Criminal Revenge

by Conrad Jones

  The light was fading fast when he turned the final bend in the road, and he could make out the silhouettes of the lockups about five hundred yards away. There was no sign of Vicky. It was growing cooler though, and he guessed she would be waiting around the corner, sheltered from the evening breeze coming off the water. He wondered what she would be wearing. Mamood had seen her in town once, wearing tight black leggings and knee-high boots, turning every head in the place. He hoped she was wearing a skirt tonight, easier to get into, and he didn’t want to be fumbling around with buttons and zips. She would think he was an inexperienced virgin. He was, but he didn’t want her to know that. Mamood had come close a couple of times, but never actually gone all the way. Tonight was the night. In her letter she had promised to make it worth his while, what else could she mean?

  He reached the water’s edge and picked up a flat stone. Mamood cocked his throwing arm and skimmed it across the surface. The lockups were less than a hundred yards away now; once used as boatsheds, they’d been empty for years. A number of drownings one summer had prompted the reservoir owners to stop all leisure activities on the water, but people still came here because it was picturesque. The double doors of the lockups came into view, one of them almost intact, the other broken and shattered. A dull light flickered and glowed from behind the missing panels. She was already in there. His mouth went dry, and he put his hand in front of his mouth to check his breath was fresh. He broke into a jog, eager and excited, only stopping as he neared the buildings.

  Mamood peered into the gloomy lockups. Boat racks were fixed to the walls, cobwebs and dust now hanging were canoes and paddles had once lived. There was a smell of decay.

  “Vicky?” he called into the gloomy interior. A paraffin lantern dangled from an ancient roof truss. The light from it glowed orange, flickering and inviting, tempting him inside. He stepped through a gap in the rotten planks, ducking low to avoid banging his head.

  “Vicky, it’s Mamood. I got your letter.” He tried to sound cool. His hands were shaking with nervous anticipation. She had gone to a lot of trouble. He hoped that he wouldn’t disappoint her when the time came. Malik had told him to think of his dream England squad for the next World Cup; that way the sex would last longer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think of anything else, but then Malik had already had lots of girls, so he should know. The older girls in school were scathing about their sexual encounters, especially if they’d been disappointed or jilted. A guy’s reputation could be ruined in the course of a lunchtime break.

  A shifting noise from the back of the lockup brought him back to reality. There was a doorway fixed to the back wall, probably leading to a storeroom. The door was ajar, and he could hear a radio playing quietly, the disc jockey was chatting aimlessly to his co-presenter, between tracks.

  “Vicky!” he called a little louder, uneasy about penetrating the gloom at the rear of the lockup. She would think he was a nancy boy if she saw him dithering. He steeled himself and walked to the rear of the building. “Vicky, it’s Mamood, I got your letter.”

  “Meet me at the reservoir, and I’ll make it worth your while.” Nick stepped from the darkness as he mimicked a female voice, sounding nothing like one. There was an evil sneer across his face.

  Mamood froze and inhaled sharply, confused and frightened. The man was tall, well built, and somehow he knew what Vicky had put in her letter.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Mamood tried to sound aggressive, but he didn’t. “Where’s Vicky?”

  “Vicky is probably at home, tucking into her spaghetti bolognaise. She will not be coming, I’m afraid,” Nick spoke in a monotone voice. His face was distorted by a nylon stocking. His nose looked flatter and elongated, his chin hooked with a dimple in the middle. The beard and hair he had grown for the bombing were cropped to the bone, exposing his high cheekbones and Neanderthal forehead. Nick was ugly, frightening to look at, especially in the flickering shadows, even more so with the stocking pulled tight over his features. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “Get out of my way, weirdo!” Mamood shouted. He was scared witless. The man was between him and the doors, and he was freaky-looking. How did he know about Vicky’s letter?

  “You’re here because you’re vain, little Mamood, just like your father.” Nick walked towards him as he spoke. Mamood wanted to move away, but his legs ignored his brain. “How is Ashwan? Is he still a fucking wanker?”

