by Robson, Roy
The colour returned to H’s face. He sat upright, and his eyes met Amisha’s for the first time.
‘Are you getting this, guv? Are you getting what I’m telling you?’, she asked.
‘I need a sharpener, Ames. There’s a flask in the motor. Glove compartment.’
Amisha sped off. H got to his feet. He felt a little steadier now. He saw for the first time the phone lying beside what was left of Tara’s head. He trousered it without thinking. No way was he going to let the phone’s contents go public before he’d had a look. He owed that to Tara. And Ronnie.
Amisha returned two minutes later, breathless, to find H standing, a little woozily, and surveying the scene. She handed him the flask. He took a long slug. And then another. And another. He straightened up and swept back his thatch with both hands. The bright morning was changing as clouds began to congregate.
‘Sorry about that Ames. Had to sit down for a bit. Bring me up to speed.’
Amisha decided to start him off on details, to get him focused, and save the worst for last.
‘Well, the forensics people are here. They want to get started and I can’t hold them off. The scene is secure but there’s a lot of people milling about, rubberneckers mostly but a good few professionals now. TV, radio and plenty of freelancers. They’re all screaming for a statement, in between snapping and filming and uploading, and…we’ve got to try and get some control of this guv. Oh, and your mate Joey Jupiter just arrived. Will you say a few words to them?’
‘No I fucking will not.’
Amisha was exasperated: ‘Guv, you’ve got to put on a show here. Provide some presence, reassurance…something. This incident is now well and truly viral. It’s worldwide. God knows what kinds of spin’ll be put on it. We’ve got to try and control the message, guv. Or the likes of Joey Jupiter will crucify you.’
‘Amisha, if you put Joey Jupiter in front of me now I’ll ram his rinky-fucking-dink phone so far up his fucking arse he’ll have to lasso it out with dental floss.’
Phew, thank God. He’s back. The guvnor is back.
‘Steady on guv. No need for that. You want to give them more ammo to throw at you? Try and think big picture. Please, for all our sakes.’
Amisha’s phone rang. H found it in his hand. It was Hilary.
‘Where on God’s earth have you been H? What the hell is going on down there? This whole thing’s exploding, whatever it is. What are you doing?’
‘Guv, I…’
‘Shut it, H. Listen. Go now and talk to the media. Face the cameras. Calm and steady messaging, the usual things. Is that clear?’
‘Guv, the thing is…’
‘Detective Inspector Hawkins, you will go, now, and you will follow my orders, or you will never set foot in this office again. Unless it is to come and clear your desk and empty your locker. The choice is yours.’ Click.
Shit, she’s in Mary Poppins mode.
He steadied himself on his feet. Amisha touched his arm and motioned him towards the throng. He’d already made out the greaser hair, the massive comedy beard, the huge belt buckle, the pointy shoes…Joey Jupiter and his pals were waiting, like a pack of braying hyenas ready to tuck in to their wounded prey.
12
The big TV company cameras - BBC, ITV, Channel 4, Sky, CNN and the rest - were still setting up on the Mall, two hundred yards from the crime scene. Behind the newly installed perimeter fence barring access to the park itself their anchors were jockeying for position, along with hundreds of phone and tablet wielding observers. Stationed at the front of this heaving mob, nearest to the park, were Joey Jupiter and his entourage.
H and Amisha were closing in on the melee slowly, the big man himself feeling and looking weak, dizzy and unsteady on his feet.
‘I’m not up for this, Ames’, said H. ‘My mind’s a blank. Tara… Tara’s dead. Nothing‘s making sense.’
‘Steady, guv. You can do it. Calm and steady, as per your instructions. Keep it simple. Just the usual clichés. Don’t get drawn into anything.’
‘Oi, Oi’, H heard Jupiter shout, ‘looks like Detective Inspector Hawkins has had a few already.’
