The Murder Exchange

by

Simon Kernick

Also by Simon Kernick

THE BUSINESS OF DYING
THE CRIME TRADE
THE MURDER
EXCHANGE

Simon Kernick

CORGI BOOKS
THE MURDER EXCHANGE
A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 14971 3

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,
a division of Transworld Publishers

PRINTING HISTORY

Bantam Press edition published 2003
Corgi edition published 2004

13579108642
Copyright © Simon Kernick 2003 „ .

The right of Simon Kernick to be identified as the author of

this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77
and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

Condition of Sale

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or

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than that in which it is published and without a similar

condition including this condition being imposed on the

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regulations of the country of origin.

But not just yet.
Although virtually all the places where the events

of this book take place exist, some of the residential

street names are intentionally fictional.

There is no feeling in the world more hopeless,
more desperate, more frightening, than when you
are standing looking at the end of a gun that's held
steadily and calmly by someone you know is going
to kni you. And impotent, too. It's an impotent
feeling realizing that nothing you do or say, no
pleading, no begging, nothing, is going to change
the dead angle of that weapon, or prevent the bullet
from leaving it and entering your body, ripping up
your insides, and ending every experience, every
thought, every dream you've ever had. You think
about people you care about, places you've been to
that you liked, and you know you're never going
to see any of them again. Your guts churn, the
nerves in your lower back jangle so wildly that you
think you're going to soil yourself, your legs feel
like they're going to go from under you like those
newborn calves you sometimes see on the telly.
And your eyes. You know that your eyes betray
your sense of complete and utter defeat.

You are a dead man, and you know it.

And then two things happened.
Tuesday, nineteen days ago

Iversson

To tell you the truth, I knew Roy Fowler was
trouble the minute I laid eyes on the bastard. His
eyes were too close together for a start, and the eyebrows
joined up werewolf-style which, according
to a book I once read, is always a bad sign. I didn't
like the nose either, or the fake tan, but I wouldn't
have let that stand in the way of business. If I was
that fussy, I'd be broke. But there was something in
the way he walked that put me on my guard, with
his eyes carefully registering everyone in the room,
like he half-expected one of them to jump up at any
minute and put a richly deserved bullet in his back.
He might have tried to hide it by dressing in a
smart, well-cut suit and putting an easy smile on
his face as soon as he saw me, but I could tell you
this straight away: Roy Fowler was one of the
world's guilty.

I stood up as he approached and we
shook hands. His grip was tight but a real moist
one, and I had to stop myself from wiping my

8
hand down my shirt once I'd pulled it away.

'Mr Iversson ...'

'Mr Fowler. Take a seat.'

He plonked himself down on the stool opposite
me and took another look round. He didn't seem
entirely comfortable. 'Are you sure it's all right to
talk here?'

'Someone once told me that this branch of Pizza
Hut is the best place to hold a lunchtime meeting if
you don't want to be overheard. It's because it's
all you can eat.'

He raised a hairy eyebrow. 'So?'

'So, apparently it only attracts women with lots
of kids, and people who live for their food. The
women have to keep chasing after the kids and
Jic rest of them are far too busy concentrating on
what's in front of them to listen to anyone else's
conversation. You're meant to be able to spot someone
who doesn't fit in a mile off.'

He had another quick look round and pretty
much got confirmation of what I'd said. There
couldn't have been more than a dozen people in the
place, spread out amongst the formica tables and
booths, all of them single and at least five stone too
hefty, except for one harassed young mum with bad
hair who was there with her three shrieking preteen
delinquents.

The can't see how they can make any money/ said
Fowler distastefully, wiping his brow. The day was
hot and close and he was definitely overdressed.

'You ever heard of a poor fast-food chain? Course
they make money. It's just tomato ketchup and
dough. Maybe a bit of cheese and some cheap meat
[decorate. I bet the bloke who owns the franchise

ives a Porsche and smokes Cuban cigars.'

Toil reckon?'

I nodded. 'Definitely. His name's Marco.'

The waitress, a pasty-faced teenager who looked
like she sampled the products a little too regularly
herself, sidled over and asked for his order. I'd
already eaten before I got there (none of that all
you-can-eat crap for me) and was nursing my
second Becks. 'Just a Coke/ he told her, without §
bothering to look up. **"'

She went off and he removed his jacket. A bead of
sweat dribbled down the side of his face.

'So, what can I do for you?' I asked, getting to the
point.

Fowler sighed and gave me a hawkish look. I
thought that he probably wouldn't have been too ||
bad looking if it hadn't been for the eyes. 'I need
some security. I was recommended to speak to you
about it.'

'So you said on the phone. Who's been doing my
advertising for me, then?'

He paused for a moment while the waitress
returned with his drink. He waited until she'd gone
before he spoke. 'Johnny Hexham. You used to go
to school with him, didn't you?'

Teah, that's right.' Johnny had been a good
friend of mine once. A nice bloke and popular with
the ladies, but not the most honest of Johns. He'd
probably want something for the recommendation.
Whether he got it or not depended on what came
next. 'What sort of security are you after?'

Fowler continued to stare at me intensely, like he

10
thought his gaze somehow made the person being
stared at want to trust him. It didn't. If he'd have
told me I had two legs, I'd have looked down to
check. 'I have a meeting that I need to attend in a
couple of nights' time. The people I'm meeting with
are not what I'd describe as trustworthy. I've got
a feeling that if I turn up on my own, then they
might consider that a sign of weakness and take
advantage. I'd rather have some backup.'

'What did Johnny Hexham say about me?'

'He said that you fronted a reliable outfit and that
you knew what you were doing. Those are the two
things I'm most interested in.'

'That's good. I hope he also said that I like to play
things straight. That I'm not interested in getting
';. o!ved in loads of shit that's going to get me put
inside for years on end. I make a good living, Mr
Fowler. It's not fantastic, sometimes it can even be
boring, and a lot of the people we guard make more
money in a day than I see in a month, sometimes
even a year, but it's still a good living, and I don't
want to trade it in for a room with bars on the
windows. Know what I mean?'

'I understand all that. And I'm not asking you to
do anything that you wouldn't normally consider
doing. This is just one night's work, one meeting,
and all I want is to have people behind me that I can
rely on if things turn a bit tasty.'

'Are they likely to?'

He shook his head. 'No. It's in the interests of the
people I'm meeting as much as mine to make this
thing work.'

'And this meeting ... what exactly is it about?'

11
Tern ask a lot of questions, Mr Iversson.'

That's why I'm still here. I make it a point to
know as much as possible about what I might be
getting involved in.'

'Fair enough. I've got something they want, and
they've got something I want. It's an exchange.'

That doesn't help me much. I need to know what
you're exchanging.'

Why?'

'Because for all I know you could be carrying
twenty kilos of coke and they could be undercover
coppers. I once had a mate who was asked to
deliver a package to an address in Regent's Park. He
never knew what was in it. Two hundred quid for
half an hour's work, no questions asked. He was
hardly going to say no, was he? When he turned up
at the house, the bloke answering the door was from
Vice Squad and he was nicked. Turns out he was
carrying a load of porn mags where the models were
no older than those kids over there. So you see why
I want to be careful.'

'If I tell you, I don't want it going any further. Not
even to whoever you bring with you, if you decide
to take the job.'

I told him it wouldn't and he turned and looked
over his shoulder, just to make sure no-one was
listening. No-one was, and he turned back to me. 'I
told you on the phone I owned a nightclub, right?
Well, a couple of months back, I got an approach to
buy it from some, er, businessmen. I wasn't that
interested, not for the amount they wanted to pay,
so I said no. They upped the offer but I still wasn't
that sure. You know, I've owned the place close to

12
ten years and it's always made me a good living.
I'm the same as you, I'm not rich, but I'm doing OK.
As it happens, I thought they could still up the
offer, so I held out for more, thinking that I wasn't
so worried either way.'

He paused for a moment to take a gulp from his
drink.

'Then things started to happen. The club started
getting unsavoury elements coming in, loudmouths
looking for trouble. There were fights
breaking out, furnishings getting smashed, staff
threatened, all that sort of shit. Then some of my
doormen stopped turning up for work, saying
they'd found jobs elsewhere. It didn't take me long
to find out that these buyers were behind it, and
that they were people who it wasn't worth messing
with. A few days ago they came back and asked if
I'd like to reconsider their original offer.' He
shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, what was I meant to
do? I liked the place, still do, but there's no point in
clinging on to the past. Especially when the future's
getting ready to kick you right in the bollocks. It
just wasn't worth the aggravation. So I said I'd
accept the second offer but not the original.'

I managed a smile. Put in the same position, I'd
have done the same thing. You never want to let
them know they're winning. 'What did they say?'

'They might have been lowlifes but they were
still businessmen. I think they thought they'd won
some sort of victory by making me change my
mind, and that was good enough for them.'

'And is it a good price, what they're offering?'

It's not bad. I could have done worse.'

13
'So what's the problem? Where do I come in?'

'We both want a straight exchange on neutral
ground. Basically, the deeds for the money. They
don't want lawyers involved and they don't want
the taxman seeing any of it. They just want a
straight no-hassle swap. And I'm going to get payment
in cash, no questions asked. Then I just walk
away. Why I need you's pretty obvious. These
people might be businessmen but they're not, shall
we say, averse to using physical means to get what
they want. Without the law involved, I've got no
guarantees that they won't just make me sign over
everything for nothing. With you there, I've got a lot
more chance they'll play it fair.'

'We don't usually deal with a few hours' work
here and there. The stuff we do's more long
term/

'This is an important deal to me. I'll make it
worth your while.' Fowler took another gulp of his
drink while I waited to hear how much 'worth your
while' meant. 'As I said, I want three men. One of
them's going to have to be you. Johnny said I
should insist on you.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Yeah. He said you could keep a cool head.' I
didn't say anything so he continued. 'Five grand. In
cash. That's what I'll pay for you and two of your
best people to come along with me.'

"That's a lot of money.'

'It's a lot less than I'll be getting out of this deal.
I look at it as a worthwhile investment. One other
thing...'

'What?'

14

'I need at least one of the people with me, preferably
you, to be carrying.'

I tightened the grip on my glass. 'I don't want to
get involved in anything like that, Mr Fowler.'

Fowler leant forward and I caught a whiff of his
breath. It was a nasty combination of sweet and
sour, like air freshener in a Gents' toilet. 'Look, I
know what you're saying but I'm dealing with
dangerous people here and if one of them does
something stupid, like pulls a gun, I don't want it to
mean the end of my retirement fund. I know your
background so I know it's not something you can't
handle, and it's because of that that I'm paying big
money.'

'Like I told you, I'm not into doing things that are
likely to get me put away, and playing around with
firearms is not conducive to a free and happy life on
the outside.'

'You offer protection, right? You and your
employees guard people who feel threatened.
Right?' I nodded, since he was pretty much on the
ball there. 'Well, I feel threatened, and I want you to
guard me for a period of time of what? - no more
than a couple of hours tops, and for that I'm going
to be paying very serious money. Now I know it's a
risky assignment but it would be for what's on
offer. If I wanted security to go to a council meeting
to protect me in case I got waylaid by angry voters
then it would be worth a lot less, but it isn't.' He
paused to finish his drink. 'But you know as well as
I do that there's virtually no chance anyone's going
to pull anything. It's just not worth it.'

'There are a lot of nutters about these days.'

15
Fowler began to look frustrated. 'I need an
answer. Do you want the work or not?'

The thing about life is there's always pressure to
make quick decisions. Most of the time people tend
just to follow their instincts and get by as well
as they can. When they don't follow their instincts,
they tend to make mistakes. Often big ones. And
it's usually to do with money.

'Make it six/ I told him, 'and I'll do it.'

And that, of course, was my mistake.

My job's a straightforward one. I run an organization
that provides security in the form of
bodyguards to various minor celebrities, and the
occasional dodgy businessman with something to
hide, and I've done it for the last five years. Funnily
enough, it tends to be a pretty uneventful business
and none of our people have ever been injured in
the line of duty, which I suppose says as much
about our clientele as it does about us, and which is
just the way I like it. I've had my days of excitement
and adrenalin. They were fun enough while they
lasted but I'm past all that now.

I had reservations about this particular job at the
time, but in the end I reckoned that, like most
businessmen, Fowler's buyers weren't going to do
anything to mess up the deal. If they were getting
the club at a decent price, which they probably
were, then that ought to be enough for them. I
know you should never forget how stupid and
greedy people can be, but my feeling was that when these blokes saw that their seller had turned
up with back-up, they'd be foolish to want a

16
confrontation. I was a bit concerned about the talk
of guns but, to be honest with you, I didn't think
they'd resort to that. Again, you had to ask yourself,
what would be the point? There's a lot of
gunplay about in London these days but most
of the real psychos tend to be the kids, and they
don't go round buying nightclubs.

After Fowler had gone, I tried Johnny Hexham's
number, wanting to know if there was any information
he could give me about the nightclub
owner and the situation at his place, but he wasn't
answering, so I put in a call to my partner, Joe
Riggs, on the office number.

Tiger Solutions.'

I cringed like I always did when I heard that name.
Tiger Solutions. I should never have let him talk me
into that one. Joe reckoned it made the punters think
they were dealing with a tough outfit; I thought it
made us sound like a fucking wildlife charity.

'Joe, it's Max/

'Max. How'd it go with Fowler?'

I told him what the deal was, and the amount of
money on offer. Joe whistled through his teeth.
"That's a lot of cash. It's getting close to half of what
we pulled in in the whole of last month. And in
readies, too. What's the catch?'

"The buyers are the type who could turn nasty.
And this Fowler, there's definitely something
dodgy about him.'

Joe laughed. 'He's a nightclub owner, what do
you expect? They're all dodgy, but no worse than
some of the people we have to protect. Anyway,
let's not turn down anything this lucrative.'

17
Like I said, money was always the key. You never
want to say no to it. I didn't mention anything
about Fowler demanding that I carry a gun on the
night. There was no point. It would just complicate
matters. As it happened, I wasn't even sure I was
going to bother bringing one along anyway, particularly
as I had no intention of using it in defence
of Fowler's pension fund. If they pulled shooters,
my hands were going up faster than a porn star's
knob, it was as simple as that.

I told Joe there was no fear of me pulling out, not
for six grand. 'I'd just like to know a little bit more
about him, and the place he owns, that's all. I
wouldn't mind finding out why these people want
it so much.'

'You can make a lot of money in that line of business,
you know that. The youth like to have a good
time.'

Teah, maybe. So, are you going to come with me
on this one, then?'

'When is it?'

"Thursday night.'

'This Thursday?'

'Yeah.'

'Ah shit, I can't, Max. I'm looking after Terri.'

Terri Dennett was a singer, and not a particularly
good one at that, with a drugs problem and an ego
that was a lot bigger than her talent. Whenever
she attended record company events or awards
ceremonies she had to be accompanied by a minder
who had the dual task of making sure the paparazzi
never got too close to her - not that they usually
tried too hard - and preventing her from sneaking

18
off and taking too many drugs, and consequently
making a fool of herself. Tiger Solutions had the
contract for looking after her and she insisted on
Joe being the one who escorted her on her various
outings. He had the right level of seniority, and the
patience to be able to put up with her. I didn't. I'd
taken her once and it had all ended in tears. She'd
managed to blag some coke while in the Ladies,
vacuumed it up her nose in one go, and got into a
slanging match with some talentless sixteen-year
old from one of those real shite boybands that make
Westlife look like Pink Floyd. He'd told her she
couldn't sing for shit - which was true, she couldn't
- but coming from him it was an insult of the most
heinous kind. I'd pulled her away before she could
rip him to shreds and the bitch had turned on me,
opening fire with a severe knee to the bollocks, and
then adding insult to injury by tipping a glass of
expensive white wine on my head while I was
doubled over in agony. I don't think she'll ever
know how close she came to death that night. It
took an immense amount of willpower to stop
myself from putting my hands around her throat
and squeezing with all my strength until she was
dead, but somehow I managed it, opting instead to
pick her up, sling her over my shoulders, and walk
right out of there, much to the joy of the paparazzi,
who for once showed a real interest in filming her
being removed kicking and screaming. When we
got outside I'd dumped her on the pavement and
walked off.

Needless to say, she hadn't asked for me again.

'You know, Joe, you've got an excuse for

19
everything. What's she got to go to this time?'

'Some fucking hoohah where they all tell each
other what talented artists they are, even though
they don't mean a word of it. A barrel of laughs it
won't be. You know, if there was any other way I'd
do it.'

'Sure you would. Anyway, who do you think I
should take? I want a couple of decent people for
this sort of thing.'

Tiger, like most security companies, didn't have
any operatives on the payroll. Most of those
we hired out tended to be freelancers, although we
were very careful about who we used and tended to
stick, wherever possible, to people we'd worked with
before. We ran through a few names together and
eventually decided on a shortlist of three: two we
particularly wanted, and one reserve. All of them had
worked with Tiger on and off for at least three years,
and all were of a calibre that they could be relied
upon should things suddenly decide to go tits up.

When's he going to get us the money?' asked
Joe. 'For this sort of thing, we're going to need it in
advance. I don't want him running out on us.'

'It's sorted. I'm picking it up with him. I'll count
it on the spot, then drop it round at the office and
put it in the safe before we head out to the meet.'
'Good move. So, where's it taking place?'
'Good question. I haven't got a clue.'
'Well, if it's too far, don't forget to charge him for
petrol.'

Which was Joe all over. He'd call himself careful;
everyone else preferred the word tight. I laughed
and hung up.

20
Thursday, seventeen days ago

Iversson

There were three of us in the car. Me in the front
passenger seat, Eric driving, and Tony in the back.
You always feel a bit nervous when the people you're
dealing with are unknown and likely to be unpredictable,
but at least I had reliable backup.

Like everyone we used, they were ex-military.
Eric was an old associate of mine, a big beefy bloke
in his early fifties. He was a Taffy who'd done
fifteen years in the Welsh Borderers, and he'd been
an occasional employee of ours since day one. You
didn't mess about with Eric. Not only did he have a
face like Frankenstein's monster, he had the body,
too, with fists like sledge-hammers. He was a calm
bloke, not easily given to temper, and a real old
fashioned gentleman with the ladies, but if you
fucked him about, you paid a high price. Once, a
few years back, he'd been doing some debt
collecting work for a couple of Albanians. When
he'd turned up at the flat where he was going to
pick up the money, he'd been greeted by the debtor

21
and two of his mates, all armed with pickaxe
handles. According to reliable accounts, the three of
them launched a full-frontal assault, weapons flailing.
It was a big mistake. Eric hit the debtor so hard,
the bloke's head flew back and knocked out one of
the others. The third swung his pickaxe handle at
Eric's head, only to have Eric grab it with one hand
and break his jaw with the other, like something out
of a Bruce Lee film. Enter the Welsh dragon, and all
that. The whole thing took about four seconds, and
immediately became local legend.

Tony was just as useful, but a lot different. Late
twenties, good-looking in a public-schoolish way,
he was an ex-marine who'd also worked with us on
and off since the early days. He was only a little
guy, no more than five nine and skinny, but
he was one of the fittest, fastest people I'd ever met.
I liked him, too. He had what you might call a dry
wit, and he delivered his lines with all the urgency
of Roger Moore's James Bond, like he might fall
asleep before the end of the sentence. But there
was something about him, something in the way
he carried himself, that told anyone who was
interested that, for all his laid-back attitude, he
was not to be messed with. He was reputed to have
shot an IRA gunman in Belfast in the early nineties
before the first ceasefire, finishing him off when
he could have taken him alive. It was something he
neither confirmed nor denied, but you could
believe that he'd done it. He was that sort of bloke.

I gave them a brief rundown of my meeting with
Fowler, and what I'd found out since, which wasn't
a lot, to be honest. Joe and I had both asked around

22
to see if anyone knew anything about Roy Fowler
and the Arcadia, but the only person who had any
information at all was Charlie White, another ex
soldier who did occasional doorwork for clubs
north of the river, and all he could tell me was that
he'd heard it had a drugs problem.

'Surprise fucking surprise,' said Eric. They've all
got a drugs problem. So, do you think there's going
to be trouble?' He didn't sound like the prospect
bothered him too much.

I gave him one of the most confident looks I
could muster. 'Not when they see us, there won't
be.'

'Famous last words,' said Tony, in that enigmatic
way of his. But then, he'd never been the sort to
look on the bright side.

We were picking up Fowler from a pub in
Farringdon Street, not far from the Underground
station. It was a busy late summer evening and darkness
was beginning to settle on the lively streets of
Clerkenwell as they filled up with revellers. Traffic
was still bad even at this time, and I jumped out of
the car fifty yards short of the pick-up point, leaving
it idling in a typical urban snarl-up.

The place was crowded with students and the
younger end of the office-worker crowd so Fowler,
with his bad-news fake tan and middle-aged side
parting, stood out like a sore thumb. He was sat at a poky little table in the corner, just in front
of the Ladies, nursing a Red Bull and looking
like someone had just caught him fucking an
under-age girl. He was nervous - nervous and
shifty - and even from some distance away I

23
could make out the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

As I walked towards him through a gaggle of
scantily clad young ladies with loud voices, I saw
he had two briefcases on his lap, one of which
hopefully contained six grand in readies. You'd
have thought the other contained a bomb, given the
expression on his face.

'Mr Fowler. Are you ready?'

Fowler saw me for the first time and cracked a
relieved smile. 'As ready as I'll ever be. Come on
then, let's go.' He got to his feet unsteadily, trying
to hold both briefcases in one hand. It didn't work
and he dropped one. Quick as a flash, he bent down
and picked it up. This one's yours,' he said, passing
it to me in a way that was almost designed to
attract attention. I took it as casually as possible,
and, with him following, turned and walked back
outside.

The car pulled up just as we stepped onto the
pavement and I ushered Fowler into the back with
Tony before jumping in the front.

'Do me a favour, Mr Fowler,' I said. 'Don't draw
attention to us by handing me a briefcase in the
middle of a pub. You could have given it to me back
in the office.'

'Sorry, I wasn't thinking straight,' he said, clutching
the other case close to his chest.

'Is everything all right?'

'Yeah, no problem. I'm just a little nervous, that's
all.' He wiped the sweat off his brow with a
grubby-looking handkerchief as Eric did a three
point turn in the limited space available and
headed back the way we'd come.

24
There's no need to worry/ I told him. Tou're in
safe company.'

I introduced him to the other two. Eric just
grunted an acknowledgement. He wasn't one to get
over-friendly with punters, particularly when they
were greasy-looking nightclub owners. Tony gave
Fowler one of his half-smiles and put out a hand
which was shaken just a little bit too vigorously.

The offices of Tiger Solutions were a set of rooms
above a tatty-looking mobile phone shop near
Highbury Corner. Eric pulled the car up in the bus
lane directly outside and he and Tony waited while
Fowler and I went upstairs to count the six grand.

'Have you got the gun?' he asked me as I put the
money in the safe. It was all there, in fifties and I " cnties.

I looked at him closely. He was watching me,
moving his weight from foot to foot, a man with far
too much on his mind. 'Yeah, I've got it,' I said,
making no move to show it to him.

The want to see it. I want to see that you've got it.'
His voice was almost a whine, like some spoilt kid.

This bastard was beginning to give me a bad feeling.
Still, anything to shut him up. I reached under
the back of my jacket and pulled the Clock 17
from the waistband of my jeans. I held it out in the
palm of my hand for him to see, thinking to myself
that it really was a fine piece of craftsmanship, and
light as a feather, too. Say what you like about the
Germans, but they do do all the important things
right. Cars, football teams, porn (if you forgive the
haircuts) and firearms.

He stepped over and looked cautiously down at

25
it, as if he half-expected it to jump up and bite him.
'It does work, doesn't it?'

'Do you know something I don't?'

What do you mean?'

'I mean, why are you so interested in whether it
works or not? Do you think I'm going to have to
fire it or something, because if you do, then I'm not
sure I want to be coming along with you. My life
and the lives of the other two men down there are
worth a lot more than six grand. Do you know what
I mean?'

'I wouldn't be going along myself if I thought
anything was going to happen, but, just in case
something does, I want to be certain that we've
got some sort of backup.'

'It works/ I said, 1?ut if I have to use it, I'll be one
unhappy man. And if I'm unhappy, so will you be.
I promise you that.'

I opened the door, then waited while he went out,
before switching off the lights and following him.

'Left here,' said Fowler.

Eric turned the wheel and the car pulled into the
entrance of a deserted-looking business park
surrounded by high mesh fencing. An unmanned
barrier blocked our path.

'Pull up to the keypad and punch in the code. It's
C234.'

Eric didn't say anything but did as he was told,
and the barrier went up. The car moved inside, and
carried on down to a T-junction. The single-storey
building up ahead had a neon red sign identifying
it as Canley Electronics.

26
'Stay here for a moment/ said Fowler, and
jumped out of the car before any of us had a chance
to ask him where he was going. As we watched, he
crossed the road and walked up to a short, tatty
looking hedge in front of Canley Electronics. He
stopped and made a great show of looking left and
then right, then bent down and pushed the briefcase
underneath the hedge so that it was out of
bight.

'What's he doing?' demanded Eric. 'I thought
you said they were meant to be the deeds to his
club/

I shrugged. 'That's what I thought/

Eric shook his head, looking troubled for the first
time. 'I'm not sure about this, Max. This just doesn't
look right. What with all this meeting up in the
back end of nowhere .. /

'Perhaps he's just being careful/ said Tony, calm
as always. 'Maybe he wants to see that they've got
the money first/

'Maybe/ I mused, not feeling too convinced
either. 'We've just got to keep our wits about us,
that's all. Obviously these blokes are dodgier than
we thought/

'Christ, I'm getting too old for this shit. I'm a
granddad, for fuck's sake/

'The key to warding off old age is mental and
physical exertion/ said Tony. 'My granddad did
nothing but watch telly when he retired, and he
went completely senile in five years. Ended up
thinking that he was going out with Carol
Vorderman, poor sod/

'I don't know/ I said. 'I quite like her/

27
'He used to send her flowers and everything. My
mum and dad had to put him away in a home in
the end. Lack of stimulation, that's what they said
it was. Think on that one, Eric. There's a moral in
there somewhere.'

Tuck off/ said Eric, giving him a dirty look. Not
that there was any real malice in it. He and Tony
knew each other pretty well and, as far as I knew,
they got on, too. That was one of the other reasons
they'd been mine and Joe's first two choices for this
job.

The conversation stilled as Fowler returned to
the car and got back in. 'OK, turn left and keep
going until the end of the road.'

Tell me something, Mr Fowler,' I said, as the
Range Rover swung left and moved slowly through
the business park, crawling over the frequent speed
bumps. 'How come you chose a venue like this?
There must be getting on for two million buildings
in this city. Surely one of them's got to be better
than round here.'

'We want some privacy, that's all.'

'Christ almighty,' growled Eric. 'If you'd wanted
privacy you could have come round my gaff. This
is fucking ridiculous.'

'We're nearly there,' said Fowler irritably. He sat
back in his seat and sighed, wiping his brow for the
hundredth time that night. He looked about as
comfortable as a case of piles.

Tony asked him if he was OK.

He nodded. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.' He didn't
sound it.

'If things look like they're going to get a bit tasty,

28
we'll just pull out/ said Tony, pulling a pack of
cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and offering
Fowler one. The clubowner accepted and thanked
him as he lit it. 'All part of the service/ said Tony,
leaning forward and dangling the pack between me
and Eric. Eric took one. I told him I'd given up.

'Oh yeah? How long's that been, then?'

Too fucking long.'

We came to another T-junction and Fowler told
Eric to turn right. We were coming to the other end
of the estate now and, beyond the buildings
stretched out in front of us, I could make out the
fence, and what looked like wasteground behind. It
was eerily silent here, a lonely oasis in the middle
of llie city. The sort of place where the killers in
kids' nightmares lurk.

The think it's here, up ahead/ said Fowler.

Looming up on our right-hand side, about fifty
yards in front and partially obscured by trees, was
a large whitebrick warehouse, bigger than the
buildings on either side of it. It was set back a few
yards from the road behind a forecourt where there
was room to park at least a dozen cars, and its
delivery doors were open. The forecourt was empty
but a light appeared to be on inside, the only light
I'd seen in a building on the whole estate.

I felt the hairs prickle on the back of my neck like
it was being stroked by a poltergeist. Something
was wrong with this whole thing. Very wrong. I
pushed back in my seat, feeling the comforting
closeness of the Clock rubbing against the small of
my back, confident that if I had to use it then at
least I knew it would fire.

29
This is it, the one with the light on. That's where
we're meeting.'

'What time's it set for again?' I asked.

Ten thirty.'

I looked at my watch. Ten past. 'Better early than
late, I suppose.'

Eric slowed the car and turned into the forecourt,
watching for any signs of activity.

But there were none. No movement, no voices, no
nothing. The place was as deserted as a cemetery.

Eric brought the Range Rover to a halt outside
the delivery doors.

'Well, someone's been here tonight,' I said.

'It doesn't look like they're here now,' said Eric,
peering inside.

There was a growing tension in the car. You could
almost smell it.

'You definitely got the time right?' I said.

'Course I did/ snapped Fowler, who looked the
most nervous of any oif us by a long chalk. 'It's still
early, remember?' He leant forward in his seat and
wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. His left leg
was shaking uncontrollably and, for some reason, I
found myself enjoying his discomfort.

'Maybe we should drive in there and take a look
around/ said Tony, also leaning forward. What do
you think, Max? We could take up positions so
we're ready when they get here.'

It seemed as good an idea as any. 'Yeah, let's do
that. It can't do any harm.' Which was a statement
I was to remember for the rest of my days.

Eric touched the accelerator and we drove in
through the gap in the doors.

30
The place was about twenty yards deep by ten
yards wide, and empty aside from a row of ancient
looking oil drums which stood a few feet in front of
a door in the far right-hand corner. Above the door
was a long balcony that stretched the width of the
room and overlooked the front of the car. A number
of unmarked boxes were positioned along it,
some of them stacked two or three high. I looked up
a! Ihcm for any sign of activity, but everything was
still. As still as the grave, as my grandma used to
say before she was lowered into her own.

