Kiss of Death

by Paul Finch

  She paused. There was silence, the entire room, the brass included, paying rapt attention.

  ‘Now, you people here may consider that pretty unfair … I certainly do. Only a couple of days ago, the Serial Crimes Unit concluded the first part of its investigation into the Black Chapel. Not too long ago, we helped to halt a string of brutal underworld slayings and apprehended a notorious hitman.’

  Heck listened alongside everyone else. He still felt the bruises from that last one.

  ‘I would certainly call those results impressive,’ Gemma said. ‘And you Coldies have an equal track record. In case any SCU officers are uninformed about this, in the last twelve months, Cold Case, under the command of Detective Chief Superintendent Straker here, have brought charges against eight individuals believed to be connected to historic homicides. But it seems, ladies and gentlemen, that none of this is quite enough.’ She paused to tuck ringlets of blonde hair behind her ears. ‘I recently attended a meeting at the Yard, wherein representatives of the National Police Chiefs’ Council put it bluntly to me that the Serial Crimes Unit either had to find some clear and visible way to reduce its overheads, or it had to increase its arrest and conviction rate dramatically, or, preferably, both. One other alternative was laid out for me – we discontinue operations.’

  Mumbles of anger sounded, even though they’d all known this was coming.

  ‘What’s more, the whole of National Crime Group is under similar pressure.’ She glanced at Wullerton. ‘You want to say something about that, Joe?’

  Wullerton sat stiffly upright, arms folded. ‘No, it’s fine, Gemma … you carry on.’

  ‘Director Wullerton is too self-effacing to mention it,’ she said, ‘but he’s been putting up a hell of a fight on our behalf. He recently put a forceful case to NPCC that if we lose the Kidnap Squad, the Organised Crime Division and the Serial Crimes Unit … all at the same time, then in one go we’ll have left our society significantly weakened in its battle against some of the most serious threats currently posed by the criminal underworld …’

  There was silence again. Clearly, no one disagreed.

  ‘Unfortunately, it cut no ice,’ Gemma said. ‘However, two days after my meeting at Scotland Yard, I received a phone call from Detective Chief Superintendent Straker here, who advised me that she and her Cold Case team at the Met were facing an identical crisis. Do you want to take it from here, Gwen?’

  ‘Thanks, Gemma,’ Gwen said, standing up.

  She peeled off her suit jacket and hung it from a hook on a shelf.

  ‘I won’t elaborate on any of this,’ she said. ‘We all know we’re under the microscope. However, our two units are in a more invidious position than most because we can’t just send staff out onto the streets to bump our stats the easy way. At least …’ she paused, ‘that was what I thought. But then it occurred to me that maybe there actually are some offenders out there, still at large, whose pursuit and apprehension would comfortably fall within the remit of the people gathered in this room.’

  There was a stir of interest.

  Gwen nodded to one of her Cold Case detectives, who hit some keys on his laptop. The VDU came to life, initially depicting a gallery of twenty thumbnail mugshots.

  ‘Unlike the FBI, in the UK we don’t keep an official list of the Most Wanted,’ Gwen said. ‘But that doesn’t mean there aren’t a number of fugitives from British justice wanted in connection with some very serious crimes who may still be living here – either in hiding, or under false names and identities.’

  She turned to the screen.

  ‘My proposal, which I first made to DSU Piper and then to NPCC, was that SCU and Cold Case pooled their resources and drew up a list of the twenty Most Wanted fugitives from UK justice who were still believed to be in the country. And once we’d established that list, that we rekindled and pursued those particular enquiries. In short, that we made it our very next job to go after the twenty worst of the worst.’

  Heck eyed the rows of faces on-screen. On their way in, everyone present had been handed a bundle of paperwork relevant to their own particular part of the enquiry, but also providing overarching information about Sledgehammer as a whole. No doubt, all of these mugshots, and the rap-sheets attached to each one of them, would be included in said packages, but it was interesting to see the faces all on-screen together.

