by Karl Holton
“Oh no, Wallace,” Dawson said. “We’re going to see someone far more important to national security than anyone near Whitehall. Benedict knows them well … they live in Limehouse.”
Benedict looked at the ceiling. “Bollocks.”
Chapter 31
Day 10
Narrow Street, Limehouse, London
3.00 p.m.
The two men had been silent during the drive through the City of London. Benedict could sense that Dawson was fuming and bulling for a fight.
As they left the car and walked towards the house Dawson grabbed Benedict’s arm, pulling hard. He surprised Benedict with his strength.
“Don’t confuse your priorities in here,” Dawson said.
Benedict put his hand in Dawson’s hand and squeezed. He looked quickly at his hand and then deep into Dawson’s eyes. “Maybe you need to explain those to me.” Dawson returned the tight hold before both men retracted.
Dawson massaged his hand. “Is there always a greater good?”
Benedict shook his head. “Are you sure you want to debate that right now?”
Dawson turned away, walked to the door and rang the bell. “You’re about to see exactly that … and you may not be able to sit in ignorant bliss afterward.”
The door opened. Paddy stood back the moment he saw Dawson, who marched into the house and immediately out to the decked area at the back, facing the Thames. Hanson and Pip were sat outside talking.
Paddy sat at the table. Benedict nodded to the three of them as he walked outside rubbing his hand.
Dawson kept walking up to the balustrade and turned around, staring at Hanson. “Did you know what would happen?”
Hanson sipped on a glass of water. “You’re going to need to ask that in a little less ‘spy’.”
Dawson stepped forward. “Don’t fuck around, Ray. You know exactly what I’m talking about … tell me the truth.”
Hanson was calm and returned his glass to the table. “For the benefit of everyone here, why don’t you ask the question properly.”
“Did you know when you brought this art here to the UK that someone would try and steal it?”
Hanson rested a hand on the table. “How could I possibly know that?”
“Because I know you.”
“I arranged for security services clearance of these pieces of art,” Hanson said. “They are three significant paintings. I was bringing them into the UK. How do you think I feel knowing that they have been stolen?”
“How do you feel about the four dead bodies?” Dawson growled.
Pip touched her sunglasses. “Four? Your agent only mentioned three.”
Dawson shook his head. “No, there’s another. A guy from Customs & Excise,” he said, glancing at Pip. He turned back to Hanson. “Did you know about him, Ray?”
Hanson coughed, closing his eyes. He took a moment to get himself together. “How could I?”
Paddy stood up and placed himself in front of Dawson. “I think he’s answered the question enough times now.”
Benedict sat in one of the free seats. “You’re not making sense, Sean. Why would Ray move the art if he knew someone would steal it?”
Dawson pointed at Hanson. “We have four new dead bodies directly connected to you. Given what happened last week, the pile of bodies in London since your return is starting to get a bit high; understand? People are going to ask the question … is it worth having you back here?”
“Do you really think I would get involved in the theft of my own art, knowing it would result in the murder of four people?” Hanson asked.
“You’ve done a lot worse, Ray,” Dawson said.
Paddy sighed. Benedict thought it looked like the big man was wondering how close to the river he could get Dawson with one punch.
“That’s very true … but they always had a purpose. Your accusation doesn’t seem to have one,” Hanson said, before another cough took him over.
“That proves nothing.”
Hanson smiled at Dawson. “Similar to you raising your voice.”
Dawson pointed at his own chest. “This is me asking, Ray. I’m well aware of what has happened in the past around you.”
“I really would prefer it if previous deeds were not thrown in my face by someone who often asked me to do them. I feel a bit like the executioner being scolded by the king.”
“Interesting choice of metaphor,” said Dawson.
“It was deliberate, Sean,” Hanson said, appearing to wince. “Just like him, I’ve no desire to seek forgiveness and I don’t expect my master to retract his support.”
Dawson shook his head. “Don’t try and blame us for everything you’ve ever done.”
“I’m not blaming anyone, including myself,” Hanson said. “I’m comfortable that I’ve walked through life with free will. You sound like you’re carrying the angst of having it.”
Benedict laughed, which he tried to turn into a cough on seeing Dawson’s face.
Dawson pointed at Hanson and Benedict. “You two are well matched.”
Benedict tapped the table with his fingers. “Sean, let us spend some time looking at this and I’m sure the explanation will be reasonable. Leave it to myself and Wallace and we’ll clear it up.”
Dawson looked at Benedict. “Fine; let’s do that. But I want to know exactly what you find. No details left out, understand?” He didn’t want to hear a response; he pushed past Paddy and marched through the house.
Hanson coughed as his face suddenly lost its colour. He slumped back in his seat cringing, unable to speak. Pip stood up and offered him his glass of water. Paddy took his wrist and checked his pulse. After a few moments the pain receded and he regained his breathing.
Benedict stood up. “Shall we get a doctor?”
Hanson waved his hand. “No, no, I’m fine.”
Paddy, Pip and Benedict all looked at each other.
Pip placed her hand on his arm. “What’s wrong, Ray?”
