Marked for Death

by Tony Kent

  Cash business, Levy thought. Helpful thing for a gang to control.

  There was nothing remarkable about the doorway itself, other than the number of police officers moving in and around it. The irregular stream stopped as Levy approached. A line of officers stood aside to let her pass.

  Levy walked through the door and up the stairs. It was a short climb. One flight. At the top were two doors and the start of a further flight.

  One of the doors led to a toilet. The other was open wide, exposing a room that was out of keeping with both the exterior of the building and the common areas Levy had seen so far. She stepped inside.

  The dark decor of the room provided was a stark contrast to the cracked white paint of the stairwell. Even the inside of the door itself showed the difference: whitewashed and unremarkable from the outside, on the office side it was carefully varnished and maintained, and its brass handle shone. Someone had taken care to disguise this room from without, while a lot of money had been spent for the inside to give a very different impression.

  Four victims.

  Levy noted the four sheets laid carefully on the office floor. Each covered a body. If the crime scene had been a TV show the bodies and the sheets would be long gone. Replaced by a chalk or taped outline. This was a quirk of poorly researched cop shows. In the real world, it was only worth moving a victim and risking forensic evidence when a life could be saved. There was no such urgency when the victim was already dead. In those circumstances the body stayed where it fell, with the integrity of the crime scene taking priority.

  And nobody but God was going to be helping these guys, Levy thought.

  The room was big, almost as large as the building’s footprint. At its far end was a large mahogany desk and behind that a high-back leather chair. Both items were larger than the room’s other furniture. A clear message of the importance of the table’s owner.

  The artwork on the walls looked expensive. Levy was no expert – she had no time to be – but she had seen valuable art before and it always had something about it. Levy saw that something here, in the hanging art and in the furniture and the bronze statues that were dotted around the room.

  Levy saw and processed all of this in just moments, before her eyes finally settled on Steven Hale near the far end of the room.

  ‘Dressing to impress today, Steve?’ Levy asked.

  Hale was wearing a suit and tie, rather than the forensic outfit he had sported in Phillip Longman’s bedroom. It made him stand out as – other than Levy – everyone else in the room was dressed in their crime-scene whites.

  Hale turned at the sound of his name and saw Levy.

  ‘Heavy traffic, ma’am?’ Hale asked as he walked towards her.

  Back at work, back to formalities, Levy thought, and she noted – far from the first time – that a suited and booted Hale looked every inch a police officer. Tall, heavily built and just a little out of shape. But still formidable, with a face that carried the reminders of a violent life.

  ‘Hellish,’ Levy replied. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘A little bit more than when I called you an hour ago,’ Hale replied. ‘We had a little chat with the pawnbroker when he turned up to open the shop. It’s amazing how forthcoming the likes of him can be when it avoids a property search.’

  ‘How has what he told you avoided that?’

  ‘It hasn’t.’ Hale smiled as he replied. ‘But he doesn’t know that, does he?’

  Levy nodded. She was used to Hale enjoying the trickier side of the job. It was her least favourite aspect of what they did – Levy had used enough deception to last a lifetime during her six years in Shin Bet – but it was sometimes necessary. When it was, she was grateful for Hale’s enthusiasm.

  ‘So what did he tell you?’ Levy asked.

  Hale indicated to the large, body-shaped bulk beneath the sheet that was nearest the door.

  ‘Well, to start with, this fella here is none other than Leon Ferris. You know that name, right?’

  ‘Shit.’ That response could have been answer enough. ‘Yeah. I know the name.’

  ‘Cause of death is already established,’ Hale continued. ‘A single knife wound to the underside of the skull. The knife is still in his brain.’

  ‘The underside?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Through the lower jaw. Only route other than the eyes that misses hard bone.’

  ‘Someone did that to Leon Ferris?’ It did not fit with what Levy knew of the crime boss. Ferris was a monster. As ruthless and as tough as they come.

  How did anyone even get close enough to kill him that way?

