London Large: Blood on the Streets

by Robson, Roy

  ‘That’ll be Russian or Albanian I should think, maam’, said H.

  But she did not reply. She was sitting now, and holding her head in her hands. H pulled a chair up close to hers.

  ‘Hilary, you alright?’ he said.

  ‘What now, H? More dead bodies, another bloodbath? When’s it going to end? How are we going to stop it?’

  These were rhetorical questions, H understood. Her focus was all on the screen, waiting for confirmation that the armed response unit had arrived and for someone to start to tell her what the hell was going on down there. Down there, south of the river.

  ‘Always trouble down there in your patch H’, she said. ‘I need you to be straight with me. Are you up to this? I can’t send Miller-Marchant down there; they’ll have him for breakfast. I’ll put him on the St James’ thing. We need to find out if they’re connected. I want my best man down there. Are you up to it?’

  ‘Only one way to find out’, said H, pulling on his coat.

  He motioned to Amisha to follow him.

  ‘Where we off to, guv? Bermondsey?’, she asked.

  ‘Yep, by way of the boozer. This can wait five minutes; whoever’s been shot down there’s not going anywhere. I could strangle a pint.’

  They hit the street and headed for the car. As they were crossing the road Amisha’s gadgets exploded, pinging and zinging for all they were worth. She handed her phone for the second time that day to H. It was Hilary again, shouting, and sounding like she was on the verge of losing control.

  Welcome to my world.

  ‘H…it’s…heads down there. Severed heads wrapped in blankets. They’re finding severed heads in blankets.’

  20

  The kid’s lapel camera had not done it justice - seen up close, The Island was an absolute mess. Some of the caravans had practically been demolished, shot to pieces and left hanging in bits, their interiors on display. Like something straight out of a war zone. H had not seen a place so shot up since he’d left the army. Not in his twenty years of coppering in the metropolis.

  Fuck me, what sort of weapons are these bastards using?

  All was quiet now. The scene was secure, and they knew the tally: two dead and half a dozen injured, most of them inside the caravans. And to top it all off, two heads, each in its own wrapping. On their way now to forensics. Eye witnesses, from both on and off the site, were being gathered at the local nick. Interpreters had been called for to help with the former, but H knew that would lead nowhere: they would all play mute.

  ‘Well, there’s not much we can do here for the minute, Ames. Let’s go and see if Confident John can help us start to pick the bones out of this fucking mess.’

  ‘Guv, you’ve never really told me why you insist on calling him “Confident John” all the time’, Amisha asked in the car. ‘That’s not what it says on his birth certificate, is it?’

  ‘Because that’s his name Ames. Has been for years. When I was a kid there were a lot of Johns about round here. As we got older we had to find ways of distinguishing them. So we had John the Plumber, John the Mechanic, Postman John, Sex-Case John, John the Scaffold Murderer, and Confident John. Actually he was called Shy Nervous John for a long time, but then in his thirties he fell in love with a bird and changed. Became more confident.’

  They found the man himself plotted up at the bar in the Crown and Anchor, studying the racing form in his paper. His usual pitch, this time of the day.

  ‘What’s happening, John?’, said H, patting him on the back.

  ‘Hello H. Long time no see. I wondered how long it’d take you to get down here. What you drinking?’

  ‘I’ll have a large scotch. She’ll have orange juice’, said H, motioning to Amisha with a nod of his head. ‘We’ll be over at the corner table.’

  Settling down into her chair, Amisha realised how she’d come to love these sessions. It was like being an anthropologist, getting to know some exotic tribe. These guys had their own history, their own way of behaving, their own way of understanding the world, their own language. It was the language she really liked, and she’d noticed lately that it was beginning to rub off on her.

  ‘Mark my card for me, John. What the fuck is going on here? What was that turnout at The Island all about?’ asked H.

