As risk assessments went the team had not taken into account the sheer drop behind the target. He was alive when he fell, three of the team had seen him mouth the word ‘No!’ as he fell backwards with the TASER wires still attached.
There would be no need to shock him again as he lay in the water alongside the broken Glock pistol. He’d broken his back and the blood that flowed from the back of his skull was a further indicator that he wouldn’t be giving evidence of any kind.
Three down. Plenty more to go.
“Fuck me Roman, I thought you would bring me more than one prisoner to have a little word to? Jesus how am I going to write this one up? If you want a job doing well, what do you have to do Roman?”
The boss looked him straight in the eye via his own slate grey pupils that glared at him over a set of steel-rimmed glasses that he’d resisted for five long years. A nose broken at least twice allowed them to perch awkwardly on his face which bore a few too many scars.
“Well?”
“Do it yourself guv?”
“And I might as well.” He looked at his battle-weary G-Shock. “Christ, I’m supposed to be retiring in twenty-three months and four days. You lot will be the death of me.”
“But you were there guv. What would you have done differently?”
He stood and walked around the desk, slapped his junior officer gently on the face with both hands. Smiled.
“If you ever mention I was there to anyone, anywhere, anytime soon you won’t be worrying about finishing up with a nice little pension and a fortnight for you and Mrs. Roman in the Costas twice a year, you’ll be worried about whether to enter the wheelchair marathon or the local society for artists that paint with their bloody teeth. Capiche?”
“Fully capiche boss.”
“Good. Now get out.”
Roman went back to his locker, de-kitted and went home, giving the chat not a second more thought. It was how the governor was, pure and simple. He didn’t suffer fools gladly but had your back. He was a talented boxer in his day and was, he said, fitter than most blokes half his age.
And he certainly looked after the boys. Just lately they had never been so well off. He called it the perks of being in a Gucci team.
When he’d entered the building, among the smoke and ear-ringing chaos, watching the big black lad fall out of the doors, the little one get shot, and the obvious leader fall to his death it hadn’t been what he liked to call ‘texbook’ – it had been what many would have called a right old clusterfuck.
By the time the follow-up team had sealed the building, done their forensic best, all that detectivey stuff, photographed, taken ‘prints from the dead and literally swept up it looked just like it did beforehand, minus three bullies and a poor little girl who gave up her life to let her sisters live.
The Underwater Search Unit found her the following afternoon, grey-skinned and lifeless, naked but for a pair of knickers around her thighs; even in death she had a look of defiance. Perhaps she knew something they didn’t?
The security guard had protested about his rights as he lay in the doorway downstairs, cable-tied and getting very friendly with the muzzle of a Heckler & Koch. However, he agreed that whatever he’d personally seen or heard would go with him to the grave.
And that is how Inspector Steven ‘Sweaty’ Hancock liked it. Tidy.
Sweaty by name, sweaty by nature. A few old-school commanders had a lot of time for him and he got the job done, kept the streets safe of those that sought to cause chaos. He’d shot Russians and Yardies and Albanians – he was far from a racist he said as he hated them all, saw them all as a threat to the city he’d called home since he was born about a mile away from where he now sipped quietly on a pint and listened to the cock fight at The Old Shades.
He loved the place, with its impressive wooden front door, four storeys, all with leaded windows, a very pretty gable and above all a ‘fuck off dirty great Union Jack’ flying from a pole on the front of the building.
Steve Hancock liked it very much – and even more so liked to keep London just so, with just the right balance of folk that were prepared to work hard. The rest? Well, he’d leave that up to your imagination.
Lately life had taken an upward turn, he’d met a girl, right cracker too, stunning little body and way too good for him. She had what he called ‘fuck me eyes’ and allegedly banged like a shit-house door in a gale Roman Tony had once said out of his boss’s hearing.
