by Conrad Jones
“Do you sleep here?” Will relaxed his grip.
“I might do, it depends.”
“Is that your cardboard in the loading bay?”
“Might be.”
“We can always have this conversation at the station, but that would take a few hours, and I’m not sure your booze would still be here when you get back, are you?”
“Alright!” Ronald frowned at the thought of his alcohol left unattended. He needed it. “What do you want?”
“Have you seen or heard any shooting in the last few days?” Will pulled out a ten-pound note, and waved it in front of his face. “Anything unusual?”
Ronald snatched at the money, but Will pulled it away from his grasp. “What’s your name?”
“Ronald Theakston.”
“Okay, Ronald, nice to meet you.” Will let him take the money. “Have you seen or heard anything unusual?”
“Yes, I know the sound of a nine-milli anywhere,” Ronald slurred. Will raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“You an old soldier, Ronald?”
“Royal Marines, did the first Gulf gig,” Ronald felt a twinge of pride deep inside somewhere. It was an alien feeling to him nowadays.
“You heard shooting?”
“Yes, nine millimetre pistol, probably a Glock.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No, move fast, and keep low, that’s my motto. I kept my head down.”
“So you heard the shots, and then what?”
“Heard one of those kids fucking and blinding, must have been hit because he was moaning like I don’t know what.”
“Did you hear him say anything specific?”
Ronald thought about it. “Something about money and drugs, can’t be sure though.”
“You hear anything else?” Will asked.
“Maybe a diesel engine, can’t be sure, doors opening and closing. It’s all a bit hazy,” Ronald needed a drink.
“If you think of anything else, you call me, Ronald,” Will pulled out another tenner and slipped it into the old marine’s grimy hand along with his card. “Anything at all, okay?”
“Thanks.” Ronald stuffed the money into his pocket and aimed his trolley towards the loading bay. Will watched him wobble down the road, a mixture of sadness and pity inside him as the old soldier headed to his makeshift bed. He was about to leave when the tramp turned and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Einstein!”
“What did you say?” Will asked, confused.
“Einstein.” Ronald smiled at the memory, pleased that his mind wasn’t totally useless. “One of them was called Einstein.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Bernsteins
Richard Bernstein read the list for the millionth time: Malik Shah, Ashwan Pindar, Rasim Shah, Omar Patel, Mustapha Shah and Saj Rajesh. He flicked the paper with his finger as his mind replayed his past. The assault in the park, the months of hospital treatment, the scars, the pain and suffering, the embarrassment of wetting his pants as they kicked him senseless. It was all so fresh in his mind, and then there was Sarah. Beautiful Sarah. Nick serving over a decade in prison, David’s self imposed exile in the Israeli military and the destruction of his parents’ relationship. His sister killed herself to avoid the shame she was causing, and his father killed himself with whisky for the same reason. That’s why they were here, doing what they were doing. They had to pay for what they’d done, and tonight the debt was due. He munched on salt and vinegar crisps as he waited in the van for his brother and Nick. They were in an expensive neighbourhood near the edge of the city. The houses were huge, surrounded by high walls, and set back from the tree-lined roads. Malik Shah’s men had done well from their chosen profession, but all the money in the world couldn’t protect them now.
Nick dropped over the wall and landed heavily, ankle-deep in dead leaves and undergrowth. The ground covering crunched as he moved slowly towards the building. It was L-shaped, one part elongated with a long slanted roof, making it look cheese-like. The nearer section was oblong, with a high vaulted ceiling. The roof was clear plastic, which allowed the sun to warm the pool beneath it. Nick approached the pool block, and crouched low as he reached a set of sliding glass doors. He slid a metal file into the keyhole and twisted it twice, click, click. He tiptoed through the patio doors, quiet as a mouse. The lock was a doddle to pick, a trick he’d learned during his long stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Prison was a university of crime, the longer you stay the more you learn. The smell of chlorine was strong, and he could hear the gentle hum of the filter pumps. There was a half-moon, reflecting off the surface of the water. He navigated his way up the poolside to the door that accessed the house. Nick grabbed the handle, and twisted it slowly.