  ‘Give me a chance, mate, it’s only just happened. Obviously someone’s had a pop at the Albanians on the site. You’ve got two choices, basically. It’s either the Russians, part of the bigger thing that’s been going on, or another Albanian firm. One of their vendettas.’

  ‘Which would you put your money on?’

  ‘Neither H, at this stage. The thing is, these Balkan Mafioso always keep schtum. You never get a dickie bird out of them. Not that they speak a lot of English. They keep themselves to themselves. They’re violent, ruthless. And they’re tooled-up to fuck. This is all way past sawn-off shotguns, mate.’

  H sighed, heavily. ‘Tell me something I don’t know, John.’

  ‘What you don’t know, H, is that this bollocks is only just getting started. Whatever that was about this afternoon, they’ll have to meet fire with fire. If it was the Russians we’ll wind up in the middle of a full scale war. If it was another Albanian firm it’ll be part of a vendetta, which is almost as good as a war. Those fucking things never end. The fun and games we’ve had so far are going to look like a fucking vicar’s tea party by the time this lot have finished.’

  H fell silent. The enormity of what he was going to have to keep on dealing with was beginning to crush him again. He was under heavy gravity, as he had been earlier in the park, and felt like getting his head down then and there.

  ‘Time to head home, guv? It’s been a long day’, said Amisha.

  Good girl.

  ‘Yeah, get me out of here Ames. Thanks John. Keep ‘em peeled.’

  ‘Will do, H.’

  It was almost dark outside now. And raining. And their car was gone.

  21

  As Amisha pulled out her phone to call for cabs, H hung his head and let out one of his deep, long, slow groans.

  ‘How much worse is today going to get?’ he said, as if to himself.

  I can’t take much more of this. I’ve had enough.

  ‘Come on, guv, it’s only a car. We’ve got others. Your cab will be here in a jiff. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. If Confident, No-Longer-Shy-And-Nervous John is right we’re going to have a full-scale war on our hands before much longer.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the car, Ames. Whatever little fuckwit has had that away can keep it. It’s the phone. We’ve lost the fucking phone. I left in in the glove compartment. The phone.’

  ‘It’s not like you to worry about phones, guv. I thought you hated them? I’ve listened to more of your rants about “fucking phones:” this and “fucking tablets that” than I’ve had hot dinners.’ Amisha, clearly, was beginning to go native with the lingo.

  He’s going to pieces. Little things are starting to fry his brain.

  ‘Listen to me, Ames. It was Tara’s phone. I picked up Tara’s phone. This morning. In the park.’

  Silence. Amisha was taking her time to process this one. It was a blinder, even by H’s standards.

  She cleared her throat and took a breath.

  ‘So, guv, let me see if I’m getting this right. You’re telling me that you have removed a vital item of evidence from a crime scene - the scene of a murder - and have kept it in your possession?’

  ‘Ames, listen. Tara Ruddock is…was… the wife of the very best friend I’ve ever had. A man who was prepared to lay down his life to save mine. A man I grew up with, round here, and have known all my life. He’s about the only person in this world I trust. Really trust. What was I supposed to do? I wasn’t thinking straight this morning Ames, you know that. But I’d do it again. Whatever it was that Tara got herself into…is something that I don’t want the world and his wife to know before I do. I need to protect them…him. Loyalty, Ames. It’s called loyalty.’

 
; Another pause.

  ‘I see’, said Amisha. ‘And what is to be my part in all this?’

  ‘No part. Go to Hilary and put her in the picture. I’ve dragged you into some old-school bollocks here, Ames, and I’m sorry. Protect your career. You’re going to be a top notch copper one day. Go to Hilary, get yourself clear of this. I’m tired…I’m going home.’

  Two cabs pulled up at the top of the street and the pair moved towards them.

  ‘Have a good night’s rest, guv, we’ll sort this out in the morning’, she said.

  ‘Go to Hilary, Ames. Set the record straight. Do the right thing.’

  ‘Fuck Hilary’, Amisha said. ‘We’ve got to get that fucking phone back. God alone knows what it might be able to tell us.’