  ‘They had to have been face-to-face, right?’ Levy asked, pushing aside her disbelief.

  ‘According to David, yeah. Must have been.’

  Hale could only be referring to David Christie, a pathologist who worked closely with Levy’s Major Investigation Team. He had been and gone, Levy now assumed.

  Hale continued.

  ‘No other way the knife could have entered at that angle.’

  ‘Shit,’ Levy repeated. She turned away from the first sheet. It was already providing too many problems. Maybe the others would be simpler. ‘Who else do we have?’

  ‘This one we don’t know,’ Hale replied, turning to the sheet nearest Ferris. ‘One of Ferris’s lads, according to the pawnbroker. He doesn’t know the name. The other two, though. We sure as hell know them.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  Hale pointed to the last sheet in what Levy now realised was an almost neat line of three.

  ‘This one’s Harvey Ellis,’ he said, before turning to the fourth sheet, which was away from the others. Towards the other side of the room. ‘And that’s Kevin Tennant.’

  Levy did not answer immediately. The killing of Leon Ferris – the way he had met his end – had bothered her. But she was familiar with the other two as well. Both violent, dangerous men. The idea that all three could be taken out at the same time and on their own turf was absurd.

  And yet here they were.

  ‘This doesn’t make a jot of bloody sense.’

  ‘What do you mean, ma’am?’

  ‘I mean that it’s one thing to kill Leon Ferris face on and at close range. Not that I can think of many who could do it. But Tennant and Ellis, too? These are three tough bastards with serious reputations. Who the hell could have done this?’

  ‘Really? It’s too early to—’

  ‘I wasn’t looking for an actual answer, Steve. Even the press don’t expect results that fast.’ Levy continued to circle the scene, taking in every detail. ‘Ellis was basically running Ferris’s operation while Ferris was inside, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which I thought was still the status quo. So when did Ferris get out?’

  ‘He was released yesterday.’

  ‘You’re joking?’ Levy was genuinely shocked. ‘This was done to them within twenty-four hours of Ferris getting out?’

  ‘Closer to twelve hours, according to David. He puts time of death before 10 p.m.’

  Levy exhaled heavily. She did not need this right now. With the Longman investigation less than a day old, the timing could not be worse.

  ‘Any thought on how many it took to kill all four?’

  ‘We think it was one or two guys.’

  She looked up at him sharply. Even four against four sounded unlikely, considering the identities of the victims.

  ‘Go on.’ Levy made no attempt to hide her scepticism.

  ‘Look, I know how that sounds,’ Hale began. ‘But everything points towards it. Look around the room. Almost nothing is disturbed. If we’ve got three or four or even five attackers in a room like this, things get messy quickly. Especially considering the bodies are all so close together; the killers would all be getting in each other’s way. Also, to get a bigger number into the room takes away the element of surprise. You have them shuffling through the door, it gives the victims time to react. And yet three of the bodies have no defensive wounds
, so they must have been taken by surprise pretty quickly.’

  ‘I can see the thinking,’ Levy conceded. ‘Do we know how they all died?’

  ‘John Doe there had his throat slashed. Ellis a single thrust to the heart. David didn’t notice anything else. And from the positioning of the bodies, it’s likely that Ellis was killed by the same man as Ferris and John Doe. He was barely a step away from Doe, and so – again – a second man would likely have gotten in the way.’

  ‘So the theory is that one guy does this, basically in one fast, continuous movement?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve got so far.’

  ‘And how does Tennant fit into it?’ Levy gestured across the room. ‘He’s not in the same line-up of bodies, so we think there was a second man for him?’

  ‘Impossible to say yet, ma’am. Could have been. Or the same guy.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘He was killed with that statue over there.’ Hale indicated a large bronze figure on the floor by the body, obscured by what was left of the man it had killed. The one detail Levy had not noticed. ‘It was used to cave in his head. At least three blows.’

