***
Pierre had been incredibly specific about his requirements. A businessman was travelling with a lady companion. The man had cheated a client of his, and the client wanted retribution. The man was to die in great pain, and the woman was to watch.
The contact, Ant, had no problem with this as long as the requisite items were supplied along with a concrete plan. He had grown to enjoy violence in prison. It was sick, but after being victimised he felt the need to victimise others to reassert his own status.
The target was having dinner at a small restaurant in Camden Lock. The All-American Diner was a quiet venue, with a number of private booths. The couple were to be seated in the rear booth, near the kitchen door, through which a fire escape could be found. The owner had been bribed to look the other way, and to ensure that the old-fashioned CCTV system was out of tape.
Ant arrived a little after six. He knew the couple wouldn't finish dinner till about seven, and he wanted them to be a little tipsy.
The plan was simple enough. Red wine would be laced with Rohypnol, and the couple would be led out the rear door to a waiting car that Pierre had supplied. They would then be taken to an old warehouse in Dukes Road, Euston. It was isolated, and would be an ideal place for Pierre's demands to be carried out.
Chapter 35: Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?
Theresa West rubbed her eyes, desperately trying to avert a yawn. The document before her was potentially the most explosive issue she had dealt with since joining the Professional Standards Department.
She was used to dealing with cops who had accepted bribes, or vice cops looking the other way in return for favours. Her pulse quickened as she read the Garth Report.
It was an alarming internal report that guns may have been trafficked out of the evidence locker and back onto the street. If it was proven to be true the Metropolitan police would suffer a shellacking in the press the likes of which they had never seen before. It would almost certainly result in a judicial inquiry, and would have repercussions for many years to come.
As far as Theresa could tell the guns had been properly confiscated. The raid had been meticulously planned, and the execution was one of the many fables that built up the legend of Detective Chief Inspector David Morton. It had been a stroke of genius to use stun gas to take out their armament store, and had probably saved more than a few police lives. The gang concerned was prepared for a protracted conflict, and even the heavy riot gear would not suppress such high-calibre fire all the time.
The guns had been properly transported in secure vans back to the evidence locker. It was clear from the records that none of the guns had disappeared before the destruction forms were completed by the commanding officer who had seized them.
It was odd that the form had been completed just before Christmas, giving a full three-week period for the guns to go AWOL without anyone being any the wiser, but Morton had never been a fan of paperwork and may well have simply dealt with it at the most expedient time for him. He had always kept a heavy workload, and that year was no exception.
Despite his reputation he would still be the primary focus of the investigation. The guns were his responsibility until they reached the civilian contractors engaged to dispose of the weaponry, and there was no evidence that any impropriety had taken place on this occasion. The uniforms engaged in the transport of the guns would also be interviewed individually and possibly even subjected to a polygraph if the Professional Standards Department thought it useful. Luke Garth would be put on record to confirm that the method of recovery of the serial was correct in case it was needed for a criminal prosecution, and the recipient civilian firm would eventually be searched in a dawn raid to check for any evidence that the consignment had made it that far.
***
Ant had checked out the plan meticulously. If there was one thing that he had been taught in prison, it was that more criminals were caught by being careless than by bad luck. One slip-up could leave forensic evidence tying him to the crime, and he knew the police probably had his DNA on file from before.
The warehouse was fairly large, with one main point of entry at the front. It was unbolted, as promised, with a key inside. Ant would lock it after his initial reconnaissance. The interior was sparse, with a few stud walls pushed up against the extremities.
Ant wheeled a few of them together to create a box in the centre of the warehouse, giving in effect a second pair of curtains should anyone be attempting to look through the grimy Victorian windows in the street. It was unlikely, as they were well above head height, but Ant was taking no chances.
The instructions he had received were explicit that the man suffer great pain, but Ant had been left a huge freedom of choice in how to inflict that pain. A veritable torturer's toolkit had been supplied in a large wooden chest in the rear of the building. Some were innocuous in an industrial setting, such as the power tools, saws and vices. Others spoke more clearly of the chest's sinister nature. Acid, barbiturates and cat-o'-nine-tails rounded out the collection. Ant's contact clearly meant business.
Satisfied he had everything he needed, Ant pocketed a couple of pairs of handcuffs. Although the targets would be drugged it was best to restrain them too.
Ant watched them throughout their meal, letting them enjoy a last meal together before he struck. It even gave him time to sample the house delicacies, enjoying a southern fried rack of ribs with a side of slaw.
As they drank the bottle of wine (a gift, on the house, to avoid the chance they wouldn't imbibe alcohol) they fell under the spell of the Rohypnol. Their conversation soon became incoherent, a stream of nonsense no one but they could understand. The waiter signalled it was time to get them into the back of the vehicle waiting out back. It was parked on double yellows, but a disabled badge on the dashboard kept it free of parking attendants.
Ant brushed through the door towards the parked taxi, and unlocked the door. As he left he heard the waiter say to the couple:
'Your taxi has arrived, sir.'
