by Conrad Jones
“DI Braddick.”
“It’s Google, Guv.”
“What have we got?”
“The gun was used in a double murder two years ago, brothers by the name Rakov.”
“Russians?”
“Ukrainian. They were found shot dead in a Range Rover on a farm near Tarbock Green. The investigators found wheel marks on the field consistent with an aircraft landing. They reckoned it was a drop that was hijacked. The case is still open.”
“Did they have any links with the Karpovs?”
“No. They were with the opposition apparently.”
“Good work. Keep me posted.”
“Will do,” Google said, hanging up.
Braddick put his phone away and looked at Ade.
“What was that about?”
“The Makarov was used to kill two Ukrainians a few years back. They were found in Range Rover near Tarbock Green.”
“I remember that, Guv. Alec Ramsay worked that case. You would have been in London then.”
“I was. See if you can dig out the murder-book on it tomorrow will you.”
“No worries,” Ade said, distracted as the vodka was distributed.
The vodka girls took one row of tables each and began handing out the shots, one table at a time. One of the women approached Braddick’s table. She flicked her long blond hair as she showed her wares, Vestal, Belvedere, Grey Goose, Crystal Head, Sipsmith and Beluga. Ade looked like a kid in a sweetshop. He rubbed his hands together and smiled at her.
“They’ve got Golovkine there, Guv,” Ade said, rubbing his hands together again. “I’ve never tried that. I know you said no drinking but we’re not going to get to the Karpovs tonight and it’s free. Surely I can have one?”
“Just don’t overdo it.”
The server overheard them and poured Ade a large shot of Golovkine. He downed it and she filled it up again while Braddick was distracted, tipping a flirty wink as she did. “What is your name?” she asked. She had a foreign accent. Definitely Russian, Ade thought.
“Adrian but people call me Ade,” he said, smiling. “What is yours?”
“Irina.”
“Nice to meet you, Irina.”
“Nice to meet you too, Ade,” she said smiling. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“See you then.” Ade grinned.
The meal arrived in three courses, each one lukewarm and bland. Ade had his shot glass filled every time Braddick was in conversation with someone or went to use the bathroom. He was building a rapport with the server, who was downing her fair share of shots too. Ade was convinced that he could pull her and it felt good. It had been too long. He hadn’t lost it. Not yet.
Braddick waited patiently for Jan to summon him over to the table. The Karpovs seemed relaxed, joining in conversation with the people on their table and others, who approached them. There were far too many people around them for him to speak to them. Rattling their cage was looking more unlikely as the evening past. The people on his table were keen to chat but he had one eye on the sponsors all night. He noticed Ade leaving the table. It was obvious that he was becoming intoxicated as he weaved his way clumsily through the tables. The gents toilets were at the far end of the hall, past the sponsor’s table.
“How long have you worked in the Major Investigation Team?” Braddick heard the question coming from the lady sat to his left. She was drunk, her eyes glazed and speech slurred. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Yuri Karpov leave his chair. He walked at a tangent and intercepted Ade at the washroom door. They exchanged words and headed into the toilets. Braddick got the impression that they were familiar with each other. He frowned and answered the lady’s question, his attention on the washroom door. His stomach clenched in knots. He questioned if what he had seen was what it appeared or if his mind had turned a simple greeting of strangers into something more.
27
liquid
THE MANAGER AT LIQUID NIGHTCLUB, Jack Clark, parked his car at the rear of the nightspot. He always made sure that his Porsche was left underneath the security cameras. Running a city centre club had its downsides and his car had been targeted several times. The first time was the previous manager, who had been sacked for arguing with Viktor Karpov. Viktor didn’t tolerate being challenged so he sacked him and promoted Jack on the spot. Later that night, Jack noticed that his car had been scratched and he identified the culprit on CCTV. The bouncers paid him a visit at home at four o’clock in the morning. He ended up in the Royal with eight broken fingers and missing his thumbs. Another time was by a disgruntled employee, who he had dismissed for dipping into the tills. He had disappeared completely, never to be seen again. Jack had told Viktor that he had stolen a substantial amount of money, which was an exaggeration. Then he pocketed the balance. He hadn’t thought much about it until the employee’s parents came looking for him a week or so later. They had filed a missing person’s report, which led Jack to believe that the Karpovs had dealt out their own justice. That particular incident had cost him over nine hundred pounds to grind out the scratches and re-spray the entire driver’s side. The time before that was an angry dealer, who had been beaten badly and relieved of his money and stock by the bouncers. On that occasion, the bonnet had to be replaced completely. That had cost over a grand. The dealer was pulled out of the Mersey estuary a few months later. His arms and legs had been crushed to pulp and were the thickness of cardboard, the cause of death, drowning. The coroner had said that his injuries could only have been caused by an industrial press. There was no need for a human resources department and employment tribunals were unheard of. Those foolish enough to cause a problem were dealt with. Jack knew that he had to manage the day to day running of the club but that he was in charge of nothing. The security team reported directly to the Karpovs and they watched him like hawks. His position was fragile at best. If he was to put a foot out of line, he would lose it. The skill was keeping them onside. With the security team onside, the job was enjoyable enough. Managing them sometimes taxed his people skills to the max but that was what he had to do to survive.