The Range Rover stopped in the middle of
the floor. Eric put it into neutral and pulled up the
handbrake. He too looked up at the boxes. 'Perfect
place for an ambush/ he said quietly, almost to
ii.nii.elf. 'Saw something like this back in Ulster.'

'Look, this is just a fucking meeting/ said Fowler
impatiently. 'Nothing more. All right?'

'It was while we were based out of Londonderry.
The RUC got a call from some woman, said she'd
been raped out by this disused old factory. This was
in the old days, way back at the beginning of the
seventies, before they'd got wise to the way
the provos worked. The Officials were still around
then and they tended to play it more by the book.
Anyway, they despatched a car with three RUC
men in it to pick her up, and an ambulance as well.
Just in case. She'd made the call from a phone box
outside the factory gates, but when the car got
there, they saw her wandering about inside the
grounds, you know, all distraught and that.'

The car fell silent. All you could hear was
Fowler's heavy breathing in the back.

31
'So they drove in through the gates and went
down to pick her up. She saw them, started crying hysterically, and ran off into the building, like she
couldn't come to terms with getting near any men
so soon after what'd happened. The RUC car
stopped in front of it and the coppers, all blokes,
went to get out. None of them drew their guns, they
didn't want to unnerve her, and I don't think the
poor bastards ever suspected a thing.

'They never even got their feet on the ground. A
couple of provo gunmen stuck their Armalites out
of the windows on the second floor, right above
the car, and started shooting on fully automatic. The driver was killed outright.'

'What about the one in the front seat passenger
side?' I asked.

'If I remember rightly, he died later in hospital.'

'Great. That's a real rucking help, that is.'

'Fucking hell, Eric,' snorted Tony. T^ake us all
feel better, why don't you?'

'I wouldn't worry too much, Tone. Or you,' Eric
added, meaning Fowler. The one in the back
survived. Got hit in the neck but the bullet passed
straight through. Didn't touch a single one of his
main cables. Far as I know the bloke's still alive.'

'Stop joking around, and keep your wits about
you,' hissed Fowler. That's what I'm paying you
for.'

Eric's face clouded over. He didn't like taking
shit from anyone, even paying customers. 'You
know, Max, I'm beginning to think this job's worth
a lot more than what I'm getting for it.'

'Life's an underpaid occupation, Eric,' I told him.

32
'Everyone knows that.' I looked at my watch again.
10.14- 'I'm going to take a look around.'

Fowler leant forward abruptly. 'I don't think
that's a good idea, Mr Iversson. It's best we stick
together and wait for them to come.'

'I won't go far. I just want to check things out.'

'Look, I insist...'

I stepped out of the car, ignoring his pleas. I'm
pretty good with the punters usually, to tell you the
truth, but it wasn't as if I was going to get any
repeat business from this prick, plus I already had
the money, so basically there was no need to play
along with him. Particularly when it was so
obvious that there was a lot more to this meeting
fhan he was letting on. Fucking people around was
,. aame two could play.

I stretched my legs, then walked casually
towards the door in the far corner, keeping one eye
on the boxes overhead. Eric's story had given me
the spooks a lot more than I'd ordinarily like to
admit. It seemed to have done the same to him
too because he stepped out of the car and leant back
against the bonnet, lighting another cigarette and
watching the boxes like a hawk.

I reached the door and tried it. Locked. So, who
the hell had come here and switched the lights on?
And where were they now? I turned back towards
the car.

Eric looked across at me. 'Nothing?'

I shook my head. 'Locked.' I walked across to the
open doors and stepped outside into the warm
breeze. Over on the horizon the distant lights of the
West End glowed pink. The road was quiet and I

33
listened hard for any sound of a car coming;
through the estate, but there was nothing bar the1
distant rumble of traffic. Maybe they just liked to be'
fashionably late.

It was 10.16 and I was edgy. I decided to go back
and question Fowler in a little more detail about
exactly what was in that briefcase of his, the one"
he'd been so reluctant to bring into the warehouse.

I turned round.

In the car, Roy Fowler was still fretting as he waited to
get everything over and done with. Ten more minutes, \\e\
kept telling himself. Just ten more minutes, and he'd be*;
rich man.

Tony gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. 'Look,
Mr Fowler, calm down. It's going to be OK.'

Fowler exhaled heavily and turned to Tony. His face
was taut with tension. 'I'm all right. I just wish they'd
get here, that's all.'

'I wouldn't worry about that,' said Tony encouragingly.
"They're already here.' He motioned towards the
front doors where Iversson stood with his back to them.

Fowler wriggled round in his seat and looked out of
the rear window. 'Where?'

'Here,' said Tony, and pushed the silencer hard against
Fowler's head, just in front of his ear.

Before Fowler even had a chance to react, Tony pulled
the trigger. Fowler let out a sharp sigh and the passenger
window behind him cracked as the bullet passed through
it. He slumped in the seat, and rolled round so he was
facing his killer, allowing Tony to press the weapon
against his forehead and give him one more, just for good
measure.

34
The front driver's door opened and Eric, having heard
foe noise of breaking glass, shoved his head in, completely
unaware of what had just happened. He spotted
fowler immediately, dead in his seat, blood dripping
frown his face in thin rivulets and onto his sweat-stained
shirt.

'What the fuck's going on?' he demanded.

'I shot him/ said Tony, pulling the gun up from his
Jdc and aiming it at his colleague's face. Eric's eyes
widened and his body tensed as he tried to come to terms
with the sight in front of him.

'Tony, don't do--'

Tony fired twice, both bullets striking Eric in the face.
The big man staggered backwards, and Tony leant
forward to fire two more shots into his upper body. His ,^-j buckled and went from under him, and he fell
heavily to the ground, moaning and clutching wildly at
his face and chest.

Tony, meanwhile, threw open the car door and came
out looking for the man who until two minutes ago had
been his boss.

I was still in the process of turning round as Roy
Fowler died. It took a couple of seconds to take in
the muffled noises and the movement in the back of
the Range Rover, by which time Eric was turning
round, still holding onto his cigarette, and
hurriedly pulling open the door. I took a step
forward as Eric said something to Tony, then a
series of popping sounds came from inside the car
and Eric's head snapped back and he lost his
footing, stumbling like a drunk man.
I knew immediately that he'd been shot, but still

35
not by whom. It didn't make sense. I stopped dead
in my tracks, confused by the sudden turn of
events, and fumbled in the back of my waistband
for the gun.

At the same time, Tony stepped almost casually
out of the car, gun in hand, and turned towards me.
He raised the weapon, that eerie little half-smile
flickering across his face, and prepared to fire. For
some reason, the first thought that crossed my
mind was how rucking annoying that look was. It
made the bastard appear really cocky, which was
something I'd never noticed before. The second
thought I had was that I'd always liked Tony.

Then my military training took over and I hit the
deck, rolling over and pulling out the Clock.
The silencer spat twice as Tony came forward,
closing in for the kill, and bullets hissed quietly
through the air, ricocheting up from the concrete,
feet from where I was rolling.

Tony came round the back of the Range Rover,
taking aim again, but this time it was his turn for a
shock. Without warning, I stopped rolling and leapt
to my feet, locating and flicking off the safety in
what was close to a reflex action. His face froze
in disbelief like he couldn't believe I'd be so cheeky
as to pull a gun on him, and then I was firing, the
bullets exploding round the enclosed space of
the warehouse in an angry cluster of noise. Tony
pulled the trigger too, and I felt a bullet whistle past
my left ear, but time was moving so fast that I
didn't even think about it, just kept firing, two
handed, concentrating on keeping the weapon
level, emptying the magazine.

36
Tony stumbled back as he was hit in the shoulder
of his gun arm. A second round struck him in the
throat, then a third in the face, knocking him sideways.
The next thing I knew, he was falling to the
floor, the gun flying out of his grip and clattering
out of reach. Immediately, he tried to lift himself
up, his face registering another look of disbelief as
he realized he was dying. Blood so dark it was
almost black poured from the wounds on his face
and throat, turning his white polo shirt a deepening
horror-film colour. He held the position with his
head a foot above the floor for about three seconds,
then fell backwards with a thud, choking heavily.

I walked over to him, still gripping the Clock
hard. He rolled himself into a ball, coughing and
retching as his mouth filled with blood. Well, one
thing was for sure: I wasn't going to get any
answers out of him now. Once in Africa, a long time
back, I'd seen a man take a bullet in the throat. It
had taken him close to ten minutes to die, choking
and gasping on his own blood. There was nothing
that could have been done. As soon as the bullet
had struck him the outcome was inevitable. It was
inevitable now, but I didn't think I could just let it
happen. Like I said, I'd always liked Tony.

I ejected the magazine and checked the bullets.
There were three left. Pushing it back in, I leant
down, chambered a round, and pulled the trigger,
blowing Tony's brains across the dirty floor. The
body juddered a couple of times, then lay still.

I stopped for a moment, looking about the warehouse
and listening for any suspicious sounds.
Nothing, bar the faint sound of light breathing

37
coming from Eric. I walked over to him, bolstered
the gun, and knelt down. He was lying on his back, his hands laid across his chest in full funeral style.
His face was twisted and bloody with the entry
wounds of Tony's bullets clearly visible. One was
just below his right eye, the other on his lower left
cheek, an inch above the jawline. A dark red pool
was forming on the floor beneath his head and his
eyes were shut. I felt his neck for a pulse. There was
something there but it was very faint; and, even as
I held my finger on it, it faded away until it was
gone altogether.

Eric. He'd been a good man. Reliable, professional,
all the things you wanted in business.
Not someone you could take liberties with, not
someone who was afraid of using force when it was
necessary, but nevertheless someone whose heart
was in the right place. The poor sod had even
bought me a bottle of whisky the previous
Christmas, which might have been a small gesture
but was the sort I appreciated. It made me feel
guilty that I'd only intended to pay him three
hundred quid for the night's work. It didn't seem a
lot to die for.

I stood up, wondering what the fuck had gone
wrong and how we could have been betrayed so
completely. Eric had three kids, all grown up, and
four grandkids too. But he was also long since
divorced. This meant that it was unlikely anyone
close to him would know where he was that night. I
was in a difficult position. If I went to the law and
told them what had happened, I'd be leaving myself
open to all kinds of questions, particularly regarding

38
the shooting of Tony, and the unlicensed firearm I'd
been carrying. I could end up going down for years
if my story wasn't believed, and, to be honest, who
would believe it? The alternatives, it has to be said,
were almost as bad. Drive out of there in a damaged
vehicle registered in my own name and leave behind
three bodies in the hope that no-one would ever
connect them to me. Or hide the bodies somewhere
and deprive Eric of a proper burial. That was, of
course, on the basis that they remained hidden.

It was at times like this that I needed a cigarette.
It wouldn't have done a blind bit of good but somehow
smoking had always helped me think straight.
I tried to fathom out what Tony's plan had been.
Kill us all and get rid of the corpses, I assumed.
Then what? Joe knew that he'd been there with us
so he could hardly just walk around as if nothing
had happened. Perhaps he'd had plans to disappear.
But that still didn't help to supply any sort
of motive.

One thing, however, was certain. This wasn't
something he could have put together on his own,
and whoever else was involved might well be in the
vicinity. I decided that by hanging around I was
putting myself in needless danger.

I went round to the rear passenger side of the
Range Rover and opened the door. Fowler's
crumpled body tumbled out, landing in an
ungainly heap on the floor. He was very definitely
dead, and, if he hadn't been, I'd have killed the
bastard myself. Whatever else might have been a
mystery, I was pretty damned sure that Fowler had
been the architect of his own demise. A slimy

39
bastard like that was always going to make
enemies.

I thought about moving the body somewhere less
conspicuous, but without gloves it wasn't an
option. I was just going to have to leave all three of
them there and front it out. It was the only thing I
could do, at least for the moment. Maybe Joe would
have some ideas.

The damage to the car was superficial: two small
holes in the window, surrounded by spider-web
cracks. I could knock the whole thing out and
replace it easily enough. Fowler had bled inside a
little bit but not as badly as might have been
expected.

I shut the door, went round switching off all the
lights, then walked back round to the driver's side.
The keys were still in the ignition so I got in and
backed out of the warehouse, before dragging the
two doors shut and hoping above hope that no-one
opened them again for a long, long time.

Now there was only one thing left to do. I
jumped back in the car and drove slowly down the
road, following the route we'd come in on, until I
got to the bush in front of Canley Electronics where
Fowler had hidden the briefcase. I stopped the car
and, leaving the engine running, jumped out. This
was one mystery I could at least solve. I paused for
a moment and listened. Still no sound, bar the continued
hum of city traffic and the odd call of a night
bird. High in the sky a three-quarter moon stared
impassively down, unmoved by the events below.

I jogged up to the bush and knelt down where
Fowler had been only minutes earlier, then reached

40

i
into the foliage and felt about, knowing that I was
in the right place because I'd been careful to watch
him earlier.

My hand touched something solid. A handle.
Bingo. I pulled it out, feeling an irrational excitement.
I had to know what was so important that
men I knew, men I liked, had had to die for it. I
stood up, located the two catches on either side of
tin.- handle, and went to press them.

Which was when I heard the sound: a scrape of a
shoe on gravel behind one of the two parked cars in
front of the Canley Electronics building, only ten
yards away. I thought I saw something move. I
looked more closely, feeling myself tense. And then
I saw him, a man in dark clothing and a baseball
cap, face obscured by a scarf, moving about in the
shadows. Those were the only details I can remember.
I was too busy looking at the rifle nestled
against his shoulder, the rifle that was now pointing straight at my head.

There was a hiss as a bullet flew above me,
almost parting my hair, and struck something
behind with a metallic clang. Immediately, I ducked
down behind the hedge and ran, crouching, round
to the driver's side of the car as more rounds spat
through the air. As I pulled open the door, I
chucked the briefcase into the passenger seat,
accidentally biting my tongue as a bullet passed
right through the car and out the open driver's-side
window before ricocheting off the wing mirror. I
ripped the Clock out of my waistband and cracked
off my last two shots at him as he came round the
front of the hedge and into view.

41
I was sure they'd both missed their target but
they forced him to dive behind the bush and
temporarily out of sight. Without waiting for him to reappear, I jumped into the car, rammed it into gear,
and drove out of there as fast as I could, not
bothering to look round or stop when I came to the
barrier. I hit it full-on, broke it in two, and carried
on going.

I reckon I'd only gone a matter of a few hundred
yards when the intense curiosity I was feeling got
the better of me. Even though I could hear the
sound of sirens closing in in the distance, even
though I knew I was taking a huge and needless
risk, I couldn't resist pulling over and picking up
the briefcase. Once again, I located the catches and
this time got the opportunity to press them. They
both clicked satisfyingly and the case came open.

I stared for maybe three, four seconds, feeling
confused, unable to fully comprehend what I was
seeing.

Because, you see, after all that, the fucking thing
was empty.

42
Friday, sixteen days ago

Gallan

The murder of Shaun Matthews, thirty-one, of the
i'riory Green Estate in Islington was an odd one
from the start. Matthews had enemies, there was no
doubt about that. Three months before his death
he'd been threatened by two men he'd thrown out
of the Arcadia nightclub in Holloway where he
worked as chief doorman. One of the two, later
identified as twenty-eight-year-old Carl Voen, had
claimed that he was going to come back and blow
Matthews's head off. This might not have been
taken seriously had it not been for the fact that Voen
had a previous conviction for possession of a
firearm and two further convictions for grievous
bodily harm. He was, by most accounts, a man with
a short fuse. He was also, unfortunately, a man
with a watertight alibi for the time of death. For at
least twelve hours either side of the point at which
Matthews had shuffled off his mortal coil, he'd
been in custody undergoing questioning about an
armed robbery, with the questioning being carried

43
out by two of the detectives who were now
investigating the murder.

Shaun Matthews was also a drug dealer.
According to anecdotal evidence collated by investigating
officers, he supplied Ecstasy, cocaine
and, on at least one occasion, heroin to Arcadia
clubgoers (apparently in collusion with the club's
management), as well as to individuals visiting his
flat. According to more than one source, he had also
earned himself something of a reputation for
selling below-par products, particularly when
operating off the premises. There was a story doing
the rounds that one unlucky punter had challenged
Matthews about an especially poor batch of
cannabis he'd sold him only to have Matthews
dangle him by the ankle from the third-floor
balcony of his flat while simultaneously slashing
his buttocks with a Stanley knife. The punter had
needed more than forty stitches on his behind and
he, too, had left the hospital muttering words of
dark revenge against the man who'd made it so
difficult for him to sit down in comfort for months
to come.

Nothing about any of this was odd, of course.
There are plenty of criminals out there who fail to
recognize or abide by even the most rudimentary
facets of capitalism, and insist on riding roughshod
over their customers and making enemies as
casually as old ladies make cups of tea. Sometimes,
inevitably, they end up dead, and usually the
people doing the killing are those they've wronged,
but in Matthews's case there appeared to be more
to matters than initially met the eye.

44
For a start, it had taken two days to conclude that
he'd been murdered. Matthews was what a tabloid
report might describe as a 'strapping' young man:
six feet two, sixteen stone of mainly muscle, very fit
(at least superficially) as a result of his daily visits
to the gym, and no history of medical problems.
Therefore when he was found dead in his bed one
morning by police officers who'd been called by a
colleague from the Arcadia who was concerned
that he hadn't turned up at work two evenings running,
it came as something of a shock to all
concerned. Not, perhaps, that he was dead but
more that there didn't appear to be any obvious
cause. There were no external injuries and no sign
of any kind of a struggle. Matthews was lying on
his back, with the covers half off him, and his head
tilted to one side. The expression on his face was
what the first officer on the scene had described as
restful. Not fearful, angry, or even shocked. Just
restful. His arms were stretched out to his sides
with the fists lightly clenched, and he was naked. It
looked like death by natural causes, or possibly
some sort of drugs overdose.

Matthews's body was taken away for a postmortem,
and this was when things got interesting.
For all his strength and build, in actual fact he
probably didn't have long to live. He had a serious
heart condition, thought to have been brought on
by an addiction to steroids. There were traces of
nandralone in his blood, as well as cocaine and
alcohol, and injection marks on his left arm.
Initially, the pathologist thought that he'd had a
heart attack, but unfortunately such a diagnosis

45
didn't explain the strange internal injuries
Matthews had suffered. There'd been extensive
internal haemorrhaging as well as a cloudy
swelling in the cells of a number of organs, particularly
the kidneys. Somewhat baffled, the
pathologist had carried out further tests. These
showed significant traces of an extremely potent
neurotoxin that would have resulted in these
injuries and were, almost certainly, the cause of
death. And this was the thing. The poisons department
at Guy's Hospital were called in and quickly
identified the neurotoxin as elipadae, or cobra,
venom.

Snake poison. Hardly the work of your average
lowlife thug, the type Shaun Matthews specialized
in upsetting. Which left what? The neighbours all
agreed that Matthews received a fair number of
visitors which, given his alleged trade, wasn't particularly
surprising, and it was felt that one of them
was the likely perpetrator. Where your average
small-time drugs buyer was likely to have got hold
of cobra venom, however, was anyone's guess.

The case was an odd one, and as far as I was concerned
odd equalled interesting, and interesting
equalled challenging, which these days can be
something of a rarity. Never underestimate the
stupidity of criminals. Most of them'll make every
effort imaginable to get caught. In the last murder
investigation I'd been involved in, ten weeks
earlier, the murderer, a seventeen-year-old car
jacker named Rudi, had stabbed an unfortunate
BMW owner to death when he'd had the gall to try
to prevent his car being taken. Rudi had been

46
arrested three days afterwards when a passing
patrol car had spotted the vehicle parked outside
his mum's flat. Further investigation had
unearthed Rudi's prints all over the interior, as well
as those of two of his mates. The knife he'd used,
still complete with somewhat telltale bloodstains,
had turned up under his bed hidden in a
PlayStation box. I reckon the paperwork took up
more time than the detective work. Sherlock
Holmes wouldn't even have bothered getting out of
bed, and who could blame him?

But this was different. A poisoning opened up all
sorts of possibilities. It suggested interesting
motives. It suggested intelligence, or at least
creativity, on the part of the poisoner, but also an
>::credible naivety. Poisoning was, in general, a
pretty foolish method of committing murder. It was
too easily traceable these days which meant its one
great advantage - that it could make the victim's
death look like an accident - no longer held true.
Having said this, however, the case was now six
days old (or at least the murder was) and had yet to
throw up any real clues of note, or anything that
pointed to one particular person.

It was a fine sunny morning, the fifth day of what
passes for an English heatwave, and DC Dave
Berrin was driving as we pulled into the walled car
park at the rear of the Arcadia nightclub, an imposing
post-war structure on the Upper Holloway
Road which dominated the corner on which it
stood, and parked in a bay marked STAFF ONLY.

Not surprisingly, the club was closed at this time
in the morning, but we were expected and walked

47
right in through the double doors at the front. The
interior was dark and spacious with tables facing
down on to the dance floor on three sides. At the
opposite end of the room was a long bar lined with
stools. A woman stood on the serving side of it
with a pen in her hand, looking down at some
papers in front of her. She appeared to be the only
person in the place. She looked up when she heard
our footfalls on the wooden floor.

'Sorry, we're closed,' she shouted out, going back
to her papers. 'We open at twelve for lunch.'

'We're police officers,' I said loudly, crossing the
dance floor with Benin in tow. 'Here to see Mr
Fowler.'

'He's not here/ she shouted back.

'He should be. He's expecting us. We've got an
eleven o'clock meeting.'

'Well, he's not here.'

I strode up the steps to the bar and stopped in
front of her. She carried on making notes on the
papers on the bar. 'Perhaps, then, you can tell us
where he is.'

She looked up with a faintly bored expression on
her face. 'I don't know. He should have been here
more than an hour ago.'

This one had an attitude, all right. I gave her a
quick once-over. Early thirties, slim with well
defined features, a nose that was maybe a little too
sharp, and a vaguely Mediterranean appearance,
particularly the olive-coloured eyes. She was
definitely attractive - very attractive - but in a hard,
don't-mess-with-me kind of way, with the cynical
confidence of someone who's not afraid of a fight.

48
If we'd been Nazi stormtroopers, we wouldn't have
intimidated her. My ex-wife's all-time favourite
film is Gone with the Wind and I think that says
something about her (though I'm not quite sure
what). This girl looked like hers was Scarface.

'Is he likely to be at home?' I asked her.

'I told you, I don't know where he is.'

I sighed ostentatiously. 'But I presume you've got
j,,v home phone number?' She nodded. 'Well, I'd
appreciate it if you'd phone him then and tell him
we're here.'

'Look, I'm very busy.' She motioned to the notes
in front of her.

'So are we, Miss ... ?'

'Toms. Elaine Toms. I talked to a couple of your
ui.ics_rt> the other day.'

'Well, we're very busy too and it would be
greatly appreciated if you could phone Mr Fowler
and see if he's at home for us. It won't take a
minute.'

My tone was even but firm, the kind that says I'm
going to keep going until I get some co-operation. It
always works in the end, but you'd be amazed how
many people take a long time getting the message.

Without a word she turned and walked over to a
telephone pinned to the wall in the corner, and
dialled a number. I was a bit pissed off because I'd
been preparing for this interview for close to a day
now. We'd talked to Fowler once but only briefly to
ascertain his position within the nightclub, what his
relationship was with the deceased, and whether he
could throw any light on what had happened. He'd
come across as very keen to appear as helpful and

49
as friendly as possible, but hadn't actually
managed to tell us a great deal. Predictably, he'd
denied knowing anything about Matthews's
involvement in drug dealing. He'd claimed that as
Arcadia's owner he didn't tolerate drug use on the
premises but was aware that it did occur. 'I'm looking
at ways to combat it,' he'd said, and had talked
about installing cameras in the toilets. That's
where most of it goes on, I'm sure/ he'd added - a
fairly logical assumption. Neither Berrin nor I had
found the interview very helpful, mainly because
there was something not quite authentic about
Fowler's answers, and since then it had come
to light that he had a conviction for conspiracy to
supply Class A drugs in the late 1980s and that one
of his co-conspirators at the time had been Terry
Holtz, the late brother of a notorious local crime
figure. He'd also been done for driving under the
influence of cannabis a couple of years back, and
the club had been raided on two separate occasions by the Drugs Squad in an effort to take out suspected
dealers, the last time eighteen months ago,
although it had to be said that on neither occasion
was any contraband found. More promisingly,
there was also a rumour doing the rounds that,
although Fowler's name was on the deeds of the
club, he wasn't what you'd call the real owner. That
man, it was claimed, was one Stefan Holtz,
the same local crime figure whose brother Fowler
had once been involved with.

The feeling in the station's CID was that the
motive for this murder was almost certainly drug
related and that it might possibly be something to

50
do with a disagreement between Fowler and
Matthews. Since Fowler apparently owned the
club, and was almost certainly lying when he said
he didn't tolerate drugs on the premises, and
Matthews appeared to have been the chief dealer, it
was probably down to an argument about something
mundane like the split of profits. All this was
conjecture, of course, but DCI Knox, the head of the
investigation, specialized in conjecture. Me,
though, I wasn't so sure, not least because I didn't
think Fowler would have used an obscure poison to
rid himself of a troublesome business partner. But I
did think there were plenty of questions he could
provide an answer for, particularly regarding the
pncsible involvement of the Holtzes, and I was
keen to hear them.

But it seemed I was going to have to wait a little
longer.

'He's not there,' said Elaine Toms, coming back to
the papers on the bar. 'Either that or he's not
answering.'

'Have you got his address?' She nodded, and
wrote it down on a piece of paper. I took it, thanking
her, and put it in my pocket. It was local. 'And
what's your position here, Miss Toms?'

'I told you, I've already been interviewed about
the murder.'

'Well, we're talking to you again. I'd just like to
refresh myself of your account.'

'It was a DID talked to.'

'DI Capper. Yes, I know. Now, if you'll answer the
questions.'

'Have you got any ID?'

51
She was trying to be difficult but I wasn't going
to argue about it, so I took out my warrant card and
showed it to her, as did Benin. She inspected them
both carefully, paying particular attention to mine.
'It's not a very good photo of you,' she told me.

With me, the camera always lies,' I said. 'Now,
your position?'

'I manage the place.'

'And how long have you been here for?'

'Just over a year. I joined last July.'

'You knew Shaun Matthews pretty well, then?'

She sighed theatrically. 'Yeah, I knew Shaun
Matthews pretty well. You know, I've said all this
before.'

'Humour me. I presume you knew he dealt
drugs?'

'Are you asking me or telling me?'

I'm asking you.'

She shrugged. 'I heard that he did some dealing
here and there and that he might even have done
some in this place, but I never saw him do any and
I never saw anyone else take any stuff either.
Occasionally you get someone off their face, but if
they get like that we don't serve them and we chuck them out. They're certainly not sold the stuff
in here. I only heard Shaun was meant to be this
big-time dealer after he died.'

'You're sticking to the party line, then? That
Arcadia's pretty much drug free and that you don't
go in for that sort of thing here.'

She glared at me. We don't. Now, if you've
finished...'

'Does Stefan Holtz own this place?'

52
Who?'

'Stefan Holtz. You must have heard of him.' She
shook her head. 'He's a well-known local businessman,
to use the term very loosely.'

'Look, as far as I'm concerned, Roy Fowler owns
this place. That's who hired me and that's who pays

me.'

'Are you sure the name Stefan Holtz means
nothing to you?' asked Benin.

'Oh, it speaks,' she said with a smirk.

Benin looked slightly embarrassed. 'Just answer
the question/ he persisted, trying not to be intimidated
by her, but not making a particularly good
job of it.

She slowly turned her head, faced him down,
u,uk a breath, then spoke. Tes, I'm sure.' She
turned back to me. 'I don't know a Stefan Holtz.'

'Mr Fowler was going to get us a list of casual
door staff who've worked here over the past six
months/ I continued, 'but so far we haven't
received it.'

'Oh dear/ she said with a cheeky half-smile.

Tou're the manager/ said Benin. 'Can you provide
us with that information?'

The smile disappeared rapidly. 'I haven't got
time. You'll need to speak to Mr Fowler about it.'

'We would do if he was here/1 said, thinking that
this was one of the great problems with policework.
That most of the time you were constantly trying to
get blood out of a stone. Just tell us the name of the
company who supplies the doormen, then/ I
added, not wanting to waste any more time with
Elaine Toms, 'and we'll contact them.'

53
She paused, and the reason she paused was
simple. If there were any dodgy ownership issues,
then they would spread to the company who
supplied the doormen because with nightclubs
that's how things work. She wouldn't want to give
out the information but I knew she couldn't lie
about it either, in case Fowler had already given us
the name and I was just testing her.

'It's an outfit called Elite A,' she said eventually.
Benin wrote the name down. 'But I don't know
how much they'll be able to tell you. I don't think
they're too hot on the paperwork front.'

'What makes you say that?'

'You know what these security firms are like.
They use freelancers/

'Did Shaun Matthews come via Elite A?'

'I think so, originally, but it was before my time
so I couldn't say for sure. The papers said something
about him being poisoned/

"That's what we believe/

She shook her head as if she couldn't comprehend
such an end for him. 'What's the world
coming to, eh?'

To the same place it's always been, Miss Toms.
Full of not very nice people doing not very nice
things to each other.' I resisted adding that with
Shaun Matthews's demise there was at least one
fewer of them. 'If you hear from Mr Fowler, please
ask him to get in touch with us immediately/

She took the card I gave her with my number on
it. 'So, have you got any suspects?'

'We're working on a number of leads,' I
answered, using the stock detective's line which

54
Was basically a euphemism for 'No', and she
obviously recognized it for what it was because
she turned away with another of those half-smiles.
The discussion was over.

