“Yes.”
Bruce nodded, “What did the police say?”
“They determined that Ubaid Almasi, an Egyptian national, with a proclivity for raping, killing and then mutilating young girls to be responsible. An addict, he was found dead in his flat in Luton. Heroin overdose—laying in the bath for a week. He had detailed the murders, including Jessie O’Reilly’s, in a diary.”
Bruce rubbed his chin, “This apparent savage, kept a diary?”
“Yes.”
“Where was it found?”
“Under his mattress.”
Bruce paused for a second, “Police ruled out any foul play?”
“Yes.”
“How did the police come to track down Almasi to the murders? DNA, witnesses, CCTV what?”
“I am not sure.”
“OK, and Mr O’Reilly doesn’t accept that Almasi was her killer.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you’ve brought me here to ask me to look into it for your friend, the ‘Old Boys’ Club in action.”
Henry sighed, “She was a young girl Bruce, and he’s a grieving father.”
Bruce liked Henry on the whole but still—he was forever the politician.
“A grieving father who is also one of the richest men on the Isles, is he not?”
Henry looked at Bruce for a few moments before shrugging, “Well, yes. O’Reilly came to me with his concerns. He did not wish to continue down the more traditional route of justice.”
“I see,” Bruce stared, “meaning he wanted the real culprits to pay with their lives and not a lengthy custodial sentence…and you told him you knew just who to come to?”
Henry gave him a rueful look. “Bruce, I haven’t mentioned you by name.”
The Scotsman finished his coffee, “Where does he want to meet me?”
“How do you know he wants to meet you?”
“A businessman like Mr O’Reilly would never pour his money into an investment without knowing exactly how it is to be used, however upset he may be.”
Henry blinked a couple of times, “He says he’s happy to meeting you at his home. You know it doesn’t have to be you who meets him, given your new ‘legitimate’ status so to speak.”
Bruce thought of the men and women within the Project who could handle this. And then he thought of his quasi-protégé before dismissing him; despite all his promise, Connor Reed still had some rough edges—a ferociously smashing hammer not yet fashioned into a razor sharp, efficiently wielded blade. No, he’d look into this personally, besides, his favoured agent had enough on his plate for now, especially tonight.
“I’ll meet him. Midday tomorrow.”
Waseem Khan in the back of the Jaguar XJ, his ring adorned fingers tapping on his knee. The stillness of the night amplified a growing impatience. His shifted his bulk amid the leather interior, the fabric of his grey shalwar kemeez crinkling. Waseem , now forty-three, had possessed a physique of a fine cricketer almost a decade ago.
However, the influx of money and notoriety had stripped away the desire of hard physical exertion and a temperance of diet. Women, respect and fear were bought now.
He watched his two hulking bodyguards approvingly—they were an advertisement of his status. They stood on a white carpet of snow, cutting menacing silhouettes in the dim glow of the deserted industrial estate. Rashid Kumar and Varun Singh, were feared within the Asian community in Birmingham and the City’s underworld.
Both stood over six feet two inches tall with their black leather jackets straining to accommodate their steroid ramped physiques. Rashid was particularly feared — eighteen stone, black bearded and dark eyed gangster had a fondness for machetes. His victims were walking advertisements of the handiwork.
Waseem felt safe despite awaiting the arrival of two business associates he had yet to meet in the flesh. His abhorrence for direct interactions with outsiders in his illegal businesses had meant that the two men had dealt with his son Imran.
The partnership had been a successful one with a steady supply of quality ecstasy, MDMA and weed coming his way for eleven months now.
Imran had gotten himself locked up after being caught in a drug deal that he had no business being directly involved in.
Nevertheless, the two men — one white and one black — had made it known to him that not only did they wish for the relationship to continue, but they wanted to increase the trade.
Lights of a vehicle of this year’s model of an light blue Audi TT illuminated the area. They dimmed before hitting the Jaguar. Waseem saw his two guards stiffen.
The Audi came into the bowling alley’s carpark a distance away. It slowed to a glide before halting. After a few moments two men alighted. Waseem’s eyes snapped to the driver; around the same height and build; this blackman’s physicality seemed to have an effect on the bodybuilders posture.
