by Robson, Roy
By 2 am H’s brain was as numb as his backside, and he broke for a hot dog from the stall by St James’ Park. He washed it down with a snifter of scotch on the walk back to the Yard. Bleary eyed, he entered the building, rode up in the lift, slumped back into position and started clicking.
He moved down the list. Vladimir Agapov himself was beginning to feature more prominently, getting singled out for more and more attention by his watchers; standing around in the street like he owned it, barking commands at his guys, sharing jokes with his guys. Taking his ladies by the arm. H began to count them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6…7. There was something about 7. But he was struggling to stay awake.
He went to the bathroom and sluiced his face with cold water. He made a note of the file he’d seen moll 7 in and kept looking. There she was again a little later on, her face concealed as before by a wide brimmed hat. And again, on a windswept Berwick Street. And then the moment he’d been waiting for, but hoped would never come: the wind lifted the brim of her hat. H recognized her at once. It was Tara, being led along the street by Agapov. They were laughing like teenagers in love; she was practically skipping along.
Boom! Looks like it’s time for another rollercoaster ride through another fucking shitstorm.
What does this mean? What on earth could it mean? His head began to spin, again - he was starting to get used to this now, these last few weeks. His heart was pounding and he couldn’t think straight. He was filled with murderous rage, desperate sadness and utter confusion. He wanted to kill someone; he wanted to cry.
How the fuck did she get mixed up with these bastards?
What does this mean? What on God’s fucking earth does this mean?
What’ll I tell Ronnie?
47
Graham sat in his car and geared himself up for his approach to Brown’s. One of those iconic gentlemen’s clubs with its roots in the eighteenth century, in which his own grandmother would have struggled to get a job as a cleaner. The fact was, his double-barrelled name was a product of his wife’s refusal to simply take his name, and not high breeding. Graham Miller’s father had been the owner of a hardware shop in Peterborough. What Hawkins called his ‘poncey Oxbridge drawl’ had been picked up at Cambridge, where as a provincial scholarship boy he had been desperate to fit in.
And now here he was, at, or very near, the top of the tree, among some of the most condescendingly superior people on the face of the earth. Coming to this place had triggered all his old class insecurities, and they were threatening to suffocate him; he was literally struggling for breath as he moved past the mock-imposing comedy doorman, up the stairs and through the club’s gilded doorway. He took a deep breath and hit the reception desk.
‘Detective Inspector Graham Miller-Marchant, to see Sir Basil Fortescue-Smythe’.
He was led into the dining room. Sir Basil, he saw, was seated at a large mahogany table with half a dozen other old buffers, tucking heartily into the kind of full English breakfast that Graham himself might take on once or twice a year, if that. He was looking at the ‘kippers and custard’ syndrome he’d first encountered among the older Dons at Cambridge; the tendency of the sons of the old establishment to stick, for all their lives, with the dishes they’d learned to love as public school boys. Back in the days when an Englishman was proud of his disinterest in fine food. That could be left to the French.
Never come between a man and his full English. Best leave him to it.
‘On second thoughts, please let Sir Basil know I’ll be waiting for him in the lounge’, he said to the underling who was leading him in.
So he waited in the big leather chair in the lounge, with its rows of leather-bound but largely unread books and tables stacked with the Daily Telegraph. He rustled through a copy of one of these without interest, and waited some more.
Finally Sir Basil processed into the lounge. Graham rose to meet him, but was motioned to stay seated, and Sir Basil took up position in an adjoining chair.
‘I am very sorry for your loss, sir’, said Graham.
Sir Basil did not reply, but stared at him stonily.
‘Sir, as you are aware I am in charge of the investigation into the death of your daughters. I would like to speak to you about this at a time of your convenience. Is it convenient now?’
‘No, it is not.’
A pregnant pause.
