Capital Punishment

by Robert Wilson

  ‘Chip it out. I don’t want anything left.’

  ‘And the bodies?’

  ‘Bring them here. Put them in the freezers downstairs.’

  The doorman came in, looked at Pike and Kevin, saw the messiness of the air between them.

  ‘This a good time?’

  ‘For what?’ said Kevin.

  ‘Bethnal Green are at the door,’ he said. ‘They’re calling themselves a deputation from Joe Shearing, seeking clarification on an incident in Grange Road on Sunday night.’

  ‘What the fuck are they on?’ said Kevin.

  ‘They’re old school, are Bethnal,’ said Pike, sighing and reaching for a huge bag of Kettle Chips. ‘When it rains, it fucking pours.’

  He reached for his pint glass of milk, found it empty and rattled it on the tabletop. The doorman filled it from the fridge. Pike drank down half of it and stopped. His mouth came away with a white moustache. He’d had an idea; the doorman could see it come on in his head. Pike’s cheeks flushed, which was what happened when he was inspired.

  ‘Send them in,’ he said, wiping his moustache away with the sleeve of his England tracksuit top.

  The doorman came back with the two men. The smaller, grey-haired one was dapper in a camel coat and a brown pin-stripe suit, white shirt, red tie and a chocolate coloured trilby in his hands. His companion was huge, with a heavy, melancholy face under dark hair, and eyebrows and ear hair that needed to be trained, but with pliers. He was wearing a heavy blue coat that looked pre-war and made his shoulders sag with its weight. He didn’t speak and smiled only once, to reveal a graveyard of discoloured teeth in diseased gums, with an ox tongue nestling behind.

  Before the dapper one could even introduce himself and state his business, Pike started up, breasts juddering, so that the ENGLAND emblazoned across his chest trembled.

  ‘You’re seeking clarification?’ he said, and pointed with his pudgy fingers to his own chest. ‘We’re seeking clarification. Don’t know what the bloody hell’s got into those two. Gone rogue, that’s what. Brains frazzled by drugs. Sent them down to Grange Road to pay Jack his second five grand, they shoot him and some other bloke and walk off with the money. Don’t tell us. No, no. We only heard it on the radio. Haven’t seen them since. Just heard from Kevin here, they done another two in Deptford and run off with our merchandise. Don’t know what it is about the youth today. The recession killed something in their noggins.’

  ‘They’re not that young,’ said Kevin.

  ‘We’re looking for them now,’ said Pike, killing Kevin with a knife thrower’s aim. ‘We find them and we’ll give you your clarification just as soon as we’ve got ours. Kevin will make them dance the quick-step on hot coals.’

  ‘Why don’t you give us their names,’ said the dapper one. ‘Maybe we can help.’

  ‘Not sure that would be much help to you,’ said Kevin. ‘One’s called Skin, the other, Dan.’

  ‘Haven’t we got their full names somewhere?’ said Pike.

  ‘I’ll just check them up on their P45s,’ said Kevin drily.

  ‘Where are they from?’ asked the dapper one.

  ‘Your neck of the woods,’ said Kevin. ‘Stepney. Skin’s born and bred. The other’s an out-of-towner.’

  ‘They have a vehicle?’

  ‘A white transit van.’

  ‘Got a reg for it?’

  ‘Call Beadle’s Garage,’ said Kevin. ‘They had the MOT done there last month.’

  The doorman disappeared. The four men exchanged awkwardness around the room.

  ‘You find them before us, we’d like to have first crack,’ said Kevin. ‘We’re very concerned about the merchandise they’ve run off with.’

  The dapper one looked at his hang-dog companion, who didn’t appear to react, but must have done.

  ‘We’d like to be present at the interrogation,’ he said.

  The doorman came back with the registration number of the van.

  ‘Your best chance is with Skin,’ said Kevin. ‘Shaved head, baby face, blue eyes, spiderweb tattoo up his neck and right cheek. Can’t miss him. The other one looks like a poof and talks la-di-da.’

  ‘He was a nurse,’ said Pike, almost wistful.

  The two men nodded and left.

  ‘What are we going to do with those bodies from the warehouse?’ said Kevin. ‘We can’t keep them in the freezers for ever.’

