by Robson, Roy
Think back girl, think back.
She had worked quickly and methodically, going through the torrent of repugnant data, so vile, so repulsive. How did the minds of these people work? How had they become so corrupted, so shameless, so evil? She didn’t think too deeply about the answers, answers nobody really had. Their numbers were growing, growing all over the world, like a plague of demons swarming over innocence and beauty.
Some of H’s eye-for-an-eye values had rubbed off on her.
Castration’s too fucking good for them.
As she went through each email she printed them off, one by one, for another hour or so. And then horror struck her. In the midst of her excitement she’d forgotten to do the obvious, namely ensure she herself was secured. A piece of Trojan software had accessed her computer, almost definitely triggered by her access into the secret database. And it had been operating for some time, reading everything directly from her disk and sending the information to God knows where.
Oh my God, they’ll know where I am.
Amisha disconnected her computer from the internet and set in train a specialist programme, developed by a friend of hers at Cambridge, that would wipe clean her entire drive. It would leave no trace whatsoever of what she had accessed.
She was struggling to recount what she did next when her environment abruptly changed. The noise stopped in the windowless room. The lights stayed on. The door opened and the small plump man returned.
‘Hello my dear, have you missed me?’
She forced her mind back to the events of her capture, but bits of it were already hazy. She recalled the sound of her back door being forced open. She remembered the fight with the three assailants and being dumped into the boot of their car. The journey. What had it been - thirty minutes?
While in the boot of the car she noted that radio reception was interrupted. She was in a tunnel, a long one. Must be heading under the river. Rotherhithe tunnel, maybe Dartford?
And when they’d taken her out of the boot she’d had a glimpse of a huge bridge. She recognised it - the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge. It was all coming back to her now: she’d been driven through the Dartford tunnel, and then first exit off the motorway as the car slowed down.
She was somewhere in or near Grays, Essex, on the fringe of the great metropolis. She was sure of it.
The small plump man retrieved the coarse brown sack and placed it gently over her head.
‘Now, where were we?’
77
H lay, slumped and exhausted, in the twilight zone between wakefulness and sleep. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in weeks. He wanted to wake up and get going but was struggling to keep his eyes open; he drifted back in the direction of sleep.
A multitude of images from the last few weeks vied for dominance inside his head. He saw the brightly coloured remains of Tara and Jemima. He could feel the texture of the severed heads in Bermondsey as if they were in his hands. He could smell the charred remnants of the dead in Soho.
And now he was back in the Falklands, launching himself into a ditch and savagely ending the lives of two young men. He physically shuddered as he felt the force of his rifle butt smash through their skulls. Young men like him, young men who had died so he could live. He was suffocating. Hemmed in. His breathing become short. He started gasping for air.
Mortar shells were exploding all about him. He looked around. Ronnie lay still and crumpled on the floor as the men of 2 Para descended on the sniper who had shot him.
‘Please be alive Ronnie, for fuck’s sake, please be alive,’ he screamed out loud. He was sweating and shaking as he came out of his nightmare and his senses readjusted to the here and now.
He was startled by the pinging of a dumbphone, and found himself back in Ronnie’s place in Rotherhithe. He wasn’t ready yet to go home to Olivia. He didn’t want her to see him like this, unravelled and animal-like. He was in pure hunter mode now, and H in hunter mode was no fun for any woman. The best he’d been able to do was send her texts assuring her he was in one piece.
The message was from John. Bingo!: HAVE FOUND PHONE. YOU’LL NEED A NICE FEW QUID OR A SMALL ARMY TO GET IT BACK THOUGH.
H was in no position, or mood, to speak to anyone just yet. HOW MUCH?, he texted back.
I’VE GOT THEM DOWN TO 50K. THEY WON’T GO ANY LOWER, John replied.
WHO ARE ‘THEY’, H asked.
OUR FRIENDS ON THE CARAVAN SITE, came the reply.
OK. MONEY NO OBJECT. BE AT HOME.
50K? For a stolen phone? What the hell is on the fucking thing?
