The Division Collection

by Angus McLean

  He got to start the swing but never finished it, Moore’s right hand slapping the bottle away and his left jab slamming into the guy’s side ribs. His right knee smashed up into the guy’s solar plexus as he continued forward, and the guy dropped to the deck, the wind knocked out of him.

  Something skimmed off Moore’s right shoulder and thumped the side of his head as it went past, and he stumbled forward, leaping over the winded thug and turning. His head was ringing and he was glad it was only a glancing blow.

  The third thug was bigger than the other two, blonde haired and with matching bling in both ears. His hair was plastered down with product. He wore a white shell suit. He had a blackjack of some sort in his right hand, and a knife in his left. He danced from side to side, a nasty grin on his face as he watched Moore.

  ‘Tagged you, old man,’ he jeered, obviously pleased with himself for succeeding where neither of his mates had. ‘I fuckin’ tagged you good you ol’ cunt! I’ll fuckin’ teach you a lesson, you fuckin’ whooff.’

  The last sound exploded from his mouth when Vince Masoe’s boot flew up between his legs from behind and smashed into his scrotum, lifting him half a foot off the ground. He dropped both his weapons and collapsed in a heap, grabbing at his balls and gasping. A string of drool hung from his bottom lip.

  ‘Not so fuckin’ smart now eh, shit head,’ Vince muttered, standing over him, his hands still tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

  Moore glanced to his right, where the first guy was starting to rise unsteadily to his feet. He was scanning round for a weapon when Nga stepped out from between the cars parked at the kerb. With one fast move she swept his feet from under him, depositing him on his backside.

  As he turned towards her and started scrambling back up, she delivered a perfectly timed strike to the side of his jaw with the heel of her palm. He went lights out and slumped down on his side.

  The three officers looked at each other.

  ‘Better move,’ Moore said, ‘thanks.’

  ‘Thank your boss,’ Nga replied, ‘he wanted us to keep an eye on the girl, but we saw these dudes follow you instead. Didn’t have a chance to call you.’

  Moore nodded, glancing around. A few people were watching from across the road, but in true civilian style, nobody intervened. He was acutely aware though that London was literally dripping in CCTV, and they were probably on camera right now.

  ‘Gotcha back, bruv.’ Vince winked and fell into step with his wife as they walked away up the service lane.

  Moore put his head down and walked the other way, his heart racing with the sudden adrenaline dump he’d had only seconds before. More than that, he wanted to know who the hell these clowns really were. Maybe it was just a mugging, some random street violence, but his instincts said no. It was rare that shit just happened, particularly when you were donkey deep in a job.

  He spotted a walkway across the road to a swanky bar, and ducked over to it. The bar would definitely have cameras outside, but sure enough, there was a small alcove to the side just off the footpath, accessing other businesses.

  A slick-looking couple were huddled in there, puffing on a sly joint before they hit the bar. They both jumped when Moore appeared and the guy quickly tucked the cigarette behind him, obviously thinking the newcomer was the Old Bill. The alcove reeked of dope smoke.

  ‘A’ight mate,’ the guy said, sussing him out. The platinum blonde with him adjusted the strapless red number that was struggling to keep her puppies in check.

  Moore ignored them both and dug his phone out, rapidly dialling the Forsythe Hotel. Katie took forever to answer the phone and sounded both wary and weary when she did.

  ‘Get dressed fast,’ Moore said abruptly. ‘Come out the front and up Henrietta Street, I’ll find you.’

  ‘Yup.’

  With that she was gone and he put the phone away, stripping off his jacket and glancing at the couple again. The guy was sparking up the joint again, and tentatively offered it to Moore. The girl ran her eyes down him and back up again.

  Moore ignored them and turned away, starting to move.

  ‘Wanker,’ the guy said to his back.

  Moore turned his jacket inside out, changing it from a grey windcheater to a black one. He removed a khaki cap from the inside pocket and put it on, waiting in a doorway and watching the three hoods as they regathered themselves.

