Criminal Revenge (8 page)

“What did you say?” Mr Bernstein asked.

“I’m pregnant.” Sarah folded into a sobbing wreck. “They raped me.”

“Oh my god!” Mrs Bernstein choked. “Who raped you? Who raped you?”

“Malik?” David Bernstein knew that his sister had a thing for Malik. He put two and two together, and came up with five.

“No! I love Malik! It was his friends. They drugged me.”

Mr Bernstein staggered backwards and collapsed heavily into his armchair. The material on the arms of the chair was black and shiny in places, a sign of the age of it. He looked from his daughter to his wife, and then stared at the floor. His little girl had changed so much over the last six months that he had begun to question if she was the same person. Now she was claiming that she had been raped, and that she was pregnant. It was hard to comprehend.

“Phone the police, David. Phone nine, nine, nine, and do it right now.”

Lana was dreaming again when the sound of the front door bell invaded her consciousness. It melted into her dream. She was standing by the front door and a huge shadow appeared at the glass, blocking out the light. She panicked and backed away from the door, wanting to open it and to look at the sinister shape that was there, but not daring to. The shadow belonged to something evil, yet the urge to look at it was irresistible. The tiled floor turned into an escalator, no matter how fast she backpeddled, the escalator carried her towards the door. As she neared it, her arms reached out to open the door. She couldn’t stop them; they had a mind of their own. Her hand touched the cold brass handle, and it felt like ice, chilled by the omnipresence beyond the glass pane. Ashwan’s voice called to her, waking her from her nightmare.

“Lana, stay there,” Ashwan shook her from her slumber.

“What?”

“I said, stay there.”

“What time is it?”

“Half five, stay there, do you understand me?”

“Yes, what’s the matter, where’s Mamood?” The memories of her son not returning flooded back to her as she woke, “Oh my god!” Lana realised that she had heard the doorbell. It was the middle of the night. All kinds of images flashed through her mind, policemen bringing Mamood home in disgrace, drunk or on drugs. A female office with her head bowed, come to tell her that her son had been found injured, or dead. Lana panicked.

“Oh my god, Ash, what’s going on?”

“Why are you asking about Mamood?”

“I checked on him earlier. He wasn’t home.”

“What time was that?” Ash looked at his Rolex.

“It was gone three o’clock, why?” Lana wiped her eyes and looked confused. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know yet, Lana. Stay where you are.”

“I’ll do no such thing! He’s my son, and I want to know what has happened.” Lana seldom answered Ash back, but she was distraught, frightened, and confused. Her head was still fuddled with sleep and dreams. “Something terrible has happened.”

“Lana, listen to me.” Ashwan held her face in one hand. It’s late at night, and the doorbell has rung. Mamood may have left his keys or it could be trouble. Now stay there and do as I tell you.”

Lana tried to take it all in but she was disturbed. Disturbed by her dreams, and disturbed by the lack of sleep, and the late night visitors. She sat up and nodded her head slowly. “Okay, but I want to know what is going on,” she murmured.

Ash didn’t answer; he was already through the bedroom door and halfway down the wide sweeping staircase before her head had cleared. He opened the door of a closet set near the front door, and reached for the baseball bat that he kept there. He wished he kept a gun at home, but Malik forbade it. It made perfect sense not to, as the police would find it if they ever obtained a search warrant, no matter how well hidden it was. Malik was paranoid about the police finding any incriminating evidence. He had been so careful over the years, and that was why they were so successful as a crime syndicate. The law had never been able to touch them. Right now though, he wanted a gun in his hand. Ash hoped it was Mamood, drunk and keyless, but something told him that it wasn’t.

“Who’s there?” Ash stood with his back to the wall at the side of the door. If a random bullet was fired, it would miss the target by miles. “Who is it?” He peeped a quick glance through the glass, but he couldn’t see anything. Lana appeared on the staircase, hugging her dressing gown tightly around her neck with both hands. If an attacker fired a twelve-gauge shotgun through the door, then she was in the line of fire, and could be hit by the spray of lead shot. “Lana!” Ash hissed. “Get back up the fucking stairs, now!”