He breathed out as the unlocked door opened, and headed into the living area. Nick moved like a ghostly whisper across the laminate flooring, heading for the green dot of light which glowed in the corner of the room. He kneeled down and picked up the phone from where it was charging. Rasim Shah had plugged it in two hours earlier on his way to bed. The battery life was a major issue for him, constantly running low when he needed to be contactable at all times. His cousin Malik flipped his lid if they didn’t answer when he called them, so now he plugged it in every night. Richard Bernstein had hacked Shah’s company mobile contracts, and he knew the make and model they used for business. Nick slid the back off the mobile and removed the SIM card. He slid it into a replacement iPhone, a specially prepared replica. It was unlike any other, as it contained enough Tovex liquid explosive to blow the user’s head clean off.
Half a mile away, Omar Patel paced his living room. He was worried that Malik was taking them to war with the city’s other crime families. Omar had control of the undertaker business, and he’d organised the disposal of Abdul Salim. Abdul worked for Ashwan, yet the body had been dumped on Ashwan’s lawn. That had to be a warning from someone, but who? He had spoken to Malik, but he wouldn’t give anything away. He always kept his men in the dark as much as possible: what they didn’t know, they couldn’t tell. Malik didn’t trust any of them completely, even though they had been together since their school days. He was a paranoid schizophrenic, no doubt about it, and Omar was getting sick of him and his tantrums.
Omar guessed that a rival gang had killed Abdul, and Malik was pointing the finger at the Richards crew. Two of Malik’s hit men were dispatched to take out as many of the Richards crew as possible. One of them had called Omar and told him that much, but he wouldn’t say anymore. They were to keep one alive until the last minute, and question him about something, but they wouldn’t tell him what. What could the Richards gang know that was important enough to start a war over?
Sending out the hit men was a blatant act of war against a rival gang, and it would have repercussions that would echo through the foreseeable future. Malik was angry, that was obvious, but there was more to this than met the eye. Omar had the feeling that he was keeping something from them. His cousin Amir was his closest friend, and they confided in each other. Now he was gone, blown to bits, and Malik had lost the plot. Was there a coincidence, a connection between his death and what was happening tonight? Ashwan wasn’t answering his mobile, which was unusual, and he felt that they knew something that the rest of them didn’t. If they were going to war, then it was only right that they were made aware of the reason why. He continued to pace up and down the room. David Bernstein watched Omar’s shadow on the curtains as he attached a mercury-triggered bomb to his Lexus.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Richards
Kenny Richards swallowed the remaining half of his pint in one go and slammed it down on the table loudly. He was a big, red-faced man, with a grey flat-top haircut and too many gold chains and sovereigns. Steroids made his face bloated, and caused acne on the back of his neck and shoulders. There were always half a dozen yellow-heads lurking un-squeezed above his collar. No one mentioned them, of course, because the steroids also made him temperamental at best,
violently unstable at worst. His younger brothers, Jimmy and Billy, were smaller versions of him.
The Richards had started their careers working on the doors of the city’s nightclubs. They began taxing the drug dealers, and eventually started to supply them with wholesale gear themselves. The brothers set up a construction company, working on civil engineering projects for the highways agencies. It was a perfect way to launder their income. Kenny was known as a hard man, with a granite jaw and fists like bowling balls. His brothers were always armed with knuckledusters or blades. Anyone stupid enough to tackle them was dispatched to accident and emergency at high speed. Repeat offenders found themselves surrounded by quick drying concrete, entombed in the foundations of a motorway bridge.
The men were talking when Kenny slammed down his glass, and shouted for another round. “Wendy! Get us the same again, sexy.” He looked towards the kitchen and saw shadows approaching the swing doors. There were round porthole windows in them, allowing the waiting to staff to see their colleagues coming the opposite way, loaded with plates of food.