  “What do you want? How do you know my father?”

  “Oh, that’s a long story, Mamood. Your father is a bad man, a nasty piece of work, and now it’s time for him to pay for his actions.” Nick moved a step closer, his shadow smothering Mamood.

  Mamood cowered, shuffling backwards against the boat racks. The man towered above him, wearing army camouflage fatigues and combat boots. He had something in his right hand that Mamood didn’t recognise.

  His mouth opened in a silent scream as two conductive darts pierced his chest and fifty thousand volts surged through his body. The stun-gun did its work quickly and efficiently. Mamood collapsed in a heap. “Maybe your father will listen now. Your life depends on it,” Nick growled.

  Chapter Nine

  Richard Bernstein – School Days

  Richard Bernstein spent Christmas and the best part of the following three months in the Royal Hospital. Recurring infections hampered the healing process, and the surgeons struggled to make skin grafts take. His parents hired private tutors to further his education, and his father gave him a computerised chess game to pass the hours. The game was a challenge for the first month or so. By the time he left the hospital, he could beat the computer within twenty minutes, taking just twelve minutes at his record best. Richard loved the game, draining the power from a dozen batteries a week. He had managed to lose nearly two stones in weight, too, through a combination of a healthy diet and less chocolate, although his mother brought him daily treats. The police had kept their distance, as requested, and Richard’s memory of the incident had not shed any light on the matter. He had never disclosed the names of his attackers, and no one pushed him to.

  Life outside the hospital had carried on without him. His brother David had done well in his final exams, and he had been awarded the captaincy of the school’s First Fifteen rugby team, which was an honour indeed. Mr Bernstein had turned out every Saturday afternoon with his flask of coffee to watch his son play. Sarah continued to be the bane of her father’s life, her late nights and ever-decreasing hem lines were driving him demented. She had begun to hang out with the older set and come home several times smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. All was not well in the Bernstein family home, and Richard could sense a change in his sister as soon as he arrived home. She looked older and somewhat tarty. Mr Bernstein wasn’t a religious Jew in that he didn’t frequent the Synagogue regularly, it was weddings and funerals mostly. He was a member of the Chamber of Trade, as were many of his Jewish friends. On several occasions, he had noticed raised eyebrows and hushed whispers when his back was turned. Sarah was becoming a regular topic of conversation.

  “Nice belt, sis!” Richard joked about the length of her mini-skirt. He had been home a fortnight and already put back on the weight he had lost in hospital. His mother fed him at every opportunity, ‘to build up his strength’, as she said.

  “Shut up, Richard,” Sarah retorted nastily. “Dad is always on my back, and I don’t need you joining in, thank you.” She twirled three hundred and sixty degrees, checking out her outfit in her bedroom mirror. “This is called a waistline, something you’ll never have to worry about,” she said pouting, her hands on her hips.

  “Just kidding,” Richard mumbled. There was no mirth in her voice anymore. She had always teased and joked with him, but things had definitely changed. Her remarks were becoming nasty. She wiggled past him in her bedroom doorway, trying to emulate the catwalk models on the television. He tried a different tack to engage his younger sister in conversation, pretending to be sensible. “Are you going
anywhere nice?”

  “Mind your own business.” She looked at her reflection in the hallway mirror, pouting and looking way too sexy for a fourteen-year-old girl.

  “I’m just being friendly, sis,” Richard smiled at her, but she didn’t look at him. “Are you going to a party?”

  “What is it you want, exactly?” Sarah turned on him. Richard hardly recognised her anymore. “If you’re fishing for an invite, then forget it. It’s definitely not your scene, Einstein. There will be no…” She stopped.

  “What? Fat kids?” Richard finished off her sentence.

  “Why don’t you go and eat a Mars Bar or something?”