  Silence, while Pike worked his way through two Chelsea buns, licked the stickiness from his fingers and thumb.

  ‘Pike?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ said Pike.

  ‘We have to get the girl back.’

  ‘Stop telling me shit I already know,’ said Pike. ‘Who turned the radio off?’

  Pike’s face screwed up like a spoilt child. He rattled his glass for more milk. The radio came back on playing ‘Somewhere They Can’t Find Me’ by Simon and Garfunkel.

  20

  8.15 A.M., TUESDAY 13TH MARCH 2012

  Thames House, Millbank, London SW1

  Martin Fox and DCS Peter Makepeace had just been issued their security passes and were heading up to the third floor, accompanied by a uniformed officer. They moved in silence, minds too full of what was going to come out of the meeting, which Makepeace’s call to MI5 had provoked and which, to their surprise, had been anticipated.

  They were ushered into a boardroom with more people than they’d been expecting. Titles, names and departments flashed past: Joint Intelligence Committee, Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre, MI5 and MI6. But the two key personalities conducting the meeting were Joyce Hunter of MI5 and Simon Deacon of MI6.

  ‘Just so no one’s in any doubt as to why we’re here, a quick intro,’ said Joyce Hunter, running her hand through her short dark hair, looking around the table with her green eyes, no makeup, no jewellery apart from her wedding ring. ‘Martin Fox and Detective Chief Superintendent Makepeace contacted us last night, concerned at possible links Mr D’Cruz might have to international terrorist organisations.

  ‘Mr D’Cruz revealed that he’d worked for a gold smuggling gang operating between Dubai and India in the 1980s. He also declared that he was in a powerful position to aid terrorist organisations with intentions to attack the UK. He insists he does not help them, but is concerned that his obduracy could be seen as obstructive.

  ‘The kidnap of his daughter, therefore, could be an attempt by a terrorist organisation to pressurise him into assisting them. Simon.’

  ‘Last night, during a follow-up enquiry on an ex-employee of Mr D’Cruz, named Deepak Mistry, my agent was shot dead in the Dharavi slum in Mumbai for reasons unknown. The Indian police say that our agent was caught in crossfire between two rival gangs. One of these gangs’ leaders happens to be Anwar Masood, who supplies “an alternative security apparatus” for Mr D’Cruz. While the other gang was, nominally, headed up by a Hindu called Chhota Tambe, who is known for his antipathy to the Muslims.

  ‘It’s also been revealed that both Anwar Masood and Chhota Tambe belonged to the old gold smuggling gang called D-Company which Mr D’Cruz worked for between Dubai and Bombay. This gang was run by the Muslim boss of bosses, Dawood Ibrahim.’

  ‘If they were originally in the same group, what happened to split them up and why do they hate each other?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Religion,’ said Deacon. ‘In retaliation for the destruction of the Babri Mosque in Ayodhya by Hindus, Dawood Ibrahim organised the 1993 bombings in Mumbai. It split his gang along religious lines. They’ve hated each other ever since.

  ‘We have had no confirmation that Chhota Tambe’s outfit was actually hiding Deepak Mistry; all we can say is that my agent was hoping to find him there. Mr Mistry has still not been found and his importance to this case is not clear.

  ‘We’ve also been investigating possible links between Mr D’Cruz and unsavoury elements within the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence agency. Mr D’Cruz was selling steel in Pakistan and receiving contracts from senior ISI officers, and Lt General
Abdel Iqbal in particular. While this intelligence establishes some sort of link between Mr D’Cruz and the ISI, it does not show any terrorist connections.

  ‘It is well known in the intelligence community and the international press that Dawood Ibrahim’s old D-Company gang has since been incorporated by the ISI into the terrorist group Lashkar-e-Taiba. Confirmation that Mr D’Cruz was under the wing of Dawood Ibrahim in his gold smuggling days shows that there may be a, possibly defunct, link between the two men. So, as far as our terrorist concerns go, the most important link to establish would be between any of these ISI officers that Mr D’Cruz does business with, and Lashkar-e-Taiba.