When we were back in the car, Benin turned to
me with an expression of concern. 'I don't think I
did too well in there,' he said. Tou handled it a lot
better than me.'

o<jii in's young, he's a graduate, and, like most of
us, he's still got a lot to learn. Unlike most of us, he
recognizes it, and it means he's not as confident as
he could be. He'd only been promoted out of
uniform three months earlier, and apart from Rudi,
the casual killer and carjacker, this was his first ii,urdcr case. It was also the first time we'd worked
together.

I shrugged. Tve been in the game a lot longer,
which makes it a lot easier to handle people like
her. Remember, you're the one who's the boss. With
the cocky ones it can be easy to forget.'

He nodded thoughtfully. At that moment, he
reminded me of a contestant from that TV
programme Faking It. One month to turn a good
looking Home Counties college boy into a Met
detective. He was working hard to master the
ropes, to make a good impression, but he didn't
look a natural.

He turned to me, the concern replaced by determined
zeal, the kind you sometimes see on the
faces of door-to-door missionaries. 'I let her get me
on the wrong foot. That was the problem. I didn't
do enough to make her show me respect. It won't
happen again.'

55
1 know it won't/ I said, patting him on the
shoulder. Tou work with me, you'll be Dirty Harry
in no time.'

He pulled out of the parking space. Teah, right.'

Roy Fowler lived in a modern, showy-looking
development complex near Finsbury Park. It's
what these days they like to call a gated community,
although there usually tends to be very
little community-wise about them. We were
stopped at the main gates by a uniformed doorman
who was well past retirement age and looked like
he'd have trouble stopping a runaway skateboard
let alone a shadowy intruder. We showed him our
credentials and were waved into the car park in
front of the five six-storey buildings that were
arranged in a semi-circle around the well-kept, if
rather dull, communal gardens. Fowler lived in
apartment number 12 which was in the second
building on the left.

But if he wasn't at work, he wasn't at home
either. We buzzed on his intercom for several
minutes but didn't get an answer. I phoned the
Arcadia and double-checked the address with
Elaine Toms. It was the right one. Fowler still
hadn't turned up at the club either, a fact that was
beginning to irritate me and her.

We sat in the car and waited for ten minutes
without result, then decided to make our way back
to the station. It had been an unproductive morning
and Benin was beginning to look depressed, as if it
had only just dawned on him that life in CID was a
lot less interesting than it looked on the telly.

56
It was as we were coming out of Fowler's
complex that I saw it. A dark blue Range Rover
driving by just in front of us. It only passed our
field of vision for a couple of seconds at most but I
noticed straight away that it had holes in the
paintwork and industrial taping over two of
the windows. It kept going and I memorized the
number plate as Berrin pulled out, heading
f]ir other way.

'Did you see that car?' I asked him.

Berrin is not the most observant man in the
world. 'What car?' was his reply.

I thought about it for a few seconds. Who'd be
daft enough to be driving around in a bullet-ridden
Range Rover in broad daylight? But those holes
cLJii'l look like they'd been made by anything else
- what else could have made them? - and, as I've
said before, you should never underestimate the
stupidity of criminals. It was probably wasting
someone's time but I took my mobile from my
pocket and phoned the station to report a
suspicious vehicle, giving its location and possible
route.

'Do you want to turn round and go after it?' said
Berrin, looking like his depression was lifting.

'It's probably nothing. Let's leave it for the
uniforms. I need to get something to eat.'

'What do you think? Do you reckon he's flown the
coop?'

The loud, confident voice belonged to DCI Knox,
the big boss. No question of him ever losing control
of an interview. Berrin and I were sat in his office,

57
on the other side of his imposing desk, explaining
the position regarding the lack of intelligence as to
Roy Fowler's whereabouts.

We don't know/ said Benin. 'He was certainly
aware that we were meant to interview him this
morning.'

It seems odd, though,' I said, liim disappearing off
so soon. If s like an admission of guilt, but, if we're
honest, we haven't really got anything on him.'

Knox nodded in his sage-like way. True. But then
where is he?'

It was a good question. Tvlaybe he had more
pressing engagements and thought we could wait/
I said eventually.

Knox snorted. Well, he's wrong if he thinks that.
We'll put out an alert. Any patrol that sees him,
they can pick him up and bring him in for
questioning. I don't like the way these smalltime
villains think they're royalty these days.'

We both nodded in general agreement. It was
always good to agree with Knox, always fatal to
pick holes in his pronouncements. Unlike Benin, he
was not one of life's listeners, whatever he liked to
claim. 'My door's always open' was one of his
favourite mantras, which might have been true
literally, but that was about it.

'What about the list of bouncers? I don't suppose
we've got that then, have we?'

I shook my head. 'No. We spoke to the manager,
a Miss Toms, and she told us that a company called
Elite A supplied all the casual door staff they used.'

'I wonder if she's involved in the drugs scene at
the Arcadia/ mused Knox.

58
'Has she got a record?'

He shook his head. 'I don't think so, but that
doesn't mean anything, does it? There was
definitely dealing going on down there and it's
almost certain that it originated on the door. So the
manager's probably in on it. You'll need to check
up on this Elite A. I don't suppose whoever runs
them's whiter than white.' Out of the corner of my
eye, I saw Benin nodding in agreement. Cheeky
sod. A politician already. 'Now,' continued Knox,
'we've talked to three of the other doormen at
Arcadia who all worked there on a permanent
basis, so we only really need to catch up with the
temporaries who've been there the last six months,
dluiough that could be quite a few. They're a busy
club. I'll leave you two to do that. Try to get to talk
to them all by Monday p.m. at the latest. We
need to tie up all the loose ends on this.'

'And these other doormen haven't told us anything
useful?'

'No. They all knew Shaun Matthews to varying
degrees but none said they'd ever seen him selling
drugs of any description and, of course, they all
denied selling any themselves. When confronted by
witness statements testifying to his extracurricular
activities, they all expressed varying degrees of
surprise/

'Perhaps we should offer some sort of reward,' I
suggested. That might persuade them to give us
some information we could use.'

'It's a possibility if we still don't get anywhere,
but budgets are tight and I'm not sure I'd feel right
doling out much-needed money to solve the

59

murder of a violent drug dealer.' Once again, I caught Benin nodding.

'It might get us a result.'

'We'll have to see. We've got pretty much our
whole allocation resting on the Robert Jones case. If
we have to pay out on that then we're not going to
be able to offer a reward on anything until 2010.'

I baulked at the mention of Robert Jones. Always
did. It was one of the few cases that had truly disturbed
me in all my time in the Met. Robert was a
thirteen-year-old schoolboy who'd disappeared
while doing his morning paper round six months
earlier. His body had been found a few days afterwards
buried in a shallow grave in woodland out in
Essex. He'd been stabbed three times in the chest
and his clothing had been tampered with, indicating
some sort of sexual assault. I'd had to break the
news of the discovery to the parents, along with the
WPC who'd been their liaison officer. They'd been
a pleasant, ordinary middle-class couple who'd
only let Robert do the round because he'd been
keen to save up enough money to buy a new bike.
I'd watched, unable to do anything to help, as
they'd crumbled in front of me, while the WPC had
comforted his little sister when she'd appeared in
the doorway, too young to understand what was
going on. Robert had been their only son, his
family's pride and joy. What had got me the most
was the total and utter injustice of it all. A young
boy from a good home, never been in trouble unlike
so many of the little bastards we had to deal
with - seeking to better himself, only to be struck
down in the space of a few moments by someone

60

I
who probably had no idea of the terrible damage he
was inflicting. It was such a waste and, six months on/ we were no nearer bringing the killer to justice,
even though a reward of twenty-five thousand
pounds had been offered for information leading to
a conviction: fifteen thousand from the police and
ten thousand from a local businessman. Unlike
Robert Jones, his killer had had all the luck.

'What about the poisoning angle?' I asked. 'Any
more news on that?'

Knox furrowed his brow into deep, craggy lines.
'Well, it's coming along/ he said without a huge
amount of conviction. 'WDC Boyd's been liaising
with the poisons department at Guy's and doctors
from the Home Office about this substance and its
possible source, as you know, but I'm not sure how
much help it is. I mean, it's not as if you can pop
into the pharmacy, pick some of this stuff up, and
sign the Poisons Register. It's cobra venom, for
God's sake.'

'So there's no place you could get it in this
country?'

Knox shook his head. 'Not officially, no. As far as
anyone seems to know, the only place you can find
it is in the mouth, or whatever, of the cobra. And as
far as I'm aware, none of them lives within five
thousand miles of here. You'll have to talk to Boyd
about all that, though. She's now our resident
toxins expert. The thing is, I don't know how much
help either she or anyone else can be. We haven't
got a clue where you actually get it from in a usable
format, where this particular batch may have
originated, or anything like that. All we know is

61
that somehow someone came into possession of
enough of the stuff to kill three people, and somehow
got the opportunity to inject the whole
lot into the left arm of a sixteen-stone bouncer without
him noticing, or getting any sort of opportunity
to seek medical help.'

DC Benin exhaled slowly and thoughtfully. 'It's
a mystery/ he said. A statement of the obvious if
ever there was one, but which pretty much j|
summed things up.

Iversson

The lunchtime traffic was heavy and I was
paranoid. Not surprising when you're driving at
speeds a two-legged dog could muster in a car
that looks like it's been used in an Arnie
Schwarzenegger film, even down to the bloodstains
on the back seat, and you know that most of the
bullets wedged in the exterior were meant for you.
But what choice did I have? The Range Rover was
registered in my name and I needed to stash it
somewhere where it was not going to receive
undue attention. I was therefore on my way now
to the abode of one Gary Tyler, a bloke who did
occasional work for us, and who had the invaluable
asset of a lock-up over in Silvertown that I could use
for storage purposes until I worked out what to do.
I looked at my watch. It was five to one. What a
twenty-four hours.
There'd been no news on the shootings the

62
previous night. Not a dickie bird. Whoever had
organized our little warehouse reception - and
some bastard most definitely had - was as efficient
as he was ruthless. Three bodies left behind in an
industrial estate in the heart of north London amid
a load of gunfire, and not a peep about it in the
press or on the TV, and I'd checked enough times
(hat day. When I'd spoken to my partner Joe Riggs
on the blower earlier, he'd been shocked (although
not half as shocked as I'd been when one of our
most reliable employees had started taking potshots
at me), and it was only when he'd asked me
whether I'd managed to pick up the money in
advance that I knew the tight bastard was all right.
L; the end, we'd decided not to say anything about
Eric's death. It was unfair to the family, no-one was
denying that, and it was a decision that could easily
come back to haunt us, but what was the alternative?
At least by keeping stum, we'd hopefully
avoid a lot of unwanted attention.

But it was Tony's role in the whole thing we
found the hardest to understand. I suppose we both
thought we'd known him pretty well. He didn't
work for us so much these days, less and less over
the past couple of years, but that didn't mean a
thing. He was still someone we thought we could
depend on, and right up until the previous night
he'd never let us down once. So what had made
him suddenly turn a gun on me and Eric, as well as
a man he'd never even met before, just like that?
This was the big question.

We'd left it that I would see what I could dig up
on Fowler while Joe would do the same with Tony,

63
I

and we'd meet up the following day. In the meantime,
I needed to be rid of this motor, and Fowler's
briefcase, which was still on the front seat.

The lights up ahead turned red and I came to a
halt in the nearside lane, the third car back. In front
of me was a black BMW with tinted windows blasting
out a thumping bass so powerful that it was
making me shake in my seat. When I'd been a kid,
punk had been the big thing, and my mum had
constantly droned on about how the music ||
sounded terrible and you couldn't understand a
word the singers were shouting, and I'd thought
what the fuck did she know? Now I knew it was a
generational thing. This stuff, this garage shite that
had suddenly become all the rage, it was a pile of
dung, to be honest with you. There weren't even
any tunes as such, just some bloke bragging about
how hard he was, and how much the ladies rated
him. Kids these days - they've got no taste.

I saw the flashing lights in the rear-view mirror
and cursed, because I knew straight away that I
was trapped. The lane next to me was full of traffic
and the lights were still red. The cop car put its
hazards on and two uniforms got out, donning
their caps. I was just going to have to front it.

They came round either side of the Range Rover
and the one nearest me tapped on the driver's-side
window.

'Afternoon, officer,' I said as jauntily as possible.

'Can you turn your engine off, sir, please?' he
asked, giving me the standard copper's-in-control,
I'11-know-if-you're-guilty-don't-try-to-hide-it gaze.
He was about twenty-five and not particularly big.

64
Rosy cheeks, too. About as menacing as Tony Blair.

The lights were still red, and on a main road as
well. I couldn't believe it. No wonder London had
traffic problems. That was the fucking mayor for you. A coma victim could have done a better job.
Seeing as I had no choice, I switched off. The other
copper, who was even younger, looked to be
inspecting the bullet holes on the other side.

'How can I help you, officer?'

'Can I just take these for a moment?' he asked,
leaning in the window and removing the keys from
the ignition.

'What's the problem? I'm in a bit of a hurry, to tell
you the truth.'

He gave the interior a bit of a nose and spotted
the two dark stains on the back seat where Fowler
had bled. I'd given them a clean-up earlier that
morning, but they still looked a bit suspicious. I'd
never been much cop at domestic chores.

There appear to be bullet holes in your vehicle,
sir/ he said, totally deadpan, like he was telling me
I had toothpaste round my mouth.

'I live on a rough estate, officer.'

The other one now opened the back passenger
door and began inspecting the stains more closely.
'What happened here?' he asked. This looks a lot
like blood.'

'It's red wine/ I told him. 'I spilled it in there
yesterday. It's a right bastard to get rid of.'

'Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir/
said the first one, opening the door for me.

'No problem/ I said wearily, and got out.

Still holding the handle, he shut it behind me at

65
r

just the moment I delivered a ferocious uppercut
that sent him flying. He landed on his back,
absolutely sparko, narrowly missing the traffic in
the next lane, and his cap rolled off, only to be immediately
crushed by a passing minibus full of
pensioners.

'Oi!' shouted his partner, going for his extendable
baton.

There was too much traffic to cross the road
before he caught up with me so I ran round the *
front of the Range Rover, mounted the pavement,
and charged him before he had a chance to actually
extend the baton. I punched him full in the face,
knocking him off balance, then got my leg round
his and tripped him up. He went down, his nose
bleeding badly, and I ran back round to retrieve my
keys.

But cars were stopping all over the place now to
watch the drama unfolding and the lights had gone
red again. A well-built workman was getting out of
his van and glaring at me, looking worryingly like
he was about to carry out a citizen's arrest. Then,
from up the street, I heard the sound of a siren. It
meant a quick decision.

Run for it.

So that's what I did, and as I tore off at a rate of
knots in the opposite direction to the siren, past the
surprised expressions of passing civilians, it struck
me then that however bad I thought my predicament
was ten minutes ago, it was now a hundred
times worse.

If anyone ever wanted to kill Johnny Hexham, he

66
would not be a difficult man to find. Every
lunchtime between one and two, as regular as
clockwork, he was in the Forked Tail public house,
a mangy dive off Upper Street, gossiping with his
lowlife cronies and plotting his next poxy moneymaking
scheme. Sometimes he'd be there earlier,
sometimes he wouldn't leave until the early hours
of the following morning, but, without fail, he was
always in residence for that one hour. I got there at
ten to two, and waited in the doorway of a
boarded-up shop across the street, trying to look
inconspicuous. As it was a Friday, I guessed that the
la/y little shit would be in for an all-dayer, but, like
the creature of habit he was, I thought he'd probably
whip out for a few minutes to place some bets
on the horses, having picked up some tips from the
Paddy barman. I didn't much want to approach
Johnny in the bar where there were too many
people with big ears, but I would if I had to. Things
were not going well for me and I wanted some
answers quick.

And bang, like an assassin's dream, there he was,
coming out of the door, already filling out one of
the betting slips he always carried with him. I
looked at my watch - one minute past two - and
crossed the street, coming up behind him.

'Johnny Hexham. Long time no see.' And it was,
too. Getting close to six months.

He swung round and clocked me straight away.
He didn't look too pleased but worked hard to hide
it. 'All right, Max,' he said, coming to a halt. 'How's
it going, mate?'

I walked up and took him casually by the arm.

67
The grip was light but firm enough to let him know
I wasn't fucking around. 'Not good, Johnny. Not
good. There are a few questions I need answers to
fairly urgently, and I think you might be able
to help.'

'What's the Bobby, then?'

'Eh?'

The Bobby Moore, score.'

'It's about a certain Mr Fowler.'

'Fuck/ he said. 'I knew he'd be trouble/

Tou don't know the half of it.' I let go of his arm
and we walked down in the direction of Chapel
Market.

Johnny looked at me nervously. We might have
been old schoolmates but he was switched on
enough to notice that that wasn't going to count for
much in this conversation. I am a man of compassion
but, to be honest, you don't want to get on
the wrong side of me.

'What happened, then?' he asked.

Tou put this bloke, Fowler, on to me. Why?'

There was nothing bad about it, honest. I just
thought the two of you could do some business. He
needed some security--'

'How do you know him?' I had to remember not
to use the word 'did'.

'I don't really. It was Elaine who put me on to
him. Elaine Toms.'

'Jesus. Is she still around?'

Elaine had been in the same year as us in school,
way back when Duran Duran were the kings of the
rock world and furry pixie boots were all the rage.
She'd always been the girl the boys liked because,

68
without exception, she fucked on the first date, the
first date only ever meant buying her one drink,
and she was nice to look at. Which you've got to
admit is something of a rare and joyous combination.
Not that I'd ever managed to get her in the
sack. There'd always been too much of a queue in
front of me. And I'd been a bit of a skinny runt in
school, too. Like decent wine, I'd matured with age. The hadn't clapped eyes on Elaine in getting close to
fifteen years, probably longer, and briefly
wondered what she looked like now.

'Yeah, Elaine's still around. She's the manager of
Fowler's club.'

'The Arcadia.'

'That's the one. I still see her now and again
uucduse I drink down there sometimes. Not often,
like, cos it's a bit too young for me, all these kids
jumping about, out of it on all sorts, but it's worth
a Captain Cook. Anyway, she told me that Fowler
was having trouble with some people and he
needed protection. She asked me if I knew of anyone
who might be able to assist and so, you know, I
thought about it for a couple of minutes, then your
name popped up. I know you're into all that shit. I
thought you could do with the business.' He turned
and gave me his trademark boyish smile, the one I
knew had got Elaine Toms into bed on more than
one occasion back in the old days. Johnny Hexham,
the loveable rogue.

But it didn't work. Not today. 'It was a bad move,
Johnny.'

He looked worried. 'Why? What happened?'

We turned into Chapel Market and made our way

69
down the middle between the two lines of stalls. As
usual, it was noisy and crowded. I decided against
giving him the whole story. Johnny was no grass
and probably wouldn't go to the law if his balls
went missing, but it was best to err on the side of
caution.

'I almost got killed. That's what happened. These
people Fowler had trouble with, they weren't messing
about.'

'Blimey, Max, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you
in the Barry. I thought it was routine stuff.'

'Who are these people? And what's the trouble
he's been having, exactly?'

The don't know. Honest. It was something to do
with the club. That's all I was told.' He exhaled
dramatically. 'Fuck, this is bad news. What's
happened to Fowler?'

I glared at him. 'Forget Fowler. And forget you
ever put him in contact with me. OK?'

Johnny's head went up and down like a nodding
dog. 'Yeah, yeah. Of course. No problem. Consider
it done.'

I took his arm again, this time squeezing harder.
He turned to protest but I stared him down. 'Are
you sure you're telling me the truth, Johnny? You
know nothing about that club that might help to
explain why people are getting all trigger happy
with Fowler?'

'No...'

'Because if I find out you do know something, anything
at all, then I'm going to hunt you down and I'm
going to kill you. Understand?' Harsh words, but
definitely necessary under the circumstances.

70
'Fuck it, Max, I'm telling the truth. I know there's
some dealing goes on down there, charlie and all
that, but that's about it.'

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I
slowed right down and stared straight into his. But
the windows were dirty and I couldn't tell whether
he was bullshitting or not.

'That's all I know, I swear to you. Look, Max, I'm
t srry. I really am. I was just trying to help.'

I let go of his arm, and managed a brief smile,
though God knows what there was to smile about.
'Well, it's a brand of help I can do without in the
future. And remember, say nothing about seeing
me to anyone. OK? Including Elaine Toms.'

'No problem. My lips are sealed.' He gave me a
Concerned look. A mate to a mate. 'Everything's all
right, though, isn't it, Max?'

'Oh yeah,' I told him, turning away. Ticketyfucking-boo.
See you around, Johnny.'

Gallan

I didn't have to work that night but, with my home
life being as non-existent as it was, I decided to stay
late in the incident room and catch up on paperwork.
Benin wasn't so keen and took off bang on
five-thirty, something I duly noted. There was an
all-units out on the car I'd spotted with the bullet
holes in it. Two of the station's uniforms had
stopped it and there'd been an altercation with the
driver, who'd fled the scene on foot, having

71
assaulted and injured both officers. Suspected
bloodstains had been found in the vehicle, which
was registered in the name of Max Iversson, an ex
soldier with no previous record, who matched
witness descriptions of the driver. Thankfully, it
was nothing to do with me any more, but I was
pleased that my observance had paid off, even if
the uniforms who'd done the stopping and who
were now off sick probably weren't.

It was ten to nine when I left the station. I went to
a cheap Italian off Upper Street I occasionally frequent and had a bowl of pasta and some garlic
bread, washed down with a couple of welcome
bottles of Peroni now that I was off duty. I suppose
you could say it was a lonely way to spend a Friday
evening, and you'd be right, it was, but I was beginning
to get used to it. This time barely a year ago, it
had all been a lot different. I'd been a DI at another
station south of the river, heading up through the
ranks in the direction of the DCI slot, with three
commendations under my belt. Crime down there
was bad, the hours were tough ... Paradise it
wasn't. But it wasn't a bad life and, unlike a
lot of my colleagues, I still had a stable domestic
situation. A wife of fifteen years, an eleven-year-old
daughter, a decent house in an area where the
weekly mugging tallies were still in single
figures...

Then, on the night they brought in Troy Farrow, it
all changed.

Troy Farrow was a seventeen-year-old street
robber who specialized in making victims of
schoolkids my daughter's age, relieving them

72
of their mobile phones and pocket money, and old
ladies, who he liked to pick off on pension day,
sometimes breaking a few frail bones in the
process. He had nine convictions altogether but had
only spent a total of three months inside, so the law
didn't exactly have him shaking in his Nike
trainers. He was shouting and cursing and
threatening all sorts as the arresting officers booked
him in for what was likely to be his tenth conviction:
the violent removal of a mobile phone from
the ear of a young secretary foolish enough to have
been walking down a busy street early evening
without keeping her wits about her. Unfortunately
for him, the street was under surveillance by
-Hirers in plain clothes and he was caught within
minutes. I was detailed to interview him, along
with a DC, because we were interested in getting
information from him regarding the near gang rape
of an eleven-year-old by a group who'd also robbed
her of her mobile and the bag of sweets she was
carrying. We didn't think Farrow had been
involved - it wasn't his style to molest his victims,
and the suspects had been described as being aged
between twelve and fourteen - but we were pretty
sure he would know who was. There wasn't much
that went on in Farrow's estate, crime-wise, that he
wasn't aware of, and kids like that would almost
certainly have bragged about what they'd done.

Farrow calmed down as he was taken down to
the interview room by two of the arresting officers,
with me and the DC following a few yards behind.
What happened next is still something of a mystery.
As Farrow and the arresting officers turned and

73
I

entered the room, he turned and said something to jg

one of them that I didn't quite catch but which I IT

was told later went along the lines of 'You pussies "W

can't do nothing with me'. The officer had then £

made a fatal mistake. He'd let his frustration with ^

the legal system and the cocky criminals who fre- f <

quented it get the better of him, and had apparently *
called Farrow 'a black bastard', causing a further,
much more violent struggle to ensue. We'd hurried

into the interview room at just the moment when *

* fit, *

one of the officers slammed Farrow's head into the
wall. Not hard enough to knock him out, but *
enough to open a nasty cut across his forehead.
'Assault! Assault!' he'd screamed. They're killing 1
me! Get me a fucking brief! Now!' The two arresting
officers had let go, and we'd helped Farrow, \ who was handcuffed behind his back, into one of
the chairs. 'Get my brief/ he'd said, all calm now, £ \ blood oozing out of the wound. 1 want to make a % formal complaint. I ain't saying another word until f
I've seen my brief.' And he didn't. Not a word.

The formal complaint made, all four of us who'd
been in the interview room were later questioned
by representatives of the Police Complaints
Authority, and all of us stuck to the same story: that
Troy Farrow had stumbled during the struggle and
had accidentally knocked his head against the wall. 'j
The arresting officer who Farrow claimed had f '
racially abused him denied the charge but did -^ I
admit calling him a bastard, and I couldn't ^'
comment on this because I hadn't heard the j
exchange. I know that a lot of people would think it
was wrong for me not to say what I saw but at the J

74
time I thought no lasting harm had been done.
Farrow was patched up by the station's doctor and
needed two stitches, and, anyway, it was no more
than he deserved. Plus, I didn't want to be the
whistleblower. The police get enough flak as it is,
and sometimes when you're a copper it does feel
like the whole world's against you, so you don't
want to be putting the knife into your own side. In
'.he end, I was never going to be the one who ruined
a colleague's career (which is what I would have
done) over one second's stupidity and hotheadedness.
I just couldn't justify it to myself.

And, at first, it looked like we might have got
away with it. I don't think the people from the PCA
believed us but it was our word against that of a
Known criminal, and we weren't budging, so
eventually they had little choice but to conclude
that the incident was accidental, and that Farrow
had misheard what the arresting officer had said.

But that wasn't the end of it. A couple of months
later the second arresting uniform, the one who
hadn't pushed Farrow's head into the wall,
admitted what had happened to a bloke in his local
pub after one beer too many, only to find out afterwards
that the bloke was a local investigative
journalist, doing an expose of racism in the Force.
With the conversation recorded, the story appeared
two days later in the local paper, and the case was
suddenly reopened. I found the local media and
even London Tonight parked on my doorstep, asking
me if I was a liar and a racist. I might occasionally
be the one, but I'm definitely not the other. The
whole thing was a nightmare and, although my

75
boss, DCI Renham, a guy I'd worked for for getting
close to five years, fought to keep me in my
position, the tide of attention was overwhelming,
and in the end, with the story refusing to go away,
the Brass were forced to act. Both arresting officers
lost their jobs; the DC, with me, was put back in
uniform; and I was demoted to DC.

It was a shameful episode, the whole thing, and
for a long time I found it difficult to come to terms
with. You see, in my eyes, I hadn't done a lot
wrong. I'd made a mistake but I thought the
punishment far outweighed the crime. I took it out
on my wife, made life difficult for her, and maybe
things between us hadn't been quite as strong as I'd
thought, because three months later, after one
argument too many, we separated. It turned out
she'd been having an affair. I suppose this would
have been understandable were it not for the fact
that the other man happened to be the intrepid
journalist who'd broken the story in the first place.
The cheeky bastard had gone round to interview
her about what effect the story was having on her
and the family, and clearly it was having quite a big
one because somehow, not long afterwards, maybe
even that day, they'd ended up in the sack.

What do you do in that sort of situation? What
can you do? Nothing except pick yourself up, dust
yourself down, and remember that what goes
around comes around. There is justice in this world,
it's just that sometimes it takes a long time before it
bothers to show itself. I had no choice but to cling
to that fact as I gathered up my possessions, put in
for a transfer, and headed north of the river for the

76
first time in my career, ending up at probably the
most controversial station in the entire Met, a
place still haunted by the betrayal of one of its most
senior detectives.

DS Dennis Mime was without doubt Britain's
most corrupt police officer: a valued and longstanding
member of CID by day, a hired killer with
God knows how many corpses to his credit by
night. His shadow still hung over the station like a
noxious cloud, even though it had been close to two
years since his grim secret had been uncovered and
he'd disappeared into thin air. It didn't matter. Time
would be a slow healer here, and there were a
number in CID, including DCI Knox, who'd be
forever tainted by their long association with the station's most infamous son. Mud sticks, and
maybe that was why I'd settled in so easily there.

Since my arrival, I'd rented myself a half-decent
flat in Tufnell Park, and had managed to pull
myself back up to the rank of detective sergeant. A
far cry from the old days, and I was still waiting for
justice (my ex and the journalist were now shacked
up together and my daughter even claimed that she
quite liked him), but things could always have been
worse. I still had a job and, against all the odds, I
still got something out of it.

I left the restaurant at five past ten and headed
round the corner to the Roving Wolf, a pub used by
the station's CID, to see if there was anyone in
there. It was busy, but I spotted a couple of DCs
I knew vaguely standing near the bar and joined
them for a couple of pints. They were both
interested in how the Matthews case was going but

77
I

m

I couldn't tell them a lot. Slowly was the word that jb
about best described it. Conversation drifted on to <*?
other things and I left them at eleven, wandering *~
down onto Upper Street in search of that elusive t
late-night creature, the black cab.

Upper Street was buzzing as usual, its constant *,
stream of pavement cafes and trendy bistros
bustling with custom as people of all ages, and
pretty much every race under the sun, took
advantage of the balmy evening. Strains of jazz, >*
mamba, flamenco and half a dozen other musical
styles drifted out of the open doors and windows of *
a dozen different establishments, giving the place a 4
pleasant, continental feel. It almost felt like being «
on holiday and, for one who'd travelled up Upper
Street a few times back in the 1980s, the transformation
was incredible. Once a barren, dark place of
nasty drinking hovels and little else where only
the adventurous and the foolish came after dark, it *

iB |

had now become Islington's version of Paris's Left 7 j
Bank. If you weren't careful, you might even forget
to watch your back.

Incredibly, I managed to hail a cab near Islington j> Green after only five minutes, which had to be
some sort of record for that time of night. I thought
about heading home but for some reason I wasn't
that tired. Instead, I asked the driver to take me to
the Arcadia nightclub. He gave me a funny look
in the mirror but did as he was told and we made
our way in silence up to the Highbury Corner
roundabout, and then left onto the less continental
and more menacing Hollo way Road. I was hoping
to catch Roy Fowler in residence and collar him for ;

78
a few minutes since I felt confident that if he didn't
have anything to hide, he'd return there sooner
rather than later. If you're in the nightclub business,
you don't trust other people to look after your investment for too long, not if you want anything
left at the end of it.

