THE LONDON DRUG WARS (12 page)

Prior arrived at his incident room at
eight the next morning to find a fresh-faced young DC waiting to speak to him.
Brookes invited him into his office and said, “What can I do for you lad?”

“DC Alan Burroughs, sir. DI Brown
told me to make some enquiries about the barman in The Butchers Block and
report my findings to you.”

“Yes, that’s right, Simon was his
name wasn’t it? What can you tell me about him?”

The young DC referred to his notebook
as he talked. “Simon Turnbull, aged twenty-four, not much previous; just one
caution for possession of cannabis and a speeding fine. Lives on his own in a
basement flat in Carlton Road just round the corner from the pub, the Butcher’s
Block, where he works. Has a bit of a reputation with the girls. Drives a fancy
Renault convertible; must cost more to run than he earns as a barman. Bit of an
open secret that he pushes the cannabis to the university students in the pub
but there’s nothing to suggest that he handles anything stronger. Works full
time in the pub and the word among the locals is that for those that want
something stronger he knows where to get it. That’s about all I could get sir
without showing out.”

Brookes smiled. “You’ve done well
Alan, you’ve found out all I need. I’m sure you’d like to see this through?”

Burroughs nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Good. Talk to DS Middlemiss and fill
out an application for a search warrant for Turnbull’s flat and get it signed
today; any problems with the magistrate let me know; we’ll send it upstairs.
Then do a recce on the flat and see me for a briefing before I leave this
evening. We’ll do the search early tomorrow morning and see what we find. And
keep this between you, me, and DS Middlemiss for the time being.”

Later that morning Brookes had an
appointment with DAC Groves. He was shown into his boss’s office the moment he
arrived. Groves rose to greet him. The two were good friends having served
together in previous postings and found they had much in common. But not
everything; Groves had been an excellent detective but was also ambitious and
occasionally let discretion be the better part of valour. Brookes however, was
concerned only with putting the villains away and paid scant attention to the
personal consequences of his actions. The higher your rank the more important
diplomacy became; hence Groves sat in the comfortable office at the Yard whilst
Brookes continued to chase the villains.

After exchanging greetings Groves
said, “I’ve read your progress report and see you’re ready to get started,
John. What can I do for you?”

Brookes scratched his head. “I need
an edge.”

Groves smiled. “Then sharpen your
sword John.”

Brookes returned his smile. “I need
to know what Bronchi is going to do before he does it.”

Groves nodded thoughtfully. “I leave
the operations to you John. The informants’ pot is at your disposal on this and
the less people know the better it is.” He paused and gave Brookes a knowing
look. “Provided the wheel doesn’t come off, I won’t be looking too closely at
what you spend the money on.”

Brookes smiled and took a gulp of his
coffee.

*

Elsewhere in London another meeting
was taking place. Four men sat around a table in a room above the Bridge Tavern
in Brixton, another man stood with his back to the door. All were black. Three
of the seated men spoke with broad London accents, the fourth in Jamaican
patois; the one standing at the door didn’t speak. The Jamaican sitting at the
table was a huge man dressed in a grey mohair suit and open-necked white shirt.
Gold glittered at his throat and on his wrist and fingers. His name was Byron
Smith. His street name was Mr. Big, and he looked the part, dwarfing the other
three at the table. But he wasn’t the only large presence in the room. The man
standing guard at the door was another giant with the build of an all-in
wrestler. Wherever Mr. Big went, his bodyguard was in close attendance.

Smith had been raised in a shack on
the slopes of the mountain that towered above Kingston, Jamaica’s capital. The
mountain was famous for the excellent coffee beans that once grew on its slopes
until a hurricane destroyed not just the plants, but caused a landslide taking
away the soil they had grown in. It was yet another disaster in an area known
for them.