  ‘So far the only link we have been able to establish is between Lt General Abdel Iqbal and his fellow ISI officer, Lt General Amir Jat, now retired. Jat has a complex web of loyalties, amongst them: the CIA, the Afghan Taliban, parts of the Pakistani Taliban, al-Qaeda and, we suspect, Lashkar-e-Taiba.’

  ‘You said the CIA?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘The CIA have always been grateful to Amir Jat for helping them mobilise the mujahideen as a fighting force against the Russian occupation of Afghanistan in the 1980s. Amir Jat has maintained that relationship with carefully managed intelligence from the Pakistani border region. A lot of senior CIA officers haven’t got a bad word to say about Amir Jat, but the younger officers in the field will tell you about his control of the heroin smuggling business to finance Taliban insurgency and that he is the prime suspect for hiding Osama bin Laden in the Abbottabad compound. So he’s a complicated individual.’

  ‘Heroin smuggling,’ said DCS Makepeace. ‘Amir Jat is beginning to sound like a linchpin to me. And if a direct link between him and Mr D’Cruz could be established, that would give all of us grounds for grave concern.’

  ‘It would certainly go some way to explaining the nature of this kidnap,’ said Joyce Hunter. ‘No financial demand, only a show of sincerity being asked for. It could be that pressure is being applied to Mr D’Cruz to perform in some way.’

  ‘It also implies that he should know how to perform,’ said Makepeace. ‘That he knows what the demonstration entails.’

  ‘We think that Mr D’Cruz might know something of what is going on,’ said Simon Deacon. ‘It’s possible that this “demonstration of sincerity” is actually a demand that he just continues to keep his mouth shut. At this stage we are inclined to trust him, that he has too much at stake in this country to betray us to terrorists. We are also hoping that if we allow Mr D’Cruz some freedom of supervised movement, we could pull off a major intelligence coup.’

  ‘And what the hell does that mean?’ asked Makepeace.

  They went into the bedroom, hoods on, shook Alyshia awake, got her propped up, sleeping mask off. She was groggy from the drug. Dan patted her about the cheeks. She slapped his hands away.

  ‘Hold this newspaper up under your chin,’ said Skin.

  Dan stood back and framed the shot with the mobile phone he’d found on Jordan and took it.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be in there with her?’ asked Skin. ‘You know: hooded man, gun to her neck. Scare them a bit.’

  ‘With a green and white al-Qaeda bandana, maybe?’ said Dan. ‘And a bread knife for extra horror? Let’s just keep it calm for the moment. We can build up to the more lurid stuff later.’

  Dan walked the half mile to Old Street tube station and went down to Bank. He got on the Docklands Light Railway, out towards Canary Wharf and across the river into Greenwich. He made the call from Greenwich Park. He was nervous. His skin prickled and would probably have sweated if it hadn’t been so intensely cold. He had some notes written down. He sat on a park bench. People walked past him on their way to work, paid him no attention.

  ‘Isabel Marks?’ he said.

  ‘Hello? Is that Jordan?’

  ‘No, Jordan is no longer in control of this kidnap. Your daughter Alyshia is now in our hands.’

  Silence.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Isabel. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We have taken over the kidnap of your daughter. That’s all you need to know. To prove this I am sending you a photograph of Alyshia holding today’s newspaper.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Get used to it, Mrs Marks,’ said Dan, finding a bit of confidence now that he sensed she was rattled. ‘Can you see the photo?’

  ‘I don’t know how to work this bloody thing.’

  ‘Don’t try and string this out, Mrs Marks. I’m only going to talk for a minute.’

  ‘Right. I can see her now,’ said Isabel. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘We want five million pounds in cash. I will call again in two hours’ time.’

  ‘What sort of cash?’

  He hadn’t thought that out. Ridiculous.

  ‘Pounds. Used notes,’ he said quickly, because that’s what they always asked for in the movies. ‘Twenties. In five separate sports bags. We’ll call you again in two hours’ time with the delivery details.’

  ‘We’ll need more than two hours to get five million pounds together,’ said Isabel.

  ‘That’s your problem, not mine,’ said Dan, and hung up.

  He took the train back to London Bridge, dropped the SIM card he’d just used in a bin and got on the Northern line to Old Street. He was nervous about being followed. Pike’s crew would be looking for them by now and they weren’t that far from Stepney. He didn’t fancy ending up in Kevin’s hands. Skin was a liability. That shaved head and stupid tattoo. He’d only let him out after dark.