‘I am grieving for the death of my children. I keep to my routines, but I am grieving for the death of my children. And you have the presumption to come here, tell me you are “sorry for my loss”, and want to ask me questions about them? No, it is not convenient. Remind me, who is your commanding officer?’
‘Chief Inspector Hilary Stone, sir.’
‘Please inform her she will be hearing from me in due course. Good day to you, Detective Inspector.’
And that was that. Sir Basil had stood, turned crisply and was moving away from Graham before he’d fully registered what had happened. Dismissed like a schoolboy, by a man he could barely look in the eye and certainly couldn’t bring himself to argue with.
He slouched disconsolately down the stairs and into the street, feeling very much the Little Manbot and, surprisingly, felt also a slight twinge of sympathy and regard for Hawkins.
Back to the Yard then. Hilary’s going to rip my balls off.
48
As Graham exited the club with his tail firmly between his legs he was startled to see H standing before him. He could see he was no longer in control of himself. It seemed as if murder was in his eyes.
‘Harry, you shouldn’t be following me.’
‘Update me. Now.’
‘Nothing. I just cannot get through to these people. None of them will tell me anything about Tara’s private life. They won’t even talk to me. As soon as I try to escalate things I get told to back off. I’m getting nowhere.’
H had had enough. He swarmed up the stairs and headed for reception. Confronting Sir Basil Fortescue-Smythe held few terrors for him. They had history. Military history first, and after that personal history - H had, after all, been Ronnie’s best man, and Sir Basil (or Old Shitbreath, as his men had always called him) had been forced, much to his obvious distaste, to socialise with him at the wedding.
Both had got heavily, aggressively drunk at the reception - a weakness for the scotch being just about the only thing the two of them had in common - and had treated one another to ‘plenty of verbals’, as H would later have it. It had become one of his favourite stories:
‘You were a bolshie bastard in the Army, Hawkins, and you’re a bolshie bastard now’, Sir Basil had told him.
‘Have me put in the tower, then’, was H’s reply.
‘You people…’ Sir Basil, H liked to say, was at this point absolutely apoplectic, ‘…you people. If you were still under my command you’d be taught some manners, damn you.’
‘Well we ain’t in the army any more, are we, you old cunt? But you can take me outside and teach me some manners now if you like.’
At this point Jemima had stepped in and separated them. H had not met Sir Basil again - or Jemima, if it came to that - until the current sorry mess began.
‘Detective Inspector Harry Hawkins’ H told the receptionist. ‘Is Sir Basil about?’
‘Sir Basil is in the lounge, sir. If you would wait a moment…’
But H was way ahead of him, and was already breasting the door of the club’s inner sanctum. As seen in a thousand and one old-school movies and TV shows. His man was seated in a circle with five or six others - H recognised Lord Timothy Skyhill, Oswald Carruthers, Sir Peregrine Blunt - engaged in hushed but apparently intense discussion.
‘A few words, if I may, Sir Basil’, shouted H, bearing down fast on the circle.
‘Hawkins? What in God’s name are you doing here?’ exclaimed Sir Basil, rising from his chair. ‘If you wish to talk to me - though frankly I have no idea what we might have to say to one another - make an appointment with my secretary.’
‘Nop
e. Now Sir Basil. Now.’
‘Is this police business, Hawkins? My understanding is that the little fellow…Detective Inspector Miller-Marchant, is leading the investigation. Or has he been suddenly removed and it is now you’ - this with a flourish, Sir Basil playing to the gallery - ‘who is in charge?’
A gale of laughter from the cronies.
‘Well, he’s not going to conduct much of an investigation with you blocking his path, is he?’
The room was buzzing with the electric antipathy between the two men. H was working hard to control himself, to control his language, to control his hands, which were starting to itch. Uh oh. He was filled with loathing for this old bastard, but he knew he would have to ramp it down now, before it was too late.
‘No, Sir Basil, I am not in charge of the investigation. But I am putting you on notice: I will not stand by and let you and your chums impede it. For whatever reasons you might have.’