Smith’s story was a common one among
poor Jamaicans. The eldest of a family of five children abandoned by the father
when Byron was just twelve, he’d had to become the family breadwinner. With no
job skills he’d become a runner for a local drug dealer and led a precarious
existence, always just one step ahead of the local police. And the Jamaican
police did not have a reputation for gentleness. In fact, with the drug dealers
they were inclined to shoot first and ask questions only if the target
survived. Growing up in such a hard school it hadn’t been long
before
Smith had earned his street name
‘Mr. Big’; this had less to do with his body weight than with the manner he did
business. It didn’t take long before Smith was running the business of
smuggling cannabis to the UK and Europe.

When the Columbian cocaine dealers
had sought someone to smuggle their product to Europe, Smith had offered his
services and the banana boats began carrying an even richer cargo. Smith was
unusual among Jamaican criminals, most of whom dealt happily with the ganja
herb, or cannabis as it is more widely known, but wouldn’t touch the more
dangerous drugs. He had no such scruples. And it didn’t stop there; when the Mexicans
began growing opium poppies Smith saw off all competitors for the job of
smuggling some of the heroin refined from this crop across the Atlantic. His
contacts with the second and third generation Jamaican immigrants in London
made it natural that he extend his empire to selling the drugs on the streets
of England’s capital city.

Things had gone well until the fall
of the USSR led to Russia exporting its criminals across the continent and into
the UK. Prior to that most of the heroin sold on the streets of Britain’s
cities had been smuggled into the country by the Turks, who were not half as
ruthless as the Russians or the Jamaican Yardies. A clash as each of the latter
sought to expand their territory was at some stage inevitable, and Smith was not
in the least surprised by the news his cohorts had given him on his arrival.

He spoke in the broad idiom of the back
streets of Kingston. “So the Russians are trying to take over some of my
territory. Why are you letting them do that?”

His question was directed at a man sitting
opposite, Frank Parker, street name
‘
Bruno
’
. Born in the nearby Lambeth Hospital
,
his parents were first
generation Jamaican immigrants. He was Smith’s lieutenant and ran his drug
distribution on the streets of London.

Parker licked his dry lips nervously. Then
he spoke in his broad Cockney accent
.
“He brought his heavy mob and put two of my
blokes in hospital; we weren’t expecting him.”

“And what have you done about it?”

“I’m giving my street dealers better
protection.”

Smith’s voice displayed his anger
.
“And what about this
Russian who ordered the raid; what have you done about him?”

Bruno’s brow was suddenly covered in sweat
;
he moved uncomfortably
in his seat. “Nothing yet but I’m working out what’s best.”

Smith’s tone became even more threatening.
“What the fuck do you think I pay you for? If you can’t handle the job I’ll
find someone who can.”

Parker shook his head
.
“It’s not that simple
boss; the police here are all over us. It’s not like Jamaica, you can’t buy
them off.”

By the manner in which Smith spoke it was
clear he was trying hard to hold onto his temper but losing the battle. Through
gritted teeth he said, “Cut off the head and the snake will just squirm until
it dies. We go after the leader of the Russian gang; that’s what we do.”

Smith turned to the third man at the
table, Derek Manning, street name
‘
Meatball
’.
H
e was the gang’s enforcer
.
“This man Bronchi, the
boss man, how can we get to him?”

Manning frowned. “He’s always
surrounded by his bodyguards, boss. We’ve looked at him and tried to find a way
of taking him out but he’s got more protection than the US president.”

“But we got to teach him a lesson,
let him know he can’t take over our territory. We got to do something to put
him in his place.”

Manning nodded. “There is one way we
can hit him, take out his distributor, Peter Hohner. He’s married and got a
young family. He lives in a big place by the river and only travels with one
bodyguard. If we take him out, that would put a spoke in their wheel.”

“Do it. Let them know we mean
business.” Then to Parker he said, “Next time you let something like this
happen without dealing with it you are dead.”

