NATIONAL TREASURE

by Barry Faulkner

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll hazard a guess that whoever that load of coke came from hasn’t been paid and wants their money or the drugs back. They must think Randall was still married to Marcia Johnson and she’s part of his business and has the money stashed somewhere, or at least knows where it is. I can’t think of any other reason to take the girl.’

  Clancy crossed his arms, body language for building a wall. He didn’t like me bringing his own men into play. ‘I’m not going to go there, Ben. I’m not opening the file and I’m not going to ask questions.’ He paused. ‘Officially, that is – unofficially I will take a look at the officers’ statements, but if this lady walks back in tomorrow and wonders what all the fuss is about, that file closes and you forget it, understood? I’ve enough on my plate without re-opening shut cases without a cast iron reason. Put the girl on a missing persons list – if anything nasty happens to her, questions will be asked as to why you didn’t. I’ll call you if any prints on the note match anyone on the database. Now bugger off and let me work.’

  ‘One last thing you might help me with.’

  Clancy sighed and raised his eyes to the Heavens. ‘Go on.’

  ‘What happened with Randall’s gang after he was killed?’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Yes, did they split up or are they still going with another boss?’

  ‘There was only three of them, Ben. Randall was a wholesaler – bought from producers in bulk, split it, and sold it on to the postcode and county line gangs. He didn’t get mixed up in the street end of things.’

  ‘So what happened to the other two?’

  ‘Moved in with the Romanians.’

  ‘Romanians?’

  ‘Yes, most of Randall’s business was with them. They’re the biggest players now, Ben – when Romania joined the EU it gave them free travel into the UK, and the Romanian drug gangs took full advantage of it. Nasty people, violence is second nature to them. Now we are out of Europe hopefully it will stem the influx, but they’re very well-established here now. We have a unit monitoring them – clever people.’

  A name came to my mind. ‘Alexandru Bogdan, is he still the top man?’ I’d had a couple of run ins with him over the last few years; nasty piece of work, blew up one of my client’s nightclubs when the client wouldn’t employ Bogdan’s security people on the door. If you’re dealing drugs and get your people on a nightclub door, they control who gets in and make sure only your dealers do. Big money changes hands between dealers and door staff; big, big money.

  ‘You know Bogdan?’ Clancy was surprised.

  ‘Oh yes, I know Alexandru Bogdan.’ I’d taken out the two goons he’d sent to teach me a lesson after the nightclub episode. I don’t take prisoners, and I don’t leave bodies lying around; no bodies means no evidence. I have a couple of contacts, twins in fact, who work at a south London crematorium and are open to a bit of after-hours overtime, and a few fifty pound notes in a brown envelope. I call them my magicians – why magicians? Because they make things disappear, especially bodies.

  Clancy pursed his lips and gave me a serious look. ‘Well, if you know Bogdan you don’t need me to tell you to be careful.’

  We shook hands and I left.

  *******************************************

  Gold wasn’t impressed. ‘Do you really want to ignite the flames of that battle? Bogdan knows you disappeared two of his men so he’s not likely to welcome you with open arms if you start digging into his business – and you don’t even know that he’s involved.’

  We were having a sandwich at the concourse cafe at Charing Cross station. We meet there when a case is ongoing; simple reason is that if there is anybody involved that wants us out of the picture they would be looking for us at my office, so we give it a miss. The concourse cafe at Charing Cross is ideal; a window seat gives a full view of anybody approaching. The food’s okay, but stay away from the British Rail coffee – there’s no known antidote.

  Gold continued, ‘If Randall’s men moved across to Bogdan and now work for him, where’s the reason for him to take Janie? If they or one of them got away with the drugs from Epping Forest, Bogdan would have them.’

  ‘What if he hasn’t got them? What if Randall was bringing them in for Bogdan, and Bogdan had paid upfront and didn’t get them? He’d want his money back.’

  ‘And he thinks Marcia Johnson has it?

  ‘Why not? She was his wife, and there was no divorce, so he probably thinks they are still together. So why not?’

