Vincent began to wonder how many other convictions he had got wrong because he had allowed himself to be led by inconclusive evidence. The case that Erin ‘Cookie’ Cooke had been working on when she had been struck down had been about a school girl who had been abducted from outside her school. The case ultimately became a nationally-run news story when the perpetrator of the crime was revealed to be a local footballer. It had been Cookie’s quick thinking and detective skills that had ultimately led her into the killer’s path, and maybe if he had been a better boss she would have had the confidence to share her theory with him and he would have gone to the killer’s house with her. He had often thought, if only she had confided in him where she was going and why, he might have been with her and they could have made the arrest together rather than her being inadvertently drugged and then driven off the road in a fatal car accident. He had done what he could to avenge her death by bringing the footballer to trial, but now as he faced his own impending death, it didn’t seem enough: none of it did.
Was this what all his years of battling villains amounted to? A small hotel room with nothing but The Jeremy Kyle Show for company? Surely there had to be something more? He deserved more, or at least he told himself that was the case. He had given up the prospect of a family for his career, but he had learned quite quickly that his rise up the ranks would be limited. There were people who had been at the training college whose faces just seemed to fit; university-educated officers seemed to take the fast track through the ranks when he had joined in the seventies. Having barely registered a qualification at the local polytechnic, he was always somehow looked down upon. That he had made it as high as Detective Inspector was a credit to his skill at being in the right place at the right time. He had only gained the promotion when his D.I. at the time had died suddenly following a stroke. As the most experienced D.S. on the team he was given the role on an acting-basis, and having impressed the D.C.I. at the time with his aptitude for ‘convincing’ suspects to confess during interview, he was encouraged to sit the Inspector’s exam. To this day he had no idea how he had managed to pass the paper, and even now wondered if the D.C.I. hadn’t somehow called in a favour at the exam board.
But policing had changed a lot since the late eighties. Political correctness now gripped the force as much as it did the country. Suddenly it was prohibited to share banter with black officers and W.P.C.s as they were then known. Memo after memo communicated that the new police force was to embrace all cultures and sexes equally. The truth was, in Hampshire, there had always been an acceptance of diversity, even if the occasional joke was had at the expense of a minority figure; but that’s all it was: banter.
Paperwork had increased and the power had shifted from the police to their suspects. The burden of proof became more important and, thankfully, advances in science and technology allowed the police to just about keep up in the fight against crime. More and more legislation was passed that seemed to give greater strength to criminals and undermined the force’s position. Things had definitely changed since he had first walked the streets of Southampton. Undoubtedly it would continue to change long after he was gone.
He wondered what his funeral would be like. He had never even considered if he wanted to be buried or cremated and now it almost seemed too late to contemplate the decision. He had made no arrangements in a will; in fact he hadn’t even made a will, never accruing enough by way of belongings to warrant signing a document declaring a beneficiary once he was gone. His flat was his only real asset and with that now in ruins, what did he have? His pension, some savings in a building society account and the clothes on his back that Davies had bought from a supermarket for ten pounds.
He wasn’t even sure how to go about arranging his own funeral. How did one choose an undertaker? Was there any difference in terms of what they offered? Was one company cheaper than another or did one offer better options when it came to the details? His parents had made their own arrangements before they had passed away, so it had been as easy as just turning up on the day and reading a eulogy; they had never told him how they had organised their final day. He was feeling stressed just thinking about it.
He hoped Kyle would attend the service, wherever and whenever it was. He wondered how many of the rest of the team would attend. He hoped they would all be prepared to make the effort but he wasn’t sure that Mercure would give them the time away from the office. She had always been a decent boss to work for; she seemed to know how to handle the political nature of her role, something he could never have mastered. She had once described him as a bull in a china shop when it came to speaking with senior figures: no diplomacy. He hadn’t argued with her.
Accepting that sleep was unlikely to come any time soon he flicked the television back on. He flicked through the channels to see if there was anything on that might distract him long enough to stop him feeling sorry for himself. Having reviewed all the wonders the hotel’s digital service had to offer, and finding nothing of particular interest, he settled on the news channel, just as the female presenter had announced they would return to their top story.
‘Alleged Russian mafia kingpin, Nikolai Stratovsky, has this afternoon walked free from prison, after the C.P.S. advised they could no longer bring a case against him. Stratovsky, seen here, leaving the court room earlier today has spoken of his deep resentment at having been arrested in the first place and claimed that the alleged charges were just more in a long line of false allegations the British police had made against him and he would be seeking legal counsel to determine if his civil liberties had been breached. Today’s decision follows weeks of speculation from the C.P.S. that they had a tight case against Mr Stratovsky for organised crime. The businessman has subsequently claimed that the police have an unexplained vendetta against him and have tarnished his good business name with their false arrests and speculative claims.’