Without
another word Smith got up and left, followed by his giant minder who had said
nothing throughout the meeting. As his chauffeur-driven car left the Bridge
Tavern, it was followed at a discreet distance by another car which tailed it
to the West London hotel at which the Jamaican drug dealer was staying. The two
drug squad detectives in the car radioed the activity to their control then
settled down to an all-night vigil. They were part of DCI Bolton’s team and
familiar with Smith and his gang. Twenty-four hour surveillance would be kept
on the drug baron as long as he was in London. But Smith was shrewd. He would
depart the next morning to return to Kingston, leaving his minions to do the
killing and giving himself the perfect alibi.

The raid on Simon Turnbull’s flat
took place at 6.20am the next morning. Brookes had given the task to Fred
Middlemiss, who’d taken Alan Burroughs and Stumpy Gerrard with him. They’d
planned to go in sharp at 6am but had found that access to the rear of the flat
was difficult, and the wily DS was determined that possible exit was covered
before he knocked on the front door. The house in question was in the middle of
a terrace and each one had a long garden at the rear. The only access from the
street was at the end of the terrace and Gerrard had to climb over five garden
fences before reaching the rear of the house occupied by Turnbull, by which
time he was puffing with the exertion. Once there he radioed the fact to
Middlemiss.

As it happened Gerrard’s exertions
had not been necessary as a sleepy figure eventually answered the front door
after the detectives had hammered on it for five minutes. Clearly he’d been
awakened from a deep slumber as he was dressed in just a t-shirt and boxer
shorts. He stood rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he held the door open.
Middlemiss held up his warrant card in one hand and the search warrant in the
other. “I’m DS Middlemiss and this is a warrant to search these premises, are
you Simon Turnbull?”

The figure in his underwear stopped
rubbing his eyes and stood for a moment with his mouth open. Finally he closed
it and nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Get some clothes on, DC Burroughs
here will stay with you while I have a look around.”

The basement flat had just a living
room at the front, single bedroom behind, and a tiny kitchen and shower-room
and toilet tacked onto the rear. Middlemiss went straight to the rear door and
let Gerrard in. He said, “Anything interesting out there Stumpy?”

“Well there’s an old greenhouse at
the end of the garden that might be worth looking at.”

“OK have a peep then join us, I don’t
think Turnbull’s going to give us any grief.”

The search took the team half an hour
and produced half a kilo of cannabis already split into small clear plastic
bags ready to be sold. The greenhouse proved interesting. In it Gerrard found
several withered plants that would prove to be cannabis; clearly someone had
tried to grow their own but didn’t have green fingers and had failed. Turnbull
was formally arrested and taken to Hackney Police Station. There the station
officer opened a custody record and put the prisoner in a holding cell.

Middlemiss phoned Brookes with news
of the arrest. He added, “I know he’s broken the law boss but this guy’s not
very bright and is not what I’d call a big villain. The weed was in full view
on his kitchen table where he’d been bagging it up and he doesn’t even deny
flogging it. He came quietly and hasn’t asked for a brief. There’s one other
thing; there’s the remains of what look like cannabis plants in a greenhouse in
the rear garden. It looks as if Turnbull had tried growing his own but didn’t even
have the sense to water the plants. I know the local beak won’t think too
highly of that. It might be a good bargaining tool if you want some info from
him on the heroin dealers, boss.”

“Well done Fred, have you mentioned
anything about Amanda Page to him?”

“No boss, I thought you’d want to do
that yourself.”

“Good, I’ll be there as soon as I
can.”

Forty minutes later Brookes was
sitting in an interview room at Hackney Police Station with Middlemiss. Brigid,
his usual companion, had been busy with a computer enquiry so Brookes had left
her to it. Facing them across the desk was Simon Turnbull. After switching on
the tape recorder, giving the statutory caution and stating the names of those
present Brookes continued, “You have the right to have a solicitor present; do
you want us to call one?”

“No, I don’t need one.”