On the flipside, the perks of the job were myriad. He had a different woman every week. He earned more money than he had ever imagined possible and he could nearly double his salary by skimming from the Karpov’s profits and taxing the dealers who were sanctioned to sell their products inside. The dealers were monitored by the bouncers but it was Jack who employed them. He had the final say on who stayed and who went and he milked it. The pros outweighed the cons despite the risks. He had to be careful, every penny accounted for meticulously. Any hint that he was skimming would cost him his life. He couldn’t get away with it forever and he knew that. If he was clever, he could build up a nest egg and walk away while the going was still good. When the time came, parting company with the Karpovs on good terms was essential. He didn’t want to be pulled out of the river with arms and legs like Mr Tickle.
Jack turned off the engine and switched off the lights. The St John’s tower loomed above him like a giant sentinel. As he opened the driver’s door, a security light illuminated the yard. He swore beneath his breath as he looked at the state of the place. The bottle bins were overflowing and the cardboard skips were full to the brim. He made a note to call the refuse company as soon as he got inside. They were beyond useless. He had lost count of the number of times that they had failed to fulfil their contract. They seemed to turn up when they felt like it. This was the last straw. He was going to put the contract out to tender and refuse to pay what they were owed. No one would chase the debt. It was under the umbrella of the Karpovs after all.
He closed the door and set the alarm. The car beeped and the indicators flashed once. He reached for the keys to the back door of the club and walked towards the entrance. The security light went out and he cursed again. He had told the maintenance man to adjust the timer. It was like talking to a brick wall sometimes. He would be going the same way as the refuse company if he didn’t sort his head out. His prio
rities were always the easy options first. Anything that involved a little hard work was put to the back of the queue. The lazy bastard would be getting a flea in his ear when he came in. His mood was darkening and he hadn’t put the key in the door yet. It was going to be a long night, he could tell.
He waved his arms above his head and the light came back on. A siren sounded nearby and he turned to look behind him. He watched as an ambulance whizzed by the rear gate, closely followed by a fire engine. It was still relatively early in the evening. As the clocks moved towards midnight, the number of sirens would grow. It always did. He turned back towards the club and walked to the door. As he neared it, he heard a bottle clink and roll across the concrete. He looked around and saw an empty green bottle spinning in a circle. It slowed and then came to a stop near his car. He wondered what had made it fall but then remembered that the bins were overflowing. It wouldn’t take much to make the entire pile clatter all over the yard. He selected the key and slid it into the lock. It clicked open and he inserted a mortise lock key beneath it. He pulled the handles and the heavy metal door creaked open. The alarm panel began to flash. He had thirty seconds to punch in the code to disable it before the claxons started to blare. It was deafening when they did. Jack entered the six digit code and the lights stopped flashing. He turned back towards the door to close it and looked into a pair of deep brown eyes through a slit in a balaclava. The urge to run and scream was overwhelming but he was frozen to the spot. Fear blocked his brain from telling his body to move. Fifty thousand volts surged through the muscles in his neck. His teeth clenched together, biting a lump from his tongue. The taste of blood filled his senses as another belt from the Taser switched his lights out.
28
GOLD
While the manager of Liquid nightclub was jerking around on the floor, his skin blackened and charred, Rickets was already hitting Gold with his team. They had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and used two men dressed as policemen to trick the staff into opening the back door. Inside were the manager and two staff, who were bottling up ready for the night ahead. Rickets and his men had tied up the staff, frightened the living daylights out of them and then dragged the manager into her office. She was a stern-faced brunette with Botox, breast implants and luminous white teeth. Her nails were perfect, her clothes expensive and her tan came from a bottle. She didn’t look like she had ever pulled a pint in her life.
“Open the safe,” Rickets ordered. He pushed her hard and she stumbled to her knees in front of a green metal Chub safe, that was the size of a family refrigerator.
“Do you know who owns this club?” she hissed angrily. “They will find you and kill you.”
“Can you see me shaking?” Rickets grinned beneath his mask. “Open the fucking safe. I won’t tell you again.”
“And if I refuse?” she asked defiantly.
“I’ll knock those shiny teeth out and then carve your face up so badly that you will look like you’ve been in a car crash,” Rickets shrugged. “It’s your choice how we do this but you will open the safe at some point.” Her expression changed from stubborn to terrified. It was obvious that her vanity was more powerful than her loyalty. “Now, open the fucking thing before I lose it.”
“You are dead men,” she muttered as she turned the dial forward and backwards. She inserted the key and unlocked it, twisting the handle with practised ease. The door swung open.
“Good. That wasn’t too difficult, was it?”
“Fuck you.”
“Sit against the wall there and shut your mouth,” Rickets said, pushing her away from the safe. He opened the door fully and looked inside. Bundles of notes of all denominations sat next to bags of pound coins. “Bag the lot. Take it all,” he ordered his men. They began to empty the contents into holdalls. Rickets turned to the manager.
