London Large: Blood on the Streets (14 page)

Hilary was not amused.

‘So, in the midst of two of
the biggest cases The Met have ever had to deal with you decide to go on a
three day bender while your partner and the whole team flounder around in
chaos. There are a lot of powerful forces inside and outside the police that
want you out Harry. I don’t know if I can protect you much longer. You better
have something good.’

Hilary had been aware that
Amisha had found the CCTV of the transit vans following an anonymous tip off,
but was unaware that the informant had identified the ringleader.

H filled her in. He explained
that Amisha had worked the patch under the radar, found an eye witness and this
was the lead that allowed her to trace back the vans to the location from which
their deadly journey that night had commenced.

Hilary said ‘And who, pray
tell, did he identify?’

‘Basim Dragusha, the leader
of the Albanian firm on The Island. We have no direct proof he has been
involved in anything, but the informant positively identified our top suspect,’
said Amisha.

‘That’s enough for a full
scale raid, I’ll arrange the warrants,’ said H.

‘Hang on Inspector. Is this
informant willing to testify?’

‘No way,’ said H.

‘I promised to keep him out
of it’ said Amisha.

‘I’m not sure that will be
enough. We’ll have to wait. With luck we’ll find some forensics in the lock up
in Camberwell’, said Hilary. ‘Well done Amisha, great work.’

‘And’, Miller-Marchant said,
‘what about this link between the cases?’

H looked at Miller-Marchant
with his usual contempt as he took out the plastic bag that contained the
evidence and explained how he had found the obituary wrapped in a bag of
sandwiches and the cut-out of the two sisters stuck to the wheel of one of the
vans.

Miller-Marchant was, after
his last experience of being in Hilary’s office with H, slightly more cordial.
But his nature was to try and take the moral high ground whenever the
opportunity presented itself.

‘Harry’, -
unusual
,
thought H, he’s never called me that before - ‘are you suggesting that Dragusha
had Tara killed so he could read about her life story?’

‘No, soppy bollocks. I…’

‘H!’ shouted Hilary.

H flashed a wry smile and
changed his tone.

‘No, Inspector
Miller-Marchant. What I am saying is that I have a hunch. Gangsters don’t read
obituaries in The Times. In fact they don’t usually read The Times at all. It’s
just not a paper they would have lying about when one of their henchmen wraps
up some cheese and ham on white. Someone was reading this and my hunch is that
someone knows something. That’s all. Hilary, let’s bring Dragusha and the whole
fucking lot of them in for questioning. We have the vans and an eye witness
that has fingered this bastard. I realise the obituary is just a hunch but
bring the fucker in and I’ll get it out of him.’

‘Calm down inspector. If the
witness won’t testify it might not be enough but I’ll put the evidence before a
judge and see if we can do a full search of “The Island”, and get a warrant to
arrest him. Given the profile of this case we should have enough, even before
the forensics on the van come through.’

‘One other thing,’ said H. ‘I
saw him. As he was pulling his firm away, just as I arrived in Peter Street. He
looked at me. He was balaclava’d up, but those eyes… I know it was him.’

2am the following
morning. The streets of Bermondsey were deadly silent. Hilary had been true to
her word and got the warrant in double quick time.

Fifty officers sat in
unmarked vehicles, scattered throughout the large car park in Surrey Quays - or
Surrey Docks, as H still called it. The essence of the plan was to drive
unobtrusively to the site, block the three exits from The Island, encircle the
camp and then go in hard and fast.

H was on the blower to
Miller-Marchant going through, once more, the final details of the raid. Graham
had managed to get involved after discussion of H’s suspicions that the Soho
Massacre might be linked to the Murders in St James’ Park, and was leading one
of the three teams. H ended the conversation and Amisha heard him mutter
something about a one legged man at a turkey-kicking contest.

‘Guv’, she said, ‘you really
do have to find a way to manage your anger. Everyone is getting to you.
Miller-Marchant, Sir Basil, Joey Jupiter. I know you’ve been to hell and back
the last few weeks but if you don’t calm down you’ll be of no use to anybody.’