  “Take a chill pill, Sarah. I was trying to make conversation, forget it,” Richard snarled. He headed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a packet of sliced pepperoni sausage open on the middle shelf, next to a triangle of cheddar cheese. He broke off a chunk of cheese and wrapped it up in a slice of pepperoni before stuffing the tasty parcel into his mouth. A large gulp of gold top milk from the bottle added to the mix of flavours.

  “Richard Bernstein!” his mother’s shrill voice came from the hallway. “What have I told you about snacking all day long?”

  “I’m hungry,” Richard blushed. He wasn’t hungry at all. Sarah had been nasty, so the pepperoni and cheese had made him feel better. Food was comfort.

  “You should not drink milk from the bottle, young man.”

  Richard crossed the kitchen to meet her. She held four carrier bags full of groceries in each hand, having come back from her weekly supermarket trip. His father was following close behind her, loaded to the hilt and trying to close the front door with his foot. Richard’s parents were creatures of habit, always dressed in sensible, practical clothes. His mother had a chocolate-coloured anorak and a matching headscarf; his father wore a navy blue anorak and a matching flat cap. They looked like extras from a seventies sitcom.

  “Where’s your sister?” Mr Bernstein asked, emerging from the hallway. Mrs Bernstein plonked her shopping down heavily on the kitchen table.

  “She was in the hallway two minutes ago,” Richard answered, a little surprised.

  “She had better be in her room, or she will be in big trouble,” Mr Bernstein muttered. “She’s grounded after her performance last week.”

  “Please stop moaning at the girl, for heaven’s sake!” Mrs Bernstein scolded her husband. “She is growing up. We were young once, too.”

  “You didn’t prance around in clothes that should belong to a tart,” Mr Bernstein mumbled under his breath. He plonked down his shopping and struggled out of his anorak, leaving his flat cap on his head.

  “Don’t use that word, please, especially not about your own daughter.”

  “She did look like she was dressed up to go to a party, now you mention it,” Richard stirred the issue. He looked in his mother’s shopping bags for treats. “Dad is right about her clothes, Mum. Her skirt barely covered her arse!”

  “Richard Bernstein! How dare you use language like that in front of your old mother, and about your sister, too?” Mrs Bernstein clucked around like a mother hen, banging tins into cupboards to show her annoyance. As much as she loved Sarah, she was slipping out of control. She was losing respect for both her parents, and her tutors. School reports and parents evenings were becoming a trauma. Her attitude towards Richard was downright vindictive.

  “Sarah!” Mr Bernstein shouted up the stairs. There was only silence in reply. “Sarah!” he repeated, but to no avail. Sarah had sneaked out seconds after her parents had returned. “I’m at a loss with that girl.”

  “Where has she been going while I’ve been away?” Richard found a packet of chocolate-chip cookies, his favourite. “Can I have one of these?” he asked, already ripping into the packet.

  “You will not eat your dinner if you pig out on biscuits, Richard.” His mother gave him three, taking the packet from him and placing it into the cupboard. “She’s been hanging around with some older kids, and that’s why your father is not happy about the situation. He thinks that she is drinking and smoking.”

  Richard stepped behind his mother and opened the cupboard quietly, removing three more cookies with a deft touch. He slipped them into his pocket, silently. His father saw him and gently nudged him in the back.

  “Caught red-handed,” he whispered, so that Mrs Bernstein couldn’t hear him. He smiled at his son. Sarah’s recent behaviour made him appreciate his sons more somehow. Richard had weight and confidence issues, but he was never disrespectful, and he never got into trouble.

  “What are you two whispering about?”

  “Nothing, Mum,” Richard laughed and moved away from the cupboard. “Who is she hanging around with, then?”

  “A couple of the girls from your year, I think. They’ve been going to parties at the weekends, with a group of Asian boys.” Mrs Bernstein put the chilled items into the fridge as she spoke. “Have you been eating the cheese?” she asked, noticing a large chunk was missing.

  “Asian boys?” Richard Bernstein felt a cold shiver run down his spine. “Which Asian boys?”

  “I’m not sure, but she keeps mentioning a boy called Malik, or something like that. I think she has a crush on him.”