Hancock was what many a modern commander called a dinosaur, but dinosaurs had big teeth and chased cavemen, and as he sat blowing the top off a pint of IPA, his eagle-like eyes scanning the bar and his hooked nose dipping into the froth he looked every inch the raptor that his team was named after.
“Lovely stuff. Make sure there’s another standing by.
When everyone had left the old building by the Cut, and life was looking like it might return to normal the slovenly security guard hauled out his battered cell phone, wiped down the screen and made a call, favouring his right cheekbone as he waited to connect.
“Hello it’s Bartley. I might have something for you.”
Across town at the Sanctuary in his own chosen watering hole Jason Roberts was gathering his troops for a chat. Joined by Cade and O’Shea they hunkered down in a quiet corner all contemplating their drinks and what was about to come next. Roger, the landlord, discrete as ever had left the doors locked for ten minutes as per Jason’s reasonable request.
“Team. I’ve gathered you here because I can’t talk at work right now. We’ve got a little birdie that is singing out, or it seems that way at least.”
It was what every police team hated to hear. The worst case. For cops, trust was a by-line for everything else.
“We have to be very careful from today onwards. I trust each of you here with my wife’s life. I’m sure I speak for Jack too. As you all know time is against us, we need to find a few pieces of information before we can find an answer to something that Jack has taken on as his new pet project – and importantly and all joking aside we need to find the people behind what is possibly the worst case of people smuggling we’ve ever come across in London or the country for that matter. It’s us against them for now.”
They all listened. No one took so much as a sip of their drinks.
“John Daniel is beavering away in the background with a good friend of ours in support. So far they’ve come up with two-fifths of Fanny Adams, but they will get there and hopefully soon. Carrie and Dave have been doing some brilliant spook stuff, digging in here, stone-turning there and they’ve even managed to work an old source of mine who has come good a few times over the last year and who, it turns out, and it was more of a shock to me than him I’m sure, has a conscience bigger than his list of convictions, which let me tell you is extremely bloody impressive.”
“Care to enlighten us?” Cade asked, leaning against a wall, next to the dartboard, feeling he might already know the answer.
“Bartley.” It was a code name Roberts had given him a while ago, he had chosen it as his hero was Bartley Gorman the undisputed bare-knuckle boxing champion.
“Patrick Lee?”
“The same.”
“Jesus Jason have you not remembered what happened last time you dealt with him? He told us a syndicate was going to steal the crown jewels.”
“Yes, Jack I have and let me remind you he came good in the end.”
Lee was best described as a travelling man wherever he laid his hat was generally his home. To some he was a gypsy, to some he was the epitome of the word pikey, as disrespectful as the traveller community saw the word. He’d stolen stuff since he was five, lied about his age since he was six and got his first conviction just beyond the age of ten. He’d served more time in prison than most of the so-called London gangsters had had heated dinners.
He had six kids, somewhere, possibly seven, and two wives somewhere else. He had a left and right hand covered in sovereigns and wore an old and cherished sheepskin coat. H
e drove a white van which like everything else he owned was paid for in cash and normally lived in a very large caravan in Essex, that was immaculately kept by his wife and another in Kent equally so, by his other wife.
Until they both found out. And that, as they say, is when the fight started. So for the last few months Patrick Lee, who was also what the police termed a covert human source, who occasionally came up with the goods in exchange for a few quid, had lived a quieter life in a derelict old Victorian building, keeping the place safe for the owner until he could re-develop it.
“Bartley has been acting as a security guard at a disused building in Limehouse for a while – down at the old canal. Anyway, he’s been bored out of his tiny mind and managed to convince himself that there was a ghost of some sort haunting him each and every night.”
“And?” Cade asked incredulous. But to be fair he recalled how Lee had provided some genuinely useful intelligence during the last operation to take down Alex Stefanescu and how, actually, some of it was even accurate. He decided to keep an open mind.