The image cut from the reporter to Stratovsky himself being interviewed outside of the Old Bailey. He was wearing a tailored Saville Row suit under a thick woollen overcoat. His white beard looking freshly clipped. The image spelled money, and reminded Vincent of images of Al Capone in his prime.
‘How does it feel to be able to walk free?’ one of the gathered journalists asked as Stratovsky pushed through the crowd in the direction of a car parked at the side of the street.
‘I said all along I was innocent man,’ Stratovsky replied in broken English. ‘I should never have been arrested at beginning. I am just businessman trying to make living in London.’
‘What will you do next?’ asked a second reporter.
‘I will go home and see my wife and family and toast the British justice system. My solicitor say I have case for suing for wrongful arrest so we will see. I am free man; I am innocent man!’ he shouted as he climbed into the waiting car. A flurry of flash photography erupted as the car pulled away into the distance.
The image then cut to Renton, the C.P.S. Barrister whom Vincent had met the other day. He was standing at a podium with half a dozen microphones attached to it. He seemed very comfortable fielding the various questions from journalists.
‘The Crown Prosecution Service wishes to extend an apology to Mr Nikolai Stratovsky for the difficulties he has experienced in the last few months. The Metropolitan Police had presented us with what seemed a strong case file of activity against Mr Stratovsky, but they have been unable to provide us with some key evidence and witness testimony that they claimed to have. It is with regret that I spoke with His Honour early this morning to advise that it was no longer appropriate for us to continue with this trial, and he was kind enough to arrange a special court this afternoon, to sanction the release of Mr Stratovsky.’
Vincent felt sick to the stomach. It was shocking how quickly Renton had changed his tune and was suddenly diving for cover: blaming the Met for not delivering evidence to deflect the blame inevitably coming his own way. Undoubtedly that is what the Service would have told him to do, but it was despicable wat
ching the mudslinging. Ultimately the Met would have to offer up a scapegoat to take the flak for the failed investigation, even though it was ultimately Stratovsky’s late moves that had caused the trial to collapse. Probably some poor sap close to retirement would take the fall and early retirement into the bargain.
He flicked the television off with the remote and moved to the edge of the bed. Mark had been right: Stratovsky had walked and would be virtually untouchable for the foreseeable future. He was surprised not to have received a call from Renton about the trial ending, but then he remembered he no longer had his mobile phone and nobody else knew where he was. He felt helpless. Suddenly, Ali’s death meant nothing; all her hard work was in tatters and the son-of-a-bitch responsible was out in the open. If Mark was to be believed then Stratovsky had already sanctioned attempts on his own life in the last week and what would stop him trying again, although there was every chance fate would beat him to it?
Throwing on the tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirt, he rushed out of his room and headed down to the hotel reception area. Finding a computer in the lobby for the use of hotel guests he sat down and loaded up an internet search engine, typing in Stratovsky’s name. The screen filled with references to newspaper headlines and other media outlets declaring Stratovsky was free. He read the articles on The Times and The Guardian websites but learned nothing that he had not seen on the television. He then typed in Baines’ name as an extra filter and found references to the accident on the Northam Bridge some twelve months earlier. He read the reports of what was found at the scene, and the claims that the police had made following the crash about links to the Russian mafia.
Returning to his room he was filled with a renewed enthusiasm for life; suddenly he felt like he had a purpose: Stratovsky had to die! He knew that some other bastard would take his place if he was taken out, but it would at least stop this tyrant’s activity. As if his mind had been read, the telephone on the bedside table started to ring. He answered it and heard a familiar voice greet him.
‘Hello, Terry,’ Vincent said.
‘Good evening, Jack,’ the voice replied. ‘How are you fairing with your bumps and bruises?’
‘I’ll cope,’ Vincent replied, surprised that Baines Snr didn’t seem aware of his prognosis.
‘Good, good. I was just monitoring the hotel’s internet history, Jack and someone has been doing some research on Mr Stratovsky. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?’
‘How did you..?’ Vincent began, and then thought better of it. ‘Never mind. I want to see your son again.’
Terry sounded like he was smiling when he asked, ‘So are you coming around to his way of thinking then?’
‘Maybe,’ Vincent admitted, ‘tell me one thing first though, will you? Why is he so keen to kill Stratovsky?’
Terry sighed, ‘Mark took that young police woman’s death very badly. Outwardly he said everything was okay, but I knew he was hiding something. He blames Stratovsky for everything that has happened to him and he is hell-bent on revenge. I had managed to convince him that we should let the British courts choose his fate, and that is why we began to help the C.P.S. and you, but now that the Russian is out…well…that leaves us with plan-B…I want you to go with him, Jack. Mark is not a killer. He is lying to himself if he thinks he is. I want you to watch his back. I’m scared that he will make an attempt on Stratovsky’s life but will fail and end up getting himself hurt or killed. If you go with him, then he might be safer.’
