“Yes. I would like that.”
“Then you begin.”
“Thank you, Baki Maciji. I am so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me father, forgive my sins, for I…”
As she uttered the words, the woman they called the Mamba ran the knife across her stomach, in a single straight cut, mirroring, almost, the wound that was visibly pink against the darker tones of her brown skin. And she opened up before them, a gaping, bloody wound as if she had opened a purse or a handbag. It was that simple. Efficient and quick.
The males just stared. One turned away, sweating, terrified at what he had got himself involved in.
The Mamba plunged her hand into the wound and removed the package, passed it to the well-built male who walked quickly to the nearby sink and rinsed it off.
“Yes. They are here.”
“Good. Take one and pass the rest to me.”
The leader of the males was handed a small diamond. It was worth six month’s wages, probably more. He pocketed it, waiting until later to admire the colour and glistening light.
“What do we do with her boss?” asked the middle of the four.
“First, we do this.” She pulled out a bag of condoms, stuffed with poorly cut cocaine and rammed the packages into the wound.
“Get rid of her. And wash this down as you were shown. And burn the car. Do it all before daylight.”
“But she is still alive.”
“That is your problem not mine.” She knelt down again and once more gently rubbed the back of her fingers on the girl’s face.
“Where are the others dear? I can still get you help, but you must tell me now.” She looked deep into her eyes.
“It would help if you told me.” She gently applied pressure to the right nostril, causing the girl’s eyes to widen in panic. It was clear from her reaction that she had absolutely no idea. And the woman they called Baki Maciji knew this too.
“I could have helped you.”
She just wanted to be considered compassionate.
“I am going now my boys. I will make sure you are contacted again soon. Remember, the more of these we get the richer we will all be. Somewhere out there is a whole lot more. More than you can dream of. You can have cars, jewellery, girls…whatever you wish for.”
She held the slide up into the partial light. “The richer we will all be.”
They washed the blood away from the floor, dousing it with bleach, until the next time.
Then, when the unit was secured they drove to a dead-end street somewhere in the SW1 area of London and checking the street was quiet, propped the poor girl against a wall as she slowly bled to death. The wound was far deeper than it needed to be. The clean, new blade had sliced through her abdominal aorta. Only a surgeon could have saved her.
They drove away without drama. The male with the caring voice looked back one last time. She was a nice-looking girl. It was such a shame she had to die sat in a side street, alone.
They took the car to a similar location forty minutes to the south west, where curtains never twitched and no one cared, covered it in petrol and threw a match into the cockpit. It was well alight before they left; the flames lighting up their faces. For anyone watching from a vantage point they looked like four young men who had just stolen a car. Not four men who had experienced hell in their short lives before travelling to England and helping their leader slice open a girl. That girl was more than just another person from Kamsar. She was a courier. She was a map.
Minutes later they were in two separate cars and heading in different directions. They wouldn’t meet again until they received a new message from the boss. She was the answer to their prayers. She held their future in her hands. Literally.
She glanced down at the clear polythene packet and wondered how long the skin flap would remain viable. She took a photograph and emailed it to a dark net account, then when the time was right she dropped the slide over a bridge into the river. No point in anyone else finding it, and besides, cutting the piece out had given the girl something painful to think about whilst she waited to die.
“I could have helped you dear.”
Chapter Thirteen
Scotland Yard, London
Detective Chief Inspector Jason Roberts was a career cop. He once had a job in a bank but soon became jaded – then one day, the branch he worked at was robbed, at gunpoint.
Robbed. It meant a theft with violence. Not the commonplace use of the word by all and sundry who claimed to have had their belongings ‘robbed’ when in fact they meant stolen.
Violence or a threat of. He would soon be quoting it verbatim, just like every one of his thousands of police colleagues. A person steals, and immediately before or at the time of doing so, and in order to do so, he uses force on any person or seeks to put any person in fear of being then and there subjected to force.
Robbery. At the sharp end. Staring down two highly polished gun barrels and praying they were empty or the masked operator wasn’t trigger happy.
And when the offenders fled and whilst people were hiding under their desks and whimpering, Jason Roberts, the bank clerk, followed them. Hailed down a black cab and said he was a police officer, just so he could keep up with the men that had just walked into his branch and stolen whatever they wanted to. There had been no one to stop them. Until Roberts had taken the law into his own hands.
“You can radio the police I take it?”
He watched from a distance as an armed unit stopped them eight miles away and had them on their knees, hands on their heads, shaking.
It was bloody marvellous. He managed to get a ride back in a marked patrol car and skipped back into the branch and told everyone there and then he was joining the police. No arguments, please.
Roberts received a community award, and the seed had been lowered into the compost that was to be the next three years of his life, trying and trying again to join the Metropolitan Police until the brown envelope landed on his doormat one Friday morning.
Once he gained a coveted place at Hendon, the police training school, he rocketed through the ranks until he reached DCI. It was here at this rank, he once said ‘that he found that his square peg fitting a square hole’, and in doing so he became yesterday’s ‘blue flame’ and almost forgotten, but a subject matter expert in financial crime.