“And…our man was told that he needed to stay away from the building for a good few hours whilst a film crew filmed a certain scene there. He was told it was quite a delicate scene, so they wanted to be left undisturbed. Now Patrick decided that he could make a few quid on the side with this bit of artistic entertainment so he installed a wireless camera up in the eaves, headed to a local café for a cup of Rosemary Lee and a butcher’s at the Racing Post and couldn’t help but watch the scene unfold live in front of him.”
The group listened, nodded, and a few took the chance to have a quick drink.
“He saw a naked woman, that isn’t in dispute. But what Patrick didn’t expect to see was the torture of a young African girl, not what he expected to see at all. Now our man is many things, but he’s not a bully and this enraged him a little so he left his tea and his borrowed ‘paper and marched back down to the building only to be confronted by none other than a group of boys in black pyjamas who were in the process of gently and quietly walking up the staircase.”
Bridie McGee was the first to put two together with itself.
“Don’t tell me? It was Hancock’s team wasn’t it?”
“Bingo! Full house to the lovely young detective sergeant.”
O’Shea leant forward. “How did you guess that?”
“Because the boss asked us to keep tabs on them a while ago, for professional reasons. Need to know.”
“Not entirely true Carrie I’m afraid. I’ve also got a very unprofessional grudge. You see Sweaty Hancock and I go back to training school days. We joined together and as much as he’s a great thief-taker he’s also as bent as a nine bob note and an ardent bully. Worse, he’s made the men on his team as corrupt and offensive as him too. For example, today was a ‘training day’ for that section. Need I say any more?”
“Yes, I think you should Jason,” said Cade, intrigued but needing more evidence other than a personal grudge. “I’ve had grudges myself Jas, and this sounds like one to me.”
“Fair point. But wait till you see the footage.” He nodded to Dave Francis. “Projectionist if you’d be so kind to start the film rolling…”
Francis opened up the laptop and let the team form a semi-circle. He pressed play.
“Jesus, boss this is awful,” said McGee, shaking her head and trying to work out if what she was seeing was real.
Two black figures entered the open space, guns at the ready and fired two shots each at a young male who was pulling a pistol from his waistband. So far, technically and evidentially so good. No-one would dispute theirs was a life threatened, and that they had no other less violent means to bring the situation to a safe conclusion. No one – apart from the keyboard warriors.
As they had entered the room, another male had fallen from the large opening, down and out of sight of the camera. That one would be written off to an unfortunate accident.
That left the third who was Tasered.
The group watched as Roberts slowed down the footage.
“Now watch.” He pointed to a new figure, dressed the same but only carrying a Glock. The figure had a presence, a manner that even without sound gave the impression it was in charge. It walked to the opening and looked down into the canal, shook its head, then took a few paces and stared down into the floor below. Did the same, a slower shaking of the head this time. Then it stepped to their left, knelt down at the side of the youngest male who was on his back with four 5.56mm rounds embedded in his chest. None had hit his heart, all four landing on the right side of his body. He was either lucky or the shots were deliberate. Either way, he was lucky.
Another person also appeared in the footage. Smaller in stature but clearly keen to talk to the man who was clinging to life.
The more impressive figure was speaking and was almost certainly a man, the prone male was shaking his head vigorously as if everything he was saying would impact on his future.
More words were exchanged. Another shake of the head. The slighter of the two interrogators crouched down and said something into his ear, which caused the man to reel back in shock, almost trying to push himself backwards, away. What they had said would remain unknown and as the person rolled up his shirt, ignoring the wounds, they mapped his existing blemishes with the touch of a blind person. It was as if the figure were reading his marks and scars – a map of human behaviour and origin to the skilled and wise.
The slighter of the two people in black overalls stood and stepped away.
Then the male in black placed his pistol against the young man’s heart and spoke. The young African male looked petrified and kept shaking his head. This was no role play. This was final.
The Glock kicked slightly as a round left the barrel and entered the young man’s heart. It was instant, deliberate and lethal.