'We ordered a taxi?' Or at least, that's what he tried to say, instead muttering inaudibly.
'Yes, sir. It's waiting outside.'
'I must have had a few to drink.'
'Not to worry, sir, and thank you for the generous tip.'
It was this line that sealed the couple's trust in the waiter. They hadn't paid, of course; Ant had done that for them, but no one would argue to try and pay twice. They allowed the man to lead them through the rear door to the taxi, and staggered in.
'Royal Horseguards Parade please, mate,' the man slurred, the woman already slumped in the back seat.
'Let me help you with your bags,' Ant offered, stepping out towards him. It took the man too long to realise he didn't have a bag with him. His eyes widened in terror as the cuffs clicked about his wrist. Ant could see he was going to scream, and quickly clapped his left hand over the man's mouth, a chloroform-drenched towel in his palm. The man slumped into the seat. He would be out cold for at least an hour, and that would be ample time.
Ant glanced around to make sure no one had witnessed the incident, but his contact had chosen well. There was little foot traffic outside, and the street lamp was broken. Cars could be heard in the distance, but the road was only used for access and no one had tried to pass in the three minutes the whole job had taken. Ant strapped the man in, leaning the woman into him to give the illusion of a cosy scene to any curious onlookers, and then put his foot on the pedal.
Chapter 36: Pain
They awoke in the stark warehouse, but they were unable to see the size of it as the centre had been marked out with dividers, electrical outlets on extension sockets visible underneath the boards.
The toolbox was out of sight. Ant didn't want his victims to know what was coming.
A makeshift rack had been put up using old scaffolding, and the man was tied up on it. His arms were bound behind and above him, contorted so that he hung by his shoulders. Too long in the position and they would dislocat
e.
She had been far luckier. The chair into which she was tied was not comfortable, but she wasn't in pain, yet. Both of them were bound too tightly to move, and neither could yell out as they had been thoroughly gagged.
Footsteps thundered, echoing through the building. As they grew louder Ant appeared through a gap in the stud walls at the south end, behind the man. Ant knew they were thirsty; the combination of Rohypnol and alcohol would ensure that much. A glass of water was perched on a table in the corner. His instructions had said nothing about deliberately being cruel to the victim. His contact really only wanted to send a message, a warning to anyone considering cheating his contact's client. The body had to remain sufficiently whole that the injuries could be ascertained. An eviscerated body would not serve properly as a disincentive.
He turned the woman to face the man as if to make her watch, and then held aloft the cat-o'-nine-tails. The thongs had been triple knotted to increase the number of points of impact. Not only would it increase the pain caused, but it would make the weapon harder to track. Lead weights on the end of the thongs would make light work of a man's skin. It was hard to imagine that this was once a legal punishment used in Britain as recently as the Forties in Wandsworth prison.
The gag was unnecessary. The road was a long way away, and the building's walls were thick and insulated.
'Please, I'll tell you where I put the money.' It was the first thing Ant knew of any money. He didn't want to appear too keen, and ignored him. He hit the man with the minimum force he could. It would sting like crazy but do no lasting harm.
'Please!' The man began to beg as Ant moved towards the woman. She tried to shy away, almost toppling the chair over backwards. She had to watch. The order had been explicit.
Her eyes clapped shut, scrunched tightly to avoid watching. It just wouldn't do. Ant didn't want to hurt the woman. She was no threat, and really only a by-product of the deal he had struck, but it was necessary. If she wouldn't open them voluntarily he would have to threaten to remove her eyelids.
He told her as much. 'We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Open them. Now.'
Her eyes shot open, and Anthony returned his attention to his primary victim.
The worst torture Ant had endured in prison had been having his fingernails pulled. It was an easy task requiring only a pair of pliers. Hatred flowing through him, Ant bent the man's index finger back for easy access, keeping it away from the rope bindings.
'I'll give you the goddamn money, just stop!'
'How much is left?' Ant only wanted to ask how much, but added the rest as an afterthought. That way he didn't betray the fact this was new information.
'Just over a million.' The man's head hung lower. It was obvious that there had been much more in the first place.
'Where is it?' Ant demanded.
'Self-storage unit in Kennington. A bank would have been too risky.'
'How do you get in?
'Key code at the gate, key at the locker. Number is 1332 for the door, and the key is in my wallet.'
'You know if you're lying you'll die,' Ant warned him, deciding that the money would buy the man some relief.
The man nodded. Ant decided he'd had enough. The man would die anyway, but he would make it quicker than he had planned. He took a knife, and ran it across the man's neck from behind. Blood spattered out, covering the floor, and the man fell silent.
The woman was next. To keep her from screaming he thrust the knife up through the ribcage, piercing the lung. She would die in a matter of minutes.
He poured kerosene all over the warehouse except for the bodies, set the timer provided that would provide a spark in an hour, and left. The fire would take care of any evidence that he had ever been there.
