London Large: Blood on the Streets

by Robson, Roy

  To a casual observer it would have appeared as if a man pulled up outside a flat and ran at the door without thinking. But the casual observer would have been wrong. H was in the zone and had assessed his options at lightning speed the moment he turned into the street. He had a mental map of the landscape and every individual; the traffic situation and options on a getaway were clear, and he’d stopped bang in the middle of the road to make sure they stayed that way. He’d flipped the switch to open the car boot, left the engine running and left the driver’s door wide open. Now to use the best weapon he had - surprise.

  He ran at the door, assessing it as he moved. He reckoned it was light enough to knock through at first contact if he hit it with everything he had.

  Tasty are they John? We’ll fucking see about that.

  The door gave way as if it were a plywood prop, like a flimsy saloon door in an old Western. H stormed into the flat with pistol in hand.

  Bang! The first of the sentinels went down in the kitchen.

  John said four. One down three to go.

  H kicked the living room door in.

  His actions had been so fast that the two thugs guarding Agapov were still removing their guns from their holsters. As he burst into the room H delivered a shot to the right knee of the first, disabling him. The second guard needed two shots, one in each leg, to slow him down.

  Tough bastard. Only two shots left now

  He turned his attention to Agapov, who stared in astonishment at the speed, accuracy and sheer balls of Inspector Harry ‘H’ Hawkins.

  ‘Right sunshine, you’re coming with me.’

  H cut loose the drips that were providing their slow burn sustenance, threw Agapov over his shoulder and was back at the front door within seconds.

  67

  Yevgeny Kondrashin, the guard who had clocked Confident John the previous evening, watched on amazed as a lone nutter pulled up, attacked the safe house and came out with the booty in less than a minute.

  As he kneeled behind the boot of Harry’s car, pistol in hand, he thought it was almost a shame he had to kill such an impressive guy. He would have liked to have met him for a vodka or two, learned about what made him tick.

  Who is he? What fuck is he on?

  Kondrashin raised his pistol and took aim as H, with his parcel secured on his shoulder, charged out of the flat.

  But the Russian really had no idea just how extraordinary H was when he was in the zone. H knew these firms always posted a sentry outside and had already clocked Kondrashin on the way in. A tall no-nonsense type in a dark suit and tie and what was obviously a gun holster crinkling an otherwise impeccably tailored suit.

  Gotcha - I’ll deal with you on the way out my son.

  H would have bet his mortgage the guard would take up position by the boot of his car. Good cover, clear direct shot as soon as H exited the flat. Close enough not to miss, almost guaranteed a kill on the first shot. In truth H had bet more than his mortgage on it, much more. H had bet his life on it.

  And every time in his life H had made a wager this large he had backed himself with utter conviction. It was the reason he was still alive.

  As he charged out of the flat he kept low and at an angle, ensuring Agapov covered nearly all of his body, if viewed from the angle he expected his assailant to be seeing things from.

  H had positioned his valuable merchandise perfectly. The human shield was enough to make Kondrashin hesitate for a split second, still confident his anonymity ensured the upper hand. This moment’s hesitation was all H needed.

  He who hesitates is lost.

  H fired off one round with pinpoint accuracy, putting a hole through the palm of Kondrashin’s hand. More than enough to disable him and send his gun juddering backwards across the street.

  H made his way to the car.

  The wounded Kondrashin piped up: ‘Whoever you are, wherever you go hide, we find you. We hunt you down. You dead man.’

  ‘Bollocks’ said H as he threw Agapov into the back seat of the car. ‘You got it the wrong way round pal. Tell your bosses they have absolutely no fucking idea whatsoever who they’re dealing with. And tell them to look over their shoulders because I’ll be the one coming for them.’

  H jumped into the front seat and sped off like lightening, driven by the hurricane of emotions raging within him. It had taken him less than two minutes to bring Waterloo to a standstill, but the storm hadn’t blown itself out yet, not by a long stretch.