Four hundred yards up the Holloway Road, just
past the Liverpool Road turning, the traffic slowed
H^ht down as a large group of maybe twenty-five
or thirty people standing outside a pub suddenly
spilled out into the road. Seconds later there were
shouts and the sound of glass smashing, and a
group of five of them split off from the rest in
what looked like a wild dance. Others ran over to
nile in and the whole scrum of them lumbered
_.Uj the middle of the road, breaking apart and reforming
as half a dozen individual battles were
fought, oblivious to the cars driving by. A bottle
sailed lazily through the air, bouncing off the
roof of the vehicle in front of us before ending up
unbroken in the bus lane on the other side of the
street.

'Fucking kids,' said the taxi driver in a voice that
was half-snarl, half-sigh, as the group, most of
whom looked no more than twenty, swirled back
towards the pavement. One of them went down,
putting up his arms in a vain effort to protect himself
as he disappeared beneath a rapid-fire welter of
kicks from at least three others. A girl screamed
something unintelligible and rushed out of
the watching crowd to intervene, wading into the
kickers, handbag aloft. The one on the ground,
sensing an opportunity, jumped to his feet and got

79
out of the firing line. He was holding his head and
bleeding from the nose.

The taxi driver accelerated and we left them
behind to their fighting. 'Fucking kids/ he said
again. "They get worse and worse.' I nodded and
mumbled something in reply, thinking that that
was the thing with London. One minute you were
drinking in the ambient atmosphere of a laid-back
summer evening, the next you'd stepped unwittingly
into an ugly battlezone. I suppose that's
why some people like it so much. The variety.

There was a long queue of revellers, mainly
under-twenty-fives, snaking back along the street
from the entrance to the Arcadia. I got the cab to
stop directly outside, paid the driver in full, and
tipped him a quid. 'Enjoy yourself/ he said, with a
wave, as he drove off. Probably about ten years too
late for that, I thought, but you never knew.

I walked to the head of the queue where a group of
four male and one female door staff were frisking the
waiting punters. One of them turned to me as I
approached and gave me the same sort of funny look
the cab driver had, like what on earth was a bloke in
his mid-thirties in a suit he looked like he'd been
wearing all day doing coming to a trendy joint such
as this. Teah?' he said, by way of greeting.

I produced my warrant card and thrust it in his
face. 'Police. I'm here to see Mr Fowler.' I was
getting deja vu now.

He inspected the card, then looked back at me. 'I
don't think he's here tonight/ he said.

'Well, Miss Toms'll do/ I said, and walked past
him.

80
There was a line of four further doormen in the
foyer just inside the main entrance and I walked
past them, showed my warrant card to a very thin
young lady with big hair at the desk, and asked her
to phone up to Fowler. She reiterated what the
doorman had said about him not being in, but I
insisted. She let the phone in his office ring for
about thirty seconds before telling me he wasn't
there. Next she tried Elaine Toms, who apparently
was in, but wasn't answering either. I had no great
desire to enter the club proper but it didn't look like
I was going to have any choice. I thanked her and
headed through the door in front of me.

The place was heaving, as befitted a Friday night,
with the majority of the youthful crowd packed
onto the dance floor. The music was loud, repetitive
and boring, the kind my daughter's thankfully too
young to like. At the bar at the far end, I noticed a
few older people, mainly men in their thirties, and
even one or two in their forties, clustered together
against the noise. Some of them were wearing suits,
though none of them looked like office workers,
and I wondered who they were.

My eyes drifted along, then stopped dead.
Someone looked familiar. I walked nearer, maneuvering my way through the crowd until I
was only about ten yards away. Now I was
absolutely sure. No doubt about it. I'd seen his
photograph four hours earlier, after it was faxed
over by his old regiment. The man in front of me,
drinking a bottle of Becks and looking like he
owned the place, was Max Iversson, the fugitive
half the station was looking for.

81
Iversson

There was no way I was queueing to get into **.

Fowler's place. There must have been two hundred W

people standing there like lemons while they <g*

waited for the doormen to give them the sort of 11

attention my ex-missus used to give me when she'd ^
drunk too many white wine spritzers. But who

wants it off some bald bloke with no neck? Not me, -

3>Sfc

that was for sure. I thought about heading straight
to the front and saying I was mates with Elaine but,
to tell you the truth, I didn't really want to draw
attention to myself, not now I'd suddenly turned
into the Fugitive. So I headed round the back,
jumped over the locked gate that led into the staff
car park, and scanned the deserted rear of the
building for any sign of an entrance. It took all of
about three seconds for me to spot a window
slightly open on the ground floor, about a foot
above head height. It wasn't much of a size but I'm
quite a slim lad so I was confident I was going to get in. I hauled myself up with one hand while
using the other to flick off the latch and open the
window up fully. At the same time, I heard the unmistakable
sound of piss hitting urinals and, as I
poked my head inside, I saw a row of three blokes
staring up at me as they deflated their bladders.

'Evening,' I said with a ready smile, trying hard
to wriggle through the gap. Tou couldn't give us a
hand, could you?'

The bloke nearest me, a young student type
about twenty or so, looked shocked but nodded
anyway, re-deposited himself in his trousers, and

82
grabbed hold of my nearest hand, giving it a feeble

tug
'Come on, boy, put some welly into it. You

couldn't even give yourself a hard-on with a grip
like that.'

He tried again and, after a few grunts and groans
of effort, managed to pull me in, with me landing
on him a fair bit harder than I think he was expecting,
i thanked him as he got unsteadily to his feet
and, ignoring the strange looks coming from the
other blokes in there, headed out of the door and
into the club, recoiling momentarily from the wall
of sound that hit me.

I scanned the room for Elaine, not sure I'd even
n-v.'otrm/e her after all this time, but couldn't see
any sign of her. Mind you, I couldn't see a great
deal among the buzzing crowd. I took a brief
moment to admire a few of the scantily clad young
females who seemed to be in abundance, then
fought my way to the bar and waited for a space to
open up, before ordering myself a beer from one of
the harassed-looking bar staff. When it came about
two minutes later, it cost me three quid. Three quid
for a lousy bottle of Becks. If it was true that people
were fighting for ownership of this place then it was
no wonder. The money being turned over must
have been incredible. I took a sip from the bottle
and turned away from the bar, finding myself spme
space near the dance floor.

Which was when I saw her, walking purposefully
in my direction while talking to one of the
doormen, a stocky bloke who was striding fast just
to keep up with her. I recognized her instantly.

83
She'd changed quite a lot from school, as you'd
imagine - I mean, it had been a long time - but it
wasn't so much in the look. It was more the poise,
the way she carried herself. Back then she'd been
attractive, with lovely big brown eyes and a good
body, but she'd never really made the best of it,
probably because she hadn't really needed to. Now
she looked hot, the type of woman most blokes are
immediately attracted to because they know without
a second's doubt that she'll be a demon
between the sheets. She was wearing a black
cocktail dress which matched her long curly hair
and high-heeled court shoes. I wondered then
whether that hound Johnny had slept with her
more recently than school. If he had then he'd been
a lucky man.

She turned away from the doorman as the two of
them reached the bar and our eyes briefly met.
Although she was still a few feet away and there
were a number of people in between us, I saw an
immediate flicker of recognition pass across her
face. She stopped for a moment, then looked at me
quizzically before approaching.

*Max? Max Iversson?' she shouted above the
noise, walking up to me.

I got a glorious scent of musky perfume and
warmth as she came up close. I tell you this, I
wanted to have this woman before I'd even opened
my mouth. She might have started off the chain of
events that had almost had me killed but I'd
suddenly become a man who was willing to forgive
and forget.

'Hello, Elaine,' I said as coolly as I could manage.

84
'Long time no see. How are you? You look good.' I
gave her a smile.

She smiled back. Tm well. You?'

'Yeah, not bad, not bad,' I said, my mouth almost
in her ear. I was only going to be able to keep up a
conversation with this amount of background noise
for so long.

'Christ, it's a bit weird running into you like this.
The last I heard you was in the army.'

'I did ten years, but I finished a long time back.
You know how time flies.'

Too right. So you're still local, then? I haven't
seen you in here before.'

'No, it's a little bit young for me, to be honest. It's
my first time.' And my last at these prices, I
ihought.

'So what brings you in here? On the pull, are you?'
She grinned.

'Well, I came to see you, actually.' She looked
surprised. 'It's about Johnny Hexham.'

The surprise turned to concern. 'Johnny? What
about him? He's all right, isn't he?'

'Oh yeah, he's fine.' That bastard was always
fine. 'At least he was when I left him earlier. Look,
Elaine, I know it's an odd request, but I need to talk
to you fairly urgently and it would be a lot easier if
it wasn't here.'

The concern now turned to suspicion. This was a
woman with a speedy turn in facial expressions.
'Look, Max, I'm running this place pretty much on
my own tonight, so if you've got something to
say--'

'I own a company that provides security. A few

85

days ago you asked Johnny to put someone you *
know in touch with a company like that.'

She clicked. 'Oh shit. And yours was the company?'

'Correct.'

'So where's Roy? I haven't seen him all day. Do
you know what's happened to him?'

That's what I've got to talk to you about. But I
don't want to do it in here. Is there any way you can
get out and we can go somewhere a little more
private? And a bit quieter?'

She thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
'I'll see what I can do. Wait here. I'll be back in a
minute.'

I nodded and stayed where I was as she turned
and disappeared into the crowd. While she was
gone, a kid of no more than eighteen, out of his
head on something, walked into one of the pillars »
that bordered the dance floor and knocked himself "'"*
out. I watched as people stepped over him like he
wasn't there until eventually a couple of his mates
turned up and, laughing, dragged him away. Then,
a few yards beyond them, I saw a bloke who looked
well out of place. Mid to late thirties, scruffy suit,
thick black hair; to be honest with you, he looked a
lot like Columbo in his early days and, like
Columbo, I knew straight off he was a copper. He
was talking into a mobile phone and watching me
at the same time. Our eyes met and I knew he was
on to me, though Christ knows how. It was time
once again for quick thinking. If he was in here,
there could be more of them out front, making it too
risky to go out that way.

86
I turned and, as casually as possible, headed back
in the direction of the toilet, speeding up the
moment I'd pushed through a large group of girls
out on a hen night.

Gallan

As soon as I saw him, I knew I had to act fast. I
didn't have a clue what he was doing there but
he didn't look like he fitted in, and he was on his
own. All that, however, was by the by. The most
important thing was that he stayed put until reinforcements
arrived. I pulled the mobile from my
lacket pocket and called the station, at the same
time moving slowly towards a pillar by the dance
floor where I could keep an eye on him without
attracting attention. I was bumped by a young
bloke pushing past me and I turned and gave him
a look, not that he even saw it. He was already ten
yards further on. Cheeky little bastard. Dispatch
picked up and I informed them loudly of my
position and the fact that I was within thirty feet of
a wanted man and needed back-up. I needed to
repeat myself twice above the noise, and when I
looked back towards Iversson I saw that he'd
spotted me. He turned and walked away and I
followed rapidly, telling Dispatch that he was on the
move. 'Get here fast, I don't fancy tackling him on
my own. Not after what happened this afternoon.'

Iversson disappeared into the toilet and I broke
into as close a run as the crowds would allow,
unsure how I was going to handle this. I didn't

87
1

want to corner an ex-para in an enclosed place and
present him with no option but to fight. I'm not as
young as I used to be, or as fit, and the reason I'm a
detective is that I like to detect rather than get
involved with all the physical stuff. Plus, I knew I'd
lose. But I wasn't going to let him go either. Not
after he'd put two of our uniforms on the sicklist.

I pulled open the door to the toilets four seconds
after he'd gone inside, turned left, and headed into
the urinals area. There were half a dozen people
in the place, all relieving themselves, while at the
far end of the room in front of an open window was
Iversson. He looked like he was just about to jump
up and try to get out through it. Eight yards
separated us.

He turned and saw me and I put my hands up to
indicate that I wanted things to end peacefully,
which I did. 'All right, police. Come along now,
Max.' And then, of course, the standard police cliche: ft
Tou're in enough trouble as it is without adding resist- *
ing arrest to the charges.' I took a couple of slow steps
forward, careful not to agitate him.

Iversson nodded and added his own cliche: 'It's a
fair cop, guv/ he said, taking a step towards me. s Then, without warning, he grabbed an unlucky
punter by the back of his shirt and flung him bodily
in my direction. The poor sod was still in the
process of taking a leak and I had to jump out of
the way to avoid the spray, sliding over in a
suspect-looking puddle as I did so. I banged my
right knee jarringly hard and the mobile flew out of
my hand. Iversson immediately turned, heaved
himself up to the window with an agility that made

88
me look even more like a Keystone Kop, and began
squeezing himself through.

The bloke he'd pushed at me was first to react.
Putting himself away amid a welter of curses, he
turned, ran up to the window, and grabbed one of
Iversson's flailing legs with both hands. It was a
stupid move. The other leg bent, tensed, then
lashed out, all in one split-second movement,
striking the bloke in the side of the temple and
sending him crashing into the communal urinal.
His head hit the wall with an angry thud. Iversson's
legs then began to disappear like spaghetti being
dragged into a giant mouth. Ignoring the mobile
phone, I jumped to my feet and ran towards them,
managing to grab hold of one of his shoes just as it
started to go out of the window. It came off in my
hand and I was suddenly left standing looking at a
fashionable-looking khaki moccasin while he made
good his escape. I heard him land on the other side,
then get to his feet and start running, impaired but
hardly disabled by the fact that he now only had
one item of footwear.

I looked at the semi-conscious bloke moaning on
the floor, then at the handful of other punters who
stood watching me in slightly amused silence, then
finally at my watch.

It was twenty to twelve. Way past my bedtime.

Iversson

I was waiting when she arrived back at her
Clerkenwell apartment. I watched her get out of the

89
taxi and pay the driver from across the street, then
as he pulled away and she turned towards the
entrance, I crossed the road and jogged up behind
her.

'Elaine/

She turned round quickly, saw it was me, and
narrowed her eyes. 'Well, well, well. The wanderer
returns. What happened back there? You didn't tell
me the police were after you.'

I stopped in front of her. 'I couldn't tell you anything
in there. It was too bloody loud.'

'You'd better come in/ she said, fishing in her
handbag for a key. 'I think we've got a fair bit to
talk about, don't you?'

'You can say that again.'

'How did you find out where 1 lived?' she asked
when we were inside her first-floor apartment.

'You're in the phone book/ I told her.

'So are plenty of other people with the name
Toms/ she said, leading me through to a nicely
furnished lounge with comfy-looking black leather
chairs. She slung her jacket over one of the chairs
and turned to me, waiting for an answer.

'Not as many as you'd think. I narrowed it down
to five, then phoned Johnny Hexham. He said he
thought you lived in Clerkenwell and there was
only one E. Toms in Clerkenwell. Maybe you
should think about being ex-directory.'

'I'll bear it in mind.' She looked down at my dirty
sock. 'I won't ask/ she said.

'The police. They don't just want collars any
more. They want everything.'

She smiled. 'Do you want a coffee?'

90
'Yeah, please.'

Five minutes later, when we were sitting in the
leather chairs facing each other, she asked me what
had happened with Fowler, and how come the
police were after me. There was no point holding
back, not if I wanted her to open up to me, so I told
her everything, bar the bit where I shot Tony, which
she didn't really need to know. In the account I
gave Tony escaped and I never saw what happened
to him.

She sat back in her chair and rubbed her hand
across her temple. It was a gesture vaguely similar
to one of Fowler's. 'Shit,' she said, which just about
summed it up. 'I can't believe it. Dead. Poor old
Roy.' Which I thought was a bit rich. Fowler had
asked for it, I hadn't.

'What happened after I got out tonight?'

'Two vanloads of Plod turned up, and this
detective who was already in there, the one chasing
you, he started asking me a load of questions about
what you were doing there.'

'What did you tell him?'

'I said I didn't have a clue who he was talking
about. He didn't push things.'

'So, who are the people Fowler was having
trouble with? I think I owe them after what they've
done to me and one of my best employees.'

She leant forward and gave me a cold stare. 'Max,
I'm telling you now. Do not get involved. Consider
yourself lucky you're still in one piece and leave it
at that.'

'Just tell me, Elaine.'

Tou don't want to know. Honestly.'

91
Till be the judge of that.'

She paused, then, seeing that I wasn't going to
give up, started talking. 'Roy's been under a lot of
pressure lately and he's fallen in with some of
the wrong people. He was getting into debt
with the club.'

'How did he manage that with those prices? I'd
have thought he'd be a millionaire.'

'He's a big spender and he's got a nasty coke
habit that's been eating away at his finances.
Anyway, he started borrowing money from people
he should have kept well away from, and it didn't
take long for them to start calling for their money
back. And that's when he really fucked up. He
allowed them to start dictating to him how he
should do business. They wanted to sell their drugs
in Arcadia with Roy overseeing things.'

'From what I hear the club's always had a drugs
problem.'

'There's always been some dealing there, yeah,
but not as much as some people seem to think. The
place got raided a couple of times before I joined
but that was a long time back and they never found
nothing. But this was different. This was organized
dealing.'

'When did it start?'

'I don't know exactly. At the time Roy didn't say
anything to me about it. He was done in the past for
importing gear, back in the eighties, and he was
inside for four years, so it wasn't something he
wanted to repeat. The dealing was all very underhand
and if you'd come in there any night, like you
did tonight, you wouldn't have seen it going on.' I

92
nodded. That was true enough, although plenty of
people had been off their faces. 'But there was stuff
in there and if you'd asked the right people you'd
have got coke, E, whatever you wanted. There's a
few who do the deals, mainly the doormen, and
they've never got much on them at any one time, so
even if you were an undercover copper, you could
only do them for possession. They never deal in big
quantities. Roy kept the bulk of the stuff hidden in
the place but I never knew where.

'Anyway, a week or two back, Roy starts acting
really strange. Turning up late, shutting himself in
his office, not getting involved in the running of the
business. I asked him what was wrong but he just
brushed me off. Then a few days back our chief
doorman dropped dead, and it turns out he was
poisoned.'

'Poisoned? I'd forgotten you killed people like
that.'

That's what the law said. And when Roy heard
about it, it really set him off. He was jittery enough
before, but after that he was all over the place, like
he was next or something. But still he didn't want
to talk about it.

Then one night after we'd shut, I found him in
his office, drunk or coked up or something. I told
him he was going to have to tell me what was
wrong, that he couldn't carry on like he was, and
that's when I think he realized he was going to have
to say something to someone. So he told me. He
told me all about the dealing, how it was organized,
what was going on. He sounded really gutted, like
he didn't want to be involved.' Lying bastard, I

93
thought, but didn't say anything. 'But the thing
was, that wasn't the worst of it. He was skimming
them. These associates of his. Taking more than his
cut of the profits. A lot more.'

'How the hell did he think he was going to get
away with that?'

She shook her head. 'He told me he was using the
money to invest in something - and he wouldn't
tell me what that something was - that would
double or triple the cash he put in. Then, with that
other cash he'd made from it, he'd pay these people
what he owed them and get them out of his hair for
ever.'

'Except it didn't work.'

'No. The investment never came through and
they found out about the skimming before Roy
made his cash. On the night I talked to him in his
office, he'd been told by them that they knew what
he'd been doing and that they wanted the money
back with a hundred per cent interest, or they
wanted the club. Roy was scared shitless. He didn't
have the readies and he didn't want to give up the
club. It would have left him with nothing. He'd
asked them for an extension on the debt so that he
could get himself sorted out, but they weren't
interested. They're not the sort of people who
specialize in being helpful.'

The bet they're not.'

'When he talked to me he said they'd given him
three days to come up with one or the other. The
club or the money. He told me that even if he
handed over the deeds to Arcadia, he still reckoned
there was no guarantee they wouldn't break his

94
legs for fucking them about. Or even kill him. He
said that if he was going to go and see them, then
he wanted back-up, but didn't know where he was
going to get it from. He didn't know who out of the
door staff would stand up for him and wasn't going
to count on any of them. So he asked me if I knew
of anyone independent, some security company
;vho could be relied upon to provide him with a
decent escort.'

'Why did he ask you?'

She shrugged. 'I don't think he knew where else
to turn. We've worked together a while and I think
he trusted me.'

I finished my coffee and put it on the glass coffee
U;ble next to me. 'And you said you'd see what you
could do?'

She took a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag
and offered me one. It had been a month since I'd
quit but for the last few hours I'd known it was
never going to last. The way things were going,
living to a ripe old age with healthy lungs was the
least of my concerns.

'Cheers,' I said, and took one.

She lit it for me with a thin black lighter, then lit
her own and sat back in her seat, crossing her
shapely legs and blowing smoke towards the
ceiling. The dress rode up provocatively and I tried
hard, but without much success, to ignore it. 'What
choice did I have?' she asked. 'I didn't want to get
involved, course I didn't, but he's been good to me
since I've been working for him, and the least I
could do was try to help out. So I spoke to Johnny
and he spoke to Roy and it sounds like he put Roy

95
I

in touch with you. I'm sorry about what happened
but, you know, I had no idea it would end like this.'

'Forget it. It wasn't your fault. But I've got to be
honest with you, there's a serious ring of bullshit
about what he was telling you.'

'Look, I--' '=*

Teah, I know, I know. You're telling me the
truth.'

'I am.'

I'm sure you are, but there's got to be a lot more
to it than that. If Fowler was carrying the deeds to
the club in the case he took to that meeting, then
why kill him before he's signed them over? And, in
fact, why kill him at all? Particularly when he's got
people with him. There's a lot of unanswered
questions.' I was silent for a moment. 'But at least
there's one you can answer.'

'I've told you, Max. Don't get involved. It's not
worth it.' She stared me down as she spoke, in the
way my mum used to do. The expression said:
Don't argue. I thought she'd have probably made a
good Miss Whiplash, and a lot of judges and
politicians would have paid good money to be
dominated by someone as good-looking as her,
but I really wasn't in the mood to be told what to
do.

'I want to know who killed my friend, Elaine.
And who tried to kill me.'

'Why? It won't help you. I promise you, there's
nothing you can do.'

'Just tell me.'

She stared straight at me. The Holtzes.'

That stopped me dead.

96
'You know who they are, don't you?'

'Yeah, I know the Holtzes.'

Everyone who was anyone in that part of town
loiew the Holtzes, or who they were anyway. Led
by their reclusive founder, Stefan, who was now on
the wrong end of middle age, they were one of
north London's premier crime families, rulers of a
criminal empire that was worth tens of millions.
And evil bastards, too. Word had it that they'd been
involved in dozens of murders as they'd fought to
stay at the top, but, even after years of police
attention, they remained intact. If anyone could
have staged what had happened the previous
night, it was the Holtzes.

Flaine sighed. 'So, now you see why I said don't to,.i involved.'

'Jesus/ I said, as reality sank in. 'No wonder I
almost got killed.'

'I didn't mean to make you a part of it,' she said
defensively. 'I didn't know it would be you, and I
honestly didn't think that they'd stoop to killing
him, or your friend.'

'It's the Holtzes, for Christ's sake. They're
capable of anything.'

She shook her head wearily. 'Fuck, what a mess.
What the hell am I going to do now?'

'Keep quiet about it. That's the best thing. If they
find out you knew too much about what was going
on, well...' I tailed off, knowing I'd made my
point. 'Anyway, I'm the one who's got things to
worry about. Not only am I on the run through no
fault of my own, I'm a witness, too. I saw two men
die. The law are going to be very interested in

97
getting me to talk. The Holtzes are going to be very
interested in making sure I don't.'

'But you couldn't pin anything on them, could
you? It was your friend, Tony, who did the actual
shooting, so he's the only one who could actually
get in any trouble.'

'Maybe, maybe not. The thing is, they might not
see it like that. Especially if the coppers manage to
trace the blood on the back seat of my car back
to Fowler. If that gets public then I'm going to be on
the Holtzes' hitlist, aren't I? As well as everyone
else's.'

We didn't speak for a few moments. She sat
there, watching me now, puffing on her cigarette. It
was difficult to tell what she was thinking behind
the dark eyes.

'I feel partly responsible for what happened/ she
said eventually. I didn't bother telling her that she
was partly responsible. At that moment I needed all
the friends I could get. 'You can stay here for a
couple of days if you want, until things die down/

Thanks/ I said, 'I appreciate it.'

'Do you want a drink? A proper one?'

'Yeah, I think I need one. What have you got?'

'Most things. What do you want?'

'A brandy, please. And a beer, too, if that's all
right.' I thought that I might as well take advantage
of the hospitality on offer, not sure how long it was
going to be lasting. She didn't look like she'd taken
offence and smiled as she got up and kicked off her
shoes. Her toenails were painted a bright red,
which they always say is a sign of passion. I began
to stop thinking about my current woes and instead

98
concentrated on more immediate possibilities.

She went into the kitchen to make up the drinks
and I took my shoe off and casually followed her in.
'You're looking really good, you know/ I said,
thinking that I was going to have to buy a book on
chat-up lines or at least put more thought into
them. The thing is, I've always been a man who
preferred the more direct approach. If I thought I
vets in with a chance - and to be honest with you,
I reckoned Elaine owed me one - I tended to go
straight in for the kill.

Thanks/ she said, pouring the brandies. 'You're
not looking so bad yourself. You seem to have
improved with age.' She gave me a quick onceover,
like she was checking out a dress. 'You've
uuiked out as well. It suits you. You were always a
bit too skinny in school.'

Cheeky mare.

I took the brandy with one hand and moved the
other round towards her shapely rear, thinking that
I was taking a bit of a risk here, since she didn't
seem like the sort of person who'd suffer unwanted
attentions in silence, and if she kicked me out I
really was bolloxed because I had pretty much
nowhere else to go. But as the hand made contact,
and I gave the left cheek a gentle stroke, she shot
me a look that said that after all the fucking
mishaps of the day - and by God there'd been a few
- I'd finally struck gold. Our lips met Mills and
Boon style and her fingers crept up my inner thigh.

Not everything had changed since school, then.

99
Saturday, fifteen days ago

Gallan

'Do you ever stop work, Sarge?' asked Benin,
nursing his black coffee. Turning up at the Arcadia
on your tod at half eleven at night, getting involved
in a scuffle, and then coming to work next morning.
That's the sort of thing you're meant to do when
you're like eighteen, isn't it?'

'I was trying to recapture the fading spirit of
youth. I won't be trying again for a while.'

'So, did you get anything else from Elaine Toms?'

'Nothing of any use. She said she hadn't heard a
word from Fowler, and she claimed she didn't
know who Max Iversson was.'

'Do you believe her?'

I shrugged. 'I don't know. I didn't see him with
her so she could be telling the truth. There just
seemed something a bit coincidental about it.'

It was nine o'clock on Saturday morning and
Benin and I were the only people in the Matthews
incident room. I hadn't left the club until quarter to
one and I was tired. However, I didn't look as bad

100
as Benin, who was carrying a mean hangover, and
vvhose breath smelled of long-dead fish. About the
only thing he'd got remotely enthusiastic about in
the ten minutes since we'd got in was the altercation
I'd had with Iversson. He'd found it
particularly amusing that the ex-para had chucked
someone at me while they'd still been taking a leak.
'Simple but very effective, I should think,' was how
Ivj'd summed it up. Fair enough, I suppose. He was
right.

It was day six of the heatwave and day seven of
the Matthews murder inquiry, and we had plenty
to keep us busy. Knox, who wasn't coming in until
later, had dropped on my desk a note with a photograph
of a hard-looking blonde with Myra
i iiiidley's haircut and the same sort of amiable,
light-up-the-world expression. The note identified
her as Jean Tanner, a former call-girl, two of whose
partial prints had been recovered from Matthews's
flat, one of them on a coffee mug, suggesting she'd
been more than simply a passing punter after some
gear. Knox had supplied us with the address,
somewhere up in Finchley, and had instructed us to
go round, take a statement from her and find out
what she'd been up to there. Like a lot of the work
on a murder investigation it was routine stuff, but
something that had to be done. He signed off by
telling us to continue trying to track down Fowler,
whose prints had also been found on a number of
items in Matthews's flat, even though he'd claimed
the two had never socialized.

Before we collared Ms Tanner, we drove over
to the Priory Green estate to show her photo to

101
Matthews's neighbours and see if she was the
blonde woman identified by two of them as having
gone to his flat more than once in the past few
weeks. This, at least, would give us something to
throw at her if, for some reason, she proved
uncooperative.

The estate itself, a medium-rise collection of red
and greybrick buildings just north of the NatWest
building on Pentonville Road, was leafy, quiet and
relatively well kept. A few years earlier it had
received a large cheque from the National Lottery's
Heritage Fund to spruce things up, and there was
still a lot of building work going on. So far the
money looked to have been pretty well spent,
which isn't always the case with construction
projects. Priory Green had none of the menace of so
many of London's sixties- and seventies-designed
council estates, those graffiti-stained fortresses with
their mazes of darkened walkways so beloved of
muggers everywhere, that for a copper always feel
like enemy territory. Bad things might have gone
on here, but they were done in quite a pleasant
setting.

Things got off to a good start as well. Both the
witnesses - a young black woman with a very fat
baby and several other yowling kids in the background,
and an elderly man who insisted on
haranguing us about the estate's supposed litter
problem - were in residence and able to confirm
that they'd seen the woman in the photo going
either in or out of the flat on several occasions,
though not in the past couple of weeks. The elderly
man thought he might have seen her three times,

102
but he couldn't be sure. While we were there we
knocked on a few other doors to see if we could jog
some memories but, where anyone bothered to
answer, we were given the kind of welcome usually
reserved for Jehovah's Witnesses, and no-one could
provide any help.

