by Sarah Flint
It had been busy on the High Road, queues of drunken revellers writhing and pulsating towards the open doors of the local clubs. The night was shaping up perfectly and his three girls would bring in a fair wedge from their labours; enough to provide the crack cocaine they craved and to keep him supplied with a fridge full of beer and a wardrobe full of designer clothes.
His thoughts returned to Redz. Where was the slag?
She’d been mucking him around for some time now, taking the crack but not pulling in the punters… and complaining when he fucked her. His mind wandered to the memory of Redz’ nubile young body spread out for his satisfaction, whether she liked it or not. Dutch and Caz too. All three of them. His girls, Razor’s girls, just as he preferred them: young, weak and easily controlled.
He shifted his muscular frame in his seat and wound the window down, rolling himself a joint and reaching into the pocket of his jacket to locate his bulging wallet. A large wad of old business cards and rail tickets were kept in one side and he slid them out, thumbing carefully through the pile, locating several shiny razor blades hidden within slips of paper, their thin, delicate edges sharp enough to carve through hair, clothing and especially skin. These were his weapons of choice and the origin of his street name. He admired the way they scored through the flesh of his victims so easily. Many an adversary now sported his brand mark letter ‘R’.
He ran his finger along the blade, feeling it slip easily between the layers of skin, sending droplets of blood speeding to the surface, the sweet, sticky redness reminding him of revenge he’d inflicted on his enemies. These days he preferred to save his violence for his girls. They didn’t fight back.
Swiftly, he slid the blades back inside his wallet, taking care to ensure they were well hidden, but the cops were sloppy. They were only interested in stolen bank cards. They wouldn’t bother to check through the pile of miscellaneous tickets for hidden perils. He smirked at the thought. He was wiser now and more careful. Forty-two years living in the slums and high-rises of South London had taught him well.
He glanced down at his watch again. Five more minutes had passed. Shit. Where the fuck was Redz? She was making him a laughing stock. Only the night before, he’d found her in another dealer’s flat, virtually naked, freely flaunting herself… so he’d been forced to teach her a lesson. If she failed to turn up soon tonight and show some respect, he’d be teaching her another.
He turned the ignition key in its barrel and heard the engine roar to life, steering the car slowly along the back street to the patch where Redz worked. The wail of two-tones pierced the air as he neared. He clenched his fists subconsciously. He hated cops. A police car was speeding towards him, its headlights flashing crazily. The sound of its shrill siren intensified as the vehicle neared. He slowed to let it go by, but instead of passing him, he watched as the silver flash veered across his path into the alleyway. Redz’ alleyway.
Sirens were beginning to converge from all directions and he sat momentarily mesmerised as the blue lights of an ambulance turned into the road and started making its way towards him.
Coming to his senses, he threw the car into gear and swung it around, instinctively aware that he would be better served well away from the area. With a slight screech of tyres, he barrelled away from the alleyway and out towards the main road, his sense of self-preservation kicking in.
His number one priority, before even worrying about Redz, was to get himself the fuck away.
Chapter 8
Dimitri climbed back into the van and pulled out on to the road spinning the wheels slightly in his haste. His had been the only vehicle in the small, dark clearing, more of a recess for council vehicles than a proper car park. Still, he had been relieved to be left to his own devices; no courting couples or prostitutes turning up to disturb him.
He wound the window down and gulped in the freezing air. Despite the grass being white with frost, he had built up quite a sweat hefting her body along the railway tracks. Carrying a human had taken more than he had expected, even one as diminutive as Tatjana. Tatjana now lay in a disused brick railway outhouse wrapped in the rug, trussed up tightly within the tarpaulin and bound round and round with rope. He wiped a sleeve over his shaven head, before pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting up. He drew hard on it, calming instantly as the nicotine filled his lungs. Nobody had seen him. Nobody would have any idea what he had been doing. More importantly, by the time Tatjana was found, he and his girls would have moved on. Not far, but far enough. A new part of London, servicing a new list of customers. It wouldn’t take long to build up the business. Word spread quickly and although the location might change, the same rules of supply and demand would never alter. Men demanded sex and their appetite for risky sex would soon bring them knocking at his door.