  22

  They walked towards their cabs. The rain fell in sheets. Amisha didn’t know it yet but her attempt to calm H’s inner demons was about to be blown off course as his fragile composure came under renewed fire when he heard the ringtone, the ringtone that told him his ex-wife was on the other end of the line. It was a sound out of time, a ringtone he wasn’t sure he would ever hear again.

  Time slowed into small chunks, like a film moving at one frame per second, as H considered the name emblazoned across the screen of his mobile. The last time he’d upgraded his phone he thought about removing her number but he’d kept it in case she ever needed to talk to him about one of the kids. It had been a long time since they had last talked, or rather screamed at each other outside the court after completion of the final divorce proceedings.

  ‘Fuck you and fuck your prick of a boyfriend’, had been the last words he’d said to her.

  Julie and H had met at school. As a young girl Julie loved to read stories of princesses trapped in towers, of chivalry and knights in shining armour. When they had first met it seemed as if she had found the man she had been looking for since she’d heard her first fairytale. He was strong, full of life and ambition, and his wry sense of humour made her laugh. They had met young, married young, as in a true love story that never ends.

  H had done his best to put Julie out of his mind - but every now and again his subconscious forced her back to the foreground of it. He still regularly recalled the moment they first met. The young, striking blond with the winning smile and bubbly personality, laughing with carefree abandon at his childish jokes and youthful pranks. So beautiful, so genuine, so perfect. How he had once loved her.

  What does she fucking want?

  Amisha noticed his facial expressions distort with a peculiar mixture of anger and puzzlement, and the muscles in his back constrict and contort, whilst he considered whether to accept or decline the call. He pressed the accept icon.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

  It was painful for Julie to hear his voice again. She knew he knew this wasn’t a social call so dispensed with the social niceties.

  ‘Little Ronnie’s in trouble.’

  When one of the proudest moments of his life had arrived there was only ever one name he was going to give to his first-born son. He’d dubbed him Little Ronnie to distinguish him from the other Ronnie, and it had been a tag that Ronnie Hawkins had to live with. As a boy he’d enjoyed it, loved it to bits in fact. Being named after the great Ronnie Ruddock, as his father always referred to his friend, had been an honour, and he always listened attentively when his father told him about Ronnie’s meteoric rise to riches. But he’d enjoyed much more the few occasions, after H had had a few too many down the local boozer, when his father opened up and told him some tales from the old days. He’d loved the stories of Ronnie and his dad growing up in Bermondsey, the skirmishes and brawls they had got into, the tight spots they had, more with luck than judgement, managed to worm their way out of. How they had finally ‘grown up’ when they made their pact to join the army and fight for Queen and Country.

  ‘Better to believe in something’ H had schooled him, ‘than waste your life rucking on the streets of London.’ Once or twice Little Ronnie had asked his father about his time in the Falklands, but on each occasion he had got the look. H never spoke to him about his days in the army.

  Little Ronnie himself had been a good kid. Not the brightest kid on the block, for sure, but he’d always had a good attitude and worked hard to make his father proud. Until the divorce. The divorce had ruined everything. H had only seen Ronnie a couple of times in the last few years. Neither time had gone very well.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  Julie gave it to him straight:

  ‘Serious trouble, he’s been arrested for smuggling heroin into the country.’

  Amisha couldn’t hear the words and watched on helplessly as H convulsed and his face drained of blood.

  If his son had been involved in a few youthful skirmishes, no problem. After all H had not exactly been a paragon of virtue in his early years. But heroin smuggling was different. H had witnessed first-hand lives destroyed, talent wasted, families ripped to shreds under the influence of hard drugs. He hated them and he hated the people who dealt them. In H’s world view the heroin trade was evil: no ifs, no buts, and no shades of grey. He’d put so many dealers away during his spell in narcotics that he’d lost count. H hated the bastards. He was known for it.

