THE LONDON DRUG WARS (9 page)

Middlemiss smiled. “Yes boss,
although this is not Boston, here they don’t actually do the deals on street
corners. Most of the dealers are behind bars, literally. They use council flats
with metal security gates at the front door. The punter knocks on the door, the
door opens but not the gate, then the punter passes his money through the bars
and is handed his fix and Bob’s your uncle and Fanny’s your aunt. When we raid
the place, by the time we get through the gate the drugs are flushed down the
loo and everyone inside acts innocent and all we end up with is egg on our
faces.”

“But we know where these addresses
are, do we?”

“Yes and no, boss. They keep changing
them. But they also use pubs and shops and they’re dead crafty; some of them
have been at it so long they’re like will-o’-the-wisps.” He laughed. “One of
the local councils got so fed up with the dealers using an empty shop to do their
deals they took up the floorboards. But the dealers just moved somewhere else.”

“That doesn’t make sense Fred. They
must have some way of letting the customers know where to go to get their fix.
Has Bolton got no-one undercover?”

“He wouldn’t let on boss. I expect he
has but it’s not something you’d want too many people to know about.”

Brookes nodded
thoughtfully. “What else have you got? What about the brothels, did you find
out about them?”

“Yes and no, boss. There’s a vice
squad bloke coming to see us tomorrow, DI Abbot. Apparently he’s the expert in
that field.”

Brookes looked at his watch; it said,
5.15pm. “OK, tell Bill Moore I want everyone here at six and we’ll share
everything we’ve learned with the whole team. Well done, you two, we’re getting
there.”

*

Later that evening Brookes sat in his
armchair at home as he did at the end of each day. The briefing had been a
lively affair. There was already a good spirit forming in the team and an
eagerness to get to grips with the Russian. But he knew that any operation
attacking the man’s empire would take the most careful planning to have even a
chance of success. And taking out one street dealer would be like peeing in the
ocean as far as getting to Bronchi was concerned. No, he would hold back until
he was good and ready. But he must also keep up the team’s spirits, so he must
make them feel they were doing some good. A plan was forming in his mind and he
would work on that tomorrow.

Satisfied he’d done enough for one
day, he finished the whiskey in his glass and, on a whim, reached for his
mobile phone. Dialling a number he was immediately rewarded by the sound of
Liza’s voice.

For a moment he was tongue-tied. Then
he managed, “Err hi. It’s John. How are you Liza?”

“Hello. I’m fine thank you, is everything
alright?”

“Yes fine, I just wanted to say
hello.”

 “That’s sweet of you. Give me a
moment.” The phone went quiet. Then a few seconds later she was back. “Sorry
about that. Emma, my daughter, was in the room. I’m on my own now.”

“I hope it’s not inconvenient, my
calling you.”

“No, on the contrary, it’s just that
my daughter is uncomfortable when I’m talking to ‘another man’ as she puts it.
It’s been three years now since my divorce and she still seems to think I
shouldn’t have men friends.”

Brookes ‘hmmed’. “Join the club;
their mother has another partner but my kids think I should be a monk.”

Liza laughed. “You’d look wonderful
with one of those little bald pates, and the habit that would suit you too.”
After just a short pause she added, “I hope you’re not going to let me down on
Saturday evening.”

“No, far from it, I’m looking forward
to it. I’ve even splashed out on an expensive bottle of wine.”

“Good. Have you found out any more
about Amanda’s death?”

“Yes I have. I’m now certain it
wasn’t suicide.”

“Do you mean you know who did it?”

Brookes bit his lip, he wanted to
tell her what he believed but having told his team to tell no-one what they
were doing he could hardly do so himself. Instead he said, “Let’s say I have a
suspect but can’t talk about it at this stage. OK I have to go, I just wanted
to make contact with you. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

He
couldn’t supress a satisfied grin as he walked to his bedroom.

Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

Angus Fraser had spent the night in a cave. Apart from
the shelter it gave from the elements, it enabled him to enjoy a brew up and a
hot meal. With a groundsheet stretched over the cave entrance he was able to
light his small primus
.
Out
in the open, there was the chance that even a small glimmer of light might be
spotted by an eagle-eyed watcher miles away. It was a risk that Fraser was not
prepared to take.

And Fraser was no longer alone; he’d linked up with
the other three members of his squad. As soon as he’d established the caravan’s
direction of travel, he’d radioed in to HQ. The three men had been dropped by
helicopter ten kilometres ahead of the caravan’s projected route and Fraser had
linked up with them later that afternoon. They’d brought with them enough
provisions to keep the four of them in the field for another three days without
resupply.