I wasn't sure how much use it was finding out
that Jean Tanner, ex or current prostitute, had
vi'itcd the flat of a known drug dealer on more than one occasion, even if he had supplied her with
coffee, but at least it was something. However, our
good fortune, if good fortune it could be called,
didn't last very long. On the way to Jean's place
there was an accident on the Caledonian Road that
held us up for getting close to half an hour in
^..aJily increasing heat. Then Berrin, who was
in charge of navigation on the basis that I didn't
trust him behind the wheel in the state he was in,
got us lost in the backstreets of East Finchley. By the
time we finally tracked down the address - a flat in
an ultra-modern, heavily alarmed four-storey block
that sat like an eyesore between the Georgian townhouses
on either side of it - it was almost half
eleven. And, after all that, she wasn't in.

We had six more addresses to visit that day, all of
them doormen who had worked at one time or
another in the past six months at Arcadia. The list
had been supplied by the proprietor of Elite A, a Mr
Warren Case, himself a one-time doorman. We'd
interviewed Case, who could fairly be described as
a man of many sovereign rings, the previous afternoon
at his home, an untidy third-floor flat in
Barnsbury which also doubled as Elite A's offices.

103
Case had shown us Elite A's certificate of incorporation
and VAT registration both with his name on
it, and had provided us with a list containing nine
names. Two of them had already been interviewed
during the course of the investigation, and another
had left the country for Australia more than a
month before the murder and was, as far as Case
knew, still there. He'd given us the addresses of
everyone else and then we'd been on our way. As
we'd left, I'd asked him how well he'd known Roy
Fowler. 'Well enough to know that he was a slimy
cunt,' he'd replied evenly. Which was probably a
fair enough description, but made me think that if
you've got a man like Case saying that about you,
then you've really got problems. Although, of
course, at that time I didn't know the half of it.

We hadn't phoned ahead to warn any of the
interviewees we were coming, which was not
untypical practice in a murder inquiry. It was
unlikely that any of them would know anything of
real help, but if they did and they didn't want to
talk, a surprise visit would help to prevent them
making up a convenient story. However, it also
meant that, like Jean Tanner, they might not be
there when we called, particularly on a hot
summer's day like this one, and not surprisingly
the first two on the list weren't, while the third was
just going out as we arrived. He'd only worked
with Matthews on a handful of occasions, and
claimed he couldn't really recall too much about
him. 'He was a bit of a wanker, I remember that
much,' he told us, which wasn't exactly news. Him
and Fowler must have been a right pair of cards.

104
By the time we left him it was gone one o'clock
and food called. We stopped at a Greek-owned
sandwich place off the Finchley Road, and ate in
relative silence, both feeling worn down by the
drudgery of detective work.

'You know, don't get me wrong, Sarge,' said
Berrin between mouthfuls of turkey, salad and mayo
baguette, 'but I thought that there'd be more excite
Uitiu to murder investigations. I don't mean that it
should be fun or anything, but it just seems to be the
same sort of monotony that you always get.'

I chewed thoughtfully on my ham and pickle
sandwich. It was quite tasty except for the fact there
was too much fat on the ham. 'Dave, if it was really
like it was on The Sweeney, no-one would ever
leave, would they?'

'I know. I just wish it felt like we were getting
somewhere, that's all.'

He had a point, and at that moment I felt the
same way. It would have been a good day to sit out
in the garden with a decent book, catching a bit of
sun and letting the world drift idly by. Or maybe
even to take my daughter out somewhere, making
the most of the fact that she was still young enough
not to look at me with a teenager's wincing embarrassment.
But I'd learnt long ago that you don't
do policework for the laughs or the job satisfaction.
You do it for the desire to put away criminals,
which basically is an end in itself. I could see,
though, that Benin, who was still new enough to
think there was a lot more to it than that, was
flagging and needed a bit of an interest injection.

'This Jean Tanner's got herself a nice pad,' I said,

105
taking a sip from my mineral water and wishing it
was beer. 'How much do you reckon it's worth?'

'Just the location's got to be worth a fair bit. The
thing is, we don't know what her actual place is
like.' *

'Well, say it's a one-bedroom flat. It's a nice area
of Finchley, it's still got to be worth - shit, I'm no
estate agent, help me out here.'

Two hundred grand. Maybe more.'

'And it's probably bigger than one bedroom. I
don't reckon we'd be looking much short of two
fifty. That's a lot of money for a prostitute, the type
who hangs about with a lowlife like Shaun
Matthews. Particularly if she's got a drugs habit.'

'So what are you saying?'

And this was where the interest went out of the
injection. 'I don't know/ I said. 'It just seems odd.'

The fourth address was on a residential road of rundown
whitebrick terraces, less than half a mile
away from Highbury stadium. The traffic was
appalling on the way there, mainly due to the fact
that Arsenal were playing at home, and it was half
two and about ninety degrees when we finally
parked up almost directly outside the lower
ground-floor flat of Craig McBride. According to
Case, McBride had worked for Elite A for the best
part of a year in a freelance capacity and was still
used by them at fairly regular intervals. He was
twenty-seven years old and had prior convictions
for ABH, threatening behaviour, theft, and
possession of Class A and B drugs, a fact that had
been discovered when we'd run his name through

106
the computer. It wasn't strictly legal any more for
someone with his record to be employed as a doorman,
unless he'd somehow convinced the council
that he was a reformed character, which I doubted.
But I knew it happened, and for the moment it
wasn't worth taking the matter up with Warren
Case.

A set of greasy steps led down to McBride's
abode. The front door was shabby, the once-white
paint peeling off in strips to reveal dull-coloured
wood beneath, while an ancient-looking hanging
basket containing nothing but dry earth and a
cluster of weeds hung limply from one of the outside
walls. There was a small dirty window to the
light of the door. I wondered briefly whether it had
ever been cleaned. It didn't look like it.
Straightening my tie, I peered through it and immediately
my spirits lifted. Eureka. Just what we
needed.

Within a Western country's somewhat limited
means of coercion, there's no surer way of getting
someone to talk than to give them the alternative of
criminal charges, and it looked like Craig McBride
was indulging in an activity that left him very
much exposed to the latter. Even through the
stains on the window, I could clearly make him out
sitting on a sofa in his front room behind a coffee
table on which a plate piled with white powder was
sat. Next to the plate was a large tub of baking soda,
and next to that were small transparent plastic
wraps, each containing more of the powder.
Sherlock that I was, I hazarded a guess that the
contents of each one weighed pretty much exactly a

107
1»

gram. McBride himself, dressed only in a pair of 5
shorts, was leaning forward, head down, fiddling w
with what looked like a small electronic weighing It
machine. As if confirmation of what he was doing If
was needed. Criminal mastermind young Craig ^
was not. He might as well have put up a sign on the ||
road saying 'Drugs this way7, such was his total fl
and utter recklessness. Never underestimate the % stupidity of criminals. Sometimes it's the only thing
that keeps a lot of us going. *

I turned to Benin, put a finger to my lips, and
motioned for him to have a look. Benin peered in,
then stepped back, smiling. 'It seems a shame to
disturb him,' he whispered. 'He looks so busy. Do
you think it's worth knocking on the window?'

I shook my head. 'No, he might make a dash for
it, or put up some resistance. Let's spring it on him Jj^ once we're inside.' I stepped forward and knocked i
hard on the door. J|

There was no immediate answer, which was to be
expected. He would now be desperately trying to
hide the stuff before someone spotted him through
the window. I gave him a few seconds, then
knocked again. This time, I motioned for Benin to
take a look through the window, knowing that we
had to play this right. I wanted McBride to see
Benin but not me (I looked too much like a copper),
but I also wanted him to see him after he'd got rid
of the stuff. That way he'd probably open the door.

As it turned out, we timed it perfectly. I stood
back and watched while Benin gave him a friendly
wave and a smile through the window, like a particularly
enthusiastic door-to-door salesman, before

108
receiving a muffled 'Who the fuck are you?' in
return. Benin just kept smiling and moved away
from the window.
By the time the front door opened a few seconds
later and McBride's head appeared round it,
already mouthing abuse, we'd removed our
warrant cards and were lifting them for him to see.
His eyes widened momentarily and I spoke quickly
upfore he thought about making a dash for it. 'Mr
McBride? We're here to ask you a few questions
regarding the murder of Shaun Matthews.'

He looked nervous, which was to be expected.
'Who?'

'Shaun Matthews. I believe you worked with him
on a number of occasions on the door of the Arcadia
..;6htclub/

'Oh yeah, yeah, Shaun. That's right.'

'Can we come in?' I said, pushing the door open
and stepping confidently over the threshold like I
owned the place.

McBride tried to stand his ground, but without a
great deal of success. 'Look, it's not a good time
right now.'

'It won't take more than a few minutes,' said
Berrin, pushing his way in behind me.

'Oi, you can't come barging in like this. Don't
you need a warrant?'

I smiled and looked him directly in the eye, an
easy feat since we were only inches apart. 'Why?
Have you got something to hide, Mr McBride?'

'No, course not.'

'So what's the problem?'

'I'm just going out. Can't you come back later?'

109
But he spoke this last sentence with defeat on hisi
breath, and I knew we had him.

'We'll be very unhappy if we have to come back
later, Mr McBride,' I said, 'and we'll be asking ourselves
why you wouldn't let us in, and that might
mean we have to investigate you further.'

'All right, all right, you win.' He moved away
from the door and led us through the cramped hallway
and into the kitchen, well away from the room *
where he'd been dividing the drugs.

The kitchen was a mess with a big pile of empty
plates and cups in the sink. The tops were dirty and
there was a vague smell of grease in the stale air. He
leant back against one of the tops while we stood in
the middle of the floor facing him. 'Ask away/ he
said, seemingly a little more confident now.
Probably thinking what he was going to tell his
friends about this near miss and how stupid the
coppers were for not having a clue what he'd been
up to when they arrived. I decided to put a pin in
his balloon and establish control immediately.

'We'll level with you, Mr McBride. This is a
murder investigation, so it's information relating to
the murder that we're interested in, nothing else.
The fact that you've got a load of white powder
hidden somewhere in your sitting room, and that
that white powder's very likely a Class A substance,
and that possession of such powder with
intent to supply is an offence which always ends in
a substantial custodial sentence, particularly for
someone who already has a lengthy criminal
record' - the blood was draining from McBride's
face and his body had tensed - 'is not our primary

110
concern. However, if you don't answer our
questions truthfully, then we may suddenly
become very interested in that white powder and
what it represents. Do we make ourselves clear?'

McBride looked like he was weighing his
options. The tension in his muscles did not bode
well. Even the tattoos on his arms were rippling.

'Now, you could try and make a break for it.
You're a big man, you might even make it. But then
we'll have the drugs and we'll put out a warrant for
your arrest, and you'll get caught, and then you're
in a position one hell of a lot worse than if you
simply stay here and answer our questions. Do
von understand what I'm saying?'

How do I know you won't charge me anyway,
whatever I say?'

I've just told you why. Now let's do this interview
somewhere a bit more comfortable. Your
drugs den'll do.' McBride started to say something
but I wasn't listening. I turned and walked back
towards the front room, with Benin in tow.

We both sat down on the sofa and motioned for
McBride to sit on a chair opposite. He did as he was
told, his expression that of a man gutted to have
been caught out in such a stupid way.

'All right,' I said. 'How well did you know Shaun
Matthews?'

He didn't answer us for a couple of moments as
he continued to weigh his options. I looked
casually down over the side of the sofa to where the
tin of gear, the individual wraps, the baking soda
and the scales had been hastily stashed. It seemed
to do the trick. 'OK, I suppose.'

Ill
Berrin consulted his trusty notebook. 'You
worked the door at the Arcadia on sixteen separate
occasions in the three months prior to Mr
Matthews's death. I expect it's fair to say that he
was there on most of those occasions, as he was the
chief doorman.'

'Yeah, I knew him quite well. He was all right.
Fancied himself a bit, but all right.'

'He was the main dealer in the place, wasn't he?'
I said.

'Look, I don't want any of this getting back to
me

Once again, I looked over the side of the sofa at
the incriminating evidence. 'I don't really think
you've got a lot of choice, Mr McBride. Not
unless you don't mind spending the next couple of
years behind bars, wondering why you're the only
person left who still believes in that outdated
concept of honour among thieves.'

'OK, OK, yeah. He was the main dealer in the
place. He ran it all on the floor.'

'How did it work?' asked Berrin.

'Basically, all the doormen were dealers. Not big
time, mind. But we were allowed to supply.'

'By whom?'

'The management.'

'Roy Fowler, yeah?'

'Yeah, him.'

'Carry on,' I told him.

'We had the monopoly on the place. If anyone
else was caught dealing in there, they got a serious
kicking. What happened was that it was common
knowledge among all the punters that the doormen

112
were the people to go to when you wanted something.
You couldn't just keep going up to the
entrance and asking for stuff, so if someone wanted
to buy something they asked the doormen inside
the building, you know, who were patrolling
the dance floor and that. They didn't usually carry
anything on them, just in case it was undercover
coppers, but if they were happy with the buyer,
they'd give their order to Fowler or Matthews, or
one of the other staff, and they'd go off and get the
gear. The doorman doing the selling would pocket
the cash and then, at the end of the night, everything
would get divvied up. Fowler got eighty per
cent of everything you sold, that was the going rate, you got the rest.'

'And was business good?' asked Berrin.
McBride nodded. 'Not bad.'
'How much would you make in a night?'
'A couple of hundred on a good one.'
Berrin whistled through his lips. That's a lot of
money, especially for the bloke taking the eighty
per cent.'

'Did all the doormen get an opportunity to make
that much money?'

'Yeah, we took it in turns to walk the club.'
I thought about this for a moment. If McBride
was to be believed the club was turning over some
serious drugs cash every night. I did the sums in
my head. It was more than enough to kill for.
The Holtzes own the Arcadia, don't they?'
McBride's face experienced a passing shadow of
fear. Quick, but noticeable. 'It's Roy Fowler, as far
as I know.'

113
'Who owns Elite A?'

'Warren Case.'

I sighed. 'You're not really helping us very much,
Mr McBride. I know that it's Warren Case's name
on the company's certificate of incorporation, but I
want to know who really owns it. Who takes the
profits.'

'I honestly don't know. I just work for them.'

Once again, my eyes drifted towards the drugs.
'What is this stuff? Speed or coke?'

'It's speed.'

'Looks like a fair amount of it.'

'Drugs Squad'll be interested,' mused Benin.

'Very.'

McBride was sweating. It might have been a hot
day but his nerves were unmistakable. He knew he
had to talk but the prospect was scaring him.
'Listen, I've told you the truth. I don't know who
owns it. A couple of times this geezer would turn
up at Elite A and come in and talk to Case, and once
I saw him leaving with this big holdall. I heard him
say something to Case, you know just joking, saying
that he must have done well that week.'

'So it's fair to assume that the holdall contained
money?' McBride nodded. 'But I'm a bit confused
here. You said Fowler made eighty per cent of the
takings and the individual doormen made the other
twenty per cent. So where did all these holdalls of
cash at Elite come from?'

'From what I've been told, Fowler took the
money and checked it, but he didn't keep it all.
Most of it went back to Elite.'

'Which means that Elite and Arcadia were very

114
closely linked, wouldn't you say?' McBride gave a
very reluctant nod. This man you saw at Elite's
offices, who was he?'

'Jack Meniweather.'

'Well, well, well.'

Jack Merriweather. Better known, at least behind
his back, as Jackie Slap, on account of his shiny
Mekon-style bald pate, itself the result of a sudden
feenage attack of alopecia. The story went that at
the age of sixteen young Jackie had been forced to
share a cell in a detention centre with a powerfully
built homosexual named Lennie, and such had
been the stress of having to fend off Lennie's
unwanted advances that he'd lost all his hair. At the
time it had made the news, because there was a
„! of controversy over the 'short sharp shock'
method of teenage incarceration. One wag had
suggested renaming it the 'short sharp slap', and
for Jackie at least the name had stuck.

Nobody took the piss out of Jack Merriweather
any more though. Not now he was a part of Stefan
Holtz's crime organization. It also answered at least
one question about who really ran things at
Arcadia. Merriweather worked directly for Neil
Vamen, who was one of Holtz's closest associates,
in many ways his eyes and ears in the outside
world now that the big boss had become something
of a recluse. I'd met Vamen once a few months
earlier when we'd interviewed him after his name
had come up in connection with a box of twelve
Kalashnikov rifles that had been discovered at
Gatwick Airport. A short, barrel-bodied individual
with thinning hair and striking turquoise eyes, he

115
1

was good-looking in a thuggish sort of way. And
very polite, too, I remember that. Someone in CID
had once said that Neil Vamen put the manners
back into murder, and, I had to admit, there was
definitely something charismatic about him. But,
like all these blokes, you had this feeling that if you
crossed him you'd pay dearly for it, and he'd been
linked to more than one murder, including that of a
young female accountant who knew a little too
much (nothing ever proved, of course, he was far
too canny for that), which to me sort of took a bit of
the gloss off the image of Raffles, the gentleman
gangster. It fitted with his way of doing things that
he used Merriweather to collect the money. The
truly successful criminals never get their hands
dirty.

'I presume you're aware that Jack Merriweather
works for the Holtzes?'

Tve heard that, yeah.'

'So it's probably safe to assume that the Holtzes f
own Elite A and therefore almost certainly own
Arcadia, isn't it?'

'Are you asking me or telling me?' he said, using
the same phrase Elaine Toms had used the previous
day.

'Don't fuck us about, McBride/ I told him coldly.
'We're only talking in your front room because at
the moment we're giving you the benefit of the
doubt. However, so far you've told us absolutely
nothing that we didn't know already, so you're still
looking at a nice long spell in the nick. Now, answer
my question unless you want to continue this interview
down the station.'

116
'All right, yeah, I suppose it's safe to assume. I
didn't know for sure he owned the place ... both
places ... but there were rumours. I don't like to
ask too many questions about that sort of thing.
You know, I don't want to get on the wrong side of
Stefan Holtz.'

I changed tack. 'How well did you know Shaun
Matthews? Honestly.'

'I got on all right with him. I knew him a bit, you
know.'

'Did you ever socialize with him outside work?'

McBride paused before answering, at the same
time breaking eye contact with me. 'A couple of
times, yeah,' he said eventually. T/Ve was both ex
army so I think he thought we had something in
;.'.>mmon. Most of the other blokes didn't really like
him much.'

'Why not?' asked Benin.

'Well, like I said, he rated himself. Threw his
weight about a bit, and he could get nasty if he
thought anyone was holding back on money owed
to the club.'

'Did he ever upset one particular person more
than any of the others? Enough to give them a
motive for killing him?'

'He had a run-in with one geezer, one of the
permanent doormen, John Harris. John was getting
a blowjob in the bogs from one of the punters when
he should have been out on the floor. I don't think
it would have mattered - you know, that sort of
thing goes on a lot. The birds are attracted to doormen,
aren't they?'

'I wouldn't know,' I said, hoping my daughter

117
would never flutter her eyelashes at a lowlife like
McBride.

TBut the thing was, he did it quite a lot. He was
always poking the punters, sometimes two at a
time, and the thing was he had, you know, staying
power, so he could be at it for fifteen, twenty
minutes, sometimes even longer. Which I suppose
is why they liked him. Anyway, Shaun had just had
enough that night so he went charging into the
Gents, kicked open the door, and dragged John out
by his dick. John didn't know what had hit him you
know, element of surprise and all that - and he
got a fair old slap. Broken nose, couple of black
eyes. Nothing serious, but I think it was the humiliation
of it. Shaun marched him through the whole
club with his trousers still half hanging down, and
booted him out the door. Told him to come back
when he'd got his sex drive under control.'

'And did he come back?'

'Not after that. Well, you wouldn't, would you?
Not after someone's taken those sort of liberties
with you.'

'When did this incident take place?' asked Benin.

McBride shrugged noncommittally. 'A couple of
months back. Something like that.'

Benin and I looked at each other. We hadn't
heard about this run-in with John Harris, but then
no-one at Arcadia was going out of their way to be
of help. Benin made a note in his notebook. We'd
track down the sexually energetic Mr Harris later.

T>id Shaun Matthews ever discuss with you any
problems he had with anyone, problems that might
have resulted in someone wanting to kill him?'

118
McBride shook his head. 'I know he dealt a fair
bit on the side, and I don't think he had too much
in the way of respect for the punters buying off
him. He told me a couple of times that he used to
mix his gear pretty heavily, but he never seemed
to worry too much that anyone'd come back and
give him any grief about it. He said he'd just tell
them to fuck off if they did. That was the thing with
Shaun: he wasn't really scared of no-one. He
always thought he was hard enough to get himself
out of any shit that came his way. You know what I
mean?'

i knew exactly what he meant. Plenty of
criminals are like that, too cocky to realize they're
walking on quicksand. Matthews was only the
latest in a long line of those who found out too late,
if they found out at all, that they weren't as invincible
as they'd thought. 'We're aware of one
particular incident where he dangled a man by the
ankles over the balcony of his flat. Do you know
anything about that?'

McBride tried without success to stifle a laugh.
Teah, I remember him saying something about that
one. I think the geezer was a student or something.
Shaun sold him some stuff that was meant to be
skunk but he'd got it cheap off some Moroccan
geezer because it was so shit. Apparently, all it did
was give you a sore throat. The bloke tried to get his
money back and Shaun demonstrated his refunds
policy. I don't think he came back again.'

'Have you got a name for this student?' asked
Benin.

He shook his head. 'No. He just told me the story

119
r

f

when we was out one night. I think he said the ~
bloke might have gone to City and Islington, but I
couldn't say for sure.'

'Did Matthews ever say anything to you about
ripping off the Holtzes?'

McBride gave me a withering look. 'Shaun might
have been a bit of a headcase, and a bit of a wanker
if you're honest about it, but he wasn't totally
fucking stupid. He wouldn't have ripped off people
like the Holtzes, and if he had, he wouldn't have
said nothing about it. Not to no-one.'

I sat forward in my seat and stared hard at him. I
don't like getting withering looks from smalltime
crooks who've got little but not-so-fresh air
between their ears. 'You're still not helping us
much, Craig. And you're not giving us any reason
to walk out of here and forget that you're sitting on
a pile of dope that most assuredly is not for
personal consumption. Are you?'

'Look, I don't know who killed him. Honest. You
know, what the fuck can I do about that? I can't
make it up, can I?'

'Several witnesses reported seeing Matthews
with a woman with short blonde hair on a number
of occasions. We think they may have been
romantically linked. She certainly used to visit him
at his flat. We've now identified her as Jean Tanner.
Here's a photo of her. Not the most flattering one,
but mugshots never are.' I took it out of my pocket
and handed it to him. He looked at it quickly, then
handed it back, shaking his head. Td like to think,
for your sake/ I continued, 'that you can tell me
what her relationship was with Mr Matthews.'

120
McBride made a number of noises suggesting he
was thinking hard but they weren't particularly
convincing. 'He might have mentioned something
once, about some girl he was seeing, but he didn't
really say anything about--'

'Craig McBride, I'm arresting you on suspicion of
possession of Class A--'

'All right, all right, hold on. Don't be hasty.'

'What do you mean, don't be hasty? I could grow
a beard waiting for you to tell me anything.'

'Look, I don't want any of this getting back to me.
Seriously'

'Any of what?'

McBride put his head in his hands, then removed
[hern and exhaled loudly. 'Any of what I'm going to
tell you.'

I didn't get too excited. 'We'll treat it as an anonymous
source if it's applicable,' I said. 'Now, I
suggest you get on with it.'

'Shaun had a girlfriend, a girl he'd been seeing
for a few months, and her name was Jean, but I
don't know what her second name was. The thing
was it was all really hush hush. I'm surprised anyone
saw them together. He only told me about
it one night after he'd had too much gear and drink.
I think he wanted some advice.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, this girl, and I think it must be the same
one, she was sort of already spoken for. She was
seeing Shaun on the side.'

'It happens,' I said.

'Not to Neil Vamen it doesn't.'

Once again, Berrin and I looked at each other.

121
This certainly put a new angle on the whole thing.
The gentleman gangster. 'You're telling us she was
Neil Vamen's girlfriend?'

He nodded. 'That's what Shaun said.'

'Christ/ said Benin. 'No wonder he wanted it
kept quiet. Do you think Vamen found out?'

'I don't know. Honestly.'

'How did Shaun meet her?'

'I heard she used to work as an escort girl for this
agency Roy Fowler runs called Heavenly Girls.
Maybe that's how he met her.' I raised my eyebrows.
This was an interesting one. We hadn't
realized that one of Fowler's sidelines was managing
a brothel.

Berrin finished writing in his notebook and
looked up. 'Neil Vamen's married, isn't he?'

McBride shrugged. 'Yeah, he is, and his missus is
a looker too, but you know what blokes are like.
Especially ones with money. Everyone knows he
plays away from home.'

Berrin looked across at me, waiting to see what
came next. It was difficult to know what more we
could ask McBride, or whether what he'd told us
was enough to get him off the hook.

'One more question,' I said. 'Who did you buy
these drugs from?'

McBride sighed, looked pained for all of about
one second that he was about to betray someone,
then gave us the name of a fairly well-known local
dealer. I knew immediately he was lying. The drugs
had almost certainly come from somewhere within
Stefan Holtz's organization. It was rumoured that
Holtz himself strongly disapproved of drugs and,

122
unlike many underworld figures, had never
touched them himself. However, his people were
responsible for importing one hell of a lot of the
cocaine that passed through London every year, so
his personal stand clearly didn't prevent him helping
to ruin the lives of plenty of other people.

I leant over, picked up the plate of dope and the
individual wraps, and stood up. 'If you hear anything,
anything at all about the murder of Shaun
Matthews, I want to hear about it.' I handed my
card to McBride who accepted it with a relieved
expression on his face.

'Course I will/ he said. Thanks.'

'Where's the toilet in here?' I asked, walking out .-- !.hc room, with Berrin following,

'It's just on the left. What are you going to do
with the gear? I'll give it back, but the thing is I
haven't paid for it yet.'

I went up to the dirty-looking bowl and emptied
the plate into the water, before chucking down the
wraps. I gave it a healthy flush and watched as
most of it disappeared.

T>on't take the piss, Mr McBride,' I told the
distraught-looking doorman as we left his flat.
'We've done you a major favour here.'

When we were back in the car, Berrin gave me a
worried look. 'Was that such a good idea, Sarge?
You know, letting him off like that. We could have
got a lovely little collar there.'

'And it would have just bogged us down in
paperwork, and wouldn't have done anything to
hinder the Holtz supply chain. Sometimes you've
got to let the small fish go so you can get hold of the

123
big ones. But do me a favour and don't say anything
to anyone about it.'

'Course not. Do you think it was worth letting
him go like that, though? Did we get enough out J
of him?' ^,

'We've got other people with motive now, so it's 1
putting us further forward.' *

All we've got to do is find them.'

That, my friend, is what it's all about.'

Iversson

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when I buzzed
Joe up and led him through to the lounge. It was a
stinking hot day and all the windows were open. ,¥ Outside, the traffic rumbled endlessly past. *

'Nice place for a hideout/ he said, dropping on
the floor a bag containing belongings he'd picked
up from my flat. He sat down in one of the leather
chairs, and put the four-pack of beers he'd also
brought down on the glass coffee table. I went and
got a couple of glasses and emptied the contents of
two of the cans into them. 'So, where's the girl?'

'She's gone out/ I said, sitting down opposite
him. 'She'll be back later.'

'And how long's she going to let you stay here
for? I mean, she doesn't even know you, does she?'

'I told you, I went to school with her.'

'But, Max, you're not eighteen. That was a long
time ago now. You haven't seen her in, what?
Twenty years.'

I took a drink from my beer. 'Not that long.'

124
'But long enough. You've got to be careful, lime
changes people. She might just run to the law.'

'She won't.'

'Well, either way she's going to want you out of
here pretty soon, isn't she?'

I nodded, not liking to think about that. After the
sexual athletics of the previous night, I was in no
hurry to go anywhere. 'I suppose so.'

So we've got to discuss what you're going to do.
The police came round to see me this morning, asking
about you. Questions like, what were you doing
driving a car riddled with bullets? And why were
you so keen to make a break for it when you
were stopped for questioning, smacking two
<<n>pers in the process? That sort of thing.'

'What did you tell them?'

'What do you think? I didn't tell them anything,
just said I'd always thought you were pretty
straight, and that I didn't think you were involved
in anything untoward.'

'Do you reckon they believed you?'

He shrugged. 'Difficult to tell. I think so, but you
never know. It helps that you've never been in
trouble before. But they're definitely looking for
you, Max, and that's not good.'

'You don't think they followed you here, do
you?'

He shook his head. 'No, I was careful. Anyway, at
the moment you're probably not a big enough fish
to waste that many resources on. I mean, there's
still no proof you've actually done anything other
than deck a couple of coppers.'

'Fowler bled over the back seat when he died.

125
Not much, and I gave it a fair old scrub afterwards,
but one of the coppers spotted the stain when they
stopped me. I don't know if they can trace it back to
Fowler or not. What do you think?'

He pondered that one for a few moments. 'I
doubt it. If they don't know who Fowler is and
they haven't got a blood sample of his, then I would
have thought you're in the clear.'

I took another drink from my beer. It was going
down well. 'What a fuck-up/ I said, shaking my
head. 'So did you get anything on that bastard Tony? Anything that might explain what the fuck
he thought he was doing?'

'I talked to a few people, other people he'd been
doing work with, but no-one seems to have anything
bad on him. He did some guarding work for
Barry Unwin, looking after wealthy Arabs, and he
even had a stint through Barry as a minder for Geri
Halliwell, and everyone reckoned he did a fine job.
And he'd been with Barry a while, too. More than
two years.'

'Well, something happened. Somewhere down the
line he met someone who was willing to pay him big
money to get involved in some very nasty shit.'

Joe seemed to notice his drink for the first time.
He picked it lip and took a healthy swig. 'How
about you? What did you get?'

I told him what Elaine had told me.

Joe rolled his eyes at the mention of the Holtzes.
'Fucking hell, Max, that's all we need. Let's make
sure we stay well clear of it if it's anything to
do with them. I don't want to get into a confrontation
with people like that.'