H washed his morning painkillers down with a mouthful of scotch and called Ronnie, who arrived an hour later with a brown paper bag containing the cash. He was a bit more like his old self now, chipper and ready to go. A couple of days rest and a little tender loving care from Olivia had done the trick; God knows she’d had plenty of practice.
But there was something else that had put a spring in Ronnie’s step. He told H about the dead man in his kitchen. He hadn’t wanted to tell him over the phone; but he knew now that H was a loose cannon, capable of almost anything. It would have to be face to face.
H was apoplectic with rage.
‘They came into my house and threatened Olivia…I’m going to fucking murder…’
‘H,’ said Ronnie, ‘slow down. She’s safe in one of my flats, where no one can touch her. I’ve taken care of it. Let’s move on: tell me about the phone.’
H contained his rage. There would be a reckoning for this violation. A terrible reckoning. But Ronnie was right, he needed to stay focused.
‘I got hold of that Russian, the one she was involved with. I put it on him. He didn’t have a lot to say but he swore that it had something on it that would clarify the picture. It was nicked from our car the other week. John’s tracked it down, says the Albanians have got it.’
‘Where’s the Russian now?’, asked Ronnie.
‘Having a little lie down. Don’t worry about him. If we can get our hands on the phone we’ll have the full picture. Then we can cut our cloth accordingly, if you’re in. This is not going to be a walk in the park son. Whatever’s going on, we’re going to be dealing with some proper bastards, and someone is going to get hurt. No way round that.’
‘H, when have I not been in when it’s come to the crunch? When we get to whoever killed Tara I’m going to send them straight to hell with these bare hands. I will not be fucking about, or seeking a warrant, or asking for your opinion. I can assure you of that. Are you sure you can handle it?’
Sweet. Ronnie’s on it. His run in with my would-be assassin has done him the power of good. This is music to my fucking ears.
‘Give me two minutes son. I’ll just get my strides on.’
Five minutes later they were barrelling along, side by side, for the short walk to Silwood Road. It felt good, just like the old days. But, as they turned a corner and approached John’s block, H looked at Ronnie’s profile and began to think a little bit harder about just what, exactly, he was about to unleash.
78
Confident John had lived on his estate for donkey’s years. He’d watched quietly over the years as everything changed, and his neighbours these days were Nigerians, Poles, Algerians, Columbians and Iranians. He’d found it hard in the early days of the noughties, when things really sped up. But he’d come to see, now, that they were mostly decent people, raising their families and trying to do the right thing. He’d learned to live and let live, and keep the peace.
Where he drew the line was with the latest arrivals, the gangsters who had taken over on the caravan site. These he did not need – they interfered with business. The business of ducking and diving. They had their fingers in everything now, and John and his mates were not amused.
And now I’m going to have to hand fifty grand over to the bastards.
His musings were interrupted by the doorbell. It was the dynamic duo, back on the plot.
John nodded to H, and said ‘Hello Ron.
Fuck me, you look well. How you been?’
‘Terrific’, said Ron, scanning the condition of the flat and deciding not to return the question. John ushered them to their seats and poured three tumblers of scotch.
‘Bring us up to speed on the phone, John’, said H.
‘Well, it took some finding, I’ll tell you that. Like I said before, this mob don’t talk to outsiders, and most of them don’t speak English anyway. I…’
‘Can we fast forward to the crux of the matter please John?’, said Ronnie. ‘Have you seen this phone? Are you sure it’s the right one?’
‘Yep. Well…I finally got into negotiations with a character from the site. I get the impression he’s the number two on the firm, after the one H just banged up. It was all a bit heavy. He brought half a dozen evil looking lumps to the pub with him. He said he wanted two hundred large for the phone. I laughed out loud - which I shouldn’t have done - and he started hollering and hooting. He said something about “your posh English lady and her fucking Russian” and “porno clips”, that sort of thing. So he knew he had something, but he didn’t really know what to do with it. But he mentioned your wife by name Ron…Well, this geezer is not in any danger of winning University Challenge, to put it mildly, and to cut a long story short in the end I got him down to fifty. He told me to ring him today to confirm I’ve got the money. These people scare the shit out of me, boys, to be honest.’