Waseem could sense their unease from within his car.
Waseem knew the driver’s name to be Louis Allen — the leader of The Southwark Union Gang. The SUG stood as an amalgamation of several Peckham gangs in under the Allen’s leadership. The UK underground had been suitably impressed with the feat. Impressed and disconcerted at the gang’s power.
He wore a dark blue puffer jacket with black pants stretching over a pair of bulky legs before concertinaing at the trainers. Two or three days of hair growth covered his strong jaw, with his hair not being much longer.
Waseem turned his attention to his companion, a Northerner by the name of Connor. He was of medium height, short sandy brown hair, with a face of symmetrical features. The blue eyes seemed full of wry amusement. He wore a dark green, thin leather jacket with a black t-shirt, dark blue jeans with brown boots.
Waseem observed Rashid and Varun beginning to fidget and then gesticulate. The newcomers remained still and staring. When his curiosity overcame him, he got out of the Jaguar and walked over.
“What’s the problem gentlemen?” asked Waseem, directing his question towards Rashid.
“They refused to be searched”
“Gentlemen?”
Louis answered with his voice riveted with South-East London street, “I’ll open my jacket so you can check for burners an’ blades, but you buzzin’ if you think anyone is putting their hands on me”
“But ya see why a man in my position would prefer it if you were searched given what we are here to discuss?”
The faintly coarse but well clipped voice of Connor answered, “Of course we do. If you insist then you insist, but we’ll have to insist on searching all three of you in turn. It’s entirely up to you?”
Waseem allowed his Birmingham accent to become stronger, he found it disarmed people, “I fink we can dispense with that. There’s naaa need ter get upset”
“This whiteman would be nothing with this gorilla,” sneered Rashid in Punjabi, while looking at Connor.
“Calm yourself,” replied Waseem in the same tongue, before addressing Connor and Louis, “ter business gentlemen”
“We gotta a case. In it is some Malcoms, white lady, and crow,” said Louis.
“Alright?”
“You’re going to take it and sell it”
Waseem glanced at his henchmen before answering, “I didn’t bring any testing equipment. I am not paying for a product before I know it’s value.”
“We didn’t ask for money Mr Khan—at least not yet. After the feedback you’ll receive from your fiends, astro-travellers and psychonauts, you’ll ask for more. That’s when we’ll discuss payment for this and further packages”
There was silence before Waseem answered, “What’s ter stop me from taken this an’ never dealing with you again?”
Connor raised his jaw a little, “Then you will have lost a supply of the best product you’ll ever come across. You are too shrewd a businessman to let that happen. That’s why we have given you first refusal and not to your friends down at the snooker club”
Waseem pursued his lips at the Yorkshireman
’s reference to his main rivals for the city’s drug trade. Their base of operations was one of Birmingham’s biggest snooker clubs.
“OK, it is a deal —where is the case?”
Connor walked back to the Audi before opening up the boot and returning with the case. He set it down beside his foot.
“Now Mr Khan. We were going to give you this case for free,” said Connor, “but that was before your man there said something along the lines of, ‘that white bastard wouldn’t be anything without that gorilla here’ —there or there abouts —and I am sure a man of honour such as yourself can see that I can’t allow that to pass. So him and I are going to fight. If he wins then you’ll never have to pay for this case. Understand?”
There was tension laced silence.
Waseem ’s mind whirled trying to look for any deception—any downside for him. He’d never known a white man to understand Punjabi to that extent. Rashid dwarfed this man by four stone easily; surely he wouldn’t lose.
Still, there wasn’t a hint of fear in the Northerner’s voice.
“What if you win?” Waseem asked.
“Then I’ll have had the pleasure of correcting his frankly rude manner,” he replied, “just one condition, the fight is over when the winner says it is.”
There was a few moments silence before Waseem nodded his head, “Seems reasonable” before looking towards Rashid.
He found his enforcer’s wide eyes burrowing into the smaller man’s, before he said, “Your fookin’ dead gora.”
The Bootneck Page 30