The shooter stood, kicked the boy’s legs apart, carried out a quick search with his boot and then took off his balaclava, wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to smile at the team, looked around, up at the roof space then walked out of camera shot.
The slighter figure did the same.
“Freeze it there. Just as they leave the frame. That my friends is Inspector Steven Hancock. Now, you may be thinking what I’m thinking, but let’s pan a little wider here. If this was just a straightforward case of police brutality I’d be very worried, however, I can’t help thinking he has some other agenda…”
“And the woman?” asked Cade now completely absorbed.
“My worst fear Jack. Remember the woman I spotted in the blue Bentley that morning?”
“I do, I’m sure you recall her better than me but I do know she caught your eye.”
“It’s her mate. There on the screen.” He pointed, shaking his head. “And now I know exactly who she is.”
“That’s the girl from the bloody mortuary guv!” said Andy West.
Cade twisted his lips into a pained smile. “Hate to say it but I’ve met her too – the so-called sudden death we dropped into a while ago. She was the Crime Scene Investigator.”
“You’re both right gents. And I’m gutted to have to agree. Team, the woman stood next to Hancock is called Jacqui Clarke. She’s a gifted member of the Westminster Mortuary and also what we these days call a Subject Matter Expert – and in her case her subject is West African tribes, and I’m told there is no-one in Britain that knows more than her. Which begs the question.”
“She’s in bed with Hancock?” offered O’Shea accurately.
“Looks that way Carrie. I need you and Dave and Katie to stop scraping the surface now, let’s get the biggest excavator we can find and dig deep. I want these bastards on a plate and served up raw to the Commissioner.”
“You trust Katie boss?” asked O’Shea guardedly.
Roberts blushed slightly. “Yes, of course, why shouldn’t I?”
“Because she’s not here, Jason, and given your opening caveat that makes it a very fair question,” offered Cade.
&n
bsp; “She’s not here because I gave her time off to attend her Grandmother’s funeral actually Jack,” said Roberts, aware his whole team was looking straight at him.
Cade nodded to O’Shea. She nodded back then spoke.
“Boss. I can do this here or in private.”
“Here please Carrie I have nothing to hide.”
“Katie Briton is a lovely girl.”
Roberts nodded, feeling slightly foolish. “Go on.” He rubbed his face as if he were trying to hide from the truth.
“But as lovely as she is boss there’s something about her you need to know.”
“And that is?”
“Bridie?” O’Shea looked at McGee wanting her to take the lead. O’Shea adored Roberts. He’d been so good to her over the years, especially since she had been so brutally tortured by another one of their prior targets – and she didn’t want to be the one to let him know.
McGee cleared her throat. “Young Katie is indeed a clever girl boss, but not as bright as she thinks. I was suspicious, so I checked births, marriages and deaths. Her granny died five years ago, and she has been seeing Steve Hancock for a few months since she arrived here from Surrey Police. I’ve got a few photos if you need to see them?”
“No…thank you Bridie, that will not be necessary.”
He sat down, dropped his shoulders, shook his head then spoke.
“Roger, can you keep that door shut for an hour? I’ll pay you what you would have made. Please.”
“Consider it a gift for the amount of trade you lot bring me. I’m off upstairs to put the kettle on and watch a drama set in a pub. See you in an hour.”
Roberts gave a half smile in Cade’s direction. It meant only one thing.
Cade took up the mantle and spoke.
“Folks, time for me to chat. Give the boss here a break for a moment. Here’s what we know. Up until today we believed we had a group of West African criminals driving the illegal trafficking of people into the United Kingdom. That in itself is far from pleasant. We also know that there is a long-standing military connection that almost unbelievably dates back to the Second World War. We know that the upper echelons of the military want this quietly killing off, but can’t be seen to get involved in a conflict on domestic soil.” He paused. Exhaled.
The Angel of Whitehall Page 39