Ronnie poured three more scotches, and he and H talked John down. He had never really been a man of action. They walked him through setting up the meet, told him they would be waiting across the road with the bag and that nothing would happen to him, and that he should ask to see some confirmation it was the right phone before he came and got the money from them.
After the deal was done and John had finally emerged, white as a sheet, with the phone, Ronnie thanked him and palmed him a wad of notes.
‘I don’t need that Ron, I…’
‘Don’t worry about it John. That took a lot of bottle. I appreciate it. Treat yourself…and don’t insult me by trying to give it back.’
‘Alright, got it. Thanks Ron. What happens now? Shall we plot up somewhere and have a look at the phone then?’
‘No mate, me and H are going to shoot off and do that now. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. We’ve got a lot to think about. We’ll give you a bell in a day or two. Before then see if you can lay your hands on a few bits and pieces, will you mate? Couple of assault rifles, grenades, smoke bombs, that sort of thing’, said Ronnie.
This was good enough for John. More than good enough: ‘Alright boys, see you soon. Be lucky.’
79
H and Ronnie were three minutes into their walk back to the Rotherhithe riverside when they heard someone calling out to them. Wheeling around, they saw that it was John. He was running furiously and waving something about. He arrived at speed, panting hard.
‘Sorry H, I completely forgot about this. Came this morning’, said John.
It was a thick A4 manila envelope, addressed to ‘Harry Hawkins, c/o John Viney.’ Yesterday’s date, postmarked Greenwich.
‘What the fuck’s this, H?’, said Ronnie.
H steadied his breathing. ‘Not sure mate’, he said, ‘let’s get back to yours and have a look at it. See you later John.’
Amisha. It’s from Amisha.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
They stepped up the pace. Back at Ronnie’s flat, they put the phone and envelope on the coffee table, got the scotch on the go, sat down, and took deep breaths.
‘Read your letter H. I’ll take the phone’, said Ronnie.
‘I thought we’d…’, H started.
Ronnie interrupted him: ‘H, I’ve just spent fifty large on this fucking thing. From what we’ve been told it’s got bad stuff about Tara on it, very bad stuff, and pointers towards whichever cunt killed her. I want to look at it first. I’m going to the other room with it. You read your letter.’
There was only one person in the world who could get away with talking to Harry Hawkins like this. The big man let it slide; he watched his blood brother leave the room, opened the envelope, and trained his weary eyes on the cover note:
H, I don’t have much time. Just about to leave my place. I think they’re coming for me. No time to summarise everything. Read the email transcripts - they took a lot of effort to decrypt.
Nutshell version: You were right. There’s a high level paedophile ring. It’s been going on for years. Very well protected and their activities have been very skilfully organized and concealed. Big names involved. And they’ve been getting help from Kuznetsov. I strongly suspect that the Tara case and your suspicions about Sir Basil and his chums may be connected somehow - the establishment types and the Russian are connected.
I’ve triggered an alarm in the Dark Web; they know now that someone knows. They’ve got real expertise on board, so they’ll be able to find me. I’ll be in touch when I can. Get these bastards, H. Bring them down.
Amisha.
H gulped a mouthful of scotch, and began to leaf through the sheaf of documents. Email transcripts mostly, a few financial statements, some of them in Russian. They’d been super-encrypted and deeply buried in the parts of the web most people don’t even know about, the hiding place of the terrorists, the paedophiles, the freelance drug and arms dealers, and the other shining examples of humanity at its worst. Amisha had hit the jackpot. But who, in this pile of filth, had most to lose? Who had come for her?