126
I knew he was right, and if a man like him was
saying it, then it was best to listen. But the thought
of not doing something to retaliate still pissed me

off.

'Joe, no offence, but I almost got my head blown
off the other night. If I hadn't been carrying, I'd
probably be at the bottom of the Thames now. It's
sort of affected my viewpoint on all this. We also
iujt Eric, and no way did he deserve to go like that.'

'I know he didn't, and apart from anything else
he's going to be difficult to replace. And his ex
missus called in this morning.'

'Shit.'

'Yeah, my sentiments exactly. He was supposed
Jo be looking after two of their grandkids today,
only he hadn't turned up. So she phones, asking me
if we've seen him. Luckily she didn't know he was
working for us Thursday. I said we hadn't clapped
eyes on him since last week.'

'How did she sound?'

'Worried. She said it was totally out of character
for him not to turn up, especially for his grandkids.'

'It would have been. He was always our most
reliable bloke. I can't remember him ever missing a
day. Did she sound like she was going to call,in the
law?'

'Not yet, but she will do eventually, no question.
And that's going to pose a problem because it'll
give them a chance to make a link with you. We've
just got to hope they don't take it too seriously. I
mean, it's not like a kid going missing. This is a
sixteen-stone ex-soldier in his fifties. They may
just conclude he's fucked off on some military

127
adventure, but the problem is, it's all a little bit
coincidental/

I had to agree with him on that one.

'Anyway, the best thing we can do is forget about
everything that's happened and put it down to
experience.'

'It doesn't seem right, letting them get away with

it-'

'This was a professional operation, Max. Three
people dead, but no peep from the press, no sign of
any bodies. No nothing. It's like it never happened. fl
Which is exactly the Holtzes' style. Do you remember
that jeweller out of Hatton Garden, Jon
Kalinski, the one who did a runner with about a
quarter of a million in diamonds? About three years
ago?'

Teah, I remember reading something about it.'
'Well, I heard he didn't do a runner at all. I heard f
it was the Holtzes who had a role in that particular |
disappearance. Apparently he owed Krys Holtz,
Stefan's boy, a lot of money, which was part of some
scam they were both involved in, and Krys was
worried they weren't going to get much of it back.
So he paid one of Kalinski's girlfriends to phone
him up and invite him round to her pad in
Hampstead. When he turned up, Krys and a few of
his associates were waiting for him. They took the
keys to his safe, found out where every penny he'd
stashed was, then killed him. And the girlfriend.
Dismembered them both in the bath tub, cleaned
everything up so there was no trace they'd even
been there, then took the bits out in suitcases in the
middle of the night. Then they went down to

128
Kalinski's place of business and cleaned him out of
everything he owned, and everything he didn't. Do
you know how they got rid of the bits of the
corpses?'

'I'm surprised you do.'

'Well, it might be bullshit, I don't know, but it's
got a ring of truth to it.'

'Go on.'

'You ever wonder where all those thousands of
maggots you get in fishbait come from?'

'No. I can safely say it's never crossed my mind
once.'

'Well, they come from maggot farms, places where
they breed millions of the bastards in these big stink
ii;g rooms. One of the Holtz businesses is a maggot
farm out in Essex. They chucked the body parts in
there and then let the maggots eat them down to the
bones. Then they ground down what was left into
dust, and scattered it to the four winds. And that was
that. No trace. Gone.'

'If they're so secretive, how come you heard
about it?'

'I heard it from a bloke who used to know people
attached to them. A while back. I never thought
about it too much at the time, not until now.'

'And this bloke, isn't it possible to ask him what
all this stuff with Fowler's about?'

Joe managed a humourless smile. 'Not really. The
bloke was Tony.'

'Great.'

The point is, let's just leave it.'

'Don't worry. I think you've convinced me.'

'You're going to need to get out of town for a bit,

129
Max. Probably a couple of months at least. Until
everything dies down.' He reached into the pocket
of his jeans and produced two thick rolls of notes,
which he put down on the table. There's six grand
there. The money from the job the other night. Use
it to rent a place down by the coast or something.'
'I can't take it all, Joe. Three grand of it's yours.'
'And half of Tiger Solutions is yours. Forget it.
It's the least I can do. Let's see how things go and
then, if you need any more, I'll try and pull some
out of the business somehow.'

'Shit, Joe, I don't know what to say.' I leant forward
and picked up the money. "Thanks, mate.
Thanks a lot.'

That's what friends are for, Max. Remember it.'
And I did remember it. Would always remember
it. Me and Joe went back a long, long way. We were
like that, you know. We'd been in the paras together
and, even though Joe had been an officer while I'd
never risen above the level of colour sergeant, we'd
always been mates in a way that rarely travels
across the ranks of the British army. I owed him
now - but then, to be honest with you, I'd always
owed him. You see, a long time back I'd done something
to him that to this day he didn't even know
about, but which meant that one way or another I
was always in his debt.

Joe was two years older than me, and towards
the end of his military career he got married to a
German girl he'd met while we were stationed out
there. Elsa, her name was; twenty-one, far too
good-looking, and with an attitude to sex that
you'd have to say was slap bang on the liberal end

130
of liberal. Why she got married, I'll never know. She
just wasn't cut out for making do with a one-dickandtwo-ball
escort. But the problem with Joe was
the same problem you get with a lot of blokes: he
was just too smitten to notice. I'd heard stories
about her knocking around with other squaddies
all through the engagement, but decided it was best
to keep quiet about it. In the end, it was none of my
business. Joe had made his choice and that was
that. I know that might sound a bit harsh, but in my
experience no-one ever thanks the bearer of bad
news, especially when the bad news is about his
missus and her shenanigans.

Then, a few weeks after the wedding, I ran into
her in a local bar. She was on her own as well,
which was unusual for her. She was quite a looker,
was Elsa. We got talking and she told me
that she and Joe had had an argument. I didn't
mean for anything to happen, you know, but I
offered to walk her home and one thing just led to
another. We did it in a field full of bored-looking
sheep (twice as well) and I knew I should have
just left it at that and hoped nothing was ever said,
but the thing was, Elsa had a way about her that
could really reel a man in. She was addictive,
that was the best way to describe her. We started to
see each other regularly behind Joe's back, doing it
whenever and wherever, including in their marital
bed, which I know was a terrible liberty. I felt guilty
about it, I really did, and jealous, too, because I
knew I wasn't the only one of her lovers. But I just
couldn't stop myself. That's my only defence, if you
can call it that. I just couldn't help myself.

131
Then one day, no more than a couple of months
after that fateful night in the sheep field, Elsa's
partly clothed body was discovered in the grounds
of a local high school. Her head had been smashed
to a pulp with a blunt instrument. There was
a police investigation that initially focused on
the army base and its occupants, particularly the
husband, but quickly spread into the local community
as other lovers came out of the woodwork.
After only three days, an arrest was made. A
nineteen-year-old local bloke, Dietrich Fenzer, had
been seen arguing with her on the night she'd died, ^
not far from where the body was found, and it was \ known that he was one of her lovers. He also had 1
two prior convictions for crimes of violence. A
search of his home revealed the murder weapon, a
small lead-filled cosh, and he was promptly ^ charged. Six months later he was convicted and
sentenced to twenty years in prison, which I'd
always thought was a bit lenient, especially as he'd
probably be out in ten.

The whole thing was extremely hard on Joe, as you
can imagine, but he held up well considering the
humiliation of having your new wife's numerous
affairs aired in public. Thankfully for me, the police
never did dig deep enough to find out about our
little fling, so my friendship with him remained
intact. But the reality was that it was the end of Joe's
army career. He felt that he couldn't continue to
command the respect of his men after what had
happened, and he was probably right, especially
since half of them had shagged her. Within a few
months he'd left the military for good to begin a

132
new career as a security consultant, or, more
accurately in those early days, a gun for hire. For
me, though, the guilt never completely disappeared,
and from then on I always felt that I had
a lot to do to make it up to Joe for betraying him in
such an underhand way. And here he was doing all
this for me. It fair choked me up, to tell you the
truth.

'Are you all right, Max?'

I nodded. 'Yeah, yeah. Just dreaming, that's all.
All this humidity's sending me into a trance.' I
pulled from my pocket a pack of cigarettes Elaine
had bought me that morning.

Joe gave me a dirty look. He was like that, always
v.-anting to make sure I stayed on the straight and
narrow. 'When did you get back on them?' he
asked, not worrying, however, about taking one off
me.

'Well, getting shot at by one of my best
employees started to break my resolve, but then,
after spending most of yesterday running away
from various members of the local law enforcement,
I thought, fuck it, lung cancer's the least of
my worries.'

We both laughed and drained our beers. 'Are you
in a hurry/ I asked him, 'or have you got time for
another one?' It was rare these days that we sat and
socialized, and now I had the feeling that we might
not get the chance for a long time to come. It
seemed important to make the best of things.

He nodded. 'Yeah, course I've got time.'

So I poured the other two beers and we sat back
and smoked and talked about the old days: people

133
r

*
we'd known, experiences we'd shared, places we'd II

served. Only once did things go quiet, when Joe %

mentioned Elsa and his eyes clouded over as he *

thought back to what could have been. And I felt & [

guilty again and hurried on to the next subject, »

maybe just a little bit too quickly. ||

It was early evening and Elaine had yet to reappear
by the time Joe said he had to go, and there was
something a bit gloomy about the formal handshake

we shared. As if we both knew that for some reason * '

nothing between us was ever going to be the same $. i

again. ~

134
Sunday, fourteen days ago

Gallan

The station was quiet that morning. The busiest
night of the week had come and gone and the cells
were slowly being emptied of the drunks, the
brawlers, the low-level dealers and anyone else
unlucky enough to have had their collar felt. It was
another glorious day. The weather woman on
the radio had announced chirpily that it was the
seventh in a row with more than ten hours of
sunshine. Temperatures expected to touch twenty
nine degrees Celsius, eighty-four by the old
measurement. No-one would be working who
didn't have to, even though crime often went up in
heatwaves. Tempers got more frayed, particularly
in an overcrowded city; domestic burglary
increased as people left their windows open at
night. So, too, did rapes, for exactly the same
reason. But who wanted to catch criminals on a hot
August Sunday?

And that was the thing. I did. I wanted to find
out who thought they were clever enough to kill

135
Shaun Matthews and get away with it. I wanted to
prove them wrong.

It didn't seem as though too many of the squad
shared my wish, or were at least prepared to break
their backs over it, and the incident room for the
Matthews murder was empty for the second morning
in a row when I walked into it at just after half
past eight. Benin was expected in, as was DI Capper,
my immediate boss. It didn't surprise me that ^
neither had arrived. Benin had been particularly J
reluctant to work that day because he'd had to break i
a date, and had only had one day off in the previous
fourteen, so it was unlikely he was going to make it
in before nine. As for Capper, he was never on time
if his superiors weren't working. Which was the i
bloke all over. It was a testimony to his arse-licking
skills, and the talent he had for creating a wholly
false image of commitment and hard work, that he
had reached the level of detective inspector on the
back of having absolutely none of the skills required.
He was a detective who couldn't detect, a civil
servant who didn't like to serve, and a man manager
who truly couldn't manage. Every word he ever
uttered reeked of insincerity, and his habit of back
stabbing colleagues was legendary. He had the
luck of the devil, too. His predecessor in the DI's
post had been a guy called Karl Welland, by all
accounts a good no-nonsense copper who'd been
forced to retire after being diagnosed with terminal
cancer, paving the way for Capper to slip into his
shoes in the absence of any other suitable
candidates. Welland had been dead close to a year
now, and Capper continued to thrive in a role

136
he genuinely didn't deserve. Who said life was fair?

There was a message from Knox on my desk,
giving me the telephone number of one of the
station's former CID men, Asif Malik, now of SO7,
Scotland Yard's organized crime unit. Malik had
left months before I'd joined, but I knew of him.
L very one knew of him. He'd been the guy who'd
worked most closely with Dennis Milne, the part
time hitman. From what I heard, Malik had had
nothing to do with any of his former boss's many
crimes and was supposedly as straight as a die, but
after what had happened he'd found it difficult to
i ctiiain at the station, and had transferred to SO7 a
tew months later. Knox hadn't been keen initially to
get SO7 involved in the Matthews murder investigation
because he didn't want control of the case
taken away from him and CID. But when I'd
spoken to him the previous afternoon, he'd been
interested in the Jean Tanner/Neil Vamen lead and
had agreed that someone at SO7, one of whose jobs
it was to keep tabs on organized crime figures in
London, might at least be able to offer some
insights. He'd added on the message (Knox liked
his messages) that we were to continue to try to
locate Fowler and if necessary widen the search for
him, particularly in the light of his continued
absence.

I got myself a coffee and tried Malik's mobile. It
went straight to message so I left one, explaining
who I was and why I was calling, and asking if we
could meet up.

After I'd hung up, I reluctantly phoned my ex
wife. The live-in lover, Mr Crusader, answered,

137
sounding like he'd just woken up. 'It's the man
whose career you fucked,' I told him evenly. 'I'd
like to speak to Cathy, please.' He told me angrily to
try phoning later next time as Sunday was their day
for lying in. 'Just put her on/ I said. 'It's about
Rachel.'

Cathy came on the line sounding equally
knackered and I heard Carrier telling her in the
background that I'd sworn at him. You had to hand
it to the bloke, he was a born whistleblower. There
wasn't a tale he wouldn't tell. Cathy told me that
she thought we'd got over all the childish name
calling and I apologized, thinking that that would
be the easiest tactic, and asked whether I was still
having Rachel the following weekend.

'Well, can you fit it in round your work?' she
asked, with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. 'The last
time you were meant to have her--'

'I know, I know. I'll make sure I've got the time
off. I haven't seen her in close to a month. I won't
let her down.'

'You promise? I'm not having her looking forward
to seeing you and then you dashing her
hopes.'

'He can't be allowed to do that again,' said
Carrier in the background. 'Just because he's
unreliable.'

Not for the first time, I tried to understand what
Cathy saw in the bastard. I'd always thought of her
as a pretty decent judge of character, someone
who knew a creep when she saw one, so it was
doubly disheartening to have my view proved so
emphatically wrong.

138
'I promise/ I said wearily. 'I mean it. I'll come
and get her Friday everting and bring her back
Sunday.'

Thanks, that'd be nice. Come about six, can
you?'

'Sure, six is fine.' I started to say something else
but she cut me short, saying she wanted to get back
to sleep.

'See you on Friday/ she said, trying to sound
pleasant, and hung up, leaving me staring at the
phone and thinking that she never used to lie in
that late on a Sunday.

'Morning, John. Nice to see you in bright and
early.'

I looked up to see Capper come walking in, his
suit jacket slung jauntily over one arm, a cheesy
smile on his face. There were already sweat stains
appearing on the underarms of his faded yellow
shirt. It was, I thought, strange how unpleasant
people often had unpleasant side-effects to their
normal bodily functions. Perhaps it was some sort
of divine justice, a punishment from God. I liked to
think so.

TVIorning, sir.'

'Everything all right?' He motioned towards the
phone and I wondered if the bastard had been
listening in. Probably.

'Fine. And you?'

'Very well. Had a quiet evening in and an early
night for once. Done me the world of good.' He
dropped the jacket at his desk, and walked over to
the kettle. 'Do you want a coffee?'

'No thanks. I've just this minute finished one.'

139
Capper made general small talk as he prepared W
his coffee and waited for the kettle to boil, and I ^ played the game, sounding interested and
occasionally making comments of my own. The ~?
thing about Capper was that he was nice to you if I
he thought you were going to be useful to him and $
he clearly thought I had potential, that maybe I
wasn't going to be stuck under him for ever, which
I suppose was one good thing. I think he also
thought we got on well and, although I couldn't 4,
stand him, it suited me to remain cordial. One thing A I'd learnt in the Force was that you never make
enemies unless you have to. Pragmatism. That was J
what it was all about.

Capper grabbed a chair and sat down on the
other side of my desk with his coffee. 'How did it
go with the doormen yesterday?' he asked, after
explaining that his absence from duty the previous *
day had been down to a 'family matter', whatever w
that was meant to mean. Capper was a bachelor
who looked like the sort of person any right
minded sibling or parent would avoid like greasy
dogshit on the pavement. He sat there now with a
think-of-me-as-one-of-the-guys smile, showing
yellowing teeth, etched firmly on his face.

I gave him a brief rundown, explaining that we
hadn't got much that we didn't know already, but
mentioning the possible girlfriend lead, as well as
John Harris, the doorman who'd fallen out with
Matthews.

'Who's chasing Harris?' he asked.

"The DCI gave it to WDC Boyd. She's on it today,
apparently.'

140
He nodded, satisfied. I didn't tell him about the
Vamen/SO7 angle. Knox would probably bring it up
at the meeting the following day but for the moment
it could wait. I didn't want Capper sniffing round
and taking hold of leads I'd worked hard to build up
myself. 'No sign of Fowler yet, then?' he asked.

'Nothing at all. He might have a connection to
iius Jean Tanner, though.'

'How's that, then?'

'You know I said she was a prostitute?
Apparently she used to work at a brothel which
was or is supposedly run by Fowler.'

'Really?'

'A place called Heavenly Girls.'

Capper tried to hide it but I saw immediately that
he knew the name, and that for some reason he
wanted to keep that knowledge quiet. 'Hmm, that's
interesting.' His words tailed off, and we sat in
silence for a few moments. Where did you hear
about this brothel?' he asked eventually.

'From McBride, the one who gave us most of the
information.'

'I've never heard of the place,' he said, a little too
forcefully. 'Do you reckon he was telling the truth?'

I shrugged, not bothering to mention that we'd
effectively blackmailed the information out of him.
'I would have thought so. There'd be no point lying
about something like that, would there?'

Capper nodded, acknowledging this fact. 'No, I
suppose there wouldn't.'

At that moment, Berrin came in, looking
dishevelled but considerably better than he had the
previous morning.

141
'A bit late, Benin/ said Capper, getting to his feet. -5
Benin quickly apologized to both Capper and jg
me in that order, and took a seat. Capper told him *
bluntly to get his house in order and went back to *
his own desk. He might have thought that I was f
potentially useful, but he clearly didn't feel the -.*
same way about the younger officer. Plus, Benin * was a graduate, and, though he never said as much,
Capper didn't like graduates. Benin looked suitably
chastised for a couple of seconds, then pulled i a face at Capper's back, before sitting down in the
chair he'd just vacated. 7
As the two of us went over the day's itinerary, I j stole an occasional glance at the DI, who was now f
staring intently at his computer screen. I couldn't *
help but wonder what he knew about the Heavenly
Girls brothel and how much of a bearing his knowledge
might have on the investigation as a whole. >..

I
3?
Roy Fowler wasn't answering any of his numbers;
the Arcadia was closed; it was proving impossible
to locate any outfit called Heavenly Girls; and the
day was getting progressively hotter as Benin
brought the car to a halt about twenty yards short
of Jean Tanner's apartment building. According to
the Land Registry, she'd bought it in 1998, while it
was still being built, and now owned thirty per cent
of the equity, while the other seventy belonged to
her mortgage lender. According to them, she'd
never missed a payment. Obviously Jean was getting
quite a lot of money from somewhere, which
pointed perhaps to a relationship with a wealthy
gangster like Neil Vamen, who was going to have a

142
lot more cash than most of the punters she'd ever
been with. The question was whether he cared for
her enough to kill a possible love rival like Shaun
Matthews.

However, once again she wasn't responding as I
pressed the buzzer on the flashy-looking intercom
system for the third time.

'What do we do now?' asked Benin eventually.

What all coppers have to get used to doing/ I
told him. 'Wait.'

'She might have gone away. We could be waiting
for days.'

'Look, Dave, I'm not driving back out here again,
and I'm not phoning her and giving her advance
notice of us turning up just in case she's got some
Jung to hide, so, for the moment at least, we're
going to stay put.'

'But even if she is Vamen's girlfriend, where does
that leave us?' he asked, leaning back against the
wall of the porch. 'We don't even know if she was
seeing Matthews. And where does Fowler fit into
it?'

'I don't know is the short answer,' I said, thinking
that he had a point. 'But at least we can hear what
she has to say. If Vamen's got something to do with
it, and if she thought more of Matthews than he
deserved, then maybe she's feeling bad about it,
and we may be able to get her to talk.'

Benin nodded wearily. 'Fair enough. Shall we go
and get a cup of tea from somewhere while we
wait? I need to rehydrate.'

'Were you out again last night?' I asked him in
vaguely disgusted tones. I think I was jealous. He

143
1

told me he was. Out drinking in the West End with --
one of the station's more attractive WPCs. He
started telling me all about it, but I couldn't handle
that, not after a night alone in front of an excruciat- J|
ing edition of Celebrity Stars in their Eyes, so, on a * |
whim, I pressed the buzzer below Jean's. Three
seconds later a none-too-youthful male voice came
on the line. I told him who we were, pointing my
warrant card at the camera above our heads, and
asked if we could come up.

'Of course,' he said, sounding interested.

We were greeted at the top of the stairs by a very
short gentleman in his early seventies who had a
very wide head that was far too big for his spindly
body, giving him more than a passing resemblance
to ET. He had large amounts of fine white hair,
tinged with orange bits, and big black heavy- H j
rimmed glasses. A taller lady, about ten years *
younger, with a tent-like flowery dress on, stood ff
behind him. They both smiled as we approached.

'Good morning,' said the man, as we produced ||
our warrant cards. 'We're the Lackers. Peter and
Margaret.' He shook our hands formally with a
surprisingly firm grip.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' said Margaret
Lacker with an easy smile.

'Yes, thanks, that'd be nice,' I said, wishing there
were more people I dealt with like the Lackers.
Polite, accommodating, and not totally pissed off to
see you.

They led us into their richly decorated apartment
and motioned for us to sit down in their lounge, a
place that looked more like a drawing room of old.

144
'So, how can we help you?' asked Peter Lacker,
sitting down in a chair opposite. 'I hope there's
nothing wrong/

'Nothing at all,' I said, smiling. 'We're just
interested in one of your neighbours, a Miss Jean
Tanner. I understand she lives on this floor.'

That's right. Next door. She's all right, isn't she?'

'I certainly hope so. We need to speak to her in
._i. inflection with a matter she might have some
information on.' Suitably vague, I thought. 'We
called yesterday but she wasn't at home and she
doesn't appear to be at home now. Do you know if
she's gone away anywhere?'

'I don't think so. She was definitely there last
night We heard her.'

i leard her?'

He looked a bit embarrassed. 'Jean's a good
neighbour, don't get me wrong, please, but she
does have male visitors and sometimes she can
have disagreements with them. There were
some loud voices last night.'

'What? Like an argument?'

He nodded.

'How many people were involved?' asked
Berrin.

'Just two of them. Jean and someone else. A man.
I didn't immediately recognize the voice.'

'She's not in trouble, is she?' asked Mrs Lacker,
coming in with a tray containing a china teapot,
four puny-sized china cups and a selection of what
looked like custard creams.

I smiled reassuringly as she sat down in a chair
next to her husband. 'Not at all, but it is important

145
we speak to her. You haven't seen her this morning,
then?' They both shook their heads. 'How violent
was this argument you heard last night?'

'It wasn't violent as such/ said Mr Lacker. 'It was
just quite loud.'

'It didn't last that long either, did it?' added his
wife, passing me a cup. 'Jean tends to keep herself
to herself. She's not a difficult neighbour at all. Is
she, Peter?'

'No, not at all. She's lived here for a long time.
Three or four years, I think.'

I asked them how often she received male
visitors but they were vague on this. Now and
again, said Mr Lacker, adding that he and his wife
were sexually liberal and so of course didn't disapprove
of such arrangements, which as far as I was
concerned was one detail too many. They were also
vague on how often Jean had had violent disagreements
with said visitors. Mr Lacker backtracked
somewhat on his earlier statement and said not very
often at all. Mrs Lacker said she couldn't remember
the last time before the previous night.

I couldn't help feeling vaguely concerned about
what I was hearing. I took a sip from my tea and
put the cup down. 'I'd like to try her flat again, if I
may/ I said, standing up. Benin, who was munching
on one of the custard creams, followed suit with
only limited enthusiasm. It looked like he'd been
enjoying his sitdown. 'Can you show me which one
it is, Mr Lacker?'

'Of course/ he answered, and led us back out
into the hallway. He pointed to a door at the far
end. That's it.'

146
I stepped past him with Benin following and
knocked hard on the door. Nothing. I waited a few
moments, then tried again. If she was in there, she
would definitely be able to hear me. I put my ear
against the door and listened to the silence. I tried
the handle but it was locked. Then I had an idea. A
highly irregular one, but on a day like this I wasn't
going to be fussy. 'Have you got a key to Miss
Tanner's flat, Mr Lacker?'

'I have/ he said, "but I'm not sure I should be--'

'I have reason to believe that something might
have happened to her,' I told him, 'and I need to see
if this is the case or not. To do that, I need access
to her flat. You can come in with us if you want to
satisfy yourself that we're not doing anything in
there that we shouldn't be.'

'Oh dear,' he said. 'I'd better go and get it.'

He turned and went back inside and Benin
looked at me quizzically. 'Don't worry/ I
whispered. 1 know what I'm doing.' Which of
course were famous last words if ever I'd heard
them.

A few seconds later, Mr Lacker emerged with the
key in his hand and a worried-looking Mrs Lacker
in tow. The do hope everything's all right/ she said to
me. 'She always seemed such a nice young lady.'

'I'm sure it's nothing/ I said, taking hold of the
key, T>ut I think it's best to stay on the safe side.'
With everyone crowded behind me, I turned the
key in the lock and slowly pushed open the door.

The layout was different to the Lackers' place
and the door opened directly into a spacious
lounge with an open-plan, newish-looking kitchen

147
to the right. A wide-screen plasma TV hung from -'1B
the wall in front of two expensive-looking leather m sofas, and the whole effect was very minimalist but "*J
also very tasteful. It also looked very unlived in. £
There were no dirty cups or dishes and the large *
glass ashtray on the coffee table in the centre of the ¥
room was clean and empty. And no evidence at all
of a row.

'Well, she's not short of a few bob/ said Benin,
looking round admiringly at the furnishings, par- ''
ticularly the TV. ^

'She never said what she did for a living/ said
Mrs Lacker, who had come in behind us. Her & husband, meanwhile, hung back in the doorway. £
'It's very nice, isn't it Peter?'

Peter nodded. 'I expect that kitchen cost a pretty
penny/ he said. 'Those are granite worktops in
there. They cost a fortune.'

Berrin looked across at me, presumably for '*
guidance as to what to do next, now that we were f in the place. The problem was, I wasn't sure. I'd
hoped there might be some clues to her whereabouts
lying about - not that I was quite sure what i
- but there was nothing. It looked like the apart- f
ment had been cleaned from top to bottom - a
slightly worrying sign in itself.

To our left, a short hallway ran down to the rest
of the apartment. 'Let's take a look down here/ I |
said. Berrin looked at me like he wanted to say *
something but was unable to do so because of the
presence of the Lackers. I knew what it would be as , well. Something along the lines of What the hell i
are we doing here and what would a defence I

148
lawyer have to say about it?' A good point, but I'd
worry about that one later.

'I've never been in here before/ said Mrs Lacker,
wandering into the kitchen area and looking up at
the metallic pots and pans hanging there. 'It's very
nice/

'Don't touch anything, please/ I told her. 'Either
of you/

We started off down the hallway. Mr Lacker
meanwhile remained standing in the door, looking
around with just a hint of suspicion, as if he too was
trying to work out what Jean Tanner did for a living
and how she'd managed to accumulate such pricey
belongings. It looked like he was jumping to correct
»inclusions, and was perhaps realizing that he
wasn't as sexually liberal as he'd previously
thought.

There was a bathroom on our left with the door
slightly ajar. I pushed it open with the key while
Benin stepped past. I noticed that two toothbrushes
were out on the sink and the lid was off the
toothpaste - not that any of that was much use. The
shower, however, had been used quite recently,
certainly that morning. The curtain was damp and
there were still drops of water in the bath tub.

I stepped back out of the bathroom and saw
Benin, who'd put on gloves, opening the door to
one of the bedrooms. At the same time he removed
another of the Lackers' custard creams from his
pocket and began munching it surreptitiously.

I followed him into the bedroom, conscious that
Mrs Lacker was coming up behind me, doubtless
for more of a nose about. I was just turning round

149
to tell her to stay back when, out of the corner of my
eye, I saw Benin stop in front of an imposing
dressing-room cupboard at the end of the double
bed, and pull a face. He started to say something
but his mouth was full of custard cream and it came
out like gibberish. And then, the next second, he
was opening the door.

There was an immediate crash as the naked corpse
came tumbling stiffly out, arms at its sides, like
something out of The Mummy Returns. It smacked
straight into Benin, who let out a high-pitched
howl, spitting crumbs everywhere, and fell back on
the bed with it on top of him. I yelled too, and
jumped back as he instinctively shoved it away
from him, unfortunately in my direction. It
bounced loudly against the corner of the cupboard,
then came crashing down by my feet, face
upwards, and right in the doorway. Mrs Lacker saw
it immediately, let out the biggest scream of the lot,
then put her hand on her face and fainted
dramatically, hitting her head on the bathroom
door as she fell backwards.

'What's going on?' yelled Mr Lacker, running
over to his wife.

'Stay back!' I shouted. 'Don't touch anything!
This is a murder scene!'

Then I looked across at Benin, whose hair was
now standing on end. His face was as white as a
ghost's and he was staring off into space. 'Oh my
God,' he kept saying, over and over again.

I looked down at the blank dead eyes gazing up
at me, then at the familiar tattoos on the upper and
lower arms. A Chinese dragon on the left, a military

150
emblem on the right. 'Shit/ I said as I stared down
at the corpse of Craig McBride and wondered why
on earth he should be lying dead in the apartment of a woman he was not even meant to know.