“Wendy, you sexy bitch, get over here with the beer!”
His face reddened when two masked gunmen entered the dining room. “Shut up!” He said to his party. They were listening to a succession of dirty jokes, and unaware of what was happening. One by one the Richards gang became silent. The masked men approached the table, their silenced Uzis raised.
“What the fuck is this all about?” Kenny snarled. His face had turned purple with outrage.
“Get over there against the wall, hands on your heads.” The gunmen waved the muzzles in the direction of the wall. “Move it!”
The Richards stood slowly, hands in the air.
“You’re fucking dead men walking,” Kenny snarled.
“Not you,” the masked man indicated that Kenny should remain seated. “You stay there, fatty.”
“Fuck you!”
“Shut up, Kenny, or I’ll blow your face off now.” The gunman was ice cool, no emotion in his voice. This was another day at the office, and Kenny could sense it too. They were in big trouble.
“What do you want?” Kenny asked. His brothers and the others moved away from the table.
“Kneel down and face the wall.”
“Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll triple it,” Kenny said.
“Shut your mouth.” As the men kneeled, one of the gunmen opened fire, emptying his clip in seconds. A Chinese mural became a grisly frieze of blood and gore. It changed shape slowly as the mush began to dribble down it. Kenny’s brothers and his men twitched momentarily, and then lay still. The second man covered Kenny with his weapon.
“You have no idea what you have done,” Kenny growled. Self-preservation stopped him bolting for the door, or rushing at the gunmen in a desperate last effort to save his own life. The kitchen was the only viable exit, as the manager had locked and shuttered the front of the restaurant hours before. Keeping his liquor license was more of a priority than letting the Richards out of the front entrance in the early hours of the morning.
“I’ll ask you once, and once only.” The gunman speaking slid a sawn-off shotgun from his belt. He walked around the table and stuck the gun against his temple. The second man slid a wire noose over his head and a simple pull of the wrist tightened it to choking point. Kenny tried to place his fingers between the cutting wire and his throat, but the man was too quick. He clawed at it desperately with his fingernails, but the wire sliced into his flesh.
“Do you have Mamood Pindar?”
Kenny’s eyes widened. Pindar. The only Pindar he knew was Malik Shah’s side-kick, and he was sure his first name wasn’t Mamood. The wire tightened and his eyes bulged as his air supply was restricted. He shook his head in the negative.
“Last chance, do you know where Mamood Pindar is, or who has him?” The gunman could tell by the confusion on Kenny’s face that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d questioned enough men in his time to see past the fear and spot the truth or a lie.
Kenny Richards croaked and blood began to pour from the vicious wound on his throat. His larynx was sliced and air hissed into the gash. Kenny shook his head.
“He doesn’t know anything, step back.” The sawn-off kicked in the gunman’s hand as both barrels fired. The twelve gauge shot ripped the side of Kenny’s skull away, exposing his teeth, and covered the mirrored wall in grey matter.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Major Investigation Team – China Town
DS Alec Ramsay yawned as he drove towards China Town. The news of a multiple homicide had reached him shortly after six that morning. He stopped at the traffic lights, and looked at the empty shell of a bombed-out church, a reminder of how the city suffered during World War II; it marked the start of the Chinese quarter. He indicated right and pulled off the main road into the maze of streets that serviced that area of the city. An ornate Chinese archway covered the road and he parked up beneath it, next to a row of marked police cars and two ambulances. The streets were beginning to fill up with early morning commuters, and uniformed officers were building a cordon to keep curious onlookers back from the scene.
“Where’s DI Naylor?” Alec asked a uniformed sergeant that he recognised from his early career. The portly sergeant nodded a greeting and shook his head, wobbling his jowls as he did so.