  Richard shoved his hands deep into his pockets and sulkily walked out of the kitchen. He decided that he wanted to play chess against his computer in his room. Of all the boys in school for his sister to get a crush on, it had to be him. Malik Shah was building a reputation as the best drug dealer in school. Apparently, his gear was cheap and strong, not that Richard had touched anything like it. If Sarah was running with that crowd, then it would only be a matter of time before she experimented with drugs. Richard didn’t think things could get any worse, but very soon they would. Much worse.

  Chapter Ten

  The Major Investigation Team

  Superintendent Alec Ramsay briefed his troops about the findings that Will Naylor’s team had discovered, setting them the task to find out as much information as they could about Malik Shah and Ashwan Pindar. The investigation was to be covert. No one would approach them directly, or their associates, for now. They had to gather information from other departments, other constabularies and international law enforcement agencies. There was no shortage of suspected crimes allegedly committed by their criminal organisation; however, there was no hard evidence against them. They were smart. Malik Shah hadn’t been arrested and questioned since the late nineties. His record was clean. It was just before three o’clock when the entire Major Investigation Team was present at their desks.

  “Half past three, ladies and gents, please, let’s have a quick update. I don’t want anything overlooked, no matter how insignificant it might seem now.” Alec brushed his blond fringe back from his head. Grey and ginger strands were creeping into his mane; he had read that the ‘hair industry’ called it salt and pepper. ‘Getting older’, he called it. His hair was parted down the centre, and while it was still thick, the roots always appeared a darker, greying blond. The afternoon sun was sinking fast in the west, its warmth gone, but its glare annoying through the full windows. In the near distance, the river looked slate grey in the fading light. Heads nodded in confirmation of the superintendent’s order, and several small clusters of officers formed as they collated their team’s information. Alec had been kept up to speed all day as news had come in, but each team needed to be completely aware what avenues their colleagues were following. Hundreds of man-hours could be saved by frequent briefings. They stopped people working on the same issue, or heading down a dead end that others had already been to. Alec had the bit between his teeth, and the longer they investigated the bombing, the less likely it seemed that it had been a terrorist attack. He needed the divisional commander to have the same opinion, or it would be left to the Counter Terrorist Unit to deal with.

  “Guv.” Will Naylor held up his telephone. He looked sharp and refreshed after his break, as did his team. Even Smithy looked half-tidy
.

  “It’s the commander, guv.”

  “Patch it through to my office, please, Will.”

  Alec stepped into his office and clicked the door closed behind him. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to be the lead unit on the bombing or not. It was a massive case which would carry volumes of kudos if it ended with a conviction. The careers of the entire team would be enhanced by working on a case like this. They could also be damaged beyond repair, if mistakes were made. Alec was too long in the tooth to be a glory hound, but he relished a challenge, and his detectives were the best.

  Alec was convinced it had been a targeted hit. The problem was that both the protagonists and targets lived in the world of organised crime. It was a world of secrecy and silence. There would be no informers, no tip-offs, and no witnesses. Malik Shah appeared to be made of Teflon, nothing stuck to him, and Alec would have bet a year’s wages that his enemies were of similar material. The police hierarchy would want results and convictions tomorrow, if not sooner. Alec couldn’t see either coming quickly.

  He lifted the phone and pressed a button to connect the line. “Commander.”

  “Detective superintendent, how are you, Alec?” Alec and the commander went back years. Alec had always been a few rungs down the ladder, but the two men had a mutual respect that could only grow over decades. Alec had been pulled out of a few close scrapes during his years on the force, and though he was never certain, he had a hunch that the commander was his guardian angel.

  “Not so bad, Bob. How’s Sally?”

  “Fine, thanks, how’s Gail?”

  “Still trying to poison me with organic everything. I’m still not sure what organic actually means, but I’ll live forever at this rate.” Alec was force-fed a healthy diet by his long-suffering wife, whether he wanted it or not.