Chapter 37: Guns
'Thanks, John. We'll be fine, don't worry.' Rosenburg hung up. As much as he protested he wasn't worried, he was. That call was from one of his wife's cousins. The Professional Standards Department were investigating the guns that he'd diverted the previous year, and his disappearing act only compounded the appearance of guilt. His wife's cousin was a junior clerk in their department and he wouldn't be able to affect the investigation, but the heads-up was invaluable.
He hadn't planned to steal the guns originally. His wife Jane ran ARM Disposal UK Ltd. It had been how they had met. It was her father's firm then, and Rosenburg tried to keep work and pleasure strictly separate, but Jane had inherited the firm on the old man's death a few years after they had married. She wasn't great with the paperwork, but she worked hard and kept the business turning over a decent profit.
A lawyer for one of the gang leaders arrested had approached him in the station. They couldn't afford to lose their entire stock, and could he help? The lawyer had traced Jane's maiden name of Friedrich and realised her husband was a detective. He'd taken a gamble approaching him, although simply asking wasn't necessarily criminal without further action.
Rosenburg had fobbed him off initially. He hadn't said no as such, but he certainly hadn't said yes.
He slipped it into conversation with his wife that evening, almost as if it was an inconsequential anecdote. He had waited with bated breath for her response. If she had been shocked and appalled he would have simply agreed with her and dropped it, never to be thought of again.
She hadn't been shocked though. She realised that she was sitting on a gold mine. She couldn't steal every gun. The batch destruction had to be witnessed by law, and her husband wasn't routinely given that duty. She came up with a compromise. In each batch she would remove a few of the weapons, and supply them to the lawyer, who would in turn sell them to his clients.
It was a fairly simple scheme, and it wouldn't make them millionaires by any stretch of the imagination, but it did allow them to live a little beyond their means. With perfect foresight they should have realised that eventually one of the guns would be found by the police and the scheme traced.
The next step would be to ditch the remaining stock quickly, even if it meant actually shredding the weapons. Then they'd choose an office boy to become a patsy, and point the finger at him should the Professional Standards Department come knocking. With their mole monitoring the progress reports they'd be informed well in advance if they were going to make a move.
***
The blaze was enormous. The building caught quickly, with all of the excess junk stored inside helping the fire spread in minutes. Without an alarm or a sprinkler system the fire had a head start before anyone noticed it had started. It was when the fire reached the roof that Joe Public could see there was a problem. A passer-by called 999, and the fire service was on hand less than ten minutes later. It wasn't an unreasonable response time, but the fire had already consumed most of the warehouse and was spreading towards the adjoining buildings. Their efforts were concentrated on preventing damage to those buildings rather than saving the warehouse, as there was little left to save.
By the time the fire had been extinguished it was clear there were lines of extreme heat radiating out from the centre of the blaze. An investigation was started immediately into the cause of the fire, and it was evident that the cause was arson.
The lead investigator, Russell Watts, walked gingerly among the remains.
'Petrol,' he announced, sniffing the charred remains. Chemical analysis would confirm it later, but he was certain.
'What have we here?' he asked no one in particular. A glint of metal had caught his attention. It was sheet metal, and was piled in the centre. It wasn't damaged, although some carbon charring could be seen around the area.
He motioned for his team to come look. With great care they shifted the sheets, only to reveal two bodies underneath. They were cooked thoroughly by the heat, but the injuries Ant had inflicted were still clearly visible.
'Holy Mary, Mother of God!' Russell exclaimed.
'Get away, lads! This is a crime scene.' They retreated from the bodies, and phoned through to the police for back-up.
***
'Something wrong with your food?' Sarah had spent hours preparing his roast dinner. It wasn't easy to find time to prepare something so arduous on a Friday.
'No, dear,' David said glumly.
Sarah looked at him suspiciously. He had spent nearly twenty minutes pushing it around his plate.
He had been listless for a few days, and Sarah suspected that being on desk duty was beginning to wear on him.
'How was work?'
'Good, good.' It was his standard non-response, a hint that he didn't want to talk about it. Sarah wasn't going to let him get away with it that easily.
'Any interesting casework today?' she tried again.
'Not really.'
'For God's sake, David, we've been married for twenty-five years. I know when something is bothering you!' Sarah rarely took the Lord's name in vain, but her patience was frayed.
'I'm not cut out for desk duty,' he said simply. He wasn't good with computers, and typing up incident reports offered no intellectual stimulation. He was being paid an inspector's wage and doing the job of a temp.
'So, take their offer.' It was the first time she had broached the subject of the letter since it had arrived.
'And do what? Sit around and watch the television? Garden?'
'Is that any worse than what you're doing now?' She knew how to manipulate her husband.
'Well, no.'
'Then take the deal.'
'I can't. I'm not ready to be old.' He was barely into his fifties, but had already started to feel it.
'David, growing old is normal. You've got years ahead of you, but you simply can't be running after criminals all day much longer. Stay home, with me.'
David had begun thinking of a caustic reply as she started that lecture, ready to rant for hours, but his expression softened as he realised that retirement would mean more time for them to spend together. He could fish, cook, read and do all the other things he'd been meaning to do but never found the time for.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 15