“Round the back of the Lucky Dragon, guv,” he leaned closer and lowered his voice as he lifted the crime scene tape to allow him in. “It’s the Richards crew, guv, I’ve known them for years.”
Alec patted him on the shoulder and ducked beneath the tape. “Lucky Dragon indeed?” he mused to himself. The restaurant looked peaceful enough from here. The roller shutters were locked down, but the main signage was still lit, as if someone had forgotten to turn it off when they went home. He headed round the back via a narrow cobbled lane.
A uniformed officer staggered out of the backyard. His hand covered his mouth, but didn’t stop the vomit from coming up. It sprayed through his fingers across the cobbles and up the wall. Alec skirted around the officer at a safe distance and entered a small backyard. The smell of rotting vegetables mingled with cooking odours and rancid refuse hit him. The yard was untidy. There were empty cooking oil drums stacked on top of each other next to an overflowing skip. Flattened cardboard boxes strewn across the yard by the wind, and never tidied up. Next to the door a bun tray of frozen chickens sat defrosting on an upturned peddle bin.
“Morning, guv,” Will Naylor stepped through the chain fly-curtain. “Just getting a breath of fresh air, whiffs a bit in there.”
“Whiffs a bit out here too,” Alec replied, pointing to the defrosting meat.
“I don’t think food hygiene was number one priority,” Will replied. He held open a gap in the chains and gestured the superintendent through it. “The milkman found the back door open like this, about five o’clock this morning. He went into the kitchen and shouted ‘hello’, and heard the manager and the waitress calling for help. They’d been locked in the fridge there.”
Will pointed to a wash-up room. Stainless steel tub sinks lined the walls and spring-loaded spray heads hung from the walls above them. At the far end was the walk-in.
“Were they locked in?”
“Yes, guv, the bolt was thrown.”
“Are they hurt?”
“No, guv. The waitress went out the back door to go home at about two o’clock, and encountered two masked men in the backyard. They pointed machineguns at her and the manager, asked them how many of the Richards crew were in there, and then locked them in the fridge.”
“The gunmen knew the Richards were in there?”
“Yes, guv, they knew Kenny Richards by his first name.”
Alec scanned the kitchen but there was nothing out of the ordinary there. The gunmen had entered by the most obvious route, the only route available at the time because the front was locked up. He walked towards the swing doors and pushed through them into the dining room. The sick
ening smell of death met him as he entered. Blood, urine and faeces, mingled with the cooking odours of ginger and satay oil. Will was close behind him.
“First glance indicates that Kenny was garrotted in his chair while his men were executed and then he was given both barrels close up.”
“Why?”
“Why what, guv?”
“Why not just blow him away with his men, if it was a hit, that is?”
Will looked back at the bodies and studied the scene. It looked like a hit to him. Alec moved closer to Kenny’s body, careful not to stand on any evidence. A forensic team was en route.
“Why bother to garrotte him and then blow his head off?” Alec asked himself aloud. “If it was a hit he’d be over there with
his men.”
“Maybe they wanted to make him watch,” Will suggested.
“Or maybe they wanted to ask him some questions.”
“It doesn’t look like he gave them the right answers,” Will said, nodding.
“Maybe he didn’t know the answer, Will.” Alec stepped away from the bodies and walked back towards the kitchen. They would have to wait for the forensics reports before they could hazard an educated guess as to what had happened.
“Have you got any theories, guv?”
“We have two dead dealers linked to Malik Shah, and then a small-time gangster is tortured to death and dumped on the town hall steps. Shah’s bookkeeper is assassinated, and now the head of a major crime family and his men are wiped out. I think somebody is looking for answers or revenge, and my guess would be that it’s Malik Shah,” Alec pushed open the kitchen doors and came face to face with Graham Libby. “Morning, doc.”
“Ah, superintendent, I hope you haven’t contaminated my crime scene,” he said sarcastically. Will came through the doors and he ignored him.
