by Ian Williams
‘Eye Eye’ said DI Carragher sarcastically as he looked down on the grisly spectre that confronted him.
‘Oh, very funny’ PC McGeorge tone was disapproving as usual. In front of them, on the floor of his office was James Benjamin Langan, all six feet four and eighteen Jamaican stones of him. However he must have weighed a lot less now as he was surrounded by pints of his own blood which was still seeping out of the five inch tear in his neck and more alarmingly from the two holes where his eyes had been, hence DI Carraghers joke.
It was 11 a.m. Sunday morning the 2nd of September 2007. They were standing, not in a proper office building but rather the office at the top of the building attached to the ‘Booty’ nightclub. The club had a rather salubrious reputation and was on the Met Police’s watch list as drugs were rife, violence both inside and outside the club was a regular occurrence, some of the most violent London gangs frequented the establishment and to top it all off it was owned by one James Benjamin Langan, JB to his friends, Mr Langan to his employees and ‘Benny’ to his wife, which was a constant embarrassment when he was out with her but probably not something that would concern him any more.
‘So what do you think happened here then Mcgeorge’ queried DI Carragher.
‘Well from the looks of it and having taken statements from the cleaner who found him this morning at 8:30 a.m. and the head barman who had just come down to do a stock check at 9 a.m., he was here last night in his office with some of his crew and one or two women who were also his employees at the nearby Honey Club which is a lap dancing club in Paddington on Praed Street. From the amount of empty glasses, empty Moet & Chandon champagne bottles, plus various other half empty spirits bottles, not to mention the cocaine liberally thrown all over the coffee table and desk over there they had quite a night. Mr Langan was found like this, sprawled over the antique green leather sofa, his large mahogany desk has been checked but there isn’t much in there. The head barman says he left at 4 a.m. and there were only a couple of people left by then. They were Mr Langan, ‘Phoenix’ & ‘Crystal’ the barman isn’t sure of their real names but they work for Mr Langan at the Honey Club as ‘exotic dancers’ plus an associate of his called ‘Bacchus’, again the barman is unsure of his real name but did give us an address, Flat 3, 57a Abbey Road, St Johns Wood, he said its near the Salt House pub.
As you can also see the wall safe is still open. Bit of a cliché but the safe was hidden behind a painting, some sort of graffiti artist, we could track him down but it seems irrelevant. There are unused bullet cartridges on the floor just below the safe. If there was a gun there as well then it’s gone. There is money scattered over the floor, looks like it was in the safe, but not all of it was wrapped. The barman says the night’s takings had been in there, just over £10,000, although he is not sure how much was actually taken as it was being dished out to the party revellers plus he had a few visitors he owed money to. We can get forensics in to check the inside of the safe for any residue. There are also some contracts in the safe relating to this club and the three lap dancing clubs that he owns plus a very interesting financial report on his business dealings, who with, how much etc which is going to be very helpful to CID and Operation Trident.’
Carragher - ‘So what do you think the reason behind the murder was then? Gang related or a robbery?’
McGeorge - ‘Hard to tell at this early stage but I would guess its gang related, probably drugs and they maybe took whatever was in the safe as it was open when they arrived, alternatively they tortured him for the combination, although this would seem doubtful as if he had been screaming the place down somebody would probably have heard something’
‘Yes, you are probably right there. What about any CCTV recordings from inside the club?’
‘I asked about that and apparently they turn off the security recordings once the club closes. Plus, as he knows a few dubious characters around here he has a side entrance to get up here which is not monitored or recorded. I have requested the tapes are taken in as evidence so we can review them for any leads but it looks doubtful. I have got PC Robinson in the other room checking them over, do you want to go and have a chat with him?’
‘I will do it on the way out. Okay then, good work. Get forensics down here as soon as you can to give this place the once over. There is certainly plenty to work with here so hopefully they will turn something up.’
‘Will do chief, you off duty now?’
‘Indeed, off home for some kip. The Mrs is probably in a right mess as she was out with the girls last night while I was working so I might make lots of noise and see how bad her hangover actually is’
‘Okay well see you later then’
‘Yeah, see you tomorrow for an update’
DI Carragher walked out of the office and down the metal stairs into the club. The hand rail was still sticky from the previous night’s revelry. There was also the unmistakable smell of stale alcohol, as it had only been seven hours since the club had been packed. Ian passed the small room near the entrance where the security tapes and equipment were. The door was ajar and he could see PC Greg Robinson staring intently at the screen.
‘Hiya Greg son, how you doing?’
‘Okay thanks red shite’ whispered Greg guiltily. This was his nickname for Ian which he should only really use outside of work hours. Ian was a Liverpool fan. Greg was originally from Sunderland and had the accent to match. Plus it was impossible for him to string a single sentence together without taking the piss out of someone or using several expletives.
‘Your Mackem’s aren’t doing very well are they then, what is it, bottom of the league, hardly any points…’ goaded Ian
‘Howay, yer red shite bastard, leave us alone will yer, I was screaming at the tele on sat’ day, another awful performance, nearly got thrown out of the pub for throwing me beer at the tele like’
‘You what…how did you not get barred for that then?’
‘Because the landlord is a fellow Mackem and he was standing right next to me but he didn’t see me do it as he was on his knees pounding the floor with his fist screaming obscenities at the floor. He was more annoyed than I was. Even more so when he looked up and saw beer dripping down off his brand new forty two inch flat screen.’
‘Jesus, you North East lot are mad. I love my football but throwing good beer away…..disgraceful, at the least you could have thrown a soft drink.’