  Right fuckface, we’ll take you somewhere nice and cosy and then you and me can have a little chat.

  68

  Confident John was reclining on his battered old sofa. The smell of three days unwashed dinner plates permeated the air, mingling with the aroma of the finest skunk his variable income could buy. After the excitements of the previous day he needed to block himself up and calm himself down.

  He was in the middle of a long draw, trying to relax after his earlier encounter with the big man. He was racked by guilt for letting H take on a serious Russian firm single-handed, but the level of bottle and violence needed for such a mission just wasn’t in him. H knows that, he kept repeating to himself, trying to assuage his deep sense of shame at letting the big man go it alone.

  God help him...what if?

  His phone went; with a surge of relief he saw that it was the same number H had called him on earlier. He pressed ACCEPT.

  ‘H, you at Waterloo yet mate?’

  ‘The merchandise is secured. Need a favour.’

  Fucking hell, how has he managed that?

  ‘Anything H, anything at all mate.’

  ‘You still any good at the old taking-and-driving-away?’

  ‘Yeah, when do you need it?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, I’ll meet you in the car park behind your flats. Get something roomy: this Russian’s a right lump.’

  Twenty minutes later H was bundling Agapov into the back of a spacious estate whilst barking orders.

  ‘I’m off. Make that other motor disappear John, quick as you can; half the coppers in London will be looking for it in ten minutes.’

  ‘Right you are H.’

  H jumped into the newly stolen car and unwound the window.

  ‘John, I’ve asked a lot of you these past few days. Thanks mate, I owe you.’

  John smiled, his earlier sense of guilt fading from his mind.

  ‘No problem H, go and do what you gotta do.’

  H now kept to the speed limit - nice and easy does it - as he cruised through the south east London streets. The area around his lockup, one of a series of arches underneath the railway station at Elephant and Castle, was relatively quiet. It had been in the family since the days his grandfather had run a rag and bone business and, later, had been used by his kid brother to store the kind of back-of-a-lorry stuff H didn’t want or need to know about.

  H pulled the car to a halt inside the lockup, jumped out and sealed the metal doors tight with the heavy bolts. He returned to the car, flipped the boot open, dragged out his load, dropped him onto the floor and administered a well-aimed kick to the bollocks for starters.

  Agapov was still writhing in agony as H placed his hands in the police issue handcuffs he always kept on him, found an old chain, threaded it through his victim’s bound hands and secured him to a metal post.

  Right then soppy bollocks, let’s to get down to business.

  69

  H considered the Glasgow Smile, Waterboarding, skin flaying and various other forms of exotic torture he had come across on his travels, but not for long; at the end of the day he was old-school Bermondsey boy. He decided to just beat the fuck out of his prisoner with his bare fists.

  Agapov looked on, mute and sullen, as H stripped to the waist. As far as he could tell it was a case of out of the frying pan and into the raging inferno. He knew his masters would either kill him or use him as a bargaining chip to make peace with the Albanians, which amounted to more or less the same thing. He considered giving up what he kne
w but he had never collaborated with the authorities before, either in Russia or in the UK, and he wasn’t about to start helping the police with their inquiries just yet. He was committed to his code.

  Agapov knew his captor by reputation. He knew he was a no-nonsense kind of guy, and expected the famous ‘H’ might rough him up a bit. But he was still a member of the UK Police Force and policemen in the UK didn’t, as a general rule, go around torturing and killing people.

  But the events of the last few weeks had put H through whirlwinds of pain and confusion and now, with Amisha missing, he was losing his bearings. His inner savage, never that far beneath the surface, was now gaining the upper hand.

  The two adversaries eyed each other; like prehistoric monkey men at the dawn of time staring across a watering hole, neither of them was prepared to give an inch. No quarter would be given, and none asked for.

  H opened with a simple line of questioning

  ‘Why did you have Tara killed?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ came the reply, followed by a mouthful of spit.