  The one in the white shell suit was moving very gingerly, and the guy Nga had KO’d was unsteady on his feet. The one in the black hoody had his hood pulled up now and was rallying the other two, jostling them up towards Covent Garden while he fiddled with his phone.

  Katie appeared across the road, hands tucked into the pockets of her black puffer jacket as she strode up the footpath, long dark hair flowing behind her. Moore crossed over and dropped into step with her, cutting her off before she could speak.

  ‘Keep moving,’ he said. ‘Those three chavs jumped me and I want to see who they are.’

  She ran a surreptitious eye over him as they eased back and maintained a steady pace.

  ‘You look okay.’

  He grunted. ‘I had some help.’

  His phone buzzed and he saw Vince’s name appear on the screen. He connected.

  ‘Going somewhere bruv?’

  ‘Just on these clowns. Stay and watch the hotel would ya? I’ll shout if I need you.’

  ‘All good.’

  Vince cut off and they followed as the three hoods entered Covent Garden and went straight ahead, past the Jubilee Market towards the London Transport Museum. There still hadn’t been any sign of Police, which Moore took as a good sign. He wanted to track these guys and any cops would just spook them. As they walked he filled Katie in quickly.

  ‘Lucky you caught me,’ she said, ‘I was about to hit the sack.’

  ‘Done much surveillance before?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope, not really. We have a specialist team for that.’

  ‘We’ll keep it simple then, and stick together. May not last long anyway – I’m guessing they’re going to a car or tube.’

  Up ahead the three were still together, moving slower than normal due to the blonde in the white shell suit’s tender condition. They were talking among themselves with lots of angry hand gestures from the black hoody, and were oblivious to their surroundings. People swerved around them and avoided eye contact.

  Moore took the lead, tucking Katie’s arm under his as if they were just another couple out on the town. They stayed offline to the hoods, in case any of them looked back, and kept a regular pace, slowing to look in windows as they passed but always keeping a careful eye on their quarry. Moore also kept an eye out for any other tails, either plain clothed cops alerted to the earlier fight, or other members of the group who were watching their buddies’ backs. Nobody jumped out at him.

  The hoods turned left at the museum and right into Russell Street, moving through the night owls who were out for drinks, dinner and shows. They hit a cross street and went left. The two shadows crossed over and followed them from the far side, changing positions so that Katie was closest to them while Moore was partially concealed. As they moved Katie pulled her hair back and tied it with a green scrunchy from her pocket.

  ‘Bow Street,’ she murmured, spotting a street sign. ‘The Bow Street Runners.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The first detective force in the old times. Hand-picked thief catchers.’ She glanced at him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Finally, something you don’t know. Legendary.’

  Moore gave her bemused and kept the hoods in his peripheral vision. He spotted a car waiting at the next left, half on the kerb with the engine running.

  ‘Heads up,’ he said softly.

  The three hoods made a beeline for it and piled in, the black hoody pausing to shout some abuse at a motorist who was trying to move past the parked black BMW. He kicked at the car as it went past and gave the driver the fingers.

  ‘Nice,’ Katie observed drily.
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br />   Moore tucked the plate number into his memory bank and watched as the BMW squealed away and took a fast left, disappearing from sight.

  ‘I couldn’t see the driver,’ Katie said, looking up at him. ‘Was this connected to Natalie, do you think?’

  Moore shook his head briefly, his jaw setting.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Something else. Nothing for you to worry about.’ He gave her a smile and squeezed her arm into him. ‘I’ll follow it up tomorrow.’

  Katie looked as if she was going to press it for a moment, but thankfully changed her mind. She leaned into him instead.

  ‘I hope you’re going to walk me home,’ she pouted. ‘I was just about to go to bed.’ Her eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘And you know what that means.’

  Moore knew she slept naked. He felt a rising in his loins, not helped by the press of her lithe young body against him.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it is quite late and you are a girl…’

  ‘I’m not usually out so late,’ Katie said innocently, as they began to move again, huddled closer together now. ‘It’s a bit naughty, isn’t it?’