A gale of gleeful, cynical, smartarsed laughter. The massed ranks of gadgets clicking, pinging, zinging, popping and flashing in the gloom as the darkening clouds scudded overhead. A roar of questions and comments, none of them decipherable. Somebody produced a box for H to stand on. Amisha stationed herself behind him, ready to break his fall should he collapse backwards.
Jupiter forced his way to the front of the frenzied mob and held with both hands onto a crash barrier, unbudgeable as the storm broke around him. This was his time. He could smell H’s blood. He went in for the kill.
‘Detective Inspector Hawkins, can you tell us what has happened here?’ he shouted. ‘Is this connected to the wave of killings your force, and you in particular, appear to be unable to control? Who is running London’s streets? What reassurance can you give us that you are the man for the job? Are you really fit for purpose Detective Inspector?’
More laughter. More cheers. More jeers. H swayed a little on his box. He was looking at the Union Jack fluttering above Buckingham Palace. It merged in his mind with another, grubbier version of itself, tattered and torn in a field eight thousand miles and thirty two years away. He thought of Ronnie, and he thought of Tara. He could not, would not, meet the gaze of the mob. His eyes began to fill with tears, and his legs began to shake again.
‘OK guv, let’s just pop you down’, he heard Amisha say. He felt her hand on his arm, and beneath his elbow as she eased him down onto the grass.
A minute later he became aware that they were in the back of a car. Amisha was beside him. She was gawping into a tablet, whispering under her breath, ‘Fuck…Fuck… Fuck.’
H came to himself. ‘What is it, Ames?’ She turned the device so that H could see it. Jupiter had wasted no time. Beneath a picture of a ravaged, distorted version of himself in the grip of a thousand yard stare, he read:
HAS ‘H’ LOST THE PLOT?
LONDON’S ‘TOP COPPER’ IN ST JAMES’ PARK MELTDOWN
‘#harryoutofhisdepth is already trending on Twitter’, Amisha said.
13
Ronnie Ruddock walked into his luxurious five star hotel in uptown New York and punched the UP button. What a few days, he thought, as he rode the lift to the penthouse suite with its dramatic views across the New York skyline. He really was on top of the world. From barrow boy on the back streets of South London to The Times rich list.
He popped the cork from the champagne already waiting for him and supped straight from the bottle. He downed the contents, took out a bottle of beer from the mini bar and cracked it open with his teeth. Thirty years of high flying hadn’t changed him that much.
It was just after midnight as he stood admiring the bright lights of New York. The vibrant cityscape stretched out before him, teeming with life and pregnant with possibility. He thought of its sublime beauty, the majestic shapes and the individual ambition that had gone into making them. The people on the streets were rushing around like so many manic bees in search of their nectar, looking for action, looking for love, looking for the world’s greatest salami on rye. This really was the city that never slept. And he’d made it here - in fact this Englishman in New York had made it every fucking where.
He’d just pulled off one of the biggest fracking deals yet concluded in America. He nonchalantly tossed the signed copy of the contract onto his bed.
He did his best to put the events of the day out of his head but his mind was still racing. He’d been working on this deal for months and to finally put pen to paper had filled him with immense satisfaction. After another couple of beers he started to relax, the elixir of alcohol kicking in, calming his mind as he relinquished the trials and tribulations of the day.
He thought about his wife and kids back home in England. He had been working on this deal for months and had barely had time to talk to them as he burned the midnigh
t oil, poring over every minuscule detail. This was one deal he was not going to lose. Relations with his wife had become a little strained. But now there was some time to heal, to get to know them all again. His tough upbringing had taught him the importance of family sticking together - he was fiercely loyal. He’d make it up to them now. A nice holiday somewhere tropical.
It was 2 am in New York when he decided to call it a night and hit the sack; he was out before his head hit the pillow. It wasn’t dreams of business deals and wealth that made him sleep so soundly, but the thought of the holiday he would soon be having with the folks back home.