  ‘You won’t need me to tell you,’ Gwen said, ‘that if, within a reasonable timeframe, we can arrest and convict even half of the names on this list – because each one of these is an open sore which NPCC is both angry and embarrassed about – we will massively boost our value for money in the eyes of the people who matter.’

  She paused again, to let it sink in.

  ‘So, people … welcome to Operation Sledgehammer. DSU Piper picked the name, because we’re going to bring the full weight of the police service of England and Wales down on these scattered nuts, who are likely to be much more fragile than they realise.’

  There were several satisfied snickers.

  ‘In the first instance, as some of you are already aware, we’re assigning two detectives to each individual. I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but that’s only for the initial phase of the enquiry. Once you’ve made substantial ground on your case, Silver Command – that’s myself and DSU Piper, we will joint-SIO this investigation from the Command Centre here at Staples Corner – will provide all the technical, financial and personnel back-up you require to see it through to the end. We’ve already made preliminary contact with the various force areas in which your enquiries are to be focused, and in most cases, you’ll find that local CID have already done some groundwork on your behalf.

  ‘I’m not going to waste time giving you a pep talk,’ Gwen added. ‘You’re all experienced police officers, and you’ll have heard about these individuals before. You may even have encountered them. But just reappraising yourself with the offences they are suspected of committing ought to be enough to motivate you. For example –’ she indicated a mugshot ‘– I’m sure you’re all familiar with Leonard Spate, who is wanted for raping and beating to death a woman he picked up at a Workington nightclub, and who later escaped from custody and then raped and murdered a prostitute in Carlisle. The latter victim’s two children also died because, after finishing with the mother, Spate burned down the house where they were sleeping.’

  Disgusted mutters rippled across the room.

  ‘How about Terry Godley?’ Gwen said, moving on to the next target. ‘He’s wanted in connection with an armed carjacking in Nottingham several years ago. There were two teenage boys in the vehicle at the time. Both were later found dead, having been made to kneel before being shot through the back of the head, execution-style.

  ‘And let’s not forget Christopher Brenner, who went on the run four years ago after three missing prostitutes were found chained in his Luton cellar – they’d been tortured, raped repeatedly and were emaciated to the point of near death.’

  And so it went, name after name, their atrocities never less than despicable. But for all that, Heck was worried. It was clear to him that, despite these diabolical crimes – and Eddie Creeley was as bad as any of them – this still felt like a desperate ploy. It was no small task the detective duos were facing here.

  ‘So you see, people …’ Gwen fixed them all with a flat stare. ‘You’re not just going to be saving our skins by doing this. We pull in half of this lot … hey, we pull in even as few as a third, and we’ll be doing the world a big favour. Now, neither DSU Piper nor I are going to pretend that this is some kind of easy option. But at least it means that our communal fate is still in our own hands.’

  Heck was in the DO, inserting new photos into his scrapbook, when Gail found him.

  From their headshots, Father Strachan and the Right Revs Hanson and Thomas looked like thoroughly decent people; the first of them avuncular and jovial, the second prim and refined, the third pleasantly mischievous. There were some dodgy characters in the clergy t
hese days – there was no doubt about that. But these three had apparently led blameless lives, and so made sad additions to his collection. The scrapbook resembled such an item in name only now. Its spine had gone, and its cover was more sticky tape than cardboard, having fallen apart and been repaired so often, but the record it contained – a photo gallery of all those murder victims Heck had managed to gain some kind of justice for – had remained intact through thick and thin. In fact, there were more faces in there now than the book had ever been designed for, so he’d needed to add extra pages.

  ‘I heard about this,’ Gail said, looking over his shoulder.

  Multiple faces gazed up at her as he flicked through, looking for spare space. Some were passport shots, some cut-outs from photos taken at functions or family gatherings. They depicted all ages, races, sexes. None looked unhappy, of course, and why would they? When these pictures were taken, they were very much part of this world, with no clue that disaster was slowly creeping up on them.

  ‘Just the victims, is it?’ she said.