“What’s your name?”
“Anna.”
“Are you Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, listen to me, Anna. We’re going to have a question and answer game,” he growled. “I’ll ask you a question and you will answer me. Tell me a lie and you’ll lose a nail. Then we’ll start on the teeth.” Her face changed colour when he produced a pair of pliers. “Do you understand the rules?” She nodded her head. “I asked you if you understand the rules?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Good. Where do you keep the drugs?” Anna looked at her feet and shook her head. Rickets grabbed her left wrist and put the pliers against her hand. “One last time. Where do you keep the drugs?”
“Don’t hurt me, please!” She gestured with her head towards the desk. “There’s a floor safe underneath the desk. The code is 1978.”
One of the men walked across the room and lifted the desk. Another peeled back the carpet and uncovered the safe. He entered the code and the door opened. “Two kilos of coke, a few hundred E’s, a bag of brown and four bottles of Ketamine. There’s a lot of money in here, Rickets.” The man held up a thousand pound bundle of fifties. “There must be a hundred bundles here.”
“That is a bonus,” Rickets smiled. A gold tooth glinted in the light. “No zombie?”
“No.”
“Zombie?” Anna frowned.
“Your bosses haven’t told you that they have come across a shit load of zombie?”
“No, they haven’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rickets stared into her eyes. He didn’t think that she was lying. The sound of hammering was coming from the club. “Take it all.”
“You are so dead,” Anna chuckled sourly.
“Like I said earlier, can you see me shaking?”
“Oh you will. You will shake like the shitting dog that you are when they track you down.”
“Do you want to keep that pretty smile?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest that you speak when you’re spoken to and keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll rip it out, understand?” She nodded. “I asked you if you understand.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Good. Where do the Karpovs keep their gear?”
“You have it.”
“That is enough for a few nights, a week at the most. We both know that.” Rickets crouched in front of her. “I mean their main store. Where do they keep it?”
“It is never in one place. You know how it works. They split up the supply and spread the risk.”
“There is always a main supply.”
“If there is, then I don’t know it. They keep gear all over the place. It moves around. I just run this shithole. I only know what I overhear.”
“You’re talking about the club supply. I am talking about their large shipments, not what they sell in here. Where would they stash a large shipment?”
“I wouldn’t know that.” Rickets moved towards her, pliers raised. “Wait!”
“I don’t have time to fuck around. Answer me or we’ll take you somewhere quiet. If we do, you will talk and then I’ll get my men to take you out, remove your hands, head and feet to slow down identification and then they’ll bury your remains randomly across the city.” Tears filled her eyes and she bit her bottom lip. “Of course they will probably take turns on you before they kill you. Perks of the job. I might have a go myself,” Rickets said, touching her breast with the tip of the pliers. A tear broke free and ran down her cheek. “I know you’re loyal to your employers. We all are in this business but they’re not worth what will happen to you, trust me. They don’t give a fuck about you. Think about it carefully. Where would they keep a large amount of gear?”
“I don’t know where they would keep a shipment, honestly I don’t.”
“Okay.” Rickets stood up. The hammering noise started again. “Put her in the van. She’s coming with us.”
“No, no, no, no!” she panicked. “Wait a minute.”
“Quickly, Anna. I’m in a rush.”
“It would have to be somewhere big but near the city, yes?”
&nbs
p; “Yes. It would be nearby.”
“I know that they have a laundry that supplies their hotels. It is huge. I went there last year. I can’t think of anywhere else locally, please don’t take me with you.”
“Where is it?”
“Warrington, just off the M62 near Ikea. It is a huge place. The lorries are blue. It is called Pristine.”
“I know the place,” Rickets said, nodding. Her face relaxed. She breathed a sigh of relief. “Tie her up and put her with the others.”
One of the men pulled her up and fastened zip ties to her wrists. The tough plastic bit into her flesh. He bundled her towards the door. Her two staff members were bound and gagged, tears streamed down their faces. They were staring at something above the bar. She followed their gaze and then wished that she hadn’t. The bloated body of Leonid was crucified to the wall.
Ron Mason and Rickets watched as they unloaded their hoard. Ron was grinning as the cash was counted and loaded into his stash. They had welded a panel into the back of a transit van so that they could conceal their gear and keep it mobile. To the naked eye, it couldn’t be detected. There was over four hundred thousand in cash and nearly the same again in drugs. Once the drugs were sold on, the street value would double their take. It was a major haul. He had almost replaced what had been taken from Holyhead.
“That is karma, Rickets.” Ron grinned. “That is one in the eye for those Russian bastards. Payback time, my friend. A couple more of them and they will be reeling.”
“What do you mean, a couple more?”
“It was so easy,” Ron laughed. “We should have thought of it years ago. They have been doing it for decades. It is about time someone hit them back.”
“I think that we should lie low for a while, Ron,” Rickets said. “They will be going ballistic trying to find out who hit them. We should sell the drugs on cheap to get rid of them. Having that much coke around is bad news.”