Corporal Tim Pendleton was with him in the cave; the
other two were a kilometre to the south. The Taliban caravan was bivouacked
halfway between. Any closer and they ran the risk of being spotted. But if they
strayed too far from the caravan, they would lose the signal given out by the
device attached to the donkey’s wedding tackle; its range was no more than a
mile, less than that in some places thanks to the mountains.

Over the past two days the going had been tough. The
ground had risen to over 3,500 feet and they were travelling across a series of
ridges and deep valleys. This part of the country was virtually uninhabited and
there were few paths other than the one the caravan was using. Fraser’s team
was fully stretched just to keep up. Fortunately the caravan could only travel
in daylight. In this brutal terrain, it was far too easy to break a leg when
you couldn’t see where you were putting your feet and the nearest medical help was
fifty miles away.

Just before nightfall the previous evening the dot on
Fraser’s tracker had stopped moving. He and his partner had looked for
somewhere to make camp. They had stumbled across the cave at the base of a
steep escarpment. Inside they found signs that it had once been home to a large
predator
,
b
ut not for some time judging by the
age of the animal bones and droppings scattered around. So they took the chance
and moved in for the night. To the south, the other team were not so lucky;
they had had to spend another night in the open and make do with cold rations.

Fraser sat studying his map as he sipped the strong,
sweet tea his partner had brewed before packing away the stove. The caravan was
heading east; they hadn’t deviated more than a degree or two off that compass
setting. If they kept going in that direction they would soon arrive at a small
town. Pakha Pal Post
,
sat
in the foothills of the mountain range they were crossing. It was halfway to
the Pakistan border and much further south than the intelligence bods had
expected. The traditional smuggling routes headed towards Peshawar in the
t
ribal
a
reas of North Pakistan. Clearly this was why the chemist had
never been found; the Brits had been looking in the wrong place. Fraser knew
that all that was needed for the first process was a couple of oil drums, a few
chemicals, a large quantity of water and something to heat it.

Fraser calculated how much opium gum the caravan was
carrying. He knew they had picked up more farmers and their crops. The previous
day he’d spotted them across a valley, walking single file along a path high up
the side of the mountain opposite. He’d counted four farmers leading their
donkeys and a dozen Taliban escorting them. He’d seen the first farmer
harvesting his crop and estimated that he had about three kilos of gum
;
a
ssuming that each of the farmers had
a similar amount
,
that meant about
twelve kilos between them. After the first process that would be reduced to
about a kilo and a half of morphine base. A small amount like that would easily
be smuggled across the Pakistan border. And it would earn the smugglers
something like fifty grand. It was no wonder the Taliban took such care of the
farmers and their crop. His thoughts were interrupted by his companion
,
who’d been watching the tracker
screen. “They’re on the move
,
Angus.”

The
pair put on their heavy Bergens, checked they’d left no sign of their presence
in the cave
,
and moved off in a path
parallel to that of the smugglers. His other two men set off on a parallel path
on the far side of the caravan, keeping them in a sandwich.

Sex is an itch that must be
scratched.

Brookes woke the next morning with
sex on his mind. Not necessarily his own participation in that activity, although
the prospect of that possibility in the not too distant future did lurk
somewhere in the innermost recesses of his consciousness. But sex in general.
When God created the animal kingdom, he made damned sure that each species had
a strong desire to reproduce. The ways in which different species manage this
are many and varied. When a lioness is in oestrus, the lion will perform his
duty over several days, presumably to ensure the success of the union. As he
will usually have several adult females in his pride, all coming into season at
different times and all of whom he must service, it is little wonder that it is
they, the females, who must do the hunting.

With some species it’s a dangerous
exercise; the aptly named Black Widow spider often satisfies more than one
appetite when she mates. After being impregnated by him she will eat her
paramour if she gets the chance. Perhaps the champion among paramours is the
humble barnacle. Unable to release his hold on the rock to which he is stuck,
he must find another way to woo the ladies. He must extend his extraordinary
penis and probe the rocks around him to find an accommodating female. In
relation to body size, his is the champion length of all such appendages.

Among primates, the activity is
pleasurable and is not always carried out simply to reproduce. Nor is it
normally considered dangerous. Chimpanzees have been observed to be ‘at it’ all
the time. Among humans the desire for such activity arrives immediately after
puberty and remains long past the time we are able to reproduce.

In some human societies the act is
celebrated; in others it is considered rude even to mention. In the nineteenth
century an intrepid English explorer travelling across the Indian subcontinent
discovered a temple dedicated to sex. The huge edifice was (and still is, it
remains to this day) covered in statues and carvings of couples ‘at it’ in
every conceivable position. It is a celebration of one of men and women’s most
natural and pleasant occupations. However, when he returned to Victorian
England with news of his discovery, he did not meet with the acclaim he might
have expected. This was an age when even the mention in public of the word
‘sex’ was met with instant disapproval. No-one was prepared to publish his
findings or even take part in a public discussion on them.