Lana was torn. She was worried sick about Mamood, and the sight of her husband wielding a baseball bat did not do anything to allay her fears. Why was Ash being so skittish? What did he think was beyond the front door?

“Move, Lana!” his voice boomed up the stairs, and she turned and ran to the top of the landing. She stooped to her knees and peered between the balustrades so that she could see the front door. She looked like a child peeking through the rails. Ashwan flicked a light switch near the door. Security floodlights illuminated the front lawn. To his left was the study. It had bow windows protruding out from the main elevation. Ash kept close to the wall as he crept into the study. He navigated his way across the polished oak floorboards, around the leather topped desk, to the widow. He moved the heavy velvet drapes a fraction and peered out onto the lawn. The curved bay windows allowed him a clear view of the garden, and the porch area. The front door was visible, and there was no one there. He swept the grassed areas and caught his breath. There was a rolled object dumped near the double garage, to the right of his vision. It could be a carpet, or a large refuse sack. It could also be a body. Ashwan thought about Mamood, and blood pounded through his brain. He gripped the baseball bat so tightly that his knuckles went white.

“Who is it, Ash?” Lana’s voice made him jump.

“For fuck’s sake, Lana!”

“What’s going on, is it Mamood?”

“Get back up the stairs, Lana!” Ash shouted at the top of his voice. “Get back up the fucking stairs!”

“Don’t use that language with me, Ash!” Tears filled her eyes. Ashwan was secretive and sometimes moody, but he never abused her, verbally or physically. Something was very wrong. “Don’t ever swear at me, Ashwan Pindar!”

Lana stared at her husband, and she didn’t recognise him. The veins in his neck were stretched to snapping point. His temples pulsed visibly with the pressure. She backed out of the study frightened; hot tears spilled over her eyelids and ran down her cheeks. She had never seen Ash this scared before. What had he seen through the window? Why was he acting so bizarrely? Where was her son? Lana sat on the bottom step and bit her fingernails as her husband opened the front door. He looked around cautiously, and then walked out into the night with the bat cocked ready to strike.

Ash walked slowly towards the double garage. He looked left and right, scanning the dark beyond the reach of the security lights. Nothing stirred. The roll looked plastic, reflective in some way. As he got closer, the shape of a body took shape beneath the cellophane wrapping. There was blood pooled from the waistline down, blurring the outline of the legs and feet. He moved closer, praying that it was not his son. His life was a charade, a family man on one side and a gangster on the other. Ashwan’s enemies were many, and his biggest fear was that one day they might come looking for him in his family world. He was staring his fears in the eye as his two worlds collided. The time had come to reap the rewards for the suffering that he had sown over the years.

Ash could make out a face through the plastic. The facial features were squashed and misshapen by the wrapping. The eyes were wide open, rolled backwards into the skull, only the whites showing. Ash lowered the bat as he stared at the dead boy. He was a boy, a teenager, certainly no older. The mouth was fixed wide open in a silent scream. It was a surreal sight to behold. There was a dead teenager wrapped in plastic, dumped on his driveway in front of his garage. Ash looked closer. His eyes widened as realisation struck home. It was Abdul Salim, one of his junior dealers. There was now no doubt in his mind, someone was sending him a message, a bad one, for sure. How had they connected a street dealer to him? It had to be a rival gang; no one else would pull a stunt like this. Abdul Salim worked the tower blocks in Netherley, and they were lucrative market places, constantly under threat from neighbouring crime families. It looked like one of them was making a serious bid to take over the area.

Ashwan’s brain raced at warp speed. One of his dealers had been wasted and then dumped on his front lawn. Someone was sending him a message, but who? Perhaps it was another dealer? Ashwan was furious. It was one thing killing one of his most promising dealers, another to dump the body in front of his home. His wife would be mortified and there would be more questions and accusations than under the Spanish Inquisition. There would have to be savage repercussions to avenge this strike, but right now, he had to clear up this mess before Lana did something stupid, like calling the police.

Was it a coincidence that a dead body had been dumped and his son hadn’t come home? Ash turned and looked towards the front door. Lana was stood on the porch with her hands covering her eyes and face. She was visibly shaking.

“Lana.” Ashwan said calmly to get her attention. She looked at him, but he wasn’t sure she’d registered what she was seeing. “Go and see if Mamood is home.”