  The beating began. After five minutes of what was shaping up to be the most savage walloping H had ever dished out, he stopped for a breather. The only constraint on H’s behaviour was the fear overdoing it, of dishing out too much too soon. He didn’t want his prisoner passing out, or having a heart attack, or being reduced to vegetable status. But this was turning out to be easier said - or thought - than done: Agapov was clearly capable of soaking up tremendous punishment.

  H had broken the Russian’s nose and jaw, and had bruised a good few ribs. But Agapov, whose face now no longer looked like a face but like a death mask, was no Oswald Carruthers.

  Fuck me, this is one hard bastard.

  The beating continued. It had to. H’s face and body were covered in the dark red blood of his adversary. From Agapov’s perspective he looked, through red-misted and almost-closed eyes, crazed, demented, merciless. Exasperation was pouring out of H like a torrent of shit from a ruptured sewage main as the blows rained down.

  Another pause.

  ‘Listen, cunt, we don’t have a lot of time. Either you start talking to me or I kill you here and now. Why did you have Tara killed?’

  Agapov laughed a laugh of deep irony and arrogance. H had never heard a British villain make a sound like it; he realized, for the first time, that he had no real understanding of who these people were.

  ‘You know nothing. You stupid fucking pig, you so fucking stupid. You more stupid than your stupid fucking whore mother.’

  H watched this response with intense concentration. Not a trace of guilt about the murder, he surmised. But this guy knew something…H knew when somebody knew something.

  At last he’s started to talk - the beating’s getting to him.

  H lashed his fist hard across Agapov’s face and continued with the questioning.

  ‘Why would your bosses kidnap my partner?’

  H saw the surprise register through the puffed up eyes of the death mask.

  He’s not aware of it, but he knows something.

  ‘Why did you have Tara killed?’

  ‘Why would I kill posh girl? I like her. We have good time. She like big Russian sausage.’

  A laconic smile spread across Agapov’s bloated features. H couldn’t stand it. Seeing Tara cut to pieces in the park, learning about the abuse she suffered as a child and then having her memory defiled by a gangster talking about her fellatio skills tipped him over the edge.

  ‘You cunt!’

  H put his arms around Agapov’s neck and leveraged his position for a clean break. His victim understood what was coming; he realized now that H was prepared to go all the way, and that he was not in control of himself.

  Fuck, he ready to kill me.

  He could take any amount of beating, but he was not prepared to die. He signalled this with a nod. H relaxed his grip.

  ‘You want to know why posh lady killed? You want to know why your partner taken? Find phone. Find fucking phone of posh lady.’

  BOOM!

  The words were like a mortar shell exploding in H’s mind. H fell to his knees.

  In the melee and mix ups and fuck ups and killings of the last few weeks he’d somehow forgotten all about it. Tara’s phone. Tara’s fucking phone.... had the answers to this mystery been in his hands right from the beginning?

  H went to the car and retrieved the gun he’d done the business with in Waterloo. He’d kept a close count of the shots fired.

  One shot left.

  Part 4

  70

  H had been broken down into bits before: after the Falklands, after his marriage to Julie broke up, after his dad died. But this was something new. His focus was fragmenting; he’d been running on instinct and intuition for a long time now, but whenever he’d tried to sit calmly and join up all the dots it was never long before he hit the wall. And now this Russian had dumped and extra bucket of confusion onto his throbbing, steaming head: ‘Find fucking phone of posh lady.’

  The phone. Tara’s phone. How on God’s earth did I manage to forget about that?

  Squatting down low, holding his head in his hands and rocking gently back and forth, H surveyed his handiwork: Agapov would not be chasing the daughters of the British aristocracy around hotel rooms again any time soon. For the second time in days Harry Hawkins, the famous law and order avenger and protector of proper values, wondered if he’d killed a man with his bare hands, in an uncontrollable fit of rage. Of pure, animal rage.

  Amisha had been right: he’d obliterated the line with blood, and now he was well on the other side of it. All bets were off. There was no going back until he’d seen what was on the phone and dealt with the consequences. And if Carruthers, or Agapov, or both, were dead…there was no going back at all.