  ‘Well, they’re the most important,’ he replied. ‘The crims can go and rot, for all I care. In most of these cases, I’m glad to say, that’s exactly what the bastards are doing … either in jail, or in the ground.’ He closed the book and slid it into his drawer.

  ‘You seem stressed,’ she said.

  He looked up at her. ‘I’m not stressed. But this is a big job. We’ll need to focus.’

  ‘I’m assuming it’s a case here of “last in, first out”?’

  ‘What?’

  Gail sat at her desk. With the briefing over, officers were bustling back into the DO. Most were now preoccupied, but even so, she lowered her voice.

  ‘During my interview and application process, no one in SCU told me we were dangling by a thread.’

  ‘We’re not dangling by a thread,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard this sort of thing time and again.’

  ‘You don’t believe that. I can tell from the look on your face.’

  ‘Listen, Gail … every time we have a tough case, we hear the same thing: “Sort this one out quick, the future of the squad depends on it.” And what happens? We sort it out and life goes on.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but I can’t help thinking that if Gemma really is forced to make cuts, I’ll be on the first train back to Surrey.’

  ‘Well … what you have to do is prove to her that it won’t be necessary.’ He stood and handed her the Creeley file. ‘And in that regard, this is very timely, don’t you think?’

  ‘Like you said,’ she replied, ‘big job.’

  ‘Like you said … no pressure.’

  Chapter 11

  When the night of the shooting got under way, Spencer Taylor had no reason to assume that it wouldn’t go as smoothly as usual.

  Dante Brown was nothing if not a creature of habit. Ever since he’d stepped away from the Stamford Toreadors, got himself a job delivering Domino’s Pizza, and moved in with pregnant girlfriend, Carolyn, you could set your watch by his schedule.

  His weekday shift always finished at 10 p.m., and then he invariably hung around the shop an extra fifteen minutes while the kids who worked there made him a pizza on the house, or in lieu of his wages, or some such shit. After that, distinctive for the red hoodie top he always wore, he’d walk home down the Seven Sisters Road with the box tucked underneath his arm, reaching St Ann’s at about 10:30 p.m., at which point he’d turn left into South Tottenham. As home was a flat above a burglar alarm shop on Tottenham High Road, he would now almost have reached his destination. Once indoors, he and the lovely Carolyn would spend the rest of the evening in their undies, slumped in front of their portable TV, chomping contentedly through a delicious twelve-inch Margherita.

  If only …

  As Spencer waited in the shadowy alcove between two caged-off shopfronts thirty yards west of the corner with High Road, he shook his head in mock-regret.

  If only Dante had not forgotten who he was.

  If only he’d not been so weak-willed as to let Carolyn talk him into finding a so-called ‘better way’ purely because he wanted to hump her brains out.

  If only Dante, having insisted that, at twenty-nine years old, he was past all this and that the Toreadors were big enough to stand on their own two feet, had at least done what he’d told them he was going to do – which was retire to private life.

  If only in the last two weeks, he had not commenced clandestine meetings with undercover officers from Operation Trident, the Metropolitan Police’s special unit for investigating gun crime and murder within the city’s Afro-Caribbean community.

  That latter had been unexpected, Spencer had to admit.

  Dante, as elder statesman, hadn’t once just been spiritual leader to the Toreadors, he’d been a solid trooper, a real marine. And it wasn’t as though, if he’d ever suddenly decided to talk, he’d easily have been able to conceal his own past. Dante had pulled the trigger at least twice, as far as Spencer knew. Long in the past now, of course, though this was doubtless the reason why Dante was now contemplating singing. The pigs must have him over a barrel. They were ready to nail him for his own indiscretions, so he’d offered them a deal, and in all honesty, what could you really use to trade away two premeditated gang hits? Well, how about a whole lot more premeditated gang hits. Ten, fifteen … maybe the entire twenty that Spencer was aware the Toreadors had been involved in over the last two decades. He wasn’t even sure if that was the full tally. At nineteen years old, he was a relative baby. But Dante would have the full skinny on all the crew’s activities going way back.

