London Large: Blood on the Streets

by Robson, Roy

  61

  Kyril Kuznetsov walked into the plush surroundings of his offices in Knightsbridge with his regular bodyguards in tow. The Kuznetsov Corporation didn’t have any external neon signs nor corporate logo pronouncing its power and grandeur to the outside world. Kuznetsov had learned to use his power quietly, from behind the scenes.

  A small plaque saying ‘Kuznetsov Industries Incorporated’ embossed in gold hung discreetly on the wall behind the reception desk, the only visible sign that one had entered the London HQ of one of the largest energy companies in the world.

  Kuznetsov crossed the marble entrance, smiled pleasantly at the receptionist as he passed by into a restricted access corridor and took the private lift to the top floor. He maintained the pleasant smile and air of cordiality as he greeted various employees on his way to his office. A quiet, serious looking man was waiting for him outside; Kuznetsov beckoned him.

  The serious looking man was one of Kuznetsov’s most trusted and was a man who could keep a secret, which was just as well as he knew more secrets about Kuznetsov than anyone else alive.

  With the office door firmly closed behind them Kuznetsov’s mask slipped to reveal the fury and anger that was waiting to burst out into the open. He was a man who liked his illegal businesses to tick over nice and easy, bringing in a little cash flow but, far more importantly, affording him access to those members of the great and the good of the British establishment who had an ingrained, uncontrollable predilection for young boys, a predilection he had exploited to great advantage for many years.

  ‘How fuck has this happened? A war breaks out on streets of London. Threatens everything I have built. The police investigations will be wide and deep, and may drag high profile clients in. This stops now.’

  The other man spoke in soft tones, calmly and without fuss.

  ‘What are negotiation parameters?’

  Kuznetsov subdued his anger and spoke in a more businesslike manner. This was just business, after all.

  ‘Offer the Albanians ten million pounds. Agapov they can have to torture and kill and they can control business south of the river. I don’t care what happens there. If they accept these conditions, all violence stops.’

  ‘If they not accept?’

  ‘Bring in a small army. A hundred men.’

  The inscrutable one nodded his understanding and turned to leave. As he opened the office door Kuznetsov gave a final instruction:

  ‘Make it very clear to them that they can accept my terms, or they can all be killed. They will all die: men, women, children. All of them.’

  62

  Ronnie felt physically and emotionally exhausted after the ordeal in the pizza place. He’d gone down like a sack of spuds; he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. The last few weeks had been the worst of his life. When he woke up it took him a while to get his bearings. He recalled the night before and remembered he was at H’s.

  The revelation of Tara’s deepest secret had unlocked half a lifetime of lies, evasions and repressed emotion. For years he had tried to keep it locked securely away, at the back of his mind, in the part of the brain labelled ‘Pandora’s Box’, the part that needed to be kept locked to contain the demons that could burst forth and destroy his world. At Tara’s insistence he had kept the secret all his life.

  He recalled the shock when she had first told him the gory details, when she’d first found the courage to trust him. The news shattered him, made him murderously angry.

  ‘I’m going to confront him. I’m going round to his house and God help me if I don’t kill him.’

  ‘Ronnie, no. Please. I asked you to stay calm. For my sake. I’ve held this in all my life. I’ve never told a soul. It’s taken me years to find the courage to tell you. You have to keep the secret with me. You have to help me live with this - just you and me Ronnie. Nobody else.’

  After he’d calmed down he’d stuck to his promise and kept quiet. He knew he could never heal the pain Tara carried with her. He thought about it often, as the years went by, and he wished she’d never told him. The secret hadn’t unified them. Over time it had opened a gap between them and, as much as he loved her, he found it difficult to live with. He wanted to protect her, to avenge her. But he had been sworn to secrecy, and to inaction.

  And when he’d suspected she had started to have affairs he turned a blind eye. Keep things under wraps. Keep Pandora’s Box locked tight.