Meeting John ‘Jack’ Cade and breaking up the component parts of the criminal syndicate known as the Seventh Wave – had in turn led to Roberts creating a team called Operation Orion. Putting the syndicate members back into the jigsaw box with the key piece missing – their leader – was a highlight. And he had never been happier. His team were all highly motivated, positive and dedicated to making their home a safer place.
Roberts had found that, for a brief time after the Seventh Wave were dismantled and dispersed like dandelion seeds around Europe and into various high security prisons, he had the ear of the Prime Minister, a former Home Secretary called ‘Sassy’ Lane – no one knew her real name. She had promised him whatever his team needed to maintain the city’s reputation for safety. His was one of about ten teams now though, and as terrorist activities and knife crime started to spread, Orion became less palatable to a senior politician who needed to maintain confidence, votes and a reputation.
And to cap it all, a few weeks beforehand Roberts’ new boss had arrived. Superintendent Steve Payne. The next blue flame, the newly appointed member of the inner circle, of what they called trust and confidence.
There were officially three Steve Paynes in the Metropolitan Police; one was a detective sergeant who was admired by all for his no-nonsense approach to thief-taking. Then there was ‘Constant’ who was an admin man through and through and could spot a full stop out of place from fifty paces; in doing so he’d risen to the rank of inspector and often wore a plain brown suit
And then there was ‘Nagging’ – the one everyone, anyone with a brain, just loved to hate. Superintendent Stephen ‘Nagging’ Payne.
Roberts was staring
at him now. Sat there in his glass office with his ‘door-always-closed’ approach to management and his novelty Disney tie.
“Bastard” he muttered under his breath. It didn’t matter where you were in the world, and probably in whatever organisation you found yourself in, there were great leaders and there were awful ones. And an awful one could destroy morale quicker than you could say resignation.
“Boss?” The toned-down Yorkshire accent belonged to Detective Sergeant Bridie McGee, an attractive, girl-next-door type with a magnetic personality, who had about as much of a current connection to Ireland as Sir Tom Jones, but fiercely defended her great grandmother’s family name, a County Wexford girl who made it good on the mainland.
Never married, and to a point always mourning the loss of her work-place sweetheart DS Nick Fisher she had modelled herself on Roberts; strong work ethic, passion, dedication and a timely sense of humour.
“You OK?” she asked, genuinely caring and noting that not even Roberts’ famed bright tie could lift the mood.
He looked into the glass wall of his own goldfish bowl office – refreshed during a makeover that was as premature as a schoolboy’s fantasy.
“Why did he authorise a makeover Bridie? We leave this wonderful building for a newer and improved Scotland Yard later this year. That money could have been spent on taking down thieves. What a complete cock.”
“Is that the only reason you are fed up, governor?”
“No, Bridie. He’s a cock. Full stop.” He beckoned her closer, paranoid, afraid that Payne could lipread.
“Look, between us, Jack has been on the phone…”
“Oh yes.” She perked up, just a little. She liked Cade, a lot. He was a good man and those blue eyes spoke to her the first time they had met, they didn’t say ‘come to bed’, they said ‘what would you like for breakfast.’
“And what does the charming Mr. C. want with his old unit? Didn’t the last op put him off ever coming back?”
“I’m not entirely sure but get the team into the briefing room in ten. And do not, under any circumstances, allow that Neanderthal twot with his Mickey Mouse fetish in there.”
He pointed to Payne with a freshly-sharpened pencil.
“Carrie O’Shea taught me the value of using a sharpened pencil. I use mine to save the planet, she uses hers to stab people, in that we are slightly different! Right go and round ‘em up, Sarge.”
“Right, team. Hello and thank you. Now you’ll all be aware that our current operation is coming to an end, we’ve done bloody well on that score, the big bosses are happy and I’m told that even the new Police Minister is thrilled – good for his reputation. We are back into the bidding stage. As you know we are seen these days as a troubleshooting team that solves other people’s problems, and we have a reasonable budget and the equipment we need.” He was almost whispering now, trusting every one of his team implicitly.
“I’ve had enough of robberies to last a lifetime and fancy something a little bit tasty. Now, on that topic, Jack Cade – ex-inspector to the few who don’t know him – is in town. I’ve just taken a phone call from him and I want us to do a few things. I will not be writing these down and neither will you, so listen in.”
He pointed and tasked, “Dave, you and yours I want to know anything about the word albatross.”
“You mean the seagull, guv?” Dave Williams was back on Roberts’ team after a very short secondment.
The first black detective sergeant in the Met he’d joined long before Roberts or at least it felt like it some days. Williams was six foot four inches and built, to coin Roberts’ much-loved phrase, ‘like a brick shithouse’. He was old school and knew where the line in the sand was drawn and what he could and should get away with in front of the boss.
“No, you muppet, and anyway there’s no such bird as a seagull.”
“I beg to differ boss,” said Chris White in his strong local dialect. “One shat on the roof of your car about ten minutes ago!” It gained a cheer which attracted Payne’s attention.
He walked in. “Team. Please don’t stand. Everything going well DCI Roberts?”