  Levy looked down at Tennant thoughtfully. The theory made sense if you discounted who the victims were.

  ‘If you’re right, this looks like a professional hit,’ Levy finally observed. ‘It’s not street-gang violence. Not this clean.’

  ‘That’s why we were called in, ma’am. Because the Trident boys think the same. They think a rival group brought in a contractor. That sort of thing is outside of their wheelhouse, and so the higher-ups want us on board too.’

  ‘You mean working alongside Trident? Or instead of them?’

  Levy was dreading the answer. Operation Trident was a very different section of the Metropolitan Police, focused entirely on gang crime in London. And from what Levy had experienced of them, the way they worked was a million miles apart from the Major Investigation Team.

  ‘Working with them,’ Hale replied, his tone almost apologetic.

  Levy exhaled deeply and shook her head at the answer. Phillip Longman’s murder had already been a headache. Now this.

  Two wholly exceptional murders less than twenty-four hours apart. And now with the added complication of Trident.

  For the first time in her career, Levy was worried. This might be more than she could deal with alone.

  NINETEEN

  Sarah leaned back in her seat. It was a comfortable, mesh design, built to mould around the sitter. Nineteen identical models joined it around the glass conference table. At £400 per chair, the cost was £8,000 just for a room full of reporters to park their backsides in comfort.

  And they wonder why network TV can’t turn a profit, Sarah thought.

  Only half of the remaining seats were taken. Eight by reporters from the network’s Home Affairs section – Sarah’s section – and the tenth chair by James Elton, Independent Television News’ UK Editor.

  Elton’s status placed him at the top of the table. Sarah’s – as ITN’s senior Home Affairs Correspondent – placed her first among the others in the room, in the chair to Elton’s right.

  It also made Elton her immediate boss.

  ‘Where are we on Longman’s murder?’ Elton asked. The question was directed at Sarah. ‘Is there anything new we can run in the next bulletin?’

  ‘There’s not,’ Sarah replied. ‘MIT are keeping their cards close to their chest. They’re releasing no details. At the moment we’d just be reporting the same facts as yesterday.’

  ‘Can’t we get anything from the guys on the scene? Maybe tap up one of the officers?’

  ‘Not this team, James,’ Sarah replied. She wished she had better news. ‘It’s not the local bobbies this time. It’s the Major Investigation Team from Scotland Yard. If they’ve been told not to talk, they don’t talk.’

  Elton nodded his head. Sarah could guess what he was thinking. People in his position rarely took ‘no’ for an answer. But sometimes – just sometimes – ‘no’ really was the answer. The question was: did he trust Sarah’s instinct that this time was ‘sometime’?

  ‘What about a family angle?’ Elton finally asked. The question told Sarah that her boss had decided to go with his reporter’s gut. ‘Can we get anything from his kids? Has anyone contacted them?’

  ‘No one from us, no.’

  ‘From who then?’

  ‘Pretty much everyone else. BBC. CNN. Sky. They’ve all doorstepped Longman’s sons, looking for information.’

  Elton’s demeanour changed in a heartbeat. The answer was clearly unwelcome.

  ‘And why haven’t we, exactly?’ Elton asked, his annoyance unmissable.

  ‘Because I’ve spoken to someone very close to the family this morning,’ Sarah explained, being careful not to mention Derek Reid by name. ‘And I know exactly what reaction Longman’s sons would have had if we’d doorstepped them as well.’

  Elton almost smiled. Sarah’s answer had salved his irritation, at least for a moment. But he still wanted more.

  ‘Which I assume is the reaction the others have all suffered?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly the same,’ Sarah replied. ‘A lot of anger and a few broken cameras. Nothing newsworthy, certainly not for the competition; they don’t look so good intruding and shoving mics in Longman’s sons’ faces. Especially when you consider what those men have just suffered.’

  ‘So your plan is what, then? In terms of securing the story now the other networks have queered their pitch?’