I called Capper from the Lackers' apartment, where
Mr Lacker was mopping Mrs Lacker's brow with a
damp cloth, while Berrin sat bolt upright in his
original chair, sipping the tea Mrs Lacker had
poured him five minutes and one cuddle from a
corpse ago. He didn't look too good, which was
hardly surprising.

Capper answered on about the tenth ring and I
told him what had happened. 'What the hell was
..'.Bride doing in her flat?' he demanded, as if it
was somehow my fault.

'I don't know.'

'And there's no sign of her anywhere?'

'Nothing that I can see.'

'Have you touched anything in there?'

'No, we've secured the scene, but you're the first
person I've called.'

'Any indication how he died?'

'Well, there was no blood but I didn't really look
too closely. Put it this way, he was all right this time
yesterday so, whatever it is, I wouldn't think it's
natural causes.'

'All right, wait where you are and make sure no
one contaminates the scene. What's the address?'
I gave it to him, said my goodbyes, and put down
the phone. I looked over at the Lackers. Mrs Lacker
appeared to be coming back to earth. 'It was
horrible,' she said as her husband continued to dab

151
her brow. 'Something like that in a respectable
neighbourhood like this.'

'I know this is a difficult question, but did you *£
happen to recognize the deceased? Is he someone a*K you've seen here before?' J|

Mrs Lacker gasped melodramatically as if I'd just W
asked for her bust measurements. 'I don't know, I £ didn't see. All I remember was him falling into the
doorway and then ... And then, that's it.' She --
finished the sentence with another gasp and her H
head fell back on the seat. Jf_

Mr Lacker,' I said. ~t

He shook his head. 'I didn't see either. I was too *
busy looking after Margaret.'

That wasn't what I was going to ask. I know it's .„
not going to be easy but I'd appreciate it if you ~ could come in with me, view the deceased, and let ^
me know whether you've ever seen him here *
before. It could prove very helpful.' If

What do you think's happened to Jean?' asked ?
Mrs Lacker worriedly.

'I don't know,' I said, thinking that I wouldn't
mind an answer to that question as well. 'Mr
Lacker?' He nodded and stood up. 'Dave, you stay
here and look after Mrs Lacker. OK?'

Benin nodded, beginning to look slightly healthier
now. 'Sure.'

I led Mr Lacker back into Jean's apartment, again
reminding him not to touch anything, and walked
back through the darkened hallway to where the
body lay. Mr Lacker paused a few feet behind me,
and put his hand against the wall to steady himself.
'It's so stifling in here, isn't it?' he said, sounding

152
breathless. 'I don't know how you can do this sort
of thing every day, I really don't. I've got nothing
but admiration for you/

'It's not an everyday occurrence, thank goodness/
I told him, thinking that it was a rare day
anyone said they were full of admiration for me. 'If
it was, I don't think I'd be able to handle it.' And I
wasn't sure if I would have been. The longer you're
in the job, the more you become hardened to the
horrors around you, but the sight of Craig
McBride's stiff, lifeless body, sucked dry of personality,
of everything, depressed me in a way I find
difficult to describe. Particularly as the previous
ciciv I'd been holding a conversation with him. It
might not have been a very pleasant one, but that
was hardly the point. He'd been alive, now he was
gone. Permanently.

I stepped out of the way so Mr Lacker could see
Craig's face. He looked quickly, then looked away,
still standing a few feet back. Take your time,' I
told him. There's no hurry.'

He stayed where he was for a couple of seconds,
then steeled himself, took a couple of steps forward,
and looked again. 'Yes, I've seen him before,'
he said, turning away. 'On two or three occasions.'

Thank you for that/ I said, leading him back
towards the front door.

At that moment, there was a commotion from
outside, the front door opened, and a giant of a man
about ten years my senior, dressed in an ill-fitting
black suit, stepped inside. 'What the hell's going
on?' he barked. This is a crime scene. Who are
you?'

153
'I'm DS John Gallan/ I said, stopping in front of m him. 'And this is Peter Lacker, the neighbour.' J*

'Well, I'm DI Burley and I'm taking over from here. '
And you two are contaminating a crime scene. Have **
you touched anything?' Z

'No.' |

'Well, get out then. SOCO are going to be here in "7
a few minutes and we've got to seal everything off.'

He motioned bluntly towards the door with his
head, and we stepped past him into the hall where '
several uniformed officers were standing. Burley
followed us out. After I'd led Mr Lacker back into ~
his own flat, he put a large, hairy hand on my
shoulder and half-pushed me over to the top of the ;
stairs. I was going to tell him that as far as I was
aware we were on the same side, so he could ease
up if he liked on the tough-guy routine, but I never
got the chance. He was talking before my lips even
parted.

'What were you doing back in there with the
neighbour? Seeing if you could fuck up the crime
scene as much as possible? Have you forgotten
what the procedures are, or did you just never \ bother to learn them?' v

'Did you get out of bed the wrong side or are you
always this charming?'

I thought he was going to pick me up then and
chuck me down the stairs. I'm not a small bloke - |
I'm close to six feet tall - but there was no 1
questioning the fact that he could have managed it.
His sharp little eyes, by far the daintiest features on
his long, heavy-jawed face, blazed angrily. That's L another thing you obviously haven't learnt then, |

154
that a DI's a superior officer to a DS and therefore a
DS should speak to a DI with a measure of fucking
respect, and address him as sir. And apologize
when he fucking forgets that.' His words were
spoken in a loud hiss through teeth that looked like
they usually spent their time gritted, and whether I
liked it or not (and I didn't, I can assure you), what
he was saying was correct. I took solace in the fact
that a man as rude, angry and clearly stressed as DI
Burley was not going to live to a ripe old age,
surrounded by loving relatives hanging on to his
every word of wisdom.

'I was just doing my job, sir/ I told him, emphasizing
the sir. I held his gaze, knowing that the only
way a person gets intimidated is if he lets himself.
I'u done way too many miles for that to happen.

'Well, you're not doing very fucking well. So, I
understand you know who the corpse is, is that
right?'

That's right. His name's Craig McBride. We
spoke to him yesterday in connection with a
murder.'

'But he doesn't live here?'

'No, the apartment belongs to a Jean Tanner. We
came here to see her, but she wasn't here. He was.'

'What were you interested in her for?'

I explained what we knew in short, sullen
sentences, giving him more of an overview of the
Matthews case than the bastard deserved. As I was
finishing, Benin came over to join us. Burley turned
round and saw him. 'What the fuck's wrong with
you?' he said. Tou look like you've seen a ghost.
Not used to stiffs, then?'

155

Tm all right/ said Benin belligerently.

'Well, I want you both to know that we're taking
over this case now. This is our patch and we're
investigating it. Thanks very much for alerting us
to yet another fucking suspicious death in the
division, but we won't be needing any more help
from you. So, if you'll excuse us ...'

'Hold on,' I said, ignoring the murderous glare
he shot me. 'We need to speak to Miss Tanner
regarding the Shaun Matthews murder case. If s
important. Sir.'

'When we locate her, Sergeant, you'll be given
the necessary access to question her about your
own case, if you follow the procedures. Now, we're
very fucking busy so I'd like it if you could be on
your way before you mess anything else up. I'll
inform your superiors when and if we have her in
custody.'

Td also like access to the results of the postmortem
on McBride.'

'You'll get the information when we have it,' he
said. 'Now, goodbye.' He turned and stalked back
towards the open door of Jean's apartment, leaving
the two of us standing there like lemons.

Sometimes you genuinely wonder why you
bother. When even your own people don't seem to
want to help you, then you really are kicking a lead
door. I've met plenty of coppers like Burley - far too
many, if the truth be told - and, like him, they're
generally the older guys with too many years on
the Force who've never quite done as well as they
think their talents deserve, and who hold a grudge
because of it. They're also the ones who are most

156

f
prone to corruption. I wondered briefly whether
there was more to Hurley's eagerness to get us off
the premises than he was letting on. It also seemed
strange that he'd got here so fast. As if he'd been
waiting just round the corner.

'Where to now?' asked Benin with a marked lack
of enthusiasm.

I sighed, forcing down the frustration. When one
avenue fails, try another one. 'Let's go and see Neil
Vamen,' I told him.

'Are you sure this is a good idea, Sarge?' said
Benin. He still looked sick. Sick and nervous.

It was twelve-thirty and we were walking
towards the Seven Bells, a pub in Barnsbury which,
according to the profile we had on him, was
supposedly the Sunday lunchtime haunt of Neil
Vamen. The place, no doubt, where he felt most at
home among 'his people'. Barnsbury, the traditionally
working-class, now partly gentrified district of
south Islington that encompasses the area between
the Caledonian and Liverpool Roads north of
Pentonville, was in many way the spiritual home
of the Holtz organization, since it was there that all
the senior members had grown up and plotted their
first scams together. Most had long since moved
out to larger, more ostentatious properties in the
suburbs, including Vamen, but he apparently still
retained a special affection for the area, not least
because his mother still lived there, and he visited
regularly.

It probably wasn't a good idea to go and see him.
After all, I didn't expect him suddenly to blurt out

157
r

t

everything he knew about the death of Shaun
Matthews and Craig McBride, as well as the whereabouts
of his alleged girlfriend, Jean Tanner. As
Benin had pointed out more than once this morning,
he might have known nothing about any of it,
but I wasn't so sure. Jean had been linked to him by
a man who was now dead. She'd been seeing
another man who was also now dead. At least one
of those deaths, and almost certainly both, were not
from natural causes, and now Jean was missing. I
didn't have any particular theory of what Vamen's
involvement might be, it was still too early for that,
but at least by turning up out of the blue we might
be able to rattle him. Particularly if he thought we
knew more than we actually did.

'I don't honestly know if it's a good idea or not
but I don't see any alternative. I mean, who else is
there left to talk to? We've got a murder inquiry
where everyone we want to interview is either
missing or dead. Have you thought about that?
Fowler's nowhere to be seen, McBride talks, then
twenty-four hours later he's dead, and now Jean
Tanner's disappeared into thin air. At least Vamen's
still capable of opening his mouth.'

'I'm not criticizing, Sarge, but don't you think we
ought to have checked it out with Capper first?'

'Look, this is just a friendly little chat, following
up on a lead. We're just using some initiative, that's
all.'

We stopped outside the pub, a small, old
fashioned place with grimy windows and a
battered door that fitted in snugly in the quiet,
slightly run-down street of terraced housing just off I

158
the southern end of the Caledonian Road. The
windows were open and we could hear the steady
buzz of conversation and the occasional clinking of
glasses. It's a sound I usually like because it's
welcoming, but I had a feeling the welcome here
wasn't going to get much above frosty. We'd both
taken off our jackets in deference to the intense
midday heat but now put them on again. It was
best to be formal.

Till do the talking/ I said, thinking that at that
moment Benin looked like a student in a suit at his
first job interview. Tou just stand up straight and
don't look too queasy.'

They're not likely to try to rough us up, are
they?' he asked, showing a worrying naivety.
Sometimes I couldn't help but think that it was only
the shortage of detectives in the Met that had put
Benin in plain clothes, and that he'd been promoted
above his experience. In the fight against
crime, you didn't like to think that the front line
was made up of too many men like him.

'He might be a nasty bastard, Dave, but he's still
a businessman. He won't want to do anything that
brings him unwanted attention. Now, come on.'

I stepped inside with Berrin following. The
interior was deceptively large and seemed to go
back a long way, as is often the way with London
pubs. It was split into two bars, the right-hand one
near enough empty except for a handful of old
geezers in caps smoking pipes and generally not
taking too much notice of one another. Two of them
were playing cribbage and they were the only ones
who looked up as we arrived.

159
I

A'

The other bar, in contrast, was a lot younger and j
a fair bit livelier, although it was still early so ,1
nowhere near crowded. A jukebox played one of
the numerous covers of the Righteous Brothers'
IJnchained Melody7 and three or four groups of
people - mainly men, but some women - milled
about in a way that suggested they all knew one
another. Most of them were in their thirties and
forties, and at the far end of the bar, closely watched
by Jack Merriweather and two powerfully built
bodyguards, stood Neil Vamen. He was talking to
another of the groups - two middle-aged men and
their younger, pneumatic blonde partners - who
were hanging on to his every word. Vamen was
smiling broadly and I got the feeling he was telling : a joke.

That all stopped as soon as we stepped inside. In
fact, everything stopped, bar the music, the singer
continuing to warble boringly while the whole bar
gave us what I can only describe as the evil eye. I
suppose we just looked like coppers. The barman
studiously ignored us and for a couple of seconds I
simply stood there, thinking that it might actually
have been a big mistake coming here.

Confidence. It's all about confidence. You can
command the respect of anyone, even a room full of
gangsters, if you walk like you know the walk. So,
trying to ignore the fact that I was sweating, I
ambled casually through the crowd, Benin behind
me, and stopped when I reached Neil Vamen. His
bodyguards tensed but made no move. Jackie
Slap's lip curled in an expression of distaste, as if
the very presence of police officers caused him to

160
experience an allergic reaction, which it probably
did. Vamen, meanwhile, eyed me with a mixture of
mild contempt and idle curiosity, his turquoise eyes
twinkling playfully. I could almost feel the stares of
every other person in the place on my back, and I
hoped Benin didn't do anything stupid, like faint.

'Hello, Mr Vamen. My name's DS Gallan and this
is DC Benin.' I produced my warrant card and saw
out of the corner of my eye Berrin produce his. 'I
believe we've met before.'

Vamen made a casual gesture. 1 don't remember.'

'We'd like a word with you in private, if we may.'

'No.'

And that was that. The word wasn't delivered
rudely but there was a finality about it I really
should have expected. Behind me, I heard one of
the pneumatic blondes snigger.

'Any particular reason why not?'

He smiled. 'Because I've got nothing to say to
you.'

It's difficult when you rely on the authority that
comes with your position to coerce people into
doing things, and then come up against someone
who has no fear of it or you. Particularly when
they're on their home territory and you're a long
way from yours.

'If you don't talk to me, I might have to conclude
that you've got something to hide,' I told him,
meeting his gaze.
That made him laugh. 'Your lot have been concluding
that for the past twenty years.' Further
laughter reverberated around the bar, and someone
shouted, 'You tell him, Neil.'

161
'Ain't you got nothing better to do?' sneered the
Slap. He was wearing a black New York Yankees
baseball cap to cover up what he hadn't got. I
ignored him. At that point, I didn't have to be told
that I was losing this one.

Tine. We'll talk here, then. Your girlfriend, Jean
Tanner. We found a man dead in her apartment and
we want to know where she is. Any ideas?'

Vamen's face hardened and his eyes lost their
playfulness. For two, maybe three seconds the
silence was deafening. When he spoke next, his
voice was calm and slow, but dripping with
menace. 'I don't know what you're fucking talking
about, or where you're getting your information
from, but I'm telling you this: it's bollocks. Now,
you want to discuss anything with me, you go
through my lawyer. His name's Melvyn Carroll.
You might have heard of him.' I had. The Holtz
family brief. As crooked as a busted rib. 'Otherwise,
unless you're arresting me - which you're not, are
you?' He paused for a moment to let me answer.

'Not at the moment/

'Well, then, unless you're arresting me, you can
fuck off out of here and leave me alone. And if you
don't, DS Gallan ... is that right? Gall-an?'

'Gallon of what?' some wag called out.

'That's right, John Gallan,' I said, determined to
hold my own.

'And what's your name again, sonny?' He aimed
the full force of his personality at Benin, who was
probably now wishing he'd taken the advice of his
university careers adviser and joined an insurance
company.

162
'We've already told you who we are/ I said.

'Benin, wasn't it?' he said, ignoring me and eyeing
him closely, like he was probing for signs of
weakness, and doubtless unearthing many. 'Well, DS John Gallan and DC Benin, if you harass me
like this again with no good reason, and I can tell
you now you do not have a good fucking reason,
then my brief will be paying your superior a visit,
and he will then be kicking your flimsy little arses
for upsetting a well-established local businessman
instead of doing what you're paid to do, which is
catching fucking criminals, of whom there are
plenty a-fucking-bout. Do I make myself clear?'

'That you don't want to co-operate with us? Yes,
you do. Crystal.'

He gave me a look like I was something annoying
stuck between his teeth, then turned his back.
At the same time one of his bodyguards, who was
a good four inches taller and probably a foot wider
than me, stepped between us and stared blankly
down at the top of my head. The other one then
joined him, forming a wall that effectively blocked
off all contact. Jackie Slap stayed where he was, a
nasty grin on his face. I could have tried to push
them out of the way. hassle Vamen a bit more, let
him know I wasn't fazed, but in the end there was
no point. He had the run of me and he knew it. I
knew it, too. The important thing now was to find
Jean. Then, possibly, we could move forward. For
now, the meeting was over and I had to work hard
to overcome the sense of impotence I felt in the sure
knowledge that Neil Vamen was a criminal and a
I murderer who'd become rich by ignoring the laws

163

m

I was supposed to uphold, who could pay my
mortgage off a hundred times over, and yet, when
it came to a confrontation between the two of us, he
was the one who held all the cards. Some people
say there's no justice in the world. If they say it in
front of me, I tell them they're wrong, that the bad
almost always get what they deserve in the end,
even if the wait's long. But at that moment in time,
standing in a room where everyone was revelling in
our powerlessness, I didn't really believe it.

'Gentleman gangster, my arse,' I said in Vamen's
general direction. I looked up at the wall of flesh in
front of me. 'And you need to change your aftershave,
mate.' Puerile, but at least it made me feel a
bit better. Like I'd salvaged something from the
wreckage of this meeting.

Jackie Slap continued to grin, but I resisted
addressing him by the name he allegedly hated. It
would have reeked too much of desperation. Instead, I turned on my heel and motioned for
Benin to lead us out of there. He bumped into one
of the blondes who'd deliberately positioned herself
in front of him, and mumbled some sort of
apology. She, for her own part, made some snide
comment regarding the poor quality of his eyesight,
which he ignored. She started to say
something to me but I told her not to bother and
kept walking, trying hard to ignore the catcalls
and victory whoops that accompanied our exit.

On the four-hundred-yard walk back to the car
through the terraced backstreets of Barnsbury, we
didn't speak once. When we finally reached it, I
looked across at Benin, who still didn't look too

164
good. I couldn't blame him. It had been a shit day
all round. 'Are you all right?' I asked him.

'I don't know/ he said, leaning against the
bonnet. 'I think I might be coming down with
something.'

Berrin wasn't the hardest worker in the world
and he'd already had several short bouts of sick
leave in the few months he'd been with CID, but
this time I wasn't going to begrudge him. 'Come
on/ I said. 'I'll take you home.'

He didn't argue.

Two hours later I was still trying hard to keep a lid
on my frustration but it wasn't working. The
humiliation of the meeting with Vamen, combined
with the heat and the knowledge that nothing
about the Shaun Matthews case was going right, including
the way I was handling it, was serving to
sever the last threads of my patience. I just knew
that right now my ex-wife would be sat in the
garden, the one I'd helped pay for, soaking up some
rays alongside the man who had gone out of his
way to wreck my life, while my daughter played
happily in front of them, maybe even fetching him
a nice cool beer to enjoy while he worked out
whose balloon he was going to burst next. And the
thing was, I could have handled it. I could have
handled pretty much anything if I'd thought that
by putting in all these extra hours on the job, hours
I'd been putting in since I was eighteen years old, I
was actually getting somewhere. But it just wasn't
happening. For every weak, staggering step forward
we took, there always seemed to be a larger,

165

m i

more confident one backwards. And now I had to |f
deal with an idiot like Capper, who seemed in- f
capable of providing the remotest bit of help.

'We need to be involved, sir. We interviewed the
dead man yesterday and it was his testimony that
led us to the flat today.'

Capper sat back in his chair, trying hard to look
like he was sympathetic to my plight. The act didn't
work. Till have to talk to the DCI about it, John, and
that's going to be tomorrow now. I don't want to
bother him at home. Not over this.'

'With due respect, I think it's important. I feel
certain that this man's death is linked to that of
Shaun Matthews, and therefore--'

Capper raised his arms and waved them from
side to side like opposing windscreen wipers, an ,
annoying habit of his indicating silence to the individual
being gestured at, in this case me. I forced
myself to fall silent. 'John, it's DI Burley's patch, so
at the moment it's his investigation. There's
nothing I can do about that. We'll certainly be able
to liaise with them if there's a consensus that the
two cases are linked.'

'Which they've basically got to be.'

Capper nodded noncommittally. 'There's
definitely a possibility there.'

Tvlore than a possibility. Two bouncers from the
same nightclub, whose owner's been missing for
days, both murdered within a week of each other.'

'Are we sure McBride's was murder?'

'Definitely. He was OK yesterday. For all we
know, it could even be the same poison that killed
Matthews.'

166
'Could be, John, could be. But it's also possible
that it's natural causes.'

'How? He was in a cupboard.'

'We've just got to wait and see what the autopsy
reveals. What we'll do is discuss what happened
at the meeting tomorrow morning and then maybe
the DCI'll get on the phone to their nick and see if
there's any scope for information sharing. In the
meantime, you need to bring all the records up to
date. Where's Berrin, by the way?'

'I took him home. He was feeling sick.'

'Again. That's the third time since he's been in
CID. What's wrong with him this time?'

'I don't know, summer flu or something. He's
been a bit under the weather these past few days/ I
jucci.

Capper nodded with some scepticism, an annoyingly
serene smile on his face. 'Well, let's hope he
gets better soon,' he said, sounding like he didn't
mean it at all.

'Is that everything, sir?' I asked, starting to get to
my feet. I couldn't hack any more of Capper than I
had to.

'Not quite, John,' he answered, still wearing the
smile. It made him look like a brain-damaged
Buddhist. I stopped mid-crouch and waited for him
to continue. 'I got a call this afternoon from a Mr
Melvyn Carroll. He says that you and DC Berrin
were harassing his client, Neil Vamen. What on
earth were you doing talking to Vamen?'

'He's a possible suspect in the Matthews case/ I
said, sitting back down.

'Let me get this right. A man with a lengthy

167

It
criminal record, now deceased, suggested that *'

Vamen was the boyfriend of a woman who visited the home of Shaun Matthews, and was possibly,
just possibly, Matthews's girlfriend as well, and this
makes him a suspect?'

'Yes, it does. He's certainly a possibility, so he
was worth talking to.'

'Neil Vamen. I trust you know who he is?'

Tes, and that's another reason to consider him a
suspect. He's got the resources and the ruthlessness
to kill Shaun Matthews and Craig McBride.'

'He's also someone who's had years of practice in
knowing how to cover his tracks, so he was never
going to talk to you. Even if he is involved, which I
doubt, because I don't think he's the type to get
sentimental about a woman, it's going to be
extremely difficult to prove anything.'

That doesn't mean we shouldn't try.'

The point is, Vamen's a big fish and it's SO7
and the NCS who are responsible for building
prosecution cases against him and his associates.
They're not going to take kindly to you throwing
your weight about with him. I thought you were
meant to be talking to SO7 about the case.'

'I am. I'm waiting for a call back from Asif Malik.'

'Well, go that route, then.'

'Look, I was doing the right thing--'

The arms started swinging from side to side
again and once more I forced myself to button it.
'You're a good copper, John/ he said, talking to me
like I was an office junior rather than one rank and
only a handful of years below him, 'and we're all
pleased with your progress here, but don't start to

168
get ahead of yourself. You'll end up causing problems
both for yourself and for CID. Understand?'

I sighed, knowing that he was right and that it
was a mistake to go to see Vamen, but longing for the moment when I was a DI again and didn't have
to report to him. /Yes/ sir/ I said reluctantly.

'In future I don't want you going to see Neil
Vamen or any of his associates without speaking to
me about it first. OK? I don't want to sound like I'm
not supporting you, but I think it's the best way.'

I nodded, but didn't bother responding. The conversation
over, I stalked back to my desk and began
the torturous task of bringing everything up to
date. Only once did Capper interrupt me, to ask if
we were still trying to get hold of Fowler. I said that
,, e were but that we were still having no luck.

'He's the one we've got to concentrate on/ he
said, nodding his head as if he was agreeing with
himself - another of his annoying habits, most
likely brought about by the fact that no-one else
did. I didn't bother to comment.

At exactly five o'clock, Capper left for the day,
telling me helpfully that I shouldn't work too hard.
'You need to unwind sometimes/ he said with
another irritating smile. That way it won't all get
on top of you.'

I didn't bother telling him that it was a little too
late for that. Instead, I put my head down and felt
glad for the opportunity of some space and quiet.

Paperwork can be a therapeutic process. It's
repetitive and it's mundane, but when there's
plenty of it to do, the person doing it can sometimes

169
lift himself spiritually from the pile in front of him
and reach an almost Zen-like state where the hand
simply writes automatically and the brain sails
away to calmer, happier waters where there are no
interruptions and no will-sapping and pointless
confrontations.

I'd reached that point and was probably wearing
a serene smile as idiotic as Capper's when the door
to the incident room opened and WDC Boyd
walked in. Now, I liked Boyd. She was my kind of
woman: attractive, amusing, but definitely no
push-over. We got on well, too. I think that if it
hadn't been for the fact that we worked together, I
would have definitely fancied her, and might even
have tried my luck - not that I tended to have a
great deal of it where love was concerned. She
appeared to be a bit worn out and hot, but her short
black hair, cut into a cute bob, looked like it had
come straight out of a cheesy shampoo ad, and her
grey trousersuit was spotless. For a woman who'd
been out tramping the dirty, sweating streets of
London, she carried herself remarkably well.

It was ten past six. She smiled, looking genuinely
pleased to see me. 'Hello, John, you still around?'

'I could ask the same question/ I said, looking
up. 'Did you manage to get hold of John Harris?'

'Ah, the elusive Mr Harris, former stud of the
Arcadia. I found him all right/ she said, sighing
theatrically. 'Eventually.'

'And?'

She wandered over and sat on her desk a few
yards away from mine. 'And, I don't think he's our
man.'

170
'Why not?'

'Because he's been in hospital for the past ten
days. He was working the door at a place in
Clapham on their garage night and he got caught
in the crossfire of somebody else's argument.'

'That's south London for you.'

Too right. It's bandit country down there/ she
added, winking at me. 'Anyway, he got shot in the
stomach. Apparently the bullet passed straight
through him and hit one of the glass collectors
inside. That was three days before Matthews was
murdered. What a waste of a day. It took me more
than four hours to find that out when I could have
been sat out in the park sunbathing.'

I almost said that that would be a sight I
. v'ouldn't have minded seeing, but settled instead
for a cliched, Thaf s the way it goes sometimes,
Tina.'

She took off her jacket and turned on her PC.
'How was your day anyway?'

I grunted. 'I think I can safely say it was probably
even worse than yours.' I gave her a detailed rundown
of all the disasters that had befallen Benin
and me since we'd arrived for work that morning.
She laughed when she heard about his slow dance
with McBride's corpse but her look had turned to
sympathy by the time I'd finished.

'Blimey, John, you don't mess about, do you?
Marching in and interrogating Neil Vamen?'

I sighed and shook my head. 'It was a stupid
move. You know, I was thinking this morning how
naive Benin was in the way he dealt with people,
but I was far more naive than him over this. I really

171
thought I could rattle Vamen, but in the end I've *
achieved absolutely nothing, except maybe to alert *
him to the fact that I might know something about
what's going on. And he's already made a preemptive
strike to get me off his back.'

'You did your best/ she said, giving me a '*'
supportive smile. 'Which is a lot more than a few of
the people round here.'

'Well, it didn't work,' I said, feeling sorry for
myself.

'So, what do you think happened? What's your
theory on Matthews and McBride?'

I'd thought about that a fair amount that day but
had yet to come up with anything concrete. 'I don't
know, Tina. If I had to indulge in a bit of conjecture ~
I'd say that Jean Tanner was Neil Vamen's mistress
and that she was also seeing Matthews on the side.
Vamen found out about what was going on and
had Matthews killed.' t

'And what about McBride?'

'This is where it starts not to make much sense.
From what the neighbours were saying, McBride
had visited Jean on a number of occasions, so it
makes me think that maybe he was seeing her as
well.'

'So she was seeing three of them? She gets
around a bit.'

I shrugged. 'Well, that's what it looks like.' i;

'And you think Vamen found out about McBride f
as well?'

I spread my arms wide in a gesture of defeat. 'I
don't know.'

'Because that all seems a bit coincidental, doesn't |

172
it? Him killing off two of his love rivals in the space
of a week. All over one woman who's hardly a
picture painting, is she?'

'You know what they say/ I said lamely. 'Love's
blind.'

'Not that blind.'

'I don't think I've ever come across a murder case
as complicated as this one. One where nothing
seems to really lead anywhere. Do you know what
I mean? There's no logic in any of it. I mean,
what about Fowler? If he's got nothing to do with
it, then where is he?' There followed a long silence.
We were a long way from any answers. 'You know,'
I said eventually, 'it's been such a long day, I can't
even be bothered to think about it any more.'

'Do you want to go for a drink? Finish up here
and grab a beer somewhere?'

I pondered her suggestion for all of one second.
The paperwork could wait. 'Why not? I could do
with one.'

We wandered round the corner to the Roving
Wolf and I ordered the first round: a pint of Pride
for me, a pint of Fosters for her. That was another
thing I liked about Boyd, she didn't have any airs
and graces. She might have been a college girl like
Benin but she was still one of the lads. The interior
of the pub was quiet at this hour with most of the
hardened drinkers and passing trade sat at tables
outside on the street, so we found ourselves a table
away from the bright rays of evening sunshine
streaming through the windows and chatted a
while, enjoying the fact that the working day
was over and there was nothing and no-one to

173

m pressurize us. She bought the second round and I *

realized I was enjoying things just a little too much.
She was good company, and single, too. I couldn't
help but think that maybe I ought to make an
exception to the rule I'd placed on myself never to "
have an office fling. That had been after an affair I'd 7 had with another WDC ten years earlier, when
Rachel had been little more than a baby and I'd
been getting the married man's yearning for something
new. It had all got very messy. The WDC had < demanded I choose between Cathy and her, and I'd
done the inevitable and chosen Cathy. The atmos- "
phere between the WDC and me, and in CID as a
whole, where everyone knew what had been going ,
on, had been sour for more than a year afterwards *
until she'd finally asked for a transfer and got it,
much to my relief. I might not have been married
any more but I still thought it best to keep to the
rule, remembering all too well the hassle of having >"* to work with someone you'd pay good money to
avoid.