At this Sir Basil let go a barrage of expletives and threats…but H was tuning out before they hit him. He was in the zone. His senses, his nose and skin, his copper’s intuition, were kicking in. His flesh was crawling. Something was not right here. He did not know what it was, but he could smell a rat; and when Harry Hawkins smelled a rat, nine times out of ten there was a rat to be found.
This lot are up to something.
‘Porter, have this man removed from the premises’, Sir Basil was barking. ‘Now!’
‘Alright, I’m off. But I’ll be back’, said H.
49
H jumped in the car and slammed the door shut. He knew these full bloodied hereditary types were difficult to deal with. Everything was always done on their terms. But this was different. They were wilfully impeding the investigation.
Did they know about Tara and Agapov and wanted to keep it out of the papers? He doubted it. Their types had been through worse scandals than that and come up smelling of roses.
Now satisfied that Miller-Marchant really was as useless as he thought and knew absolutely nothing, H’s mind turned to his only lead, and he made a call to Confident John.
‘H, hello mate.’
‘Alright John. That geezer I told you about, any news?’
‘No firm sightings H. But it’s hard to tell gossip from fact. The rumour mill’s been working overtime. I’ve heard a top level Russian contingent has him holed up somewhere in London but also rumours that he’s been killed. There’s talk of a full scale war but also a reliable source is certain that the Russians and Albanians are setting up a meet. I ain’t got anything concrete though.’
‘Ok. Keep ‘em peeled son. Anything. Anything at all, however small or insignificant, I wanna hear it asap.’
‘Right you are H.’
H hung up, started the car and lit up the siren.
He called Amisha.
‘Hello Guv, where are you? Find anything on the CCTV?’
‘Yeah, just on my way in. Ten minutes. I’ll give you a full update when I arrive. Get the whole team together. We’ll divide up London and work every fucking patch of grass until we find Agapov, whether he’s alive or dead.’
‘OK guv, see you in a quarter of an hour.’
Ten minutes later H was pulling up by Scotland Yard when the phone went.
‘Hilary,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a lead, I’m coming in to update everyone.’
‘H…’ …Hilary paused.
It was only a single syllable but H could tell all was not well.
‘Yeah, go on.’
‘H, I warned you to keep well out of the Tara case, if you had anything to report it, but not get personally involved.’
‘Yeah, but the case is connected somehow to the gangland murder wave, I’ve got clear proof.’
‘H, two pieces of paper in a lock up are proof of nothing.’
H decided now was the time to tell her about the evidence on the CCTV, and was just about to talk when she cut him short, and came directly to the reason she had called.
‘Detective Inspector Hawkins, I’ve called to tell you that as of this moment you are officially suspended from duty pending a full investigation of your conduct and psychological assessment. Do not come to the Yard, do not talk to any police officers and take no further part whatsoever in the investigations into the murder of Tara Ruddock and Jemima Fortescue-Smythe, the massacre in Soho, or any other ongoing police investigation.’
Part 3
50
Little Ronnie sat in his cell, lonely, distraught and in pain. How had it ever come to this? He’d taken a couple of vicious beatings and no doubt was going to take a few more; his old man had put half the convicts in this nick away at some point.
They could hardly believe their luck when Little Ronnie Hawkins turned up. The son of the great H, scourge of villains all over London, banged up on remand in Parkhurst high security prison. Young, innocent, naive. Ripe for the taking.
The opportunity for such easy, sweet revenge on the offspring of Hawkins of the Yard was about the best thing they could hope for in the hellhole in which they now lived their lives. Many of the villains H had put away were here long term, banged up until they were too old to be a danger on the streets. Forgiveness and redemption was not part of their makeup.
Time and time again the events that led to his arrest went through his mind. How could he have been so stupid?