  But Ronnie was his son, and for H blood was thicker than a euphoria inducing drug.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Being held at Peckham police station. I’m here now.’

  ‘On my way’, said H.

  Peckham nick had been re-built in 1990s; it was south London’s Fort Apache: the four feet thick concrete walls were reinforced with steel and built to withstand rioting and terrorist attack.

  H jumped into the cab and ordered Amisha in beside him.

  ‘Where are we going guv?’ she asked.

  ‘Peckham nick’, said H.

  23

  H burst into the police station, flashed his police badge at the constable on the entry desk and demanded to see Ronnie Hawkins immediately.

  Police Constable Tony Jarrow was a new recruit, unsure of the limits of his authority, unaware of who H was and unsure of how he should deal with the force of nature that had just confronted him.

  ‘I’m not authorised to allow...’

  ‘Don’t fuck about with me son, I’m not in the mood. Now go and get duty sergeant in charge before I ...’

  The door immediately behind the reception desk opened and Sergeant Bobby Venables walked out. He was a solid man, who respected the authority of the force and the power of his superiors, who believed in the chain of command and stuck to protocols. He was never going to be a spectacular success and in H’s eyes he was a plodder, but like all organisations the force needed its share of plodders and as far as H was concerned he was ok.

  ‘Bobby, what the fuck is happening with my boy?’

  It might not be strictly protocol to allow a Detective Inspector direct access to his newly arrested son but, as a plodder, Bobby understood when the unwritten protocols of the police should prevail. And he knew what H was capable of.

  ‘H. We’ve been expecting you. This way’, he said.

  H followed Venables into the heart of the police station. It was now late and most of the lights were out. Only a few officers were at work, poring over their computers in the corner of the poorly lit open plan office. The moon shone through the rain and the windows, its light side throwing a soft radiance onto the numerous paper files still used by the Metropolitan Police, as if trying to reveal the details of the myriad secrets within them. But it was H’s dark side that was in ascendance as he followed his guide down a stairway to the subterranean cells and interview rooms on the lower floors.

  ‘Bobby, who’s in charge of the case? It’s no random pick up if they’ve got him banged up in Peckham. How long has the case been running? How long has my boy been in the frame? Why didn’t anyone fucking tell me about this?’

  Venables just had time to tell him that all he knew was that Inspector Marshall was in overal
l control before they entered a seating area outside a series of interview rooms. Julie and her husband Justin Evergreen sat holding hands.

  Justin’s and H’s eyes met and Justin hurriedly averted his gaze.

  Prick.

  H looked at Julie and Julie looked at H.

  A few more wrinkles had appeared on her face since last they met. Slowly, ever so slowly, her beauty was fading. But the contours of those luscious lips, the bright green eyes and the beautifully soft long blonde hair were still intact. H’s heart rate quickened.

  The worry frowns had deepened considerably on his forehead, a new scar had appeared below his left ear and the thatch of hair on his head now looked faintly ridiculous. But she sensed the same old H still lived inside, the same aura that had enveloped him in the last years of their marriage still hung on him, followed him like a dark cloud, ever ready to pour its contents and unleash its remorseless thunder and lightning onto the world.

  It was not long after the Falklands, she recalled, that the flashbacks and changes really kicked in. She thought it was temporary, at first, but then it gradually got worse.

  She remembered the defining moment. He had arranged a weekend trip to Manchester to meet up with some of his old 2 Para muckers. He’d arrived eager and fully prepared for a nice two-day bender but had instead found Bobby Swan, their host, swinging from a rope in his front room. When he returned the change was complete. She knew she had lost him. The anger, the drinking, the inability to compromise all increased. She tried to love him, to comfort him, but he had pushed her away. She blamed him for killing their love.

  Partly in desperation, and because she needed more from life, she had enrolled in an adult education centre to study sociology at evening classes. Justin could hardly believe his luck when the gorgeous blonde walked into his class, looking sad and insecure, like a child at her first day in school.