“Let me tell you what evidence we
have against you and what will happen shortly. First we have a statement from a
young woman stating that she purchased a quantity of cannabis from you in the Butcher’s
Block Public House.” Brookes paused and looked at Turnbull, who nodded without
replying.

Brookes said, “You are nodding, what
does that mean?”

“I’m not denying that.”

“Does that mean you admit selling
cannabis?”

Turnbull scratched his head. “Yes, I
suppose it does.”

“OK. Next we have thirty-eight
plastic bags of what we believe to be cannabis found on the kitchen table of
your flat. Obviously we can’t be certain the contents are cannabis until they
have been analysed. But if the analysis does prove it’s cannabis that is
sufficient to prove you possessed the substance with intent to sell it.” He
looked up again then added, “That is a criminal offence that could bring you a
spell in prison. What have you to say about that?”

Turnbull shrugged his shoulders.
“There doesn’t seem to be much point in denying it does there?”

“Are you admitting the offence?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s not all. In the rear
garden of your house, to which you have access, is a greenhouse. In the
greenhouse are the remains of plants that we believe to be cannabis. What do
you know about those?”

“Nothing to do with me. It must have
been the previous tenant.”

“You are aware that production of
dangerous substances is another criminal offence aren’t you?”

“But they’re nothing to do with me.”

“That would be for a court to decide.
Let me tell you what will happen when we finish this interview. You will be
formally charged with the offences I’ve mentioned. You will then be taken to a
Magistrate’s Court where the charges will be put to you again. Depending on
what the magistrate decides you will either be bailed or kept in custody until
there is a full hearing. At that hearing you will be tried for the offences
I’ve mentioned and, if you are found guilty, you will be sentenced. The
sentence can either be custodial or non-custodial. Either way you will then
have a criminal record that will stay with you for the rest of your life. If
you get a custodial sentence that means you will go to prison. These are not
very nice places, full of nasty people; I’ll say no more than that about them.
Is all that clear to you?”

Turnbull nodded vigorously. “Yes
that’s clear. Will I go to prison?”

“That depends. At the trial the
magistrate may well ask us how you behaved when in custody. What we say then
will be taken into account when you are sentenced. There’s something I want to
put to you about another case. What you answer could affect what we say to the
magistrate.”

“What questions? I don’t know
anything about another case.”

“That remains to be seen; you don’t even
know what case I’m talking about.”

Brookes opened the file on the desk
between them and took out a photograph that he put on the desk and slid towards
Turnbull. It was a picture of Amanda Page. He said, “Have you ever seen this
young woman before?”

Turnbull looked at the photo then
turned nervously away. Brookes said, “Be careful how you answer. If you tell me
any lies I’ll end the interview and let the station officer proceed with the
charging. I’ll ask the question again. Have you ever seen this woman before?’’

Turnbull licked his lips. “Yes, she
used to drink in the Butcher’s.”

“Are you aware that she is dead?”

Turnbull nodded his head and
nervously fiddled with his hands. After a pause he said, “Yeah everyone in the
pub was talking about it. She committed suicide didn’t she?”

“That remains to be seen. You said
‘used to’, how recently?”

“I dunno exactly. I think she was in
last week.”

“Was she alone?”

“No she was with some other students,
they are usually together when they come in.”

“How frequently did they come in?”

“Once a week maybe.”

“What did she drink?”

“White wine, always the cheap one.”

“Now I’ll remind you what I said,
don’t lie. Did she ever buy any of your cannabis?”

Turnbull shook his head vigorously.
“No but I saw her once smoking a joint. There’s a beer garden at the back of
the pub; that’s where the smokers go when they want a puff.”

“Where did she get the joint from?”

“I dunno but one of the guys in her
crowd regularly bought some from me. I expect it was from him.”

“And what is his name?”

“Derek, I don’t know his surname
though.”

“Now be careful how you answer this
Simon. Did he or any of the others in their crowd ever ask you for any other
drugs?”