The reflection of blue lights flashed up on the interior mirror. He held his breath as a police car closed up behind him, before swinging out to pass. He exhaled in relief. Although he’d been extra careful, it had been hazardous. He would never know whether some busybody had been nosing around, watching his every move.
Another set of blue lights crossed the junction in front. An ambulance this time. There were a lot of emergency vehicles around tonight; more than usual. Something was happening nearby, on the streets of Streatham, and it was too close for comfort. He pressed a number on his hands-free. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer, just in case he had been spotted.
Albertas came on the line.
‘Tell the girls to pack up their belongings,’ he instructed. ‘They have fifteen minutes to get what they need. Otherwise it will be left. You too, Albertas. We are all moving out.’
Chapter 9
Ambulance P301 was nearly ready to go. The two paramedics working on Redz had done everything they could, but it wasn’t looking good.
The younger of the crew, a thick-set woman with large watery eyes and only a few years’ experience, was performing a rather lacklustre CPR. It never ceased to amaze her what mankind was capable of inflicting on its own.
A young cop came over. ‘Does it look life-threatening?’ he asked queasily.
She turned, slightly irritated, as he stood white-faced, staring at the smashed and bloody body in front of him.
‘Yeah, almost certainly,’ she replied tersely. ‘It’s only really me stopping her being pronounced.’
Her partner joined her and she paused fleetingly while they transferred their casualty on to a stretcher. As they did so, a large clump of hair fell down on to the ground, bloodied and wet.
‘Christ,’ the female paramedic muttered out loud as she was wheeled towards the ambulance, still performing CPR on their casualty. ‘Whoever did this is sick. It looks like they’ve cut all her hair off. She’s virtually been scalped.’
The cop radioed the information to the control room, following on and climbing up into the ambulance behind them.
‘Apparently, I’ve got to accompany the victim to hospital for identification and continuity purposes. It’s my first time,’ he apologised.
The paramedic felt a twinge of sympathy for the new officer. She had never forgotten her first dead body and this sight would certainly be one he remembered.
The second paramedic slammed the back doors. The bright lights of the ambulance lit up the casualty’s blank eyes. A deathly white pallor was already seeping across her skin.
‘All set?’ he shouted, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting up the engine.
‘Yep, let’s go,’ the female paramedic answered, pressing down on the prostitute’s rib cage as they swung out from the police cordon. She stared down at the pulpy mess and grimaced. Already gone! she thought to herself.
*
The Punter drove towards King’s Cross. He wouldn’t be recognised up town and he needed another whore now. Adrenalin was still surging through his body and he was barely in control. His recently discovered penchant for violence had come as a surprise to him; an exciting, exhilarating surprise and
one that he now needed to visit more often. It didn’t matter how compliant the bitches were, he wanted to play rough. He craved the sight of blood, the smell of fear, the sound of desperation. In fact, he got more pleasure from the beating than from the sex itself.
He pressed down firmly on the accelerator, his whole body shaking with anticipation. The steering wheel spun through his hands, and he stared down at the sticky mess. Her blood and hair was plastered across the dashboard and footwell too and the sight of it sent shockwaves of delight… and rage racing to his fingertips.
How dare she deny him? He touched his swollen lip and was reminded of her obstinacy. Every second of their liaison played back in his mind; her blood, her screams, her hair, her lovely, long red hair, so easy to grab, so easy to utilise. Then there were the surges of pleasure escalating with every violent lunge, swelling and growing, making his head swim, until, just as he was about to climax, it had all ended. As she had gone limp, so too did his erection. The bitch had denied him his rightful gratification.
