Criminal Revenge (16 page)

Kenny Richards smiled at the waitress as she delivered another round of drinks to the table. It was getting on for two o’clock in the morning, and she was tired. Kenny Richards, his three brothers, and two senior lieutenants were getting drunk, becoming more obnoxious with every round. They behaved as if they owned the place, which to be fair they did. Well, as good as. The owner lost to Kenny in a poker game, and he was holding the deeds against a fifty thousand pound debt, which was gaining interest daily. Now Richards and his dragoons ate and drank for free, taking over the restaurant most nights from eleven o’clock until they were plastered. The last customers had left the Chinese restaurant hours ago. The manager locked them in and pulled the roller shutters down to avoid unwanted attention from the police.

“Thanks, darling!” Kenny slapped her shapely behind as she placed the drinks down. His thick gold bracelet rattled when he spanked her, and his snake like grin revealed more of the precious metal in his yellowed teeth. “You know, Wendy, I’ve been looking for a princess like you all my life.”

“Princess?” his brother slurred. “Take no notice of him, Wendy. He wants to bend you over the table.” The men laughed in unison, their eyes becoming bleary and their expressions idiot-like.

Wendy tried to smile again even though her buttocks stung to the point that her eyes were watering. She grimaced and walked away without speaking, embarrassed and annoyed. The sound of the men’s raucous laughter faded as she entered the kitchens.

“God, I hate that man!” she complained to the manager. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye: tiredness was catching up with her. “I really don’t need this job that much.”

“Don’t be hasty, Wendy, it pays your way through college, remember?” The manager couldn’t afford to lose any more staff, especially a good one like Wendy. China Town was a rough area to work in late at night, frequented by drunks and clubbers. “Ignore them, they’re drunk.”

“They’re always drunk!” Wendy choked back a sob and tried to smile. Things weren’t going well at college either. She had flunked her exams, was behind with her coursework, and her boyfriend had ditched her for her best friend. “I’ve had enough, I’m going home.” The last bus had gone, and it would cost her two hours graft to get back to her damp-ridden bedsit. Coming to the big city to complete a university degree wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. She was thousands in debt already, and would have nothing to show for it if she was kicked off the course.

“Get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” the manager said considerately. She took off her apron and he handed her her coat. “I’ll sort this lot out, they’re the only customers left now anyway.”

“That’s because they’ve insulted the rest and made them leave. Three complaints I had about them tonight,” she whined, still sobbing. “At this rate you won’t have any other customers to worry about.” Wendy turned and pushed her way through the chain fly-curtain at the back of the kitchen. It jingled as she went out into the night. The manager sighed and looked up at the strip lights on the ceiling. They were being dive-bombed by a squadron of flying insects, testament to how well the fly-curtain worked.

“Fucking marvellous, now I’ve got to clean up on my own.” The manager pulled a pack of menthol cigarettes from his apron pocket. There was no one left in the restaurant to complain if he lit up. He sparked his lighter and inhaled deeply as Wendy came back through the metal curtain. He frowned, as she looked terrified. “You forgotten something?” he laughed, drawing on the cigarette again. “You’ve caught me puffing away in the kitchen! Don’t tell anyone!”

The chain links rattled again as first one masked man and then a second followed Wendy into the kitchen. The first man had an Uzi pressed into the small of her back. The second had one aimed directly at the manager’s face. His index finger was to his lips, indicating that he should be silent. The manager nodded his compliance and raised his hands in the air. The menthol still burned in his hand. Wendy was shoved towards a backroom area where the sink tubs where situated and the gunman beckoned the manager to them. Reluctantly he edged towards the backroom. The Uzis looked dull but deadly. They had been adapted to take a fat suppressor on the barrel, homemade silencers.

“Kenny Richards is in the restaurant, right?” the gunman whispered. Wendy and the manager looked at each other, and then nodded. “How many of his goons are with him?”

The gunmen were dressed in black, and the ski-masks they wore revealed only their eyes. Wendy couldn’t be certain, but she thought the men had dark skin. Not African, Asian. The manager looked at Wendy to answer the question. She had been serving them all night, and he hadn’t really noticed how many of them there were. He’d stayed in the kitchen area, out of the way. Wendy made a mental note of where they sat around the table, and how many drinks she poured each round. She held up five digits.