In Roman times carved marble penises
stood proudly erect above the entrances to brothels, leaving no-one in any
doubt as to what went on inside the buildings. The reaction of neighbours is
not recorded; presumably they were tolerant of such things. If horny men were
able to satisfy their needs in such places, presumably they were less likely to
bother ‘respectable’ women. Only cynical policemen who have seen many of these
‘respectable’ women in less than respectable circumstances might comment on the
thin veil of respectability that some chose to hide behind.

In all parts of the world and in all
societies provision is, by necessity, made for men and not a few women to work
off their excesses without attacking people on the street. In the UK, whilst
the moral strictures of our Victorian ancestors have been relaxed somewhat, we
are still reserved on the subject of sex. Prostitutes and brothels are not
permitted to advertise in the same explicit fashion as do purveyors of corn
flakes and soap.

An erect penis is rarely seen in
public today. On the odd occasion that one does see the light of day, it is a
live one, wielded by the man to which it is attached – a flasher. His actions
amount to a criminal offence. The Act of Parliament that makes it so was passed
in Victorian times. The offence is described as ‘exposing ones person with
intent to insult a female’.

Police recruits first learning this
strange piece of legislation have been known to ask their instructor if the size
of the object displayed has anything to do with whether or not the female is
insulted. But this is a police joke not normally shared with the public. The
one thing a magistrate will always ask a witness is whether the offending
appendage was erect at the time of its exposure.

Police lore on the subject tells us
that one particular female witness replied, “Oh yes, it was standing up
nicely.” This suggests that this particular female was not actually insulted.
But, as any student of law will tell us, it is the intent that matters, not the
effect.

Fortunately that
is an activity that few men choose; most frustrated men get their satisfaction
in a more conventional manner. Hence, brothels can be found in one form or
another in most countries throughout the world. Many European countries have a
more relaxed attitude towards the world’s oldest profession and red light
districts can be found in many of their cities. Most thinking police officers
will say that this is a far better way for society to deal with something that
will not go away, whatever those who sit on the high moral ground might do to
make it. But the UK is an island and does things very much in its own way.

In the UK, brothel keepers and
prostitutes are obliged to be more discreet. Thus public telephone kiosks in
certain parts of the major cities are plastered with business cards advertising
‘full body massage’, and other services, performed by shapely wenches with
French-sounding names. London’s taxi drivers usually know where to go if asked.
Even in respectable suburbs, discreetly situated hostels offer solace and
comfort to the lonely man. In addition, prostitutes offering their wares
frequent some well-known streets in the nation’s cities.

As any marketing man will tell us,
where there is a demand, someone will come up with a supply to satisfy it. It
is a sad reflection on our species that some men struggle to find satisfaction
for their sexual urges in an acceptable fashion. The reasons are many and
varied. Some men are socially inept and find great difficulty in forming
relationships that would satisfy even their basic needs. Some men’s needs are
more complicated and their wives or partners are not always willing to satisfy
them. Some women are frigid; most are not willing to be beaten, whipped, tied
up or take part in even more unmentionable activities, some of course are. Some
will not wear a mask or dress as a schoolgirl, some will.

Needless to say there are just as
many lonely women in our society as there are men, and male prostitutes exist,
although not in such profusion. Most men are satisfied with the pleasure that
women give them however without asking for payment and are easily seduced.

When society legislates against
something like prostitution, one unfortunate side effect is that it drives it
underground and two things occur. One, the price goes up, and two, young women
and girls become pawns in the sex market and are exploited, often shamefully.
Hence the involvement of criminals who pay their whores a pittance and pocket
huge sums of money from the women’s hard work.

Police are an integral part of
society and interpret the laws against prostitution very much according to how
the local populace reacts to it. If it becomes a nuisance and people complain,
the police will crack down on it. Otherwise, apart from a few puritanical
officers on personal crusades, they tend to leave it alone, acting only if it
becomes too outrageous or there is evidence of exploitation. And
exploitation
would certainly seem to be the case
with Bronchi’s involvement.

To obtain a conviction against a
prostitute is straightforward; the police must simply prove that the woman
enticed a man into giving her money for her sexual favours. Convicting the man
who takes most of the profit from the prostitute’s work is, however, not so
straightforward. Police must prove a pattern, establishing that he lives off
her immoral earnings, showing clearly that he is exploiting her. Brookes was
determined that one sure way of attacking Bronchi was through his businesses.
If those businesses included prostitution then that was a legitimate target.