They both looked at each other and smiled. ‘So come on…’ enquired Ian as he bent down to survey the monitor, ‘have you found anything interesting?’
‘Loads man. Can’t believe the people that come in here. Loads of gang members, seriously hard blokes, plenty of women as well, with not much on either, couple of bobby dazzlers in there as well’
‘Greg this isn’t an interview for Playboy TV, have you actually got anything useful for me you dirty pervert’
‘Sorry red shite…I mean DI Carragher….I noticed this lot’ PC Robinson checked his notes and rewound the tape to precisely 12:33 a.m. There, coming into the club were six white men. Which in itself wasn’t unusual but the fact they were the only white men in the queue was one thing. The other thing was that they were a Polish gang who had recently got onto the Met police’s radar, moving into prostitution, armed robbery and more recently drug dealing.
Ian got even closer to the screen ‘What the fuck are they doing in here? That takes some balls. Aren’t they in competition with James Benjamin Langan? They must know this is his club, and they have the temerity and balls and come in here, that shows a sign of intent. Good spot son, keep looking see what else you can find’
‘Will do Ian, and see you Monday for the footie, us versus your lot.’
‘yeah see you there then’ Ian walked out, as he did so he was shaking his head as he was surprised at the manner of the killing, the throat cut was nothing new, but to actually take the eyes out, and not only that but to take them away when they left was quite brutal and unnecessary in a way. Maybe he had been a witness to so
mething and it got out he had been telling people about it? Perhaps there was a contract put out on him with an extra amount to be paid for actual proof he was no longer of this earth? The Yardie’s from the Caribbean had been moving into London over recent years and attacks had been getting more frequent and violent so perhaps there was something there as well. Also a number of Eastern European gangs had been moving in and there had already been some brutal attacks and incidents as gang’s fought for territory and influence all across London. Forensics would find some interesting stuff that’s for sure.
Ian clicked the unlock button on his car key-ring. The indicator lights flashed as the car doors unlocked and he got into his car, turned on the radio and headed home. He thought about cooking himself some breakfast when he got in but was too tired and doubted there was anything in the fridge anyway so decided to stop off at a café. I think I will give the boiled eggs a miss, they will remind me of Langans eyes rolling around in a car somewhere, best to stick to a nice health conscious bacon and sausage sandwich with lashings of tomato sauce, washed down with a mug of tea, thought Ian. And anyway at least he wasn’t naked as otherwise I might have to give the sausage a miss as well…
The café was his usual hangout whenever he was on nights. It was a quiet place, not necessarily a traditional English ‘greasy spoon’ sort of place where even the mugs of tea were coated in grease and fat. It was pretty non-descript really, a simple small café layout, the owner had been there years. He couldn’t even be bothered to think up a decent name for the place, it simply said ‘CAFÉ in large black letters on a plain background. Clearly the word marketing was a mysterious black art to this man. He was friendly enough though and always said good morning, how are you today, but it was obvious he let the answers wash over him like waves on a seashore one after the other. Ian didn’t even know his name. He was an old-ish man, about fifty probably, tremendous cockney accent, always clean shaven and wearing a white shirt which he somehow kept clean all throughout the day. The meals were decent, hearty affairs and the prices were reasonable. The menu had innumerable choices on there but if you listed all the ingredients it essentially came down to bread, toast, bacon, eggs, sausage, baked beans, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes and chips. He liked it though as it is quiet at most times and there was always a good selection of papers to peruse whilst he shoved down his heart attack sandwich.
Having finished his gourmet breakfast, saying goodbye to white shirt no-marketing man on the way out he drove home and then put his key in the door and waited for a minute whilst he decided whether to be nice and quiet so his wife could sleep or as loud as possible, just to annoy her.
‘MORNING’ shouted Ian up the stairs.
‘Fuck off you arsehole, I’m hung-over’ complained Louisa annoyingly.
‘LOVE YOU TOO HONEY BUNNY’ shouted Ian just as loudly as he walked into the kitchen with a smile on his face.
However the smile was wiped off his face when he saw the state of the place. There were empty wine bottles, dirty glasses, and full ash trays everywhere, plus the unmistakable odour of women’s perfume, and lots of it. The girls had been round again.
‘Jesus wept’ muttered Ian under his breath as he began to clean up, trying his best to clink together as many bottles and glasses as possible so as to maximise the noise levels.
‘WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP’ bellowed his wife from upstairs.
Once Ian had at least tried to add a semblance of order to the kitchen he checked the post, which had been absent-mindedly flung on the kitchen counter. The envelopes were now stained with red and white rings of wine (that’s not easy to say is it!!)
Like an alcoholic’s version of the Olympic Games. It was all the usual stuff, bills bills and more bills. The electric bill was enormous again. There was only two of them but somehow the meter readings were as if Blofeld, Scaramanga and all the other James Bond villains had set up their secret bunker below Ian’s house and were siphoning off electricity for their lasers, super computers and hundreds of kettles to keep the silent army which never seemed to speak but which inevitably would be shot, exploded and destroyed by Bond with a single shot of his Walther PPK. The rest of the post was more bills. The last one was telling him he had probably won £100,000 with the Readers Digest. More bullshit. He tore them all up and threw them in the bin.
Fuck this, time to escape, so Ian opened the patio door at the back of the house in order to let some fresh air in. The cigarette odour wouldn’t dissipate in a hurry so he walked down to the shed where he lay down on his camp bed, put Classic FM on and went to sleep. Ahh the joys of married life thought Ian as his eyes closed, his body relaxed and he drifted off with piano music in his ears and the sun on his face.