  Think. Think about the phone. Where is it?

  He thought hard... Bermondsey. Him and Amisha in the pub with Confident John. The phone had been left in the car; some little wanksock had driven away with it. That was it. He’d have to start there, on the old plot. Again. It seemed to be dragging him back. He pulled out a dumbphone and punched John’s number in.

  ‘John, it’s me.’

  John picked up, half awake at best; his speech was slurred, his voice shaky: ‘H! You alright? In one piece? What about that Russian? I’ve been shitting myself. I…’

  H took a deep breath: ‘Slow down, son, slow down. He’s been dealt with. Everything’s under control. But I need one more thing, one more thing to clinch it. And I need it asap.’

  ‘’course. What time is it?’

  ‘Don’t worry about the time son. I need to find a phone. Remember the day me and Amisha came to see you and someone had our car away? There was a phone in it. I’ve got to have it. I don’t give a fuck about the car, I just want the phone. Put yourself about, quick as you can, talk to everyone you know. And everyone you don’t. This is a matter of life and death mate. Top priority. I don’t care what it takes. Bell me on this number when you’ve got something for me.’

  H, exhausted now that the adrenalin rush he’d got while he was hammering the Russian had faded, slumped and keeled over. He stretched out on the concrete floor, working his arms and legs.

  Think. Don’t sleep, think. What happens next?

  The phone was out there. John would find it, if anyone could. Amisha was out there, going through…what? She was his to find. But how was he going to track her down, tiny little thing that she was, in the largeness of London? He’d need help, and plenty of it. He’d have to risk it and talk to someone at the Yard.

  Time to catch up with Little Miss Drama Pants.

  Agapov wasn’t breathing; H threw an oily rag over his shattered face, locked up, and found himself, blinking hard, in a gloomy London dawn. He clambered wearily into the car John had got for him and gunned it towards Clapham.

  71

  Graham, fresh from his morning’s humiliation at the hands of Joey Jupiter, had cleared away his breakfast and was just abo
ut to get dressed when he heard a tap on the door. It was 6am. He looked through the peephole and saw with a start that it was Hawkins, of all people, looking like he’d just been dug up and released from his grave.

  The shambling hulk formerly known as London’s Top Copper mimed to Graham that he would like to be let in. Graham opened the door.

  ‘Good morning, Detective Inspector Hawkins. This is a pleasant surprise. I trust you are well?’

  ‘Morning Graham. Any danger of a cup of coffee? I’ve had a hard night.’

  And not for the first time. Well, I suppose being suspended from duty has its benefits. But Jesus, he looks rough.

  ‘Coffee. Of course, come in. We’ll have to be quick though, I leave in half an hour. To what do I owe the pleasure of this morning visitation?’

  ‘We need to talk, Graham. About the investigation. How far have you got? I need to know what’s going on’, said H.

  ‘Well, to be honest I’m not really at liberty to discuss the investigation. What with you being suspended and…’

  H shot him the look, and growled. Graham fingered his throat, gently, and thought better of it.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing’s going on H. I’m still not getting anywhere. Nobody on God’s green earth has ever heard of, or seen, this guy in the park. He may as well be Martian. The Murderer from Mars. No change with Sir Basil Fortescue-Smythe; he is not exactly chomping at the bit in his efforts to assist the investigation. If you ask me, he’s impeding it. I know not why. I’m being jerked around like a puppet, and getting nowhere. Here endeth the report.’

  No surprises there then.

  H changed tack:

  ‘What about this other thing, with Sir Basil’s chum Carruthers? The home invasion. Is he brown bread, or what? Is anyone in the frame for that?’

  ‘No, he’s still in a coma. Could be worse, he’s not in a persistent vegetative state or anything. They say he has a chance of coming out of it, with a bit of luck. We’ve got very little on this one either. No witnesses, Carruthers lives alone. His CCTV was down. They’re working on DNA and all the rest of it, obviously.’