“Five including him, or five plus him?”

Wendy thought for a second, and then held up six digits. The gunman opened a steel door, which led into a walk-in refrigerator. He hustled the terrified employees inside.

“Get in there, keep quiet and you won’t get hurt, understand?”

The door closed and Wendy heard a metal clunk as the bolt was thrown. It wasn’t long before the shooting started.

Ronald Theakston pushed his belongings along the pavement in a shopping trolley. The front wheels were wonky, but it was his shopping trolley. The sun was going down, and night was closing in. It was time to head home to his box. A quick trundle to the local bargain booze stop, and he was set for the night: six litres of strong cider, dry roasted peanuts, and for dessert, vodka. He could hardly contain his excitement. Drinking to oblivion was his only pleasure now. As he turned the corner to reach the delivery bay, which had become his latest home, his heart stopped beating for a second.

“Hello,” DI Will Naylor said. “You come around here often?”

“Piss off!” Ronald put his head down and pushed his trolley faster. The man in the suit looked like trouble. In fact, most people looked like trouble. He wanted to get to his doorway, and drink.

“Can’t do that I’m afraid, I need a word with you.” Will grabbed the homeless man’s arm, and then immediately wished that he hadn’t. His sleeve was encrusted with God only knows what bodily fluids. “What’s your name?”

“What’s it to you?” Ronald tried to break free, but his wasted muscles were no match for the young detective. “Get off me!”

“Look, I’m a police officer,” Will showed him his identity card, still maintaining his grip on the man. “I think you can help me, and there’s a few quid in it for you.”

Ronald stopped struggling. He’d spent all of his money at the booze station, and there was two full days until he could claim his pension again. He eyed the detective suspiciously. There had been lots of funny goings-on in the last few days, mostly blurred memories now, almost dreams, but not good ones. There were police officers all over the place, but none of them had shown any interest in Ronald. He stayed away from the loading bay until night-time when they had gone.

“Do you sleep here?” Will relaxed his grip.

“I might do, it depends.”

“Is that your cardboard in the loading bay?”

“Might be.”

“We can always have this conversation at the station, but that would take a few hours, and I’m not sure your booze would still be here when you get back, are you?”

“Alright!” Ronald frowned at the thought of his alcohol left unattended. He needed it. “What do you want?”

“Have you seen or heard any shooting in the last few days?” Will pulled out a ten-pound note, and waved it in front of his face. “Anything unusual?”

Ronald snatched at the money, but Will pulled it away from his grasp. “What’s your name?”

“Ronald Theakston.”

“Okay, Ronald, nice to meet you.” Will let him take the money. “Have you seen or heard anything unusual?”

“Yes, I know the sound of a nine-milli anywhere,” Ronald slurred. Will raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You an old soldier, Ronald?”

“Royal Marines, did the first Gulf gig,” Ronald felt a twinge of pride deep inside somewhere. It was an alien feeling to him nowadays.

“You heard shooting?”

“Yes, nine millimetre pistol, probably a Glock.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No, move fast, and keep low, that’s my motto. I kept my head down.”

“So you heard the shots, and then what?”

“Heard one of those kids fucking and blinding, must have been hit because he was moaning like I don’t know what.”

“Did you hear him say anything specific?”

Ronald thought about it. “Something about money and drugs, can’t be sure though.”

“You hear anything else?” Will asked.

“Maybe a diesel engine, can’t be sure, doors opening and closing. It’s all a bit hazy,” Ronald needed a drink.

“If you think of anything else, you call me, Ronald,” Will pulled out another tenner and slipped it into the old marine’s grimy hand along with his card. “Anything at all, okay?”

“Thanks.” Ronald stuffed the money into his pocket and aimed his trolley towards the loading bay. Will watched him wobble down the road, a mixture of sadness and pity inside him as the old soldier headed to his makeshift bed. He was about to leave when the tramp turned and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Einstein!”

“What did you say?” Will asked, confused.

“Einstein.” Ronald smiled at the memory, pleased that his mind wasn’t totally useless. “One of them was called Einstein.”