  Moore cocked an eyebrow at her.

  ‘It is very naughty,’ he agreed. ‘I think you’re in need of some rigid discipline.’

  Chapter Forty Six

  Moore was woken by the buzz of his phone and fumbled in the dark for it.

  He was disoriented, torn from a deep sleep.

  His first thought was that it was Danni, and he felt an instant kick of worry in his chest. Katie stirred beside him.

  As soon as he answered he heard a woman’s voice screaming down the line at him. He jerked the phone away from his ear and snapped the bedside light on, squinting at the phone’s screen. Wizzle’s name showed. It took him a few seconds to recognise Lana’s voice, a curious mix of European-Scandinavian-East End accents. He waited for her screaming to pause before he could interrupt.

  ‘What is it Lana? What’s going on?’

  ‘They stab Wizz and now he’s bleeding everywhere and I can’t stop it! He try to help you and now he’s fucking dying you bastard!’

  Moore felt his skin go cold. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the gym! They fucking come for you and he try to help you!’ She broke off into sobbing and wailing and Moore rolled out of bed, tucking the phone into his shoulder as he grabbed clothes from the chair by the window.

  ‘I’m coming to you now Lana. Hang up and call nine-nine-nine, understand? Get an ambulance there.’ He yanked his jeans on. ‘I’ll be there in two minutes.’

  With that he disconnected and shoved the phone into his pocket.

  Katie pushed up onto an elbow, hair falling over her face. ‘What is it?’ she croaked. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Shhh.’ Moore leaned over and kissed her on the head. ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll be back soon.’

  Thirty seconds later he was in a black cab, urging the driver to get a move on. It seemed an age before the cabbie pulled up outside the gym. Moore threw him a twenty and jumped out, seeing an ambulance already there with its red lights washing the otherwise empty street. Lana must’ve called them before she called him.

  Wizzle was already on a stretcher and being rolled out the front door. He was bare-chested and his torso was streaked with red. Moore ran to him and saw a Police car approaching, blues and twos going, adding to the sensation overload. Lana was standing to the side, her white puffer jacket covered in blood and her hand to her mouth, crying hard.

  The two paramedics ignored him as they loaded the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Wizzle looked vaguely in his direction but was so out of it he probably didn’t recognise him. Moore could see he had a large dressing covering his right cheek. He went to Lana and touched her arm. She cried harder.

  ‘Who was it, Lana? Did you see it?’

  ‘That fucking crazy little shit,’ she cried, ‘that Romper guy and his brother, and their friends. They stab him in the back and laugh and leave him there.’ She met his eyes now, her face lined with running mascara. ‘They didn’t even care I saw them, Kiwi. They didn’t give a shit I saw them. They just laugh and left him there.’

  The Police car pulled up and Moore knew he only had seconds.

  ‘Who did the stabbing?’

  ‘What does it fucking matter who did the stabbing? He could be dead!’

  ‘It matters,’ he told her urgently. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Both of them,’ she said, quieter now. She glanced over his shoulder and he knew the cops were almost on them. ‘Both of them.’

  ‘Where would they go?’ he pressed her, and she shook her head, her hair falling over her face.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She pushed her hair back and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Probably their pub.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He turned and almost bumped into one of the cops.

  ‘Wait up there, sir,’ the bobby said, his tone firm and authoritative.

  ‘Sorry officer, I just stopped to see if everything was okay,’ Moore replied. He glanced at Lana. ‘The young lady was crying, as you can see.’

  ‘Is that right madam?’ the bobby asked Lana, doubt all over his face.

  She met Moore’s eyes and gave a nod. She knew the score. ‘I don’t know this man,’ she said. ‘He just stopped, like he said. It was me that called the ambulance.’

  The ambulance moved off, lights and siren going, and Moore turned on his heel. He walked away quickly and as soon as he got round the corner he broke into a jog. He needed to get home and get his car.