“It’s nothing … I’m just a bit weary, that’s all. I think what happened last week with Alice has taken its toll on me.”
Everyone returned to their seats. The heat of the afternoon sun was strong and the wind was weak. Benedict walked over to look out over the river. Even though it was Rotherhithe across the water, with all its demons for him, the view from here was more stimulant than a sedative. He turned back to the team.
“Benedict,” Pip said, sipping from a glass of wine. “Was Dawson that wound up at university?”
Benedict nodded. “Only if you mixed up Byron and Shelley.”
They all laughed.
Pip placed her glass back on the table and removed her sunglasses. “You’ve been busy, Benedict. Ray and I were at a meeting yesterday at the Treasury Department. Your handiwork at that hedge fund has been … recognised.”
Benedict considered why the two of them might have been asked to go there. “So they think I was right about the money being dodgy?”
“Yes they think it but the Treasury cannot prove it or get to it.”
“Don’t tell me,” Benedict said, chuckling. “Dawson told them that Ray and you could help them find the cash.” He wagged his finger at both of them. “I told you that Dawson would use you. He knows exactly how to extract the most benefit from everyone. That’s his skill.”
Pip sniggered. “Yes, it certainly felt like the first time that grubby little man had slipped his hand up my skirt. In the future, I’m sure I’ll need to get familiar with him tearing my knickers.”
They all laughed.
Pip thought back to the conversation in the restaurant with Interpol and MI5. At least I'll be in control, she thought. “While you’ve been running around we’ve done some work and started to trace the money.” She touched the emerald ring on her left hand. “I work with a hacker and he’s followed part of the money to a Hong Kong investment company.”
Benedict smiled at her confession but he’d already considered that she might use hackers. He’d imagined an office she’d filled
with them. “Do we know anything about the company, like who owns it?”
“It’s not quite that simple, but we know exactly who is connected to it.”
Benedict shrugged.
Hanson sucked in a deep breath. “Jasper.”
Chapter 32
Day 10
Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, Fleet Street, London
5.10 p.m.
Driving along Fleet Street from the east, Benedict asked the taxi driver to stop opposite the alleyway. He paid the driver, got out and stood to face the opposite side of the road.
Crossing the road quickly in London was akin to a military exercise, he thought. A mixture of reading the facial expression of the oncoming drivers with bravery and confidence in the way you slide between moving vehicles.
He leaped across the road and, as he arrived on the other side, he stopped under the building covering the entrance. This was one of those places in London that radiated history; where you can feel centuries of life in the worn paving slabs. The spirits of those that had walked through here felt like they were watching you, ensuring you were behaving.
Standing there he sent Wallace a text. As he typed, he watched a sea of dark-suits hurrying from their offices to the underground. He always thought it was a time of day when London looked like it was full of robots.
He turned and walked down the alley. The times that he had secretly met Watkins here in the past flooded through his mind. When Watkins had been a DCI, Benedict had been his sergeant and the first thing Watkins told him was their secret meeting place. They’d discussed many murders here. As he stepped through the ancient wooden doorway he knew exactly where he’d find his old boss.
Benedict went down the stairs and into the vaulted whitewashed cellar and found Watkins sitting in his normal nook. “Sir.”
“Sit down.”
He sat down and watched the tourists in the gloomy crypt and wondered if they were discussing what these walls might have seen. He’d always enjoyed this about the pub; how it naturally created a mystic discourse about its long-lost history.
“What’s that?” Benedict asked, pointing at the glass and bottle on the small table.
“Organic chocolate stout,” said Watkins, laughing. “I’m trying to get a daily dose of iron and caffeine in one go.”
Benedict snorted.
Watkins sighed, making it obvious he wanted to start talking. “What do you know about this Ray Hanson guy?”
Benedict trusted Watkins completely but he sensed this was a time when he needed to be economical with the truth. “Not very much.”
Watkins shook his head. “I’m not happy about this.” He picked up his glass and sipped the drink. “You know I wanted to bring you back into the murder teams inside Major Investigations. If I was already the chief super then I might have been able to make it happen but —”
“It’s fine, sir. I know.”
“I fucking hate the politics. It’s bullshit.”
Benedict noticed someone turn around on hearing the expletive. “It’s probably better to keep me at a distance … then you can keep everyone happy.”
Watkins tapped the table with his fist. “That’s the problem. I don’t care about keeping them happy … I want us to protect the people and put the scum in jail. Is that too much to ask?”
Benedict knew not to answer.
“This Hanson is dangerous,” Watkins said. “Someone has tried to kidnap his daughter and yes, I know you saved her last week. I read the MI5 report. Dawson is not telling me exactly what happened, but I know you were in it up to your neck. They told us that you killed the kidnapper. Now we have four dead bodies just because he brings some art to London.”
Benedict nodded, feeling the pang of not telling the full truth. “By working with him … I think we can do some good.”
“Really? … Good; isn’t that what the police are supposed to do?”
“It doesn’t mean we have a problem, sir,” he said. “If I can work with Wallace and Paulsen then we’ll crack through things and clear them up. If I work with Hanson … well I’d like to try to prevent some crimes rather than just solve them.”