Lana shook her head from side to side. “I’ve just checked. He hasn’t come home.” Lana put her head onto her shoulder and dropped to her knees slowly, as if a heavy weight was pressing her down. “What’s going on, Ashwan?” Her body quivered and tears ran freely down her cheeks. She began to wail like a scalded cat.

“Get a grip, Lana,” he hissed. “I’m not sure what is happening,” Ashwan said, opening the garage door. “Go inside, this is not Mamood.” He looked at her with a face like thunder. Lana could tell by the look on his face that he was serious. “Turn off the security lights and get inside, do it now!”

“What is going on, Ash?” Lana wiped her running nose with her dressing gown sleeve. “What have you done?”

“Get inside, and turn off the lights,” Ash hissed and his face turned to a snarl. He grabbed the plastic and dragged the body towards the garage. The security lights went out as he closed the metal door. He needed to call Malik. Someone had declared war.

Richard Bernstein sat at his desk in the basement of a Victorian farmhouse. It was set in the centre of twenty-five acres of grazing land, surrounded at the perimeter by deciduous woodland. Richard had fallen in love with the farm the first time he had seen it as a teenager. As a young man he used to fish in the stream which ran through it. Carp and chub swam in the gentle waters, and he had come to escape the traumas of his family disintegrating. He had sat on the bank in the sunshine alone, dreaming of owning the farm one day when he grew up. He had rarely caught any fish, but he loved the peace and quiet. The setting was idyllic, and it offered the owner privacy while not being completely isolated from the main arterial routes.

Many years later when Richard had grown up, the farmer could no longer make a living from the land, subsidies from the European Union were slashed dramatically, and he decided to sell up and retire. Richard paid the full asking price for it before the ‘for sale’ sign had gone up. It was ideal for a loner like Richard. The farm had a cellar network, outhouses, a workshop and stables, and he put them all to good use. When he had left school, he had studied at college, and then gone on to complete a chemistry degree at university. He had stayed and completed a masters, and then a doctorate. Work in the chemical industry was easy to find, and a brain like Richard Bernstein came with an expensive price tag attached.

Richard’s career was well documented. He had worked on several new pesticides and fungicides, for all of which he owned the patent. He had licensed his formulas across the globe, bringing him a substantial passive income every month. Now he spent his time as an advisor to the agricultural industry as an eminent scientist developing fertilisers and animal feeds to compliment his patented products. In his free time, he used his extensive chemical knowledge to develop other things, things that exploded.

The farmhouse cellar was an extensive warren of rooms and corridors, once used to store seed and grain. Part of it ran beneath the farmyard and underneath the barn. Richard had set up an office area and a workspace, as well as a chemistry lab and electronics benches. Over the years, he had added extra equipment as he had polished his art. Explosives and their behaviour had become his passion, and revenge was his driving force.

Richard was sitting at his desk working; the only light in that room came from the screen of his laptop computer. He’d been searching for information about limited companies that he’d found on the register at the Companies House website. The list contained all the corporate details of every tax-paying company registered in the United Kingdom, and Richard had found over a dozen associated firms connected to Malik Shah’s empire.

“Apparently crime doesn’t pay, but this list would suggest otherwise,” Richard said. He picked up a Yorkie chocolate bar and snapped off a thick chunk. He forced the chocolate briquette into his mouth in one piece, and struggled to chew on it. His white cotton shirt was open at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows revealing pudgy hands and forearms.

“How many of his companies have you found, Einstein?” David looked over his shoulder as he worked. He noticed that his younger brother was sweaty,a strong odour drifting up from him.

Richard held up his hand while he tried to break down the contents of his mouth, making David smile. It was a full minute before he could reply. “Four registered to Malik alone, and another nine associated companies with the others listed as directors and company secretaries.”

“They’ve been busy bees, haven’t they?”

“The drugs trade is obviously flourishing.” Richard clicked on his e-mail message box. “We’ll wait for contact from Ashwan Pindar.”

David moved closer to the screen to read the information. The companies ranged from computer software retailers to aggregates and mineral exporters. They all looked well-established and financially buoyant. Einstein stored the information onto a memory stick and shut the programme down.