  But the shock of her involvement with savage gangsters had hit him hard, made him confront the truth. The box had been opened and could never be locked again.

  He trundled downstairs, head bowed, and entered the kitchen where Olivia was making tea. It was as if a tidal wave of sadness and regret had flooded the room. Her heart went out to him and she gave him a big hug and tenderly kissed his cheeks.

  But as good a listener as Olivia was she was not quite ready to hear the full story, and Ronnie was not quite ready to tell it. So they skipped around it.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thanks love. Any news from H?’

  ‘No, nothing. God knows what he got up to last night. I’ve known him a long time and seen his rages and moods over the years. But last night was something different. The rage was there, but mixed with a kind of abandon. Like he just didn’t care about anything, or maybe he cared so much about something that he didn’t care what he did. I’m worried sick Ron.’

  ‘Don’t worry Liv, whatever he’s up to he’ll come through. He always has. He always will.’

  63

  H came to in an unfamiliar bed, alone. It was 1pm, and there was a two-thirds empty bottle of scotch on the bedside table. He felt as if some great animal, maybe a big brown bear, had sliced the top of his head off, scooped out what was left of his brain, and shat into the hole. Same old same old. He had some trouble figuring out where he was, but focused hard and recalled that he was in one of Ronnie’s high-end apartments, which were dotted around Rotherhithe, close to the river.

  Not the best spot in the world to go to ground in, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  He still had no idea if he’d killed old Oswald, put him into a coma or merely given him a proper old-school pasting. He fumbled for a remote and switched the TV on. It was wall-to-wall Carruthers. The Royal Richmond Hospital. The great man in intensive care. A home invasion. Hilary doing the honours at the press conference, talking a lot but saying nothing. No news on the culprit or culprits.

  He moved to the kitchen and pottered about, in ultra-slow motion, until he managed to put a cup of coffee together. Now he was ready to focus. Yesterday’s highlights: Ronnie in bits; Old Shitbreath’s paedo club; Carruthers on the deck, twitching in a pool of blood; the summit meeting with Amisha.

  He was in the shit now; bang in it. He reviewed his position: suspended from the only thing he knew how to do, a public laughing stock, soon to be a public enemy. His boy in the nick. Hiding out in Ronnie’s flat, unable to go and see Olivia. Up to his bollocks in the grief being caused by the Russians and the Albanians. And now, to top it all off, he was on the scent, as a completely rogue element, of a nonce conspiracy involving a bunch of the most high-profile and powerful men in the country. His psychological and emotional state he left out of the reckoning.

  Focus on the details. Figure out a way through the maze.

  He threw on his clothes, snapped the battery back into his phone and sparked it up. Just a quick look to see if there was anything, any message, he could use. He scanned his inbox: nothing but aggravation there, except for a message from Olivia. He didn’t read it.

  First thing: get a few burners. Got to call Olivia, she’ll be worried sick.

  He turned the phone over to take the battery out, but heard a Ping! as he slid the back off. Number unknown. He opened the message, and read:

  HAVE SEARCHED DARK WEB. WE NEED TO TALK. URGENT. MEET AT EGG AND BACON BARRY’S. 2PM.

  Amisha. She’s on board. Fucking good girl! I’ve got half a chance now.

  The big ma
n was out of the flat in a flash, pocketing the phone and pulling on his jacket as he swarmed down the stairs. He jumped into his car, lit up the blue light and gunned towards the Walworth Road for all he was worth.

  It was 1.40.

  64

  Confident John had stayed awake at his post all night, fuelled by the charlie he always kept round him for emergencies and by his commitment to helping the big man. He’d surprised himself at his staying power; 99 times out of 100 he’d have normally given up.

  He’d watched the four KGB lookalikes patrol the area in turns throughout the night, and as dark turned to light he’d watch the sunrise slowly shine its rays onto the dawning of a new day. It was something he hadn’t seen for a number of years given his normal routine: bed around 2am, up by midday, maybe a little later.