  He had no doubt that the bobby or his partner would be noting down his description, but he couldn’t do anything about that right now. Even if they established his name, it wasn’t linked to his home address and by the time anyone got through the layers to him he would have his story in place.

  The patch on Wizzle’s face indicated a facial stab – it had to be Jimmy the Blade. Stab wounds to the back meant Romper Stomper.

  He made it to the flat and got into the Jag, taking a moment to catch his breath and compose himself before firing it up.

  He drove away, with one thing on his mind.

  The Red Lion was a shabby pub in a shabby part of Barnsbury and Moore parked down the road from it. Light leaked around the blinds in the front windows.

  God only knew what had possessed him to drink there in the first place two weeks ago, and he regretted it to his very core right now. If he hadn’t crossed that threshold then, he wouldn’t be having to do it again now.

  And there was no doubt in his mind that he had to. The cops would not get any joy out from Wizz and Lana, and if Wizz took matters into his own hands – as he undoubtedly would – he would be back behind bars before he knew it. Moore couldn’t have that on his conscience, not when he had set the chain of events in motion.

  The street was empty aside from parked cars at this time of night. A jet black Hummer took pride of place by the door, blocking a fire hydrant. Moore was confident that no parking warden would dare give it a ticket. He paused beside it and held a hand over the bonnet; warm.

  He took a side alley to the rear of the pub and let himself in the rickety gate. The small courtyard was littered with boxes and rubbish. He opened the back door and let himself into a darkened kitchen. Voices sounded from the public area beyond another door. He took a few seconds to compose himself before pushing his way through the door into the bar area.

  A man stood behind the bar, his sleeves rolled up and a black apron around his waist. He was bald headed and had a goatee. Tattoos lined his arms. Beyond him Moore saw five more men in a booth to his right, pints before them, laughing and talking. They had obviously retired for a nightcap after their outing to the gym.

  The talking and laughter stopped as they clocked his presence. Moore recognised one of them as the thug he had dropped – Romper – and another as one of his buddies that night.

  The barman turned and saw him. He took a step forward, his ha
nd out to push Moore’s chest.

  ‘Who the fuck…’ He never finished his sentence.

  Moore slapped the hand down with his left and threw a hard right jab into the barman’s nose. As the barman clutched at his bleeding face Moore kicked him in the balls and grabbed his bald head as he bent forward. He drove the man down on his face and kicked him hard in the guts for good measure.

  He stepped left around the bar into the public area, leaving the barman gasping and grunting behind him. The five men were rising, Romper and a guy who had to be his older brother on each flank. Romper squinted at him across the gap between them.

  ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘He’s the guy.’

  Moore studied him. He was shorter than Moore and just as wide, but not in great shape. The one Moore had pegged as Jimmy the Blade was about Moore’s height, leaner than his brother, with a proper hardness about him. He had a tear drop tat by his left eye and a goatee. In fact two of the others also had goatees – must’ve been the flavour around here. Like the brothers the other three thugs were all in their twenties. One was tall and skinny with neck tats, a shaved head and a goatee. The second was short, only five and a half feet, with sandy hair and a goatee. The third was wide in the shoulders and fat, with curly dark hair and a mono-brow over stubbly jowls.

  Diamante studs were all round and they were all in track suits apart from the fat one, who had jeans on. He obviously didn’t know that trackies had more give.

  ‘You must be Jimmy,’ Moore said to the leader of the gang.

  ‘And you must be the Kiwi fucker who blind shot my little bruvver.’

  Moore gave a sneer. ‘If he didn’t hit like a fuckin’ pansy he might’ve won that, considering he had his two boyfriends with him.’ Moore gestured at the tall guy and the Mono-Brow. ‘I didn’t catch their names – Woodcock and Splinter Lips, was it?’

  The tall one bristled and glanced at Romper, who reddened. Moore smirked. ‘Hit a nerve there, ladies?’ He turned his attention back to Jimmy the Blade. ‘I see you pricks aren’t man enough to front up to your problem, so the problem came to you.’