“I’ve got all the names and addresses we need. Once Ashwan has found his dealer on his lawn, things should start to move pretty quickly.” Richard bit another chunk of chocolate from the bar.

They’d dumped the dead body of Abdul Salim on the lawn of Ashwan’s family home and then waited patiently for a reaction to their gruesome message. “What do you think he’ll do?” David asked thoughtfully.

“I think he’ll be very offensive, threatening and downright rude, to be honest!” Richard chomped as he spoke. “I think he’ll shit his pants and phone Malik Shah, especially when he realises his son is missing.” The brothers laughed as they looked at the screen. “I don’t think Shah will be very happy about his dead dealer, do you?”

“I think that he’ll soon realise who is in charge, and that the police are all over his business interests, that will change his mind.” David turned his head towards the door. He could hear muffled sobs coming from deeper in the basement.

“Does he have to do that?” Richard frowned with distaste at the noise as he typed a ransom request to Ashwan, pointing the angry dealer in the direction of his dead employee’s pocket. In it, he would find a memory stick which contained some very disturbing photographs of his son, Mamood. Richard knew that dumping Salim’s corpse in Ash’s garden would have the desired effect, especially when he realised that the killers had his son. It had been simple finding an e-mail address to contact Ash, and sending untraceable messages via multiple servers was easy to do. By the time Ashwan had seen all the photos of his son, he would be dancing to whatever tune Richard played.

“We’ll see how he reacts when he opens the picture file.” He sent the message. A muffled cry echoed down the corridor. It was creepy in the darkness.

“Mamood doesn’t sound happy. Nick has been telling him what his father does for a living. He has some of the police photographs from punishment hits they have been associated with, and he’s spelling out how his father was involved. I think it’s a habit he picked up in prison, mentally torturing his cellmates,” David said. Nick had developed an evil streak during his spell in prison.

“I think it’s strange. The poor young lad will never look at his father the same again!” Richard feigned concern. He shuddered at the thought of what Nick was doing to Mamood, but somewhere inside the fact that he was suffering pleased him. It would go some of the way to paying the debt that Ashwan, Malik and the others owed to Sarah.

“Don’t worry, there is nothing that will link back to us.”

“He hasn’t let Mamood see his face. I almost feel sorry for the boy.” David raised an eyebrow in surprise. Richard shrugged and shook his head. “Well he will be suitably enlightened when he leaves here. I wonder if he knew what his father was involved in, not what he expected, I’ll bet you. He’ll never look him in the eye again.”

“Just remember that they never had a second thought for Sarah. None of them did. Tell him to hurry up, will you. We need to go over the ransom money pickup again.” Richard turned on the light, illuminating a large workshop area. There were two long tables in the centre of the basement, neatly stored tools hanging on a pin board nailed to the wall.

“The rest of the devices are ready to go.”

David walked to the first table and looked closely at an oil filter.

“Will this fit onto their cars?” David asked.

“No, but it will fit onto their delivery vans, and there’s enough Tovex in there to blow a vehicle to bits. It would never be spotted, and it would take a forensic team a month to piece the remnants of the filter back together.”

A pile of large padded envelopes sat next to the filters. David reached for one. They were letter bombs, ready and waiting to go.

“Don’t touch them, David,” Richard shook his head and his fat cheeks wobbled as he spoke. “They’re stable, but the circuit wiring isn’t fixed yet.”

David nodded and smiled. The table stretched fifteen yards and it was littered with mobile phones, vehicle stereos, digital cameras and an assortment of homemade limpet mines. They were all explosive devices manufactured from the fertile mind of Richard Bernstein.

A Blackberry on the desk rang and the screen flashed. David reached for it.

“BANG!” Richard shouted and grabbed David’s shoulder. He jumped back from the table.

“You wanker, Einstein!” he laughed. David shook his head as he looked along the benches. They were lined with a plethora of household objects; every one of them had been converted into a deadly explosive device. “Nice work, Einstein. Nice work indeed. We are going to blow Malik Shah and his house of cards to smithereens.”

“It’s payback time, bro!”

“We’ve waited a long time.”

“I know, but it’s the right time,” Richard said seriously. “We had to wait for Nick’s release. They ruined his life, too.”