  ‘So he thinks Marcia has the coke or the money.’

  ‘Or both if the drop was made.’

  ‘She’s in a pretty bad position, isn’t she.’

  ‘Which is one good reason to go and talk to Bogdan.’

  My mobile buzzed.

  ‘You’ve reached Ben Nevis Private Investigations, how may we help you?’ Corny, eh? But every other company says ‘How may we help you’ and then proceeds not to. I’m different; I usually do.

  A sombre voice said, ‘Detective Sergeant Ansty, Hampstead crime squad. You know Marcia Johnson?’

  ‘Yes.’ I was worried what would come next.

  ‘She says you’re working for her, is that right?’

  Well, at least she’s not dead.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘You’d better get over here to her house then. She’s had a break-in and taken a beating.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  **********************************

  You know when you see the bruised faces of elderly people who have been mugged on the TV News you get angry inside? Well that’s how I felt when I saw Marcia Johnson’s face – more blue than pink.

  DS Ansty had met me at the door. Old school copper, mid-fifties, heavy build, receding hairline, expanding stomach; seen it all and didn’t take prisoners. Marcia’s house was swarming with white paper-suited forensic officers. I put on a pair of overshoes and followed Ansty into the lounge, where Marcia sat on the sofa next to a victim support officer and a man I took to be her doctor by the stethoscope hanging round his neck. She looked relieved to see me. I couldn’t see any result of a break-in; everything was as I remembered it. Nothing broken, no drawers emptied over the floor, the French door glass unbroken.

  ‘You okay?’ Stupid question, but what else should I say?

  She gave me a smile. ‘I think so, nothing broken.’ She managed a weak smile.

  ‘What’s your relationship with Mrs Johnson?’ Ansty was asking. Ansty was suspicious.

  ‘Her daughter’s gone missing, I’m trying to find her.’

  ‘Is she on the missing persons list?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really?’ Ansty arched his eyebrows.

  I thought quickly. ‘Bearing in mind Mrs Johnson’s public persona, her agent thought it best to have a low key look for her first. She may have just gone away for a break and forgotten to tell anybody. Put it on missing persons and the press would be all over it.’

  ‘Did you agree with that, Mrs Johnson?’ Ansty asked.

  Marcia nodded. ‘Yes, my daughter is twenty-two, not a slip of a girl. I’m sure she’s probably just done what Mr Nevis said, gone on holiday or something and not told me, that’s all. Probably walk in any minute. Not worth taking up police time.’

  Ansty looked at me. ‘You agree?’

  ‘No, but I’m the hired help, not the client.’ I changed the subject. ‘I thought you said it was a break-in? Nothing seems out of place.’

  ‘Yes, strange, isn’t it?’ Ansty was giving me that suspicious look again. ‘Mrs Johnson says two men came to the door – foreigners – bundled her in here and one stayed with her whilst the other searched the house.’

  ‘Searched for what?’

  ‘You tell me, Nevis. It was a professional search, gloves worn and everything left in order – nothing chucked on the floor, nice and clean. So what were they looking for?’ His eyes pinned me down.

  ‘No idea. Probably a pair of
random chancers taking a punt?’

  ‘And leaving Mrs Johnson’s jewellery untouched on the dressing table in her bedroom? The foreigners bit is unusual. If they were a pair of illegals after money, they’d have taken the jewellery to sell on. No, these were pros, and they were after something specific. I reckon you know more than you are saying, Nevis.’ The look I got was made of granite.

  Thankfully the forensic boss poked his head round the door to say they’d finished and were off. Ansty would get a report in a day or two, but there wouldn’t be much to it. And that was that. Mrs Johnson was to go to the local police station tomorrow to make a statement and look through the mugshots of known local ne’er-do-wells, in the forlorn hope she might recognise someone. Not a hope in Hell. Maybe a file of known felons from the Politia Romana would offer a better chance. It was time I had a chat with Alexandru Bogdan; I was moving into dangerous territory, but there wasn’t any alternative now.