But he’d taught her, hadn’t he? He’d humiliated her, and he’d teach the next one too. He closed his eyes and imagined the next bitch pinned up against a wall – the pain, the pleasure, the climax. A frisson of excitement shuddered up his spine as the image became clearer. Yes, he would drive to King’s Cross and then he would get out on foot… and the next dirty prostitute would give him absolutely everything he demanded.
*
Razor drove straight to his favourite bar in Brixton Town Centre. He had to ensure he was seen and remembered by as many staff and clientele as possible. Not that he needed to worry. The venue catered for the type of customer who would swear to anything if it meant a few free rocks, especially if it included the chance to fuck up a police investigation.
The saloon was a particularly dingy affair. What lighting there was glowered dimly in the public areas, leaving dark recesses where pills were popped, powder sniffed and Spice zombies slumped, oblivious to anything and everything.
Razor strode straight to the bar, through groups of younger men shouting animatedly at one another. Every now and again, a jacket would be peeled back to reveal a handgun tucked into a belt or holster. If you owned a ‘piece’, you got respect. Until recently he hadn’t seen the necessity for bullets, but with so many gang members and dealers having access to guns, he too was considering the possibility.
He was thinking about this when the barmaid came over. Viv had worked the bar forever. She was a curvaceous woman of about sixty. She wore her hair pinned back off her face, framing deep creases and furrows liberally covered in thick layers of foundation and blusher. Heavy gold earrings swung from each drooping earlobe and a solid gold chain encircled her neck, hanging loosely down into her ample cleavage. The top she wore strained to contain her massive breasts; being far too low and showy for a woman of her age… But still, Viv wore it with pride.
‘You all right, love?’ she shouted over the music towards Razor. ‘You look as if you could do with a good drink.’
Razor brought his gaze up from her cleavage. ‘Yeah, do us another pint, Viv. It’s been a shit day.’ He tried to make it sound as if he’d been there a while.
‘What’s up then?’ Viv pulled a pint of draught beer and handed it across, leaning in to hear what Razor was saying.
‘Just the usual. Redz has been misbehaving and now she ain’t turned up where we was supposed to meet.’
Razor gulped the pint straight down, swilling the dregs around and banging his glass down on the counter.
Viv reached for the glass and held it under the pump again. ‘She don’t normally let you down though?’
‘She don’t normally dare,’ he snarled. ‘But she’s out of control and needs sorting out. She’s going to have to learn she can’t screw around with me an’ expect to get away with it.’
‘Don’t be too hard on her, love. She’s only young and she’s got a lot to learn.’
Razor frowned. Nobody else could tell him what to do, but Viv was different. Viv had always been there. She’d looked out for him ever since he was a kid, hanging round the streets, getting caught up in the inevitable low-level drug dealing, joyriding and the odd handbag snatch. She’d also understood how age and maturity had brought with it the necessary change to more violent crime and pimping. She might not have liked it, but she appreciated that reputation was everything on the streets. If you weren’t the predator, then you were the prey.
‘She certainly has got a lot to learn.’ Razor narrowed his eyes, silencing Viv before she opened her mouth. She might be fond of his girls, maternal even, and he might listen to some of her opinions but… enough was enough. Redz and Caz were still under twenty and Dutch was only slightly older. He liked his girls young, malleable, addicted to crack and fully reliant on him. That was how it was. ‘Any word on what’s going on out there?’ he tried to sound as casual as possible. ‘There are fucking cops everywhere!’
Viv bent forward towards him conspiratorially, his rebuke forgotten in the chance to gossip. She placed the second heady pint down on the bar and leant in close enough for him to feel her warm, boozy breath on his cheek. ‘Apparently a girl’s been attacked behind the shops in Streatham Hill,’ she whispered loudly in his ear. ‘The rumour is it’s bad. If she’s not dead already, she soon will be.’ As she said the words, Razor saw the colour drain from her face. ‘Christ, Razor! You don’t think it’s your Redz, do you?’
