’t listening. She is scan-reading the report.
‘Sir, both these guns were stolen from the Antique Arms Fair at Earl’s Court last year, and prior to that had been loaned to the Imperial War Museum.’
Something clicks into place in Loss’s brain, and then clicks out again.
‘I’m too bloody tired for this,’ he says, desperately searching his pockets for the cigarette packet that hasn’t been there for three years.
‘Right. Officer …’ He looks fixedly at her badge, shining in the light from the fires being made from all the clothing thrown off the balconies. ‘Swallow, I want you to liaise with the righteous vigilantes gathering over there,’ he indicates the young men and women standing by the people sitting in the play area,