  He’d taken the liberty of nipping off for a quick breakfast but was soon back at his post at the rear of the flats. A few more hours, a few more lines of cocaine to iron out.

  He continued his vigil. The sun reached its zenith. One of the sentinels did another round. He’d worked out they were creatures of habit and that it would be at least half an hour before another one came by.

  Fuck it - enough hanging about. Time for action

  John did another line to boost his confidence and went for it. He cut a comic figure as he scaled the fence that secured the rear of the flats. Anyone watching would have creased up in laughter as he tumbled down the other side. The eight or nine pints from the day before hadn’t done much to help his co-ordination and spatial awareness, but the marching powder drove him on and numbed the pain as he landed on a broken bottle.

  Fuck it!

  He collected himself together and, with as much stealth as he could manage, inched his way to the rear window and knelt down below it.

  He sat for five minutes, as once again fear gripped him and tried its best to determine his behaviour. Once again he overcame it.

  The things I fucking do for H. Next time he can do this his fucking self

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his head. He had a sense of what it might feel like going over the top of a trench and was half expecting to be met by a volley of automatic gunfire. Through the net curtains he saw two men watching TV, and a third reading a paper. The fourth, the one who had now clocked him twice, was nowhere to be seen. On patrol somewhere in the locality, no doubt.

  But asleep on the sofa, with a drip of something or other feeding his veins, was Agapov. No doubt about it.

  Bingo!

  He got out his mobile. Even he had a mobile now, and he’d learnt how to use it. He quietly tapped the phone icon, then contacts, and pressed on H. Straight to voicemail.

  Fuck it - the fucker’s never about when you really need him.

  He’d only ever sent a few texts in his life but the recent lessons from his niece were standing him in good stead. He got control of his quivering hands and started stabbing at the tiny keys.

  H. FOUND YOUR MAN. FLAT 72, HUXLEY HOUSE, FARADAY STREET, WATERLOO. 4 GUARDS. THEY LOOK TASTY. BE CAREFULL.

  He hit the send button.

  Time to do the off.

  65

  H was bang on time. He said his hellos to Egg and Bacon Barry, ordered a full-scale heart attack on-a-plate and settled back into his plastic moulded chair to wait. His hangover needed feeding and Olivia was not around to restrain him. He felt free; a man on a mission, out in the world on his own, taking orders or advice from no one.

  No Amisha yet. He surveyed the scene and waited for her to walk in. His food arrived and he gorged on it like a hungry dog, hunched low over the plate.

  ‘Any good H?’ asked Barry, after the show was over.

  ‘Blinding. Top notch. Another cup of tea please mate’, said H, leaning back in his chair. But where there should have been contentment there was only unease. It was ten past two. H had never known Amisha to be so much as a minute late. For anything. Ever.

  I’ll give it ‘til half past.

  He gulped down a third cup of tea and hit the street at twenty five past. His guts were churning; he was electric with anxiety. High anxiety. He rushed into an all-purpose Nigerian shop - ‘International money transfer. Cheapest rates’ - and bought the cheapest dumbphone he could find, pay-as-you-go. He punched Amisha’s number into it. Nothing.

  He was certain now; something was up. There was nothing else for it - he would have to risk going to her place. There was no other option. He jumped back into the car and, for the second time in less than a day, set a course for Greenwich.

  H pulled into her street slowly. No sign of her flat being watched. He parked up and crept round the back and into the garden, as he had in the early hours. Straight away he saw, with alarm, that the back door was open. It had been forced, by someone who knew what they were doing. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out his cosh - the good old spring-loaded he’d been cracking heads with for donkey’s years - and eased himself inside.

  All was quiet. His heart pounding, he moved to the living room and sized up the scene immediately: overturned chairs, bits and pieces strewn all across the room and, in the middle of the floor, a baseball bat, flecked with blood.

  That’s my girl, didn’t go without a fight… fuck me, she’s got some bottle…but who’s taken her? And why? What the fuck is going on?