Brrrr, brrrr
Ronnie was relaxing on a beach in the Bahamas; the kind of beach that in travel agent speak would be described as idyllic, offering a fleeting glimpse of paradise amongst the sea of troubles that come our way in this unforgiving life. He was lying on a sun lounger, without a care in the world, sipping cocktails next to his wife; her mind buried in the latest bestselling Romantic novel.
Brrrr, brrrr
The ringing of the hotel phone in his bedroom was starting to impose itself on his subconscious. It merged into his dream, re-imagined as a bird of paradise singing a sweet overture to the world from one of the palm trees that lined the beach, like a host of celestial angels looking over him, protecting him.
Brrrr, brrrr
The noise was forcing its way brutally into his conscious mind now, more like a pneumatic drill boring into his skull than a bird of paradise. The beach faded into the background as he reluctantly came to terms with the knowledge it was a dream. Only a dream. For a moment he tried to stay there, but it was too late. Ronnie opened his eyes.
Brrrr, Brrrr
He looked at the clock on his bedside table. 6.30 a.m. in good old New York. The deal was all tied up and he had left instructions not to be disturbed.
Who the fuck can that be?
Ronnie reached sleepily for the phone.
‘Who is it?’
‘Ron, it’s H.’
In all the years he had known him, H had never once called him while he was away on business. And in all the years he had known him H had never once sounded so, so...
The adrenalin exploded through his body like a catalyst thrown into a bunch of chemicals. He sat upright, the muscles in his back constricted with tension and expectation. He was having a fight-or-flight moment. But there was nowhere to run, no-one to fight.
‘H, what’s happened?’
H didn’t know what to say. When he’d picked up the phone in Scotland Yard he knew he wouldn’t know what to say, but he also knew he had to do it. The news couldn’t come from anyone else. He loved Ronnie too much to duck it. His throat tightened. His breathing became sporadic. Short, sharp breaths.
‘H, what is it mate?’
H realised all the compassion, sympathy and kindness in the world were not going to make one jot of difference, so he blurted out the three most difficult words he had ever had to say in his life, in the only way he knew how: straight and direct.
‘Ron…Tara’s dead.’
14
‘Cut off heads and dump bodies in Thames.’ Vladimir Agapov’s instructions to his minions were usually short and to the point. He wasn’t a man to waste words.
He took a black comb from the inside pocket of his single-breasted, dark blue bespoke jacket and swept it through his slick black locks, whilst smiling at the two bloodstained Albanian captors on the floor before him.
‘You kill us our brothers will come. For you, your mother, your father. Everyone you know will die.’
Agapov knew they spoke the truth, but the war for control of the huge riches available in London’s underworld was well underway. The time for mercy was long gone; kill these two or set them free, the Albanians had arrived. The game was on.
Vladimir straightened the jacket that had been crumpled during the beating he had just administered, and admired his thick smooth hair, good looks and muscular body in the full length mirror fixed to the wall. Yes, he knew the Albanians were coming, whatever he did. He rethought his instructions.
‘Cut off heads. We will deliver to friends in Bermondsey. Dump headless bodies in Thames for eels to feed.’
He walked, all spritely, up the stairs of the basement and emerged into the bright plush surroundings of his London headquarters, situated in a dead-end alley just off Peter Street in Soho.
Soho, one of the most expensive parts of one of the most expensive cities in the world. Where high life millionaires sat in cafes with low life drug dealers, where tourists from every country on earth descended for the daily round of entertainment. Right at the heart of the capital, where the life was, where the action was, where the money was, the unofficial corporate headquarters of the London sex trade. Agapov loved it.
The private members club owned by his organisation was unknown to most people, accessible by a well policed door. The alleyway was rarely visited by anyone other than early morning refuse collectors and, of course, the wealthy members of this most discreet of clubs. Admission was strictly by invitation only.
Agapov walked into the small bar at the end of the central corridor. A surly group of Russian mobsters sat sipping vodka and laughing with a posse of prostitutes who had arrived early, preparing themselves for the afternoon shift with a few glasses of vodka.