‘Don’t talk to me about that
dumb bastard Jupiter Ames, for God’s sake.’

‘Ok, if he were any dumber we
would have to water him twice a week and prune him once a year, but all I’m
saying is stop taking so much to heart.’

H laughed out loud, something
he hadn’t done for some time. Seemed like Amisha was continuing her quest to go
native, so he joined in the fun.

‘Yeah’, said H, ‘the wheel’s
still spinning but the hamster’s fucking dead.’

‘He’s so fucking dense the
light bends around him’, continued Amisha.

‘The fucking marbles I had as
a kid were sharper than him’ continued H.

They had a few more rounds
classic dumb and dumber metaphors before the laughter subsided.

Amisha took a deep breath and
steeled herself for the fray. H collected his thoughts, got on the intercom and
gave the command.

‘Operation Point Blank is
affirmative. Repeat Operation Point Blank is affirmative. Go, go, go.’

At first all was calm as the
cars drove quietly to their appointed destinations. No sirens, no screeching,
no exceeding the speed limit. Two minutes later the three groups of cars had
snaked their way around the one way system and cut off The Island. No one was
getting in or out.

H shattered the calm as he
leapt out of the car. He was first in. He preferred to control raids from the
front. It was the only way he knew. The surveillance of the last few weeks
meant he knew the site backwards.

With a select firm of
handpicked officers he stampeded past the outer caravans and hit the door of
Dragusha’s little palace-on-wheels with all the force he could muster. The door
burst open and he found himself inside the caravan with his gun pointing
directly at the Albanian’s forehead.

To H’s surprise Dragusha sat
at his table and smiled. He was all calm and self-assurance as he played
patience with an old deck of cards. Almost as if he was expecting his visitors.

‘Inspector Hawkins. I see you
in papers. Pleased to meet.’

H considered his adversary as
he sat looking confident, relaxed. He looked him in the eye and the same chill he’d
felt that night in Soho went down his spine. H couldn’t wait to get him into
custody.

I’m gonna break your
fucking world wide open.

‘You famous, Inspector. I
also read blog of Joey Jupiter. How can I help?’

H barked orders at his
accompanying officers as he looked around the caravan. It was neat, tidy and
compact. A copy of today’s Times lay on the table.

‘Cuff the cunt. And turn this
fucking shithole upside down.’

‘Nothing here to find,
Inspector’ Dragusha said.

Kyril Kuznetsov entered
the plush foyer of The Savoy, London’s most glamorous hotel, on the north bank
of the River Thames. For generations the hotel had attracted the elite of
British society, royalty, Lords and Ladies of the realm attending elegant
functions, film stars and ‘A’ list celebrities enjoying discreet and sometimes
not-so-discreet liaisons. The ideal location for the newer members of the
super-rich to rub shoulders with the time-honoured members of the old
establishment.

Kuznetsov passed confidently
through the foyer and entered the Grand Ballroom. He was impressed, as ever, by
the beauty of the vast chandelier that dominated the central space. Its
thousands of hand crafted crystals refracted a near magical light across the
ballroom, a symbol of opulence and wealth. He felt like he belonged here, in
this self-congratulating melee of the great and the good. He arrived at his
table and, after shaking hands with the male guests and kissing the hands of
the ladies, pulled out a chair for his glamorous blonde wife, adjusted his
expensively tailored Saville Row suit and sat down.

As he sat he considered the
other guests at his table. There was Sir Peregrine Blunt the High Court judge,
peer of the realm Lord Timothy Skyhill and high-powered lawyer Oswald
Carruthers QC. All of these were well known to Kuznetsov.

The event was a glitzy
charity ball to raise money for the needy and abused children of London. At two
thousand pounds a pop the tickets, for Kuznetsov, were less than small change.
He had just broken into the Sunday Times Rich list at number 762, his worth
estimated at 876 million pounds sterling - a calculation made on the basis of
his declared, above-the-radar interests. He smiled at his friend, Lord Skyhill,
and exchanged some pleasantries.