But there was another factor that
Brookes must consider. No-one likes to end up with egg on their face and the
actions of police come under the closest of public scrutiny, especially in court.
It’s not surprising therefore, that they are extra careful in carrying out
their duties. Police officers who diligently track down and catch lawbreakers
then have the burden of proving to a court of law beyond reasonable doubt that
they’re guilty of the crime of which they are accused. The rules governing the
collection and presentation of evidence are strict and the wording of different
offences creates different problems. Each area of law requires some specialist
knowledge to enforce.

 To combat these problems, the
Metropolitan Police have created squads of dedicated officers who build up
expertise in various fields of crime. Fraud, Murder, Robbery and Drugs are some
of the better known; the Vice Squad doesn’t usually get such publicity.

Detective Inspector Vincent Abbot of
the Met’s Vice Squad was tall and thin. In his late forties, his hair was fast
turning grey, and he had a long, well-worn face. When he walked into Brookes’
office the next morning and was introduced by Bill Moore, Brookes’ first thought
was that he looked like the popular perception of one of the punters who would
visit brothels as a customer. In fact, give him an old mac and he would pass as
a flasher any day. But Brookes didn’t let his thoughts show as he shook the
man’s hand and invited him to sit down. “You might as well stay too Bill, and
where’s Brigid?”

She appeared from the direction of
the coffee machine with a full tray and joined them. Once they were settled
Brookes said, “OK, is it Vince or Vincent?”

“Err, Vincent if you please, sir.”

Abbot’s voice matched his appearance
and Brookes secretly hoped that Moore had checked his warrant card when he’d
arrived. He’d heard of people who looked like their dogs but a vice cop who
looked like a flasher was ridiculous. But he managed not to let his thought
show when he said, “Right Vincent, I’m sure you’ve been told what our purpose
here is. Just in case you haven’t, it’s to bring down Ivan Bronchi the drug
dealer in any way we can, provided it’s legal of course. Now we’ve been given a
wide brief and our research tells us that the man owns a string of brothels as
well as having a drugs empire.”

Abbot nodded sagely. “Yes, that’s
what I hear too, sir.”

“OK then you can help us. One way of
hurting this man is to hit him in the pocket; cut his income. What can you tell
us about his brothels?”

Abbot licked his lips. “He has four
or possibly five of them as far as we know. All in and around Soho. The girls
he uses are all Eastern European, he brings them across and they are tied to
him. So they are only paid a pittance although they earn a great deal.”

“What sort of premises are the
brothels in?”

“Two are above shops, the others are
in private houses.”

“Do you know who owns these
buildings?”

“The title deeds all name a Sergey
Assonov with an address in Chelsea.”

Brookes smiled. “There’s a surprise,
someone with a Russian name.” To Moore he added, “Find out who this man is,
Bill, and what his connection is to Bronchi.” Turning back to Abbot he said,
“Why haven’t we closed these places down?”

“Well sir, I do as I’m told. We can’t
close all the brothels in London as you know. No-one has complained about these
places before so we haven’t done anything about them.”

“Well now they have.” Again he turned
to Moore. “Bill, we’ll split Betty’s squad in half. She concentrates on the
drugs and Fred Middlemiss can look at these brothels. With Vincent’s help, of
course. I’ll brief them. We target these places, come up with a plan and shut
the damned places down. Anyone have any problems with that?”

Brigid had a frown on her face. “At
risk of sounding dumb sir, how do we hit Bronchi if the places are owned by
someone else and there’s no link to him that we can prove?”

Brookes smiled at her. “We might not
be able to prosecute him but we can hit him in the pocket, simply follow the
money. Someone must collect the cash from these places and take it somewhere.
Eventually it ends up in Bronchi’s coffers. Fred and his team will watch and
see where it goes, then we organise raids on the brothels and the place he’s
hoarding the loot at the same time. It’s the ‘immoral earnings’ we want and of
course evidence, that’s what it is. If we can prove that then a court will
happily confiscate it. Does that make sense?”

Brigid still had a frown on her face.
“How do we do that sir?”

“Obviously we need a plan. But what
immediately comes to mind is that we stop a few punters leaving the premises
with a smile on their faces, question them and establish that they have just
paid for sex. Next we find out where the proceeds from the brothel go to and
take it from there. Does
that
make sense?”

Brigid smiled. “Yes sir, it does now
you have explained it.”

Brookes looked at the others.
“Anything else?”

Bill Moore spoke for the first time.
“What about laying a money trail boss? If we can mark some notes so they’re
identifiable, give them to one of the punters going into a brothel. Keep watch
to see when it moves on then nick whoever takes it away.”