He’d flown out alone to the Bulgarian coast, just to get away for a week or so. Have a break from London and forget about the dead end life he was living. This was the cheapest way there was now for young Europeans to get stuck into the no-holds-barred sun, sea, sex and booze madness. Ronnie had heard that in Bulgaria you could get buckets - actual, literal buckets - of booze for next to nothing.
I think I’ll have some of that.
He could hardly believe his luck when, on the third day, the beautiful Elena sat down and started to talk to him at a beach bar.
‘Where is from you?’, she asked, her accent so other, attractive and exotic. He was bowled over in seconds.
A little later, with a couple of buckets of he knew not what under his belt, he was introduced to her friend, Irajlo. The pair of them seemed so genuine as they showed him around, buying him drinks and taking a keen interest in his life back in London. He was high, he was happy. Never in a million years would it have occurred to him that he was being groomed.
It was on the day before his flight back, by which time he had tasted Elena’s action and they had all become firm friends, that the beautiful Bulgarian girl and friendly Bulgarian boy asked him to deliver a package.
‘Nothing to it, Ronnie. They not search good looking boys like you. Very easy money.’
But search him they had; and found six kilos of heroin. He hadn’t even known what was in the package, although he suspected, of course. But he had made himself blind to the contents - Elena promised to join him in London as soon as she could - and to the consequences.
The lights on his block came on and the cell’s locks clanked open. Once again he’d had no sleep, thoughts of suicide never far from his mind. But he’d made it, made it through another long, dark night. And now another day was about to start. Another day he didn’t know if he could get through.
He was meant to be in a protected unit. But twice they’d got through. He didn’t know who ‘they’ were, exactly. The beatings he’d taken had happened so quickly. Everything was a blur. They could have killed him if they’d wanted to but, it seemed, they wanted to keep him alive, to torment him, like killer whales toying with their prey before moving in for the final kill.
He knew it was coming; it was just a question of when, or whether he broke and finished the job for them. That was the only thing stopping him from ending his life: the thought that it was what they wanted.
As the cell door slid open he put his head in his hands, utterly despondent. He winced in pain as it reminded him the bruising around his puffed up eyes had not abated. He thought about the day ahead. A deep dark well of despair enveloped him.
/>
First breakfast. The jeering, the insults, the spitting, the cuntings-off. Sure, he would be at a separate table with plenty of screws in attendance, but the constant hatred was almost as bad as a beating. It wore away at his nerves, knotted his guts up with dread.
Then more cell time - where he was alone and safe, for a while at least.
And then the worst part of the day. The exercise yard, fear stalking his every step. Shaking like a leaf; waiting - and at times praying - for the knife in the back that would end it all. True, he was separated from the majority of inmates (though he had to walk with the nonces, which made it even worse), but they could get anywhere, whenever they wanted. Whoever they were.
Then lock up time - another night of a despair so deep he had no idea where the bottom was, or if he would ever reach it.
The day, as days always do, made its inexorable way forward. Ronnie made his way to breakfast, accompanied by the voices of his many admirers: ‘You cunt Hawkins’, ‘You’re dead, you fucking little wanker, do you hear me boy? I said do you fucking hear me?’, ‘Any day now, you horrible little shitcunt. Get ready; you first, then your old man.’
Ronnie kept his own counsel. He tried to keep down a mouthful of porridge, but even that was more than his insides could manage.
Back to the cells. Then the day changed. When a screw next opened the cell it was at an unexpected hour.
‘You’re moving to ‘A’ wing.’
Ronnie was almost speechless as the implications rushed through his mind.
‘What?’
‘You heard. Get your stuff together. Five minutes.’
‘But, but that has to be a mistake. I’m on a protected unit. I won’t last five minutes out there. That’s as good as fucking murder.’
‘Look son, I don’t make the rules. Either get your stuff together and go quietly or I’ll come back with a firm and we can move you the hard way. Then I’ll have you on the liquid cosh until you’re dribbling like a little fucking baby. Your choice.’