“I know … I know,” Watkins said. “I just don’t want my people at unnecessary risk and I include you in that. People like Hanson work in a world where the rules are different. The risks are different.”
“Would it be ok if I say I’ll be careful?”
Watkins scratched his head. He’d wanted Benedict to stay with the police in 2013 but too many chiefs were unwilling to support him publicly when he needed it. He didn’t consider Benedict a protégé; he knew Danny was a much better detective than he was. “No, that wouldn’t work.”
“You know that Wallace can look after herself. She’s very good and with her team they’ll be able to cover a lot of ground.” He grinned at Watkins. “I think I trust her.”
Watkins picked up his drink and sipped. “Poor girl.”
“I mean it … you should trust her … and Paulsen. If I’m not around you can use them.”
Watkins put down the glass. “Paulsen is going to be promoted to DI soon. I’m going to try to promote Wallace to DCI but I think it’s too quick.”
“What’s going on with Rowe?” Benedict asked.
Watkins chuckled. “You mean apart from the fact he’s not a very good detective?”
“I just found his lack of suspicion … suspicious.”
“He’s just not that good,” Watkins said. “I wouldn’t read any more into it.”
Benedict sat back and rested an elbow on the table, leaning towards Watkins. “You know that it’s almost certain that Tommy Gibbs did this to the Horne gang? Even though he waited a long time for his revenge, if you look at what they did and the way they did it … it all points to him doing it. The two brothers facing each other on their knees; Rich has his head blown off with the shotgun in front of Billy, who is then executed. This has Tommy Gibbs all over it.”
Watkins nodded. “I know.”
Benedict placed a hand on the table, tapping his index finger. “There’s more to this situation, sir.”
Watkins spotted the look in Benedict’s eyes that he knew well. “What is it?”
“I cannot say anything yet,” he said, shaking his head. “Mainly because I don’t know.”
“Is it something to do with this Garrett murder being the same gun?”
Benedict wanted to say more, but decided it wouldn’t help. “Exactly.”
Watkins was about to speak and was stopped in his tracks by a shapely pair of female legs walking down the stairs toward them. He looked up to see Wallace. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you too, sir,” she said.
Watkins felt the pinch of the rebuke. “Yeah … sorry. Now, what the fuck are you doing here?”
The corner of her mouth raised as she pointed her thumb at Benedict. “I told him something had come up so he asked me to meet him here.”
Watkins looked at him. He really does trust her.
Benedict stood up. “What is it?”
“We’ve found out where Tommy Gibbs was last night … he supposedly checked into The Grange Hotel over the other side of the city.”
Benedict sniggered. “Sounds like a nice alibi to me.”
Chapter 33
Day 10
Thatchers Arms, Warley Road, Great Warley, Essex
5.20 p.m.
The small triangular green with the war memorial where the three roads met was the picture-perfect view of an English village. All seemed ideal and at peace as the soft evening breeze wafted through the scene.
Tommy had brought his gang from the Grange Hotel to the agreed meeting place with Lomax who suggested somewhere out of the way. Tommy had chosen this pub as he knew the lads enjoyed an early evening drink here.
They were sitting outside chatting away about football as the youngest lad with them, Paul, was inside the pub getting the drinks.
He took the mobile out of his inside pocket.
He read the new text from his wife. ‘Police called. Told them you’re all at the hotel’. He smiled. Good girl, he thought. The phone showed the time as six p.m.; he checked his watch. Lomax should be here?
‘Is my gun in the glove compartment?’, he thought. Tommy stood up and started walking towards the car looking at his phone. He noticed a text from Johnnie; all it said was ‘well done’. He smiled, remembering his friend. The sting of not allowing him to revel in the revenge he’d wanted for so long twisted inside, stopping him beside his Range Rover. He leaned against the car and stared up at the sky.
On a nearby tree, three large black birds screeched in a furious harmony as a car sped away from the green. He looked up to see them flying southwards, towards the noise.
Paul appeared at the door of the pub, tray in hand with drinks. He was whistling as he stepped out of the building and turned towards the men. “Ere ya go lads,” he said, before turning towards Tommy. “Boss, come on. I’ve got ya drink.”
Tommy waved to him as he opened the car door. “I’ll be over in a second.” His mobile rang. It was Charlie, the main guy from his gang that they’d left with the van full of the cocaine inside the tomato paste cans. They’d taken it to a secret hiding place in Thurrock. He pressed ‘answer’.
The sound on the mobile made him pull the phone away from his ear. It sounded like gunfire.
“Boss, they’re shooting the fucking place up,” screamed Charlie.
Tommy pressed the mobile back to his head and turned towards the car. “Charlie?”
Paul stopped as he heard Tommy shout. “Boss?” All the other men heard him and stood up.
“I think it’s them, boss,” said Charlie.
“Who, Charlie, who?” asked Tommy, turning back towards the men. The last thing he heard Charlie shout was ‘Lomax’. The phone went dead.
He turned to see Paul thrown backward by a shot to the chest. At the same instant, his men started to jolt and quiver from the energy of the projectiles tearing through them. From behind the car he could see the flash of gunfire from the woods near the pub.