  I left the same time as Ansty and his officers; the doctor was still there but Marcia insisted she was fine and let the victim support officer go. I wanted to get some more information out of Marcia, but not in front of Ansty. I’d call her when I got home.

  I didn’t get that far. Mrs Johnson rang me five minutes after I’d left and asked me to go back.

  She was at the door waiting and ushered me into the lounge, before pressing a photo into my hand.

  ‘They gave me this.’ Her voice was shaky.

  The photo was of Janie. She was blindfolded and stood against a brick wall, hands tied behind her.

  ‘They spoke English, asked where it was.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Yes, I said what are you talking about and they said I knew. I said I didn’t, and one hit me a couple of times and asked again, ‘where is it?’. I said I didn’t know what they were talking about, and one went off to search the house and the other kept slapping my face demanding to know where it was, and if I didn’t tell him I’d never see Janie again.’ She broke down in tears. ‘What should I do, Mr Nevis, what should I do? I rang Harry and he said to ask you, but don’t show the photo to the police because the kidnappers might harm her if the police are involved.’

  I calmed her down and told her she was quite safe. If the goons had been and found nothing they wouldn’t be back, and they’d be pretty sure Marcia Johnson had no idea what they were after or she would have crumbled at the sight of the photo and given it up.

  I haven’t any kids. I haven’t met anybody I’d want to have them with-yet. Been near to settling with a couple of ex’s in the past, but it always collapsed. I’d be a great dad, I really would; I could see myself at the school gates picking them up. I’d be a rock for them, the sort of dad I never had: caring, understanding, a chaperone or a best mate. I wouldn’t care if it was a boy or girl; I can glare at a daughter’s first boyfriends as they threatened to usurp my throne, or have a quiet word with the king of the block about what would happen to him if my son got involved in his little drug-selling game. Yes, I’d be a good dad. Is Marcia Johnson a good mum? The jury’s out.

  I needed to have a one-to-one chat with Harry Cohen; he seemed a bit too keen to keep the police out of it, a bit too keen by far. But first Alexandru Bogdan would receive my attention. Alexandru is the eldest of five brothers who run their organised crime family from Bucharest. The father, now retired, started it all with the black market in the war, then progressed into drugs and people trafficking which are much more lucrative and profitable.

  ********************************************

  I dressed for the occasion: stab-proof vest and my Beretta M9, with a full clip tucked into my belt behind me. I’d screwed on the silencer. I rang Gold.

  ‘You busy?’

  ‘No, just cloning a debit card that one of my clients accidently dropped into my shoulder bag.’

  Sometimes I don’t know whether or not to believe Gold.

  ‘I’m going to Bogdan’s place. Marcia Johnson had a couple of visitors earlier.’

  ‘Really? She okay?’

  ‘Bit shook up, but listen to this – two foreigners who tossed the place, but left it as tidy as they found it.’

  Gold thought for a moment. ‘The ransom note didn’t work, so a visit was made then?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. They had a picture of Janie, bound and gagged.’

  ‘Putting the pressure on.’

  ‘Yeah, big time.’

  ‘Gotta be something big they’re after.’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Bogdan will know, he wouldn’t be involved for peanuts. I’m going to their club, can you watch my back?’

  ‘Club Bucharest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Straight into the lion’s den, eh?’

  ‘I’ll get an answer.’

  ‘You might get a beating.’

  ‘Can you cover my back? I’ll be there about eleven.’

  ‘Of course. Oh, by the way, I did some digging on George Layton. He’s got a record, three offences listed.’

  ‘He has?’ Was this the break we were looking for?

  ‘Exceeding the speed limit in a 30mph area, three of them.’

  ‘Not exactly what I was hoping for.’ I was a bit disappointed.

  ‘Well, one of them may have been exceeding the speed limit whilst fleeing Epping Forest.’ Gold has a dry wit. ‘I’ll be at the Bucharest by eleven.’