Richard Bernstein read the list for the millionth time: Malik Shah, Ashwan Pindar, Rasim Shah, Omar Patel, Mustapha Shah and Saj Rajesh. He flicked the paper with his finger as his mind replayed his past. The assault in the park, the months of hospital treatment, the scars, the pain and suffering, the embarrassment of wetting his pants as they kicked him senseless. It was all so fresh in his mind, and then there was Sarah. Beautiful Sarah. Nick serving over a decade in prison, David’s self imposed exile in the Israeli military and the destruction of his parents’ relationship. His sister killed herself to avoid the shame she was causing, and his father killed himself with whisky for the same reason. That’s why they were here, doing what they were doing. They had to pay for what they’d done, and tonight the debt was due. He munched on salt and vinegar crisps as he waited in the van for his brother and Nick. They were in an expensive neighbourhood near the edge of the city. The houses were huge, surrounded by high walls, and set back from the tree-lined roads. Malik Shah’s men had done well from their chosen profession, but all the money in the world couldn’t protect them now.

Nick dropped over the wall and landed heavily, ankle-deep in dead leaves and undergrowth. The ground covering crunched as he moved slowly towards the building. It was L-shaped, one part elongated with a long slanted roof, making it look cheese-like. The nearer section was oblong, with a high vaulted ceiling. The roof was clear plastic, which allowed the sun to warm the pool beneath it. Nick approached the pool block, and crouched low as he reached a set of sliding glass doors. He slid a metal file into the keyhole and twisted it twice, click, click. He tiptoed through the patio doors, quiet as a mouse. The lock was a doddle to pick, a trick he’d learned during his long stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Prison was a university of crime, the longer you stay the more you learn. The smell of chlorine was strong, and he could hear the gentle hum of the filter pumps. There was a half-moon, reflecting off the surface of the water. He navigated his way up the poolside to the door that accessed the house. Nick grabbed the handle, and twisted it slowly.

He breathed out as the unlocked door opened, and headed into the living area. Nick moved like a ghostly whisper across the laminate flooring, heading for the green dot of light which glowed in the corner of the room. He kneeled down and picked up the phone from where it was charging. Rasim Shah had plugged it in two hours earlier on his way to bed. The battery life was a major issue for him, constantly running low when he needed to be contactable at all times. His cousin Malik flipped his lid if they didn’t answer when he called them, so now he plugged it in every night. Richard Bernstein had hacked Shah’s company mobile contracts, and he knew the make and model they used for business. Nick slid the back off the mobile and removed the SIM card. He slid it into a replacement iPhone, a specially prepared replica. It was unlike any other, as it contained enough Tovex liquid explosive to blow the user’s head clean off.

Half a mile away, Omar Patel paced his living room. He was worried that Malik was taking them to war with the city’s other crime families. Omar had control of the undertaker business, and he’d organised the disposal of Abdul Salim. Abdul worked for Ashwan, yet the body had been dumped on Ashwan’s lawn. That had to be a warning from someone, but who? He had spoken to Malik, but he wouldn’t give anything away. He always kept his men in the dark as much as possible: what they didn’t know, they couldn’t tell. Malik didn’t trust any of them completely, even though they had been together since their school days. He was a paranoid schizophrenic, no doubt about it, and Omar was getting sick of him and his tantrums.

Omar guessed that a rival gang had killed Abdul, and Malik was pointing the finger at the Richards crew. Two of Malik’s hit men were dispatched to take out as many of the Richards crew as possible. One of them had called Omar and told him that much, but he wouldn’t say anymore. They were to keep one alive until the last minute, and question him about something, but they wouldn’t tell him what. What could the Richards gang know that was important enough to start a war over?

Sending out the hit men was a blatant act of war against a rival gang, and it would have repercussions that would echo through the foreseeable future. Malik was angry, that was obvious, but there was more to this than met the eye. Omar had the feeling that he was keeping something from them. His cousin Amir was his closest friend, and they confided in each other. Now he was gone, blown to bits, and Malik had lost the plot. Was there a coincidence, a connection between his death and what was happening tonight? Ashwan wasn’t answering his mobile, which was unusual, and he felt that they knew something that the rest of them didn’t. If they were going to war, then it was only right that they were made aware of the reason why. He continued to pace up and down the room. David Bernstein watched Omar’s shadow on the curtains as he attached a mercury-triggered bomb to his Lexus.