Many types of prostitutes worked for Agapov’s organisation. Some plied their trade on the streets at night, some were virtual slaves confined to quarters in grubby, dead end hotels. The clientele of the main establishment required something a bit more high class. These girls were independent, glamorous and educated. At around a thousand quid a pop, he made sure they all knew their claret from their Beaujolais.
Agapov gave the nod to one of his henchmen, who felt the reassuring rush of heat pass through his body as he downed his vodka and slammed the glass down on the marble table. He raised himself from the plush leather sofa and walked across the room, brushing past one of the many pricey exotic sculptures that adorned it.
‘Viktor, what time will package arrive for tonight’s private party?’, asked Agapov.
Viktor checked his phone: ‘Package will arrive in 15 minutes, boss.’
Vladimir spent the next 15 minutes doing the rounds. He checked into the many bedrooms and private function rooms connected to the corridors of the labyrinthine building. All seemed calm and in good order. At the rear of the building, hidden from prying eyes, were the two holding cells where he kept their most exotic contraband, reserved for the extra-special clients.
Viktor reappeared and said, ‘Boss, package has arrived.’
Agapov made his way to the back door that led out to the alleyway, which was just wide enough to allow for a medium sized van.
A large, burly man pulled up and jumped out of the front seat. The deep scars hacked out of his cheeks spoke of a life lived on the edge. His deep set, sunken glass eye didn’t quite fit, and his one good eye bulged out of its socket. His “don’t look at me, don’t fuck with me” persona was living proof that humans are scarier than monsters.
Even Agapov was wary of him. They nodded to each other in recognition and then the burly man opened the rear doors of the van and signalled to its contents to get out.
‘Fresh merchandise’, he said, as the two young boys clambered from the rear. The drugs they had been doped with did nothing to hide the sadness and despair in their eyes.
Vladimir guessed they were seven or eight years of age before he called them over. He checked out their teeth and hair as if they were show ponies at a country fair.
He said ‘Pretty boys. Clients will like. Has doctor checked them?’
‘Yes’, said the burly man, ‘mint condition.’
‘Perfect.’
Agapov nodded goodbye to the burly man and led the two boys through to the padded rooms at the rear.
‘Inside.’
The boys followed instructions as if in a dream, now no more than shadows on a cloudy day, pale imitations of what th
ey once were. A henchman locked the doors behind them.
Good business tonight.
15
Basim Dragusha pulled out the drawer of his desk. He sat in a makeshift office in a caravan in the centre of what was known as an official travellers’ site, smack bang in the middle of Bermondsey. It seemed an inauspicious place to choose as headquarters for the UK operation of the latest international gangster firm to arrive in London, but it suited Dragusha just fine. It was the perfect base to do business from. His men could come and go unnoticed, and none of the travellers who shared the site - marginal and widely despised as they were - would dare say a word to the authorities.
It wasn’t exactly Soho, but that would come in time.
He took a bottle of rakia out of the draw and handed it to his old friend Fatos.
‘Here’ he said, ’drink’. Fatos Gazjet opened the bottle and took a long slug. He set the bottle down and pressed the damp cloth he was holding firmly to his face. ‘Is only flesh wound. Will heal’, he said.
Fatos had been tasked with collecting a shipment of cocaine from Holland, arriving at the port of Harwich, sixty-odd miles north east of London. In the process of what seemed like a routine pick up he had lost three men. One was dead. The other two, as far as he knew, were alive and probably not so well in the hands of the group of lethal killers who had bushwhacked them.
‘What happened?’ asked Dragusha.
Fatos took another slug and kept the bottle in his right hand. His body was shaking and he was in need of medical attention. He winced slightly as he pressed the wet dishcloth once more onto the wound.
‘They already in wait for us. We pick up package from boat as usual. As soon as we left boat Qendrim got bullet through head. Six men surround us. They tossed Qendrim into sea and took Shkodran and Shpend with them. Then cut my face. They give me message for you.’
‘What was message?’