  I felt better knowing Gold would be around. My silent partner, always lurking in the background and ready to step in when needed.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Bogdans’ ‘Bucharest Club’ was off Commercial Road, East London, a place you were welcome if they knew you and told you in no uncertain language where to go if they didn’t. A place where illegal deals of all sorts were agreed behind the facade of a big and busy night club, and where it had been known people went in and never came out. The Commercial Road was aptly named in the 1800s when it was a dock land centre for merchant sailors on leave from ships berthed in the docks nearby to find prostitutes, and get waylaid by muggers and a fair selection of people you really didn’t want to meet on a dark, unlit road at night staggering back to your ship with a belly full of beer and jellied eels. Then the developers moved in around the 1960s and the tall warehouses that loomed over the street became executive apartments with river views sitting on top of posh bistros and restaurants with the occasional nightclub.

  I’d sorted out a few dodgy deals on behalf of clients with the Bogdans in the past, when those clients had painted themselves into a corner with silly demands and needed a little oil spread on the choppy waters to get the deal done and them out in one piece. You don’t make threats to the Bogdan family; even the Romanian police learnt that lesson when they went to arrest two of the five brothers and ended up with three of their squad dead and no arrests. In his younger days Alexandru, the eldest brother, was known in Romania as ‘the widow maker’ – no prizes for guessing why.

  I booked an Uber to take me and got out, knowing that the eyes of the doormen were on me. Both of them were old faces I knew, standing motionless and expressionless, their over-long black Crombie coats flapping slowly in the soft breeze, checking handbags of the girls going in and frisking the boys. There was a big queue; the club was popular. Only Bogdan family coke would be lined and snorted inside. A captive market.

  I smiled at the biggest doorman. ‘Hello, Tony. Thought you were past all this, thought you’d be sitting on a beach in Bermuda by now?’

  Tony Capp gave me a cold smile. ‘Big Tony’ was as black as the ace of spades, six foot-high and just about the same in breadth. The size of his shoulders stretched the Crombie fabric to the limit and his shaved head sat like a dome in the middle of them. Tony had no neck; a head and chest, but nothing in between – it was there, of course, but hidden in fat and muscle. His partner on the door was the same height but slim; slicked back jet-black hair and a trimmed top lip moustache, one of Bogdan’s imported Romanian goons. Probably on the door because the club had a large Eastern European
membership, and unless ‘Big Tony’ had been to evening classes, his language skills rated zero.

  ‘Ben Nevis,’ he said without expression. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Got an appointment with Alexandru.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He stepped to the side where a phone hung, pressed a button and spoke. Bad decision, Tony – now I knew Alexandru was inside the building. I walked past the pair of them, which caused alarm on their faces. ‘Big Tony’ dropped the phone which hung and swung against the wall and ran at me. I knew that if those arms got around me I’d have no chance; a bear hug from Tony would push the air from my lungs like a burst balloon, and probably snap a couple of ribs at the same time. I reached behind me and pulled out my Beretta and shot him in the foot. He’d have a permanent limp, but wouldn’t die. He pulled up and went down on one knee. I kicked him in the face, breaking his nose which streamed blood down the front of his Crombie; he was out of the game, but Mr Moustache was recovering from the shock and coming my way. I stepped forward to meet him; he was expecting me to back off, so was surprised for a moment. That moment was all I needed to bring the Beretta up hard under his chin. He slumped unconscious to the floor, a mixture of blood and broken teeth slipping from his open mouth.

  There was pandemonium in the doorway and on the street, people falling over people as they fled the area. I walked through the doors into the main room; it was pretty dark, and the dance floor was packed with clubbers squashed together, vibrating to the loud decibels from the DJ booth that pumped through your body in time with the flashing strobe lights. The news of the fracas in the entrance hadn’t got into the room; no panic, and the security men were stood against the walls. I counted four, with one stood outside a door marked: ‘STAFF ONLY- PRIVATE’. That’s where Alexandru would be.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned, moving my hand back to my gun. It was Gold, the strobe lights flashing across her face in the dark. I shouted into her ear, ‘Move the bloke by the door,’ and nodded towards him.