  His head span and his blood surged. He sat down; he needed to breathe, to think. He needed a plan - but he was out on a limb now, winging it, almost alone. Almost. He still had Ronnie. And John. But how could they help him with his next move? And what was that going to be, exactly?

  Fact was, he was out of ideas, or directions to move in. He’d go out, get another dumbphone, and let Olivia know he was OK. And then…? Without thinking, he slid the battery back into his proper phone. Scrolling down his inbox, he again saw an endless list of messages that could only drive him nuts, text after text he would never read, until he came to:

  H. FOUND YOUR MAN. FLAT 72, HUXLEY HOUSE, FARADAY STREET, WATERLOO. 4 GUARDS. THEY LOOK TASTY. BE CAREFULL.

  Bingo! Gotcha, you cunt!

  H had no idea how, or if, Agapov was connected to Amisha’s disappearance. But he was sure as hell connected with Tara’s death. This was the break he’d been waiting for. He drove into Greenwich and bought a handful of second hand dumbphones. They were getting harder to find. With one of them he let Olivia know he was safe and well.

  That was as much as he could do for now.

  66

  John’s text had advised caution. But it was too late for careful. Far too late.

  H had sent Amisha into the Dark Web, recruited her to his lone wolf campaign against a high level conspiracy, and now she was gone. This was on him. He had no idea if the bastards who had taken her would keep her alive. What had she found? How had they found her?

  If she was still alive, though, he would find her. And if she was dead he would find everyone, absolutely everyone involved, and he would take no prisoners.

  In war he had always acted under the constraints of the Geneva Convention; in Civvy Street he had, for the most part at least, acted within the constraints of the legal system. Now he was outside, outside of everything he had spent his life defending. All bets were off.

  Time was of the essence. He needed to act and act quickly. He’d never memorized many phone numbers but Confident John’s was one that had stuck in his mind along the way. He thought about texting but it took too long. He needed proper communication so he punched the number into one of the dumbphones and pressed call.

  In normal times Confident John didn’t usually accept calls from unknown numbers. But these were not normal times.

  ‘John, it’s H.’

  ‘H, fucking hell mate. Have you read my text?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. Nice work mate. I need a shooter, now. Something proper. Automatic.’

  ‘Thought you would ask that; it’ll take some time.’

  ‘No time mate. No fucking time whatsoever. What can you get hold of now?’

 
‘An old revolver. Six rounds. But I shouldn’t think this mob want to play cowboys.’

  ‘On my way.’

  H was on autopilot. He unthinkingly navigated the route to John’s as he considered the situation and constructed a plan. He thought the Russians might move Agapov to a new location and he didn’t want to turn up and find him gone. He knew they didn’t know anything about the kidnapping, didn’t, in all likelihood, know anything whatsoever about Amisha. But he knew Tara, knew Tara well, and if the kidnapping was related in any way to Amisha investigating Old Shitbreath and his chums...well, it was the only possible link he had.

  He arrived at John’s third floor flat, gulping in air after his breakneck sprint up the stairs, and hammered on the door.

  ‘John, lively mate.’

  John opened the door. He looked like shit, exhausted from more than twenty four hours of non-stop surveillance. H could see he’d pushed the boat out to help him but this was no time for niceties.

  ‘Thank fuck I’m not a copper,’ said John as he passed the gun to H. H checked it was fully loaded; all six bullets were present and correct.

  ‘Don’t suppose there are any more bullets about?’

  ‘Afraid not H’, said John, ‘that’s your whack. Tell me you’re not going it alone? You’ll need more than that with this firm.’

  H made no reply. Just eye contact, a faint smile and a nod of friendship. He turned and bolted down the stairs as fast as his girth and joints would allow. Which was actually very fast. He was inside his car and heading for Waterloo before John knew it.

  Less than fifteen minutes later the big man came to a juddering halt in Faraday Street, jumped out of his car and ran at number 72 like a crazed rhino. Fast and direct had always been his preferred option, once he’d discounted all the others.