  The round trip had taken him over an hour. He should have given himself more time before the next call. He’d go west for that one, get away from the East End. Maybe this unit on Branch Place hadn’t been such a great idea. He’d rushed into it. And now, with Pike’s crew probably bleeding across from Bethnal Green into Haggerston and Shoreditch, time didn’t seem quite so available anymore.

  Dan let himself into the flat silently. The murmur of voices reached him. He listened at the door. It sounded like a conversation that had been going on a long time.

  ‘That’s why I persuaded him we should take over the kidnap,’ said Skin. ‘We all need to make some money but there’s no need to treat people like shit. I mean, what was that all about? All those questions he was asking you?’

  ‘He knew everything about me. He knew more than my parents. He knew more about me than I did myself.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Skin was never going to make it as an interrogator.

  ‘Like things from my past that I’d rather forget.’

  ‘And what have you got in your past that you’d want to forget?’ said Skin. ‘You haven’t killed anyone. I had to do those two back in the warehouse. We reckon one was CIA and the other SAS.’

  Laying it on a bit thick, thought Dan.

  ‘How many people have you killed?’ asked Alyshia.

  ‘This week?’ said Skin, and they laughed, which sent a chill down Dan’s spine.

  He put on a hood and went in to Alyshia’s room. They seemed to have been unaware of his movement around the flat. She was lying on the bed, Skin was at her side as if it was a hospital visit. At least he was wearing his hood, because he’d allowed Alyshia to raise her sleeping mask.

  ‘This looks cosy,’ said Dan.

  ‘Just getting to know each other,’ said Skin, looking round.

  ‘A word,’ said Dan. ‘She still cuffed to the bed?’

  Alyshia rattled the manacle, smiled. No fear there, thought Dan. Skin brushed himself down. They’d been having coffee and biscuits. Dan closed the door on her.

  ‘What’s all this, then?’ asked Dan.

  ‘I’m just getting on with her,’ said Skin. ‘Finding out shit.’

  ‘Go on then, tell me what you’ve found out that’s going to make it easier for me to get a couple of million quid out of her dad?’

  ‘We’re not there yet. You can’t rush these things. I’m just—’

  ‘Chatting her up? That’s what it s
ounded like. The fucking CIA and the SAS? Coffee and biscuits? Fuck me. Just tell me you took over this kidnap because you fancied her. Let’s get that one out of the way, at least.’

  ‘She’s all right,’ said Skin, shrugging.

  ‘And when you have to get nasty with her because her dad’s not playing ball? How’s that going to go? Biscuits are cancelled for break? No cut flowers today?’

  ‘You were the one who bought the fucking biscuits.’

  ‘They’re rewards for good behaviour,’ said Dan. ‘She’s winding you ’round her little finger. I can tell.’

  ‘How do you know I’m not winding her ’round mine?’

  ‘In your fucking dreams, Skin. She’s so far out of your league it’s like watching Barcelona versus Barnet,’ said Dan.

  ‘You’re a cheerful little bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘Try getting yourself out of the movie of your life and back into the reality. You said it yourself: nobody’s going to give us a million each unless we, at least, look like we deserve it.’

  ‘So how did the phone call go?’ asked Skin. ‘You asked for two mil and she said there’s a cheque in the post?’

  Boxer left a voice message on Frank D’Cruz’s mobile and called Martin Fox, to be told he was out of the office. He sent a text: ‘Major development. Call me.’ He sent a copy to the Ops room and listened to the recording several times on the way to the newsagent, where he bought the Sun and compared the front cover to the shot on the mobile. He called Mercy.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You sound tense.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, brittle, getting on for fragile.

  ‘Someone else has taken over the kidnap,’ said Boxer. ‘I’ve tried calling Martin Fox but he’s in a meeting at Thames House with DCS Makepeace.’

  ‘Do you know who the new guys are?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Boxer. ‘I’ve sent a copy of the call to the Ops room. Listen to it. We’ve had a demand for five million quid from a middle class Englishman, who’s sent us a photo of Alyshia with a copy of today’s Sun. I think they’re amateurs. We need to act quickly.’