  ‘As far as the family is concerned, we wait. In a few days, when it’s all a little less raw, my contact will arrange for us to sit down with them. Just us.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Because the family trust my contact implicitly. And my contact trusts me. He knows that they will have to speak at some point. It’s inevitable, with a figure as public as Phillip Longman. And he knows that if it’s me they speak to, I’ll keep it dignified.’

  Elton smiled again. And again Sarah knew why.

  Doorstepping was the one aspect of Sarah’s job she disliked. The idea of forcing her presence on those who had just lost those closest to them had always seemed distasteful. But since her own losses almost two years ago – back when she had first met Michael, ironically on his doorstep – it had become unthinkable. She now understood the suffering of those left behind by tragedy, and it made her avoid the act all the more.

  It was a dislike which had forced her to find alternatives. Other routes to a story. In other words, it had made her a better reporter.

  That, Sarah thought, is why he’s smiling.

  ‘Good work. Really good work,’ Elton finally said. ‘Although it doesn’t help us a jot with filling this afternoon’s bulletin. So when do you think the police will start opening up?’

  ‘I really don’t know. It’s unusual for them to release literally nothing after this long. But then this case is unusual, considering who the victim is. In any case, we should be the first to know when they finally are ready to open up.’

  ‘OK.’ Elton didn’t look happy, but again he seemed to accept Sarah’s answer. ‘Just keep your ear to the ground on this, right? Stay in with Longman’s family, and stay on top of these MIT people.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Sarah replied. ‘I’ll make sure we’re at the front of the queue when the time comes.’

  Elton turned to address the rest of the room.

  ‘Right. That’s Longman’s story into the long grass for now. So how do we fill the gap for today’s main news?’

  Seven of the other eight Home Affairs correspondents opened their files simultaneously, to pull out the stories they had each brought to the meeting. The eighth person – Alex Redwood – left his unopened. He had no need to trawl through papers for his story.

  ‘I can fill it.’ Redwood’s voice was deep but clear. Each syllable pronounced in a cut-glass English accent. Every head in the room turned towards him.

  ‘What have you got?’ El
ton asked.

  ‘Another murder.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Southwold, in Suffolk.’

  ‘The coastal town?’

  ‘The very same.’ Redwood was unusually sure of himself. Sarah had always thought that about him. His answers now did nothing to change her view. ‘And we do have details on this one.’

  Sarah knew that the final comment was aimed at her.

  Redwood did not share her distaste for the darker side of their job, she knew. He had no problem with doorstepping or revealing information that made a story more salacious. It was often information he could not have come by through legitimate channels, and it was this that worried Sarah the most.

  ‘It’s another old guy,’ Redwood continued. He looked at Sarah as he spoke, his mouth breaking into a conceited smile.

  What an asshole, Sarah thought. He actually thinks it’s a competition. Who’s got the best dead geriatric.

  Redwood looked back towards Elton and when he spoke again he did so with exaggerated dramatic effect: ‘And he died badly.’

  ‘Oh get on with it, Alex.’ It was obvious that Elton was unimpressed with the strained delivery. ‘What do we know? Simple and quick.’

  ‘The murder scene was a bloodbath.’ The acting had stopped. Redwood stuck to the facts. ‘The victim was crucified, James. Literally crucified.’

  A murmur shot around the room.

  Sarah had not been expecting that. And from what she could tell, neither had anyone else. Including Elton.

  ‘Crucified?’ he asked, disbelief in his voice. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure. And it didn’t stop there. He also had his balls cut off and stuffed into his mouth. And he was cut up all over. Deep cuts that bled him out, like a slaughtered animal.’

  Sarah could hardly believe what she was hearing. She had seen enough in her career that she was hardened to most horrors. To rapes. To murders.

  But not this. This is a new one on me.

  The details left her with questions.

  ‘Do the police think it’s a religious thing? Because of the crucifixion, I mean?’

  ‘That’s their lead theory, yes. Probably Islamic extremists if you ask me.’