  But it was strange, the state of mind you could fall into when someone you’d once idolised could overnight become the means by which you yourself might obtain star status.

  To take down a player, or even an ex-player, like Dante Brown, would have been an onerous thing for any of the Toreadors. He’d put their crew on the map; he’d done personal stuff for all of them in the past; his leadership had inspired each and every one to great things. So even though he was now a grass it would have felt wrong on every level to put his candle out.

  But someone had to do it.

  And come the hour, come the man.

  When Spencer had put his hand up, they hadn’t regarded him with awe as much as surprise, probably thinking who the fuck does this snot-nosed rugrat think he is?

  His two previous hits had seemingly counted for nothing, but why wouldn’t they? On both occasions, he’d been part of a three-man team. The first time, blasting from a moving car at a queue outside a kebab shop, he was certain that of the three who’d gone down, he’d been the only one to put rounds into their intended target, the one in the middle – but there’d been no way to prove that. The second time, pumping lead through a hairdresser’s window, he’d only winged the target, the elder sister of a rival who’d previously accounted for two of their own; but the rest of the team wouldn’t have been able to finish her off if she hadn’t fallen clear from her bunch of girlfriends, landing full length on the carpet of shattered glass. Again though, he couldn’t expect to be singled out for praise; they’d hardly hung around to check whose piece had fired the slugs that did most damage.

  But this was the one that was going to change all that.

  After this, no one would spot him walking around the neighbourhood and wonder who he was; no one would ever question his credentials again.

  Spencer was distracted from these dreams of glory by the sudden unexpected sight of his target strolling casually into view.

  The fuck …?

  Initially Spencer was dumbstruck.

  What time was it? He couldn’t even take his phone out to check, because the two or three seconds that would entail might enable Dante to pass him by. The guy was already directly opposite on the far side of St Ann’s Road. He was clearly distinctive, not just for his tall outline, but for his reddish hoodie with its hood pulled up, and for the square pizza box tucked under his arm.

  Spencer realised
that there was no time to quibble with himself about why Dante was early. He zipped his jacket to the throat, jammed his gloved hands into its front pockets and emerged from the recess, falling into step parallel to Dante but on his own side of the road. As usual, there was traffic, but it was now 10:25 p.m., so it was only coming in dribs and drabs. A gap appeared, and he was able to veer onto the tarmac, crossing diagonally towards the unsuspecting figure about ten yards ahead of him.

  ‘Hey, bro!’ he shouted. ‘Yo … Dante, man!’

  The hooded shape didn’t look round, but continued walking.

  Eager to get home to his gorgeous girl, no doubt, and his sumptuous pizza. Well … the first of those two treats might soon be Spencer’s, he thought, with eager anticipation.

  He drew the Bulldog .44 Special from its place of concealment across his belly.

  ‘Yo, Dante!’ he called.

  Spencer reached the pavement. His target was no more than five yards ahead, but still hadn’t looked back – which was inconvenient, because Spencer didn’t want to do it from behind. But there was no time to ponder.

  He opened fire.

  Once, twice, three times.

  The Bulldog had more recoil than he’d expected, but from this range he couldn’t miss. The first slug impacted on the left side of Dante’s neck, jolting his head to the right. The second took him in the upper left shoulder. The third struck the back of his skull. This one did the most visible damage, smashing out a huge divot of hair, bone and fabric.

  At first, it was all flickering, unreal imagery, but as the stricken figure corkscrewed its way down to the pavement, Spencer saw three key things: a pair of earbuds flew loose – Dante had started doing music again, which explained why he hadn’t heard the shout; a big square book, like a college text, clattered to the ground, pages fluttering, rather than a box of exploding pizza – which bamboozled Spencer, because he’d never had Dante down as a scholar; the hood, though rent apart like the skull beneath, remained in place, so that even when the body hit the floor, he only glimpsed the face.