“Cushty boss, absolutely first class. Just running through some new intel, a few Crimestoppers files, see what Orion can do to add a bit of value, you know, level off the playing field – give us the helicopter overview we so desperately need to stay one step ahead of the game.”
“Excellent, well don’t let me stop you. As you were.” He walked out and closed the door behind him, back to his office to read a report or two.
“Right, Detective Constable White, you can go and bloody well clean if off then can’t you. Smart arse. As I was saying, there is no such thing as a seagull. Common gulls, Herring gulls, Greater black-backed gulls you name it, but there is no such thing as a seagull.”
“And your point, guv?” White was pressing home his disadvantage.
“And my point Christopher is that I have no idea what we are talking about.” He paused. “Oh yes, sorry, albatross. What is it? Who is it? Where is it? When, Why, How?”
“Is it a bird, is it a plane?” White was enjoying the banter.
“Chris, do us all a favour, when you’ve cleaned my car, go and get some cakes. Your shout.”
“Boss.” He knew when to admit defeat.
“And padlocks. Like the ones on the bridges around here.”
“You mean love locks boss?” A female voice, quiet but confident and well-spoken.
“I do, Kate. You know something about them?” The team turned around to see a new girl, in her early twenties, shoulder length flaxen hair with a subtle hint of red, blue-grey eyes which were enhanced by her blue framed Versace glasses. She wore a cream blouse which hinted at a gym-toned body and a darker pencil skirt that did the same.
She was an immediate hit with the men. And in time she knew the women would grow to love her too. In fact, that would only take hours. She had a magnetic persona that allowed her to extract the best from anyone she met.
“Team, this is Kate Briton, our new lead analyst. She’s jumped ship from Surrey Police to join a proper team. Kate has a Masters in criminology and another from the University College of London in security studies. She’s here to gain answers – and provide a few, at least that’s what she told me at her interview. So be kind and help her when you are asked. Sorry, Kate, please carry on.”
“Boss. OK, love locks are an apparently new trend but they date back to the First World War. Briefly, a Serbian couple fell in love, she was a schoolmistress, he was an officer, they used to meet on a bridge and declared their undying love. But he went off to war and met another girl and the Serbian girl’s heart was broken. Sadly, she died soon after.”
There was a collective ‘ahh’ in the room.
Briton ignored them. “Soon the local women, fearful of the same thing happening, had both of their names engraved on locks, threw away the key and then added them to the bridge in the town where they lived, which has ‘v’s and ‘j’s and ‘k’s in it and I can’t pronounce. Whatever it’s called it became a fabled place. Now, move forward ninety or so years and they started to appear in Europe, and Canada, and Australia, the US too. The numbers grew, to the point where authorities were so concerned about some bridges actually collapsing that they cut them off and scrapped them.”
Now the team were interested.
“The Parisian Ponts Des Arts bridge nearly collapsed last year. They took all the locks off. But they appear elsewhere. Many just have lovers’ names on them, some have codes, some even have coordinates. People choose bridges so they can throw the keys into the nearby rivers, thus sealing their love for all time.” She finished and took a bow.
“Lovely, marvellous stuff, Katy.” Roberts was rubbing his hands together theatrically, then stopped himself, not sure why he had called her that but made a note to self – treat her as you would any other member of your staff.
“However, I’m still none the wiser why Jack Cade feels they are relevant. I’m hopin
g by this time tomorrow I will be. OK, folks, wrap up any files you’ve got, keep your ears to the ground, go home on time. Remember last time the good Mr. Cade had a hunch the entire bloody city nearly ended up six foot under water. Until tomorrow. Kate, do you have a moment?”
They walked, and he talked. “You OK with me calling you Katy? Bit informal, not sure where it came from, wanted to apologise.”
She blushed. “Boss, it’s fine, I’m loving being on the squad and being involved.”
“Good. Lovely stuff. Catch up later. Go and find me a padlock. In fact, yes, grab one of those rippling detectives and go to the nearest bridge and start photographing any padlocks.”
“Of course. You do realise that when the French removed the locks from the Ponts Des Arts there were nearly a million of them? They weighed about forty-five tonnes. No wonder the bridge was collapsing!”
“Ah…OK, well go and have a butcher’s anyway. See if you can crack this saga before tomorrow then we can all adjourn to the Sanctuary for a right old knees up and some dancing…”
She smiled a perfect smile and as she walked away, phone in hand, pressing her finger down repeatedly, miming taking pictures he knew he’d made a mistake. She was fine with it.
The Sanctuary was the team’s favourite pub. It had been in the street for at least a hundred years, probably two, untouched by the Luftwaffe and frequented by the unit whenever there was a compelling reason.
“Dear God, Bridie, I actually said we could go and do some dancing! What was I thinking?”
McGee smiled her disarming smile, “Guv relax, no one noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
“That you fancy the pants off your new lead analyst.” She couldn’t help but smile.
“Oh really? Is it that obvious? I tried so hard. Bridie, my love, slap me if I head down that path again.”
“It would be my pleasure. Coffee?”
“Yes, black as a chess piece and twice as cunning – and biscuits. And Bridie…”
The Angel of Whitehall Page 11