Skyhill was a mountain of a
man, so fat that even Kuznetsov might have struggled to afford the liposuction.
His double chins rested uneasily on his cravat and his multiple stomachs wedged
him firmly into his chair. He was also a true pillar of the establishment, who
sat on a range of important government committees and was a constant presence
on the TV, where his wit, wisdom, charm and eloquence were always in demand. He
was the key speaker at today’s event and, after a glass of wine or three and
some jovialities around the table, the master of ceremonies called him up to
the stage to make his speech.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I
introduce to you our keynote speaker. He has been a member of our charity for
over ten years and in that time has been tireless in raising money for several
other charities, concentrating on the young and homeless of our great
city...please show your appreciation for Lord Timothy Skyhill.’

His Lordship rose like a bull
walrus and somehow defied the laws of physics as he shuffled his mass forward.
He had become expert in managing his bulk and it bothered him not one jot that
his physical inelegance was the centre of attention. He enjoyed the applause as
he made his way to the stage.

‘My Lords, Ladies and
Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘firstly may I say how pleased and delighted I am that so
many of you have seen fit to attend tonight’s event, to raise money and support
our much needed charity work. Furthermore ...’

But Kuznetsov had switched
off from the sideshow, as the words floated outside his consciousness, like so
much flotsam and jetsam washed up on a beach. He had many other issues on his
mind, not least of which was the recent trouble in Soho. He had spent an
unscrupulous lifetime building his vast financial empire, and had always stayed
at more than arms-length from its seamier sides, ensuring that several layers
of management existed between him and his street-level interests.

But the massacre inflicted on
his underlings by the Albanians had crossed a line that even his organisation
had never gone near; not, at least, in the West. It was a level of violence
that had alerted the whole world and he needed to get a grip, personally,
before the level of police activity and news investigation started to get
anywhere near him.

So secretive and cunning had
he been in establishing his organisation’s power structures that nobody on
earth, except him, understood how information flowed around it. He wanted,
needed to understand why the massacre had happened. What was the chain of
events that led to it? How had his handpicked senior managers not seen it
coming? He wanted information now, direct from the horse’s mouth.

He had one thing in common
with Harry Hawkins in that he believed in the chain of command. Except when he
didn’t. He clicked his fingers and a henchman emerged from the shadows.

‘Where is Agapov now?’

‘Sir, we have him. He is
secured in safe house, just other side of Waterloo Bridge.’

‘Perfect’, said Kuznetsov,
‘we will visit him after the event concludes.’

Kuznetsov, accompanied
by a phalanx of brawny thugs in evening dress, turned left past the Old Vic
theatre and then left again, before pulling to a halt outside a small block of
flats no more than a stone’s throw from Waterloo station.

Fired up but firmly in
control of his emotions, Kuznetsov looked about him as he exited the car. The
night wind howled through the empty concrete streets. One of his stone-faced
lieutenants put the key into the lock of a small ground floor flat and opened
the door.

The heavies checked the flat
and ushered Kuznetsov into the living room. A doctor was removing a bullet from
a bloodied man who lay sedated, drifting in and out of consciousness. Kuznetsov
approached him and administered a firm slap to the cheek.

‘Vladimir, tell me what the
fuck happened? How could you allow this to happen?’

Agapov sprang to attention as
the adrenalin rushed through his body and overpowered the sedative. He knew who
Kuznetsov was, of course, but had always thought he was too far down the food
chain to ever meet him face to face.

And here he was. The numero
uno. The top honcho. Taking time out to come and see him on a one-to -one basis
in a pokey little flat on the wrong side of the river.

Kuznetsov did not usually
concern himself with the day-to-day activities of what he euphemistically
referred to as his delivery units. Street violence, a murder here and there he
expected - part of the general strategy to ensure his delivery units stayed on
top. His financiers set them cash targets and if they didn’t deliver they
replaced the local leadership. Agapov knew this and he had always delivered.
Until now.

He was aware of the
organisation’s penalty for failure. Situations didn’t get more serious than
this. He calculated the odds of getting out of the flat alive.