Turnbull again shook his head
vigorously. “No, never.”

“And if any of them had asked, where
would you have sent them?”

Clearly this question threw Turnbull;
he wouldn’t make eye contact with Brookes and looked as if he wanted to run
away. Brookes insisted, “Where would you have sent them Simon?”

Turnbull looked at the tape recorder.
“Can you turn that off for a minute?”

Brookes nodded to Middlemiss who
pressed the ‘off’ switch.

Turnbull licked his lips. “If these
men find out I’ve told you about them I’m dead meat.”

Brookes shook his head. “That will
not happen I promise you. They will never know you told us anything. Remember
we could have got this information from anywhere.”

Turnbull was silent for a while. Then
he said, “Can you guarantee I won’t go to prison?”

Brookes shook his head. “I won’t lie
to you; I can’t guarantee anything. Let me say this. We’ve no idea what those
dead plants in the greenhouse were without forensic tests. If we were not to
mention them in our report and recommend you be put on probation on the
possession charges there’s a very good chance that will happen. That’s the best
I can do.”

Turnbull was silent for another long
moment. Eventually he said, “Browning House; it’s on the Frampton Estate.
Second floor flat; I don’t know the number but you can’t miss it. It’s the one
with the iron bars over the front door. There’s two brothers deal from there.
Bill and Roger; don’t know what their surname is.”

“And what do these brothers deal in?”

“Anything you want; heroin, cocaine,
crack, amphetamines, you name it they sell it.”

“What else can you tell us about
these brothers?”

“They’re skinheads, part of a gang.
They’ve got lookouts all over the place. You won’t get near it without them
getting rid of the stuff.”

Brookes ignored that comment and
continued questioning him for some time, but got nothing more useful from him.
He told Middlemiss to charge Turnbull with the possession charge and forget the
plants in the greenhouse.

Brookes was in a thoughtful mood as
he drove back to Cundell House. Apart from the information obtained from
Turnbull about the drug dealers, his mention of the Frampton Estate had struck
alarm bells in Brookes’ mind. Built soon after the Second World War, it was an
ugly sprawl close to the River Lee. Six blocks five stories high, running at
right angles to Frampton Road, surrounded by lawns. Clearly the architect had
thought the wide open spaces would give an illusion of the countryside. Sadly
the tenants were not impressed and the place soon became run-down through their
lack of interest. These days it was renowned only for the amount of crime in
the area.

It was also on the estate that
Brookes had seen his first dead body. It was at Hackney Police Station that he
had served his apprenticeship as a uniformed constable. Twenty-two years ago,
he’d been walking his beat along Frampton Road one Sunday afternoon. He’d
received a call on his personal radio to another block of flats on the estate,
Brindle House. A woman had dialled the emergency number to say that she’d heard
screams coming from a neighbour’s flat.

Brookes had quickened his pace and
gone to the scene. Even though it was twenty-two years ago, Brookes even
remembered the flat numbers. She, the witness, lived at No. 23; the screams had
come from No. 24. She’d told Brookes that the dividing walls were very thin and
she couldn’t help overhearing the couple next door whenever they fought. And
they fought often. After one of those bouts, she’d seen the woman with a broken
cheekbone. But the woman had never complained and the witness kept to the code
of ‘mind your own business unless you were invited to interfere’.

But this time had been different. At
about three o’clock that Sunday afternoon she’d heard the neighbour’s front
door slam and loud voices. Clearly the man had come back from the pub and was
in a foul mood. Then everything had gone quiet for a while. But then there had
been another argument and the sound of crockery smashing. Then, after another
period of quiet there had been what she described as ‘an unearthly scream’
followed by complete silence. The scream had been so horrible and the silence
afterwards so absolute she feared the worst. But she was too scared herself to
knock on the door to see if the woman was alright. After worrying about it for
some time she’d finally called the police.