The question caught him unawares, but he couldn’t let her see his slight panic. Dead! Shit! He hadn’t thought Redz might be dead! That would fuck everything up. Redz dead?! What the fuck?
He picked up the pint and sipped from it slowly, rallying as his instinct for self-preservation kicked in, over and above any vague sadness he felt for Redz. In his mind, she was gone and he needed to regroup immediately. Sorting out an alibi, for before and after the attack, would now be imperative. The cops would come after him. The bastards always did. And what about Caz and Dutch? They would have to be kept loyal. If Redz was indeed dead, he had failed with his protection. Now they might think he wasn’t up to the job.
Then there was the bastard who had taken away his source of income, whoever he was. He’d have to be tracked down and made to pay.
Viv was still staring towards him white-faced.
He picked up the second pint, taking a few more sips, anxious to show he was still in control. ‘I don’t know, Viv.’ He wiped his mouth on his sleeve slowly and shook his head calmly. ‘But I intend to find out.’
Chapter 10
It was still dark when Charlie woke Ben the next morning. His immediate reaction was to reach out towards Casper, who lay half-asleep on the rug adjacent to the sofa, and stroke the dog fondly on the head. Casper stretched out his neck towards Ben, acknowledging the attention, before lolling back to his previous position, his eyes closed again. It was clearly far too early for a walk. Ben shut his own eyes and groaned.
‘Come on sleepyheads,’ Charlie whispered. ‘Some of us have got work to do.’
She sat down next to Ben and ran her finger across his cheek to try to rouse him further, the heat from his body hot against her.
Ben reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist.
‘Do you have to go in today?’ he asked. ‘Can’t you stay with me a while?’
For a moment she imagined herself lying next to Ben, safe in his strong arms, their bodies entwined together. It was the first time he’d alluded to these sorts of thoughts for a long time, and then it had been she who had kept him at arm’s length, wanting to put every scrap of energy into the job. Since then though she’d seen how fragile life could be. Maybe her priorities had changed ever so slightly and she was now ready. Maybe he was too.
‘I wish,’ she replied wistfully, not really quite sure whether that was actually the case, but not wanting to break the spell completely. ‘But we’ve got an early warrant booked in.’
Ben shrugged his shoulders and hoisted himself upright. ‘It’s all right
. I know my position in your list of priorities.’ He let the duvet fall to the floor, revealing only a pair of boxer shorts covering his body, before flexing the muscles on his torso and grinning mischievously as he caught her expression. ‘But I’m working hard on it.’
‘So I can see,’ she smiled up at him in appreciation. ‘Let Anna know when it’s safe for me to approach then and who knows what you might get for Christmas.’
She jumped up and patted her legs. Casper climbed to his feet and plonked his head on her knee, gazing up at her intently.
Ben shook his head at the pair of them, climbing into his jeans. ‘Right, talking about Anna, can you drop me off at her office, rather than at my place on your way in? I’m due to see her this morning.’
‘Are you now?’ Charlie raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Since when did you make appointments off your own back?’
‘Since I started taking back control of my life.’ He eased a sweatshirt over his head and pulled his trainers on, folding the duvet up on the sofa. Casper moved away, shaking his fur out as if to ready himself too. Ben dropped to one knee and petted the old dog, before stuffing his belongings into his bag and turning towards Charlie with a flourish. ‘Right, DC Stafford, let’s go.’
*
Charlie drove the car slowly alongside Tooting Bec Common towards Anna’s office. Anna Christophe was Ben’s psychologist and had been working with him over the last year. The transformation more recently had been remarkable and Charlie was full of admiration for her patience and support. She didn’t, however, want to get too close herself. Anna had a disconcerting way of trying to get her to talk about Jamie’s death and the ongoing issues she had with her mother. As far as Charlie was concerned, this subject was firmly off limits and would remain so, if only for her own sanity.