H began to read. He figured Amisha would have put them in descending order of importance for him, so he started at the top and worked his way down. Messages from Lord Timothy Skyhill to Sir Basil about upcoming ‘parties’. Sir Basil passes this on to Carruthers and Blunt. Skyhill and Kuznetsov discuss locations, arrangements, security. Skyhill peppers the Russian with technical questions and requests. Agapov gets the odd mention. Links to folders containing movies and pictures. What looked like movements of large sums of money in and out of Moscow bank accounts. Carruthers, Blunt and Sir Basil gushing to one another in excited anticipation, like schoolgirls looking forward to a pop concert… Again, Skyhill and Kuznetsov discussing, planning, arranging things in measured tones, all business… These two again, talking about a ‘wrinkle’; whose men shall we put on this, Skyhill asks, yours or mine?
On it went, page after page. It would all need to be gone through with a fine tooth comb - but that was for later. For now H skimmed through the pile looking for references to Amisha, or any other name or event he was familiar with. But there was nothing further down other than unspecific discussions; and nobody other than Sir Basil Fortescue-Smythe, Lord Peregrine Blunt, Oswald Carruthers QC and, clearly pulling the strings, Lord Timothy Skyhill and Mr Kyril Kuznetsov.
Well, I was right. Bang on. Horrible bunch of cunts.
I’m going to rip their fucking bollocks off for them.
But who among them would have the wherewithal and resources to kidnap a police officer? Sir Basil? Blunt? Carruthers? Hardly; bullying small children would be the limit of their capabilities. Skyhill? Highly unlikely.
H’s money was on the Russian.
80
‘Mate, I’ve got some shit here you will not believe’, said H, walking into the bedroom. Ronnie was sitting on the bed with Tara’s phone beside him. Tears were streaming silently down his face. Otherwise, he was not moving. He seemed to be deep within himself.
Fuck it! He’s in bits. It’s like the pizza place all over again. Bollocks!
There’s no time for this now.
‘Ron, snap out of it son. Liven up. You need to see what Amisha’s come up with…What’s on the phone? Tell me what’s on the phone.’
Ronnie gestured for him to take it.
He’s blanking me. Not good.
H rushed out and was back thirty seconds later with two tumblers, each one half full of scotch. He put one into Ronnie’s hand, and forced it up into his face. Ronnie gulped.
H saw that h
e’d have to take it up half a dozen notches. He shouted ‘No, I don’t want the phone. I want you to tell me. Sort your fucking self out and talk to me. You can have your breakdown later, after we’ve done what we’ve got to do. What’s on the phone? Ron! What’s on the phone?’
Ronnie turned his head - slowly, slowly - and met the big man’s eye.
‘They we’re using her like a whore, H. Like a filthy whore. They had her doing all sorts. Pictures, films, the lot. Her and that Agapov, mostly.’
‘Sorry to hear that mate. We knew about that already though. What else is on there?’, said H, easing more scotch down Ronnie’s gullet.
‘There’s a film…it’s horrible. Old Shitbreath and his mates, at it with young boys. It’s like a full scale fucking orgy.’ He was coming out of himself now, getting angrier.
‘OK, good. We’ve got them’, said H, ‘…but what the fuck is that doing on Tara’s phone?...What else?’
‘There’s something funny about the calls she made, the last calls she made. Just after she uploaded that clip she phoned… what’s his name?...that fat ponce from the House of Lords?...Timothy Skyhill.’
The gears in H’s head were beginning to grind in earnest: ‘Is he in the clip?’
‘Oh yes. Big time. He’s all over it. He seems to be the daddy’, said Ronnie.
‘OK, what else…what else?’
‘The last call she made, right after Skyhill, was to her sister Jemima. That’s the last thing on there. It’s the last call she made before she died. Before they died. Here, take it. Have a look…my head is fucking spinning. What does it all mean?’
H’s head was spinning furiously as well, and beginning to form all the bits and pieces of information, from Tara’s phone and Amisha’s package, and from the last few weeks, into a pattern. His golden girl was right: this stuff was all somehow connected: Tara’s death, the conspiracy of nonces, Amisha’s disappearance, the blood flowing through the streets of London…it was all connected.