‘Okay,’ Vincent eventually sighed. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll go with him. You better tell him we need to meet.’
‘I already have, Jack,’ Terry replied and a knock at Vincent’s door caused him to turn. ‘Good luck, Jack,’ the voice said and then the line went dead.
Opening the room door, Vincent saw Mark in standing in front of him, waiting to be invited in. he was wearing different clothes from when they had last met, suggesting he had found a place to get cleaned up. Pulling him into the room, Vincent said, ‘What’s the plan?’
MONDAY
41
The van had been parked in the same spot in London’s West End for the last hour and twenty minutes. The two men sitting in the front of the vehicle were both nervous, although neither wanted to let on to the other just how terrified they were.
‘And he’s certain he’s in there?’ Vincent asked, leaning forward and pointing at the brown building twenty yards down on the left.
‘Yep. Hundred percent. That is one of Stratovsky’s many clubs, but more precisely, it is the venue he uses for all his business activities. Trust me; the fucker is in there.’
Vincent ignored the obscenity, although it was just further confirmation of how set on revenge Mark was.
It was now Monday morning and the clock on the dashboard revealed it was nearly ten minutes past eleven. They had spent all day Sunday discussing what Mark hoped to achieve from today’s assignment and how he thought they should approach it. Baines Snr, or ‘Terry’ as he insisted on being referred to, had spoken to them on the phone and had shared his own views on the plan. Several times during the discussion, Vincent had had to remind himself exactly why he was going along with this ludicrous idea. It was so against his nature to be involved in criminal activity that he was struggling to adjust to his new life choice.
Mark had been able to present an itinerary that Stratovsky had been working to prior to his arrest and subsequent incarceration. It detailed daily activity, who the gangster met, at what times and the purpose of those meetings. Vincent had been troubled by just how detailed the routine was, it even listing what food he was likely to eat on any given day. He had asked how they had managed to pull something like this together at such short notice. Mark had just laughed and said, ‘Short notice? This has been in the planning for nearly a year!’
According to the itinerary, Stratovsky was due to meet with his area captains between ten and eleven for progress reports. Each borough of the city had a captain; a mini-boss of its own who would run local projects, robbery, burglary, local dealers, that kind of thing. They were responsible for their own patch and making sure they were able to stump up one hundred thousand pounds per month to Nikolai Stratovsky. The role of captain was a lucrative one if undertaken in the right way, but it came with its own stresses: failure to reach the sum inevitably resulted in serious reproach, or worse: death. If a captain couldn’t produce the funds for any given month, he would be held personally accountable for finding the money. Stratovsky claimed he was a reasonable man and would only dispose of a captain’s services if he failed to deliver two months running. Many an arrogant captain had risen through the ranks only to find his life prematurely ended for not meeting expectation.
Captains generally had deputies to run the day-to-day criminal activities of their patch and some months could be a real struggle to produce the required funds. The summer of 2012 had been particularly lucrative for some of Stratovsky’s captains. The Olympic Games brought with it a sense of pride for the country, but also an increase in complacency with families leaving their homes to head to the city to bask in Olympic glory, allowing house burglaries to increase rapidly in the outer boroughs. Muggings increased as well, with rich tourists losing cash, camera equipment and jewellery when walking down the wrong streets. A smart captain would have stashed some of the extra loot, made during this period, under his mattress to account for leaner months the following spring. Unfortunately, not many had the foresight for that.
Stratovsky tended to focus his attention on larger activities. He would oversee large shipments of cocaine into the country and then onto distributers. Any activity that would cover more than three of his captains’ areas he would take the lead on. Of course, being in prison had restricted his activity somewhat and having his number two, his nephew Victor, inside as well, could have meant that the whole operation would fall apart. He had left Robert, his niece’s husband, monitoring the operation. Robert was a former captain who was largely used for brokering
deals with other ‘families’. He was as diplomatic as they came, even if he did have a penchant for breaking people’s fingers.
According to the itinerary, the meeting with the captains should have ended by now, but Vincent and Mark had not yet seen anyone emerge from the club. Today, between eleven and twelve was the best chance they had of fulfilling their plan with Stratovsky. After his meeting with the captains, he was due to meet his solicitor, a slimy man by the name of Seumas Bastille. Vincent had briefly met him in court one day a couple of weeks earlier and had had to fight the compulsion to slap him senseless.
They had earlier witnessed a dozen men enter the club, wearing smart suits, but none had returned, suggesting they were overrunning. The meeting with the solicitor was the only time that Stratovsky seemed to let his guard down. At most he would have one bodyguard in there with him, meaning they would have a chance of overpowering him and getting at the Russian. If the captains did not emerge soon they would have to postpone the plan, an action Mark did not want to take.
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