So when Boyd asked if I fancied grabbing a curry
somewhere, I was pretty torn. But with the grim
memories of the previous night and Celebrity Stars %
in their Eyes still fresh in my mind, I concluded that
life was definitely too short to say no. Boyd
suggested a curryhouse she liked down near King's
Cross station and, while I would have preferred the |
continental ambience of Upper Street to the dodgier |
end of the Euston Road, I didn't make a fuss. To be * ;
fair to her, I ended up pleased with the choice. The
food was good, which I suppose it would have to |
be given its location, and I found myself relaxing in 1

174
a way I hadn't in female company for a long time.

As they cleared away the remains of the food, I
told her about Capper's reaction to my mention of
Heavenly Girls. 'Do you think he's been paying
recreational visits down there? He definitely knew
the place.'

She pulled a face. 'It wouldn't surprise me. He's
the sort you can imagine visiting toms. He's got
that perverted look about him, don't you think?
Like the sort of bloke you'd find in a peep show. I
bet he gets them to spank his arse.'

I laughed. That's your boss you're talking about.
I hate to think what you say about me.'

'Oh, it's worse. Definitely worse.'

'I bet it is as well. But I can tell you quite
_,uegorically that no-one's ever spanked my arse.
Even my mum was against corporal punishment.'

There's always a first time/ she said, with a coy
smile. The woman was definitely flirting. I wasn't
sure whether to be worried or pleased. She took a
packet of Silk Cut out of her handbag. 'Do you
mind if I smoke?'

'Be my guest.'

I watched as she lit one and took a long, relaxed
drag that gave me a fleeting reminder, even years
later, of how good a cigarette tastes after a decent
meal. 'What you've got to remember', she said,
blowing the smoke out above my head, 'is that if
Capper was, or is, a customer down there, then it's
possible that he knows Fowler.'

'I was thinking about that earlier, but I don't
really go for it. He's too keen for us to find him. He
keeps going on about it.'

175
I

'Ah/ she said, taking another drag (it's amazing j|
how elegant a woman smoking can look), Ijut *
there's always the possibility that he might have
been put in a compromising situation. If someone *
down there found out he was a copper, then they
might have been able to use it against him, and perhaps
it's that someone who wants to find Fowler.'

'And who do you think that someone might be?'

She shrugged. 'God knows.'

I shook my head. This was one complication too i
far. 'No, I think it's more likely he's just a pervert.' \,

She blew more smoke over my head. 'So do I, but JJ
nothing's set in stone, is it? Maybe it'd be worth- ;|
while watching what you say around him.' .1

I nodded, thinking that it was funny how when ~
you're talking to another copper, even one who's
female and attractive, you always end up back on
the subject of work. For once, I just wanted to
forget about it. I wanted to talk more about her. j
What she was interested in. What made
her tick. What she looked for in a man. And
whether she really was flirting.

But the opportunity had passed, and a couple of f minutes later she stubbed her cigarette out and said f
that she ought to be getting back. We split the bill
fifty-fifty and headed outside. Night was falling
and the lowlifes who inhabit King's Cross after
dark were coming out of the cracks in the pavement ^
and looking round for customers and victims. I
suggested we share a cab back but she told me she
was perfectly capable of getting herself back on the
Tube. 'I am a police officer, you know, John/ she
said dismissively.

176
'Don't say that too loudly round here.'

'And don't keep going on.' Her face broke into a
smile. 'Look, I had a good time tonight. We'll have
to do it again sometime.'

I nodded. 'Definitely.'

We had an awkward moment when we thought
about shaking hands, but didn't quite go through
with it, and then she said goodbye and headed off
towards the Underground, while I looked around
for a cab that would take me back to Tufnell Park.

Part of me thought that maybe I should have
tried to kiss her, or at least shown that I was
interested, but the other part kept telling me that
by taking a little pain now I was avoiding a lot
more down the line.

Iversson

'So how did you meet your ex-missus, then?' asked
Elaine.

It was Sunday morning and we were sitting up in
her bed, naked and drinking coffee. The clock on
the bedside table said half eleven and her right
hand was on my thigh, which made me think she
probably wasn't going to kick me out just yet.

'I was a double-glazing salesman.'

Elaine laughed. 'You? Now that I would have
liked to see.'

'It was just after I'd left the army. I was pretty shit
at it, to be honest with you. I mean, they taught you
all these ways to get the customer to sign on the
dotted line, get him fired up and interested and all

177
I

;

that, but in the end, as far as I could see, all I was m
doing was shifting windows. You know, people ,
either wanted them or they didn't. Anyway, my ex
was a secretary there and for some reason she took
a fancy to me.' _t_

'Well, you're not bad, Max.' \

"Thanks. You're too kind.' ,

'I know.'

'So we started going out, one thing led to
another, and somehow we ended up getting wed.
Christ knows how it happened. I still don't think
either of us cared that much about each other - it
was just one of those things. Anyway, it didn't last.
We went to Majorca on the honeymoon, it rained
nearly every day, she went on sex strike after I said ~
something about her mum she took offence to, and
it went downhill from there. I think we managed
about four months, no more than that. I got sacked i
from the company and she took it worse than me. I
was quite pleased, but with her it was a pride thing.
It made her look bad in front of her mates in the
office that her husband wasn't good enough to flog
double-glazing, and she really let me know it. In
the end I just thought, fuck it, we're never going to
work it out so I might as well make the break. So
one day, while she was at work, I packed up all my
stuff, which wasn't a lot, and walked out. I only
saw her once after that, and that was in the divorce
courts. She got half of everything I owned, which
was nothing. I got my freedom back. It was a fair
swap, I thought.'

'How did you get into the mercenary game?'
'My partner, Joe, he'd been doing it for a couple

178 f
of years. He was working for an outfit who were
always on the look-out for people with good
military backgrounds to send out to all these places.
I put a call into him, he put me in touch with his
boss, and three days later I was on the plane to
Sierra Leone.'

Where the hell's that?'

'Somewhere you don't ever want to go. A back
*.vnter shithole in Africa. And I'll tell you this, you
have to see the place to believe it. I was there four
months altogether, but I reckon I lost count of the
number of mutilated corpses I saw within four days.
We were working for the government, or what
passed for the government. To be honest, it was just
a bunch of young NCOs who'd overthrown the last
uiuku, and most of them couldn't run a bath, let
alone a country. We were meant to be helping the
Sierra Leonean army secure the area around
the capital city and capture the diamond mines
in the interior from the rebels, the RUE'

'So who were they rebelling against, the RUF?'

That made me chuckle. 'Anyone who wanted to
take the diamonds off them. That was about as
radical as they got. They might have said it was all
about creating freedom and democracy and all that
shit but, like most politicians, all they really cared
about was lining their own pockets. It's what most
of those wars are about. Some people have got the
diamonds and the money, some others want it.
Instead of sitting round the table and carving up
the proceeds, like they do over here, they get the
guns out and start shooting.'

'Did you ever kill anyone?' she asked evenly,

179

pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering me
one.

I took one and let her light it for me. 'Would it
matter if I had?' I answered, hoping that she wasn't
the sort of girl to get offended by her new lover's
tales of mayhem and murder.

She shrugged, and looked me in the eye. 'It was
your job, wasn't it? That's what you're trained for.
No, it wouldn't matter.' It seemed she wasn't, then.

I leant back on the pillow and took a drag on the
cigarette as her fingers drifted across the hairs on my
belly. I got the impression she was horny again. This
girl had an incredible appetite.

'I shot at a lot of people/ I told her, 'and quite a
few of them fell down, but I couldn't ever say for
sure that it was me who killed them. There were
always other people fighting alongside me. But I.
suppose, probability wise, I must have taken out a
couple. It's not something I'm particularly proud of.'
'But you shouldn't be ashamed either. Sometimes
it's just a case of you or them, isn't it?' Out of the
corner of my eye, I was conscious of her watching
me as she spoke.

That's right. I don't regret anything I've ever
done. I shot at people who were shooting at me. I
never killed anyone in cold blood, and I suppose
you could argue that one way or another they all
deserved it. They were no angels. None of them.
Not the RUF, nor any of the others I ran into on my
travels.'

'Where else did you go, then?'

'I did six months in the Congo, three months in
Colombia, and a few weeks in Liberia.'

180
'What was it like? Was it fun?'

I shook my head. 'Not really. Most of the time we
were boiling alive in the jungle, getting constantly
attacked by all kinds of horrible insects and never
knowing what kind of tropical disease we might
pick up. The most exciting part was when we
actually saw some action, but it didn't happen very
often.'

'It still sounds better than what a lot of people do
to earn their living.'

'It was better than selling double-glazing, I'll
give you that, and I suppose it was a bit of an
adventure getting the chance to finally use all my
training in a real-life situation, but the reality was a
lot more boring than the expectation.'

'It always is, Max. Haven't you noticed that yet?'

1 suppose so, but the money wasn't that much
good either. Everyone thinks mercenaries earn an
arm and a leg, but if s nothing really. Especially when
you think how much you've got to risk. Joe felt the
same way, so we decided to set up the company.'

'What's it called?'

'It's not my name, honestly. It's his.'

She smiled. 'Go on, what is it?'

Tiger Solutions.'

Her laughter bounced off the walls of the bedroom.
'What the fuck sort of a name is that?'

'A bad one, but Joe wanted it and I couldn't think
of anything better, so I didn't bother to argue.'

'Max, anything's better than Tiger Solutions.
What sort of solutions does a tiger offer anyway?'

'I don't know. Fearsome ones?'

She continued laughing and I chucked one of the

181
pillows at her. It bounced off her head and landed
on the other side of the room. 'If you ever meet Joe,
you have a go at him about it. I swear it had
nothing to do with me.'

We were silent for a few moments, and even
though I didn't want to have to say it, I knew there
was no point putting it off. 'Look, Joe gave me some
money so that I could get out of town for a while,
enough to keep me going for the foreseeable future.
So I can be out of your hair by tomorrow.'

She smiled at me. 'You don't have to go yet, Max.
I like the company.'

'I appreciate it, but you've done enough for me
already, and we can't carry on like this for ever. I've
got to go out and get some fresh air fairly soon
otherwise I'll go stir crazy.'

She put her hand on my arm. 'You go when you
want, but not before. Not on my account. It's no
problem for me, you being here. Honest.'

Well, there was no way I was going to argue. Not
with the sort of accommodation I was getting. So I
gave her my best smile and said that, OK, maybe
I'd stay a couple of days longer. At that moment,
the phone rang out in the hall and she jumped
off the bed. I watched as she went out the door, her
rear waggling seductively. There was a little red
devil complete with trident tattooed on the right
cheek. He was grinning. So was I.

When she came back a few minutes later, she told
me that it had been the club on the phone. 'I've got
to work tonight,' she said, getting back on the
bed. She lit two more cigarettes and passed one
over. You get my drift about the standard of

182
accommodation. Naked women even firing up
your smokes for you.

'Again? Haven't they heard of workers' rights
down there? You need a night off occasionally.
Can't you throw a sickie?' I remembered how bored
I'd been the previous night. For some reason, Elaine
didn't have Sky, which had severely limited my
options. The high point had been Celebrity Stars in
their Eyes, if you can call some bird who used to be
on EastEnders massacring my mum's favourite
Patsy Kline song a high point. It wasn't an
experience I wanted to repeat.

'You know as well as I do that it's a difficult time
at the moment, Max. Perhaps in a couple of days.'

'What's going to happen at Arcadia? Now that
Fowler's not coming back.'

'It's all pretty much up in the air at the moment,
especially as everyone thinks he is coming back,
except me, you, and the people who had him
killed.'

'Is there any sign of the Holtzes yet?'

'No. I don't think we'll see them for a bit. Not
with the police still sniffing around asking
questions about the doorman who got poisoned.'

'Well, they're going to start coming out of the
woodwork pretty soon. Blokes like them aren't
the sort to be hands-off about a big investment like
the Arcadia. So when they do, make sure you watch
yourself.'

She sat up and eyed me coolly, like it was me
who ought to be watching myself. 'It's nice to know
you care, Max, it really is. But you don't need to
worry about me. I know what I'm doing.'

183

1

Elaine was a feisty lady and definitely not someone
to be messed with, but at the same time her
words didn't do much to reassure me. I remember
the American commander of another mercenary
unit in Sierra Leone saying exactly the same thing
just before he disappeared into the jungle on a one
man reconnaissance near the diamond fields of Go.

The next day an RUF patrol ate him.

In the end the weather was too decent to be
indoors, especially as I hadn't set foot outside
Elaine's apartment for getting on for forty-eight
hours. Joe was right: I probably wasn't the Old
Bill's top priority. Yes, I'd slapped a couple of them,
plus got one inadvertently pissed on, but people do
that to them all the time. It's all part of being a
copper, getting slapped in the line of duty. It's like
soldiers - it's what they join up for. The action and
all that shit. Granted, they were probably looking
for me, but I didn't think my crime was so heinous
that they'd be scrambling the helicopters and
plastering up the Wanted: Dead or Alive posters
just yet, so that afternoon we went out for a stroll
round Clerkenwell, arm hi arm like true romantics,
taking in the sun and the warmth, enjoying it the
way the tourists do.

On the way back to the apartment we stopped at
an Italian deli and I bought some ingredients:
anchovies, black olives, fresh oregano, canned
Italian tomatoes and, most important of all, a six
pack of bottled Peroni. I found some spaghetti in
Elaine's food cupboard and, after a bit of exercise of
the bedroom variety, cooked us both a pasta dish

184
my ex-wife had taught me to make years back on
one of the few occasions we'd been talking.
Puttanesca. Whore's spaghetti, the fiery sauce
unfaithful Latin wives would make for their
husbands because it tasted like it had taken hours
to prepare when in reality you could knock it
together in twenty minutes, leaving yourself ample
time for an afternoon's shagging. Perhaps she'd
been trying to tell me something.

Elaine had to be at the club at nine-thirty, and
before she went I told her I'd feel happier if she left
the place, which I know was a bit cheeky, given the
fact I hardly knew her, but to be honest with you I
was beginning to think that maybe something
could come of this.

'You're a talented woman,' I told her, assuming
that she was. 'You know how to run a place. Why
don't you look for a job somewhere else?'

She stopped in front of me and gave me a look
which said: Don't push your luck, sonny. In the
heels of her black court shoes, she was only an inch
below me in height. 'I hear what you're saying,
Max, and I will leave. But it'll be in my own time.
Understand? I'm a big girl now, I can look after
myself. Thanks for the concern, but save it for
people who really need it.'

Which was telling me.

After she'd gone, I sat demolishing the Peroni
and trying desperately to find something decent to
watch on the TV, which, not for the first time,
turned out to be a fruitless task. I ended up watching
a programme about a family of chimpanzees
living in the African jungle. It all started off quite

185
nicely as well. The chimps were messing about,
grooming one another and generally acting all cute
like they do in the zoo, and I was even musing
about what a nice, laid-back life it would be being a
member of the ape fraternity when all of a sudden
everything went a bit mental. A friendly-looking
gibbon appeared up in the trees near the chimps'
camp, and one of them spotted him. Well, the next
second the whole lot of them were howling and
shrieking like a bunch of Millwall fans on angel
dust, and before I had a chance to even work out
what was going on, they were charging after him
through the undergrowth, much to the excitement
of the breathless narrator.

After a dramatic five-minute chase they cornered
him up on one of the branches, and then, to my
horror, ripped the poor little sod apart, disembowelling
him with their bare hands while he
stared mournfully up at them. They then began to
eat him alive, as casually as you like, which to my
mind was really quite disgusting. Especially as it
was on TV when kids could be watching. And to
think these beasts are meant to be our closest
relatives.

One of the chimps was staring cockily at the
camera while he munched on a hefty piece of
gibbon offal, and I got a nasty sense of deja vu because he really reminded me of that treacherous
toe-rag Tony, sitting up there like he owned the
place with what looked suspiciously like a smile on
his face.

Maybe the bastard had been reincarnated.

I switched over at this point, having no desire to

186
get into a staring match with a familiar-looking
monkey, and cracked open another Peroni. It made
me wonder what I'd have been doing that night if I'd
never agreed to take on the Fowler contract. Probably
sitting alone at home watching something a lot better.
Life would have been a lot easier, that was for sure,
but then again it would also have been a lot more
boring. And sometimes that's worse.

What I didn't know then, though, and what I do
now, is that my troubles were only just beginning.

187
Monday, thirteen days ago

Iversson

I was woken up by a faint sobbing, almost like a
kid's. My eyes snapped to attention and surveyed
the room. It was dark, but the light from the street
shimmered through the window, providing a
murky orange glow, and I could make out a figure
at the end of the bed. It was Elaine. The clock on the
bedside table said 1.25.

I sat up, fumbling for the switch on the bedside
lamp. 'Elaine? What's happened?' The light came
on and I inhaled sharply, squinting against the
brightness. Her make-up had run where she'd been
crying and there were the beginnings of a bruise on
her right cheek, just below the eye. The low-cut
black blouse she was wearing had a tear in it that exposed the top of her bra, and it looked like an
attempt had been made to rip it off which
hadn't fallen too far short of success.

She looked at me, trying to maintain some sort of
dignity, but the effort was too much and she began
to cry again. 'Oh, Max ...'

188
Confused and worried, I jumped out of the bed
and took her in my arms. 'Elaine, what's
happened?'

For a while she didn't say anything, just sobbed
quietly against my chest, and I let her get it out, not
wanting to hurry her. Finally, she lifted her head
and turned away. 'Leave it, Max. Please. I'll be OK.'
She took her top off with her back to me - the first
time she'd done that - and threw it in the corner
before unclipping her bra.

'Elaine, tell me, please. You can't just come in like
this and not let me know what's up. Has someone
hurt you?' I went over and put my hands on her
shoulders, rubbing them gently as I tried to relax
her. 'Come on, tell me.'

'I can't/ she said, still keeping her back to me. 'I
don't want you to do anything stupid.'

It was a bit late for that. The last four days had
been one stupid thing after another. But I didn't say
this, knowing that patience alone would get it out
of her. 'Do you want a drink? A brandy or
something?'

She nodded. That'd be nice.'

I went through to the kitchen, found a bottle of
brandy, and poured her a generous slug. I poured
myself a glass of water.

When I returned to the bedroom, she was sitting
on the edge of the bed in her dressing gown. She'd
stopped crying and appeared to have calmed down
a little. 'I'm sorry about that/ she said, and thanked
me as I gave her the drink.

I sat down on her dressing-table chair so that
we were facing each other. There's no need to

189

1

apologize/ I said quietly, 'but I want to know
what's happened. Please.'

'Why? It won't do you any good.'

'I'll be the judge of that.'

She stared at me for a long moment, and I
thought then that even upset and humiliated she
looked beautiful. And vulnerable. For all her tough
exterior, she bled just the same as anyone else. 'Just
tell me, Elaine,' I said again.

She exhaled for what seemed like a long time,
then looked up at the ceiling. 'Krys Holtz came to
the club tonight.' I felt something strong in the pit
of my stomach, unsure whether it was fear or anger,
thinking that it was probably both. 'He asked to see
me in the office that Roy used to use. When I got in
there he started questioning me about the accounts,
about how much we were taking, where the money
was going, and all that. He seemed to think I knew
all about the dealing that went on there. I told him
that that side of it was nothing to do with me, and
gave him all the paperwork. I didn't like his
attitude. He was treating me like some sort of third
class citizen. I'd heard he was a real bastard but I
didn't expect him to be quite so fucking out of
order. He kept calling me "hired help", and then,
when I couldn't tell him what he wanted to know
about the dealing, he told me I was a lying bitch. He
said that we'd all been cooking the books down
there. Roy, me, and Warren Case, the bloke who
supplied the doormen.' She was fiddling intently
with a ring on her index finger as she spoke, and
shaking her head. Finally, she looked me right in
the eye. 'You know me, Max, I don't like being

190
insulted, whoever it is doing the insulting. I told
him I was telling the truth and if he didn't believe
me that was his fucking lookout. Then I told him I
was leaving.'

What happened then?'

'He hit me. The bastard stood up and smacked
me right in the face.' She touched her cheek where
his fist had connected, and I felt the rage building.
'I couldn't believe it. No man's ever done that to me
before, not in my whole life. Then he came over and
picked me up by my hair, telling me I was going to
have to learn some fucking manners. The whole
thing happened so fast I didn't even have time to be
scared, so I called him a cowardly cunt and tried to
knee him in the balls, but he just stepped out of the
way. Then he started slapping me round the face
with one hand and half-strangling me with the
other, and all the time he kept saying that I was
going to have to learn some manners.' She stopped
for a moment, and I thought she might lose her
composure, but she held on, her voice quiet. 'At one
point, I think the dirty bastard must have started
getting turned on because he pushed me back onto
the desk and I could feel him getting all hard up
against me, and he was saying I was a fucking
whore and pawing me all over, getting really
worked up ... Christ, it was horrible. I tried to fight
him, Max, I really did, but he was so fucking strong.
I could hardly breathe with his hand round my
neck. I thought he was going to kill me.'

I went over and put my arm around her. I felt sick
to the gut. It was difficult to believe what I was
hearing. I wondered how much worse things could

191
get. 'Did he rape you?' I asked quietly, desperate for
the answer to be no.

She shook her head and removed her hands from
her face, but still didn't look at me. I felt relief that
lasted for all of about two seconds. 'He did other
things,' she whispered, her disgusted tone leaving
little doubt as to what those things might have
been. 'And when he'd finished, he just looked at me
like I was nothing and told me to fuck off. Like I
was nothing, Max. No-one ... no-one's ever done
that to me before.' She shook her head slowly like
she was trying to shake the memories out of her
head. She looked distant, and I thought then that I
didn't want to lose her. To be honest, amid all the
frustration and rage in my head, that was when I
sort of knew I loved her. A bit hasty, yes, but sometimes
these things really do happen.

We held each other for a long time. Five minutes,
ten minutes, it was difficult to tell. It could have
been longer. Eventually she sighed and took a drink
from the glass of brandy.

'I need a cigarette,' she said.

Till find you one.' I opened up the drawer of her
bedside table and found a pack and a lighter. I lit
two and passed one to her.

'Don't do anything, Max. For Christ's sake. I just
want to forget about it, that's all. At least now I've
left the club. I don't think anyone's going to expect
me to work my notice after that.'

'What? You're going to ignore the fact that a
piece of shit like Krys Holtz did that to you?' I
tried to keep my voice calm, knowing that she
could hardly be blamed for wanting to put an

192
incident like that behind her, but it was difficult.

'He's Stefan Holtz's son, for fuck's sake! What
can we do?'

I shook my head. 'Fuck that. I keep hearing about
these Holtzes and how fucking invincible they are,
but let me tell you something, no-one's invincible. I
might be on the run but I'm not going to leave
London with my tail between my legs. And I'm not
going to move one more fucking foot until I get this
sorted out.'

'It won't help anything.'

'It'll help me,' I said, and got up and went to get
the rest of the brandy from the kitchen. My blood
was up; I needed something to get it back down
d^ain. I poured myself a glass, then took the bottle
back to the bedroom and poured some more for
Hlaine. 'You know something, I've never met Stefan
Holtz or any of his extended family, never done a
fucking thing to any of them, but these people seem
to be doing everything in their power to fuck up
my life.'

They fuck up a lot of people.'

There's one way I can get back at them. And get
revenge for what happened to you. I can off that
arsewipe Krys.'

'Don't be stupid.'

'I'm a trained soldier, Elaine. I'm perfectly
capable of doing it. And it'll make me feel one hell
of a lot better.'

Then what happens? You'll be on the run for
ever.'

'I'm on the run anyway, so what's the difference?
And I'll have got them back, for me and for you.

193
if

Krys'll be dead, and his dad'll have to live with the J
fact that he's lost a son. And if I do it right, they'll
never know it was me.'

Something in her face hardened. 'He's not going
to be that easy to kill, Max. Someone like him's got
a lot of enemies. He's got bodyguards.'

I shrugged. The idea of killing bodyguards didn't
bother me either. I knew it could be done. I could
also see that Elaine was now coming round to the
idea. We both sat looking at each other for a few
moments, each of us wondering how far we were
really going to go.

'I hate that bastard for what he's just done to me,'
she said eventually, 'but I don't want to do anything
that's going to make things worse for you and
for us. Do you know what I mean?'

But the thing was, I'd made up my mind. 'He's
going to have to die, Elaine/ I said simply.

She took a drag on her cigarette and eyed me
closely through the bluish haze of smoke. Then, for
the first time since returning that night, her gloom
seemed to lift. There's a better way,' she said.

Gallan

Berrin remained off sick on Monday. The flu, or
whatever it was, had supposedly got worse. If the
truth be told, he'd picked a good day to be absent.
It was another stinking hot one and tempers in CID
were frayed. Knox chaired the meeting of the
Shaun Matthews murder squad, during which
the events of the weekend, including the death of

194
the possible witness McBride, were discussed, but
there remained a feeling that everything had
ground to a halt on the inquiry, and Knox was preoccupied
by other events. A thirteen-year-old girl,
just one year older than my daughter, had been
dragged onto wasteground in broad daylight by a
man in his thirties while walking home from
the park, and violently sexually assaulted. The
jrdeal had lasted as long as half an hour and the
attacker had also slashed her arm with a knife or a razor, even though she'd made no move to resist
him. This was a particularly nasty type of crime,
one that upset the public, and therefore one that
upset the Brass. Which meant immediate pressure
to get it solved. By nine-thirty that morning, there'd
also been two missing persons reports, one of them
a teenage schoolgirl, and Knox was being pushed
from above to reorganize his resources. This meant
cutting the size of the Matthews murder squad.
With the case nine days old, and other business
piling up all over the place, Knox reduced it to himself,
Capper, DC Hunsdon, myself and Berrin
(whenever he turned up for work again). However,
due to further staff shortages within CID, I was
informed that I was also going to have to work the
other missing persons case, that of a fifty-threeyear-old
ex-con and former soldier named Eric
Home, who'd been missing since the previous
Thursday.

At this point, the meeting became heated, and I'd
pressed, with a lot less diplomacy than I usually
exhibit in front of the boss, for far more serious
efforts to be made in tracking down Jean Tanner

195

since if she was alive she at least might be able to
help. I also brought up the Neil Vamen angle, undeterred
by how it had all gone the previous day, and
suggested that he too might have had some involvement.
'And surely, if we've got the opportunity, we
want to put someone like him behind bars?'

Knox attempted to answer my concerns as
thoroughly as possible, explaining that he would speak to his counterpart on the McBride case
straight away, and get what details he could,
although he added that the hunt for Miss Tanner
was not our responsibility since McBride had not
died on our patch. We would, said Knox, continue
to look at the possibility of Neil Vamen's own
possible motives, but he suggested that, with the
death of the one person who'd mentioned his name
in connection with the case, it was going to be
extremely difficult to prove any involvement on his
part, if indeed there'd been any. I think I must have
pulled a face because Knox shot me one of his
trademark dirty looks reserved only for people
who really pissed him off, but I was past caring. In
my opinion, the whole thing was becoming
a whitewash. If the Matthews case had been a
straightforward one, like most murders, and hadn't
had any connections to the complicated morass of
organized crime, then Knox would have been a lot
more interested. Instead, he'd clearly decided that
it was more hassle than it was worth, that the
chances of a conviction were too negligible to waste
time on. These days it was all about performance
league tables. Something like this, particularly
when the corpse belonged to a lowlife like Shaun

196

I;

*
f
Matthews, was always going to be put on the back
burner if there were other, easier crimes coming
along that could be solved. That was the long and
the short of it.

The meeting broke up at ten past ten and Knox,
after doling out orders to various individuals and
trying to solve a couple of minor grievances, one
involving Boyd and Capper and an alleged sexist
comment, called me into his office. Neither of us
was in the best of moods and the sweltering heat in
the office did little to help matters. Knox had two
desk fans blasting away but all they did was push
the hot air around the confines of the room.

'Look, John, I know you're pissed off because you don't think things are moving as quickly as
you'd like on this case, but you know how things
are.' I didn't say anything. 'I'm going to speak to
DCI Peppard, DI Burley's boss, later this morning
to see what information we can get from them. If
they pick up Jean Tanner, I'll make sure we get the
opportunity to question her about Matthews, and
see what she may or may not know. We'll also chase
them to find out how McBride died and whether
they've got any leads on who may have killed him.'

'DI Burley wasn't exactly helpful, sir.'

'He can be very brash, I admit.'

'He treated me like a criminal. We're meant to be
on the same side.'

Knox's face reddened. He had the look of a man
who's been given the job of counsellor without
actually wanting it. 'It's not like that. Burley's
territorial. He doesn't like people, even fellow
officers, muscling in on his patch.'

197
$°

'I was hardly muscling in. I was actually trying to
help him.'

Tm sure you were, it's just that that's not how he
interprets it. He's not very good sometimes around
younger officers. I think he thinks they're upstarts.'
He gave a reassuring and vaguely patronizing
smile as he said this - not that I thought there was
anything particularly amusing about it. I continued
to look at him stony-faced.

Seeing that he didn't seem to be making much of
an impression on his disgruntled charge, Knox
changed tack. 'Whichever way we look at it, Roy
Fowler still remains for me the prime suspect. He of
all people had a motive. Now, I'm not letting this
inquiry go, no way. What we need to do is to look
into Fowler's background much more deeply
because he is most definitely the key to all this.'
Warming to his theme in a way that had been conspicuously
absent in the meeting earlier, he
continued, occasionally banging his fist on the desk
for emphasis. 'He and Matthews were definitely
involved in the drug dealing. It's a lucrative business.
I'm sure they fell out about it, and it's very
likely that that fall-out somehow led to his death.
Why else would Fowler have disappeared? Unless
he's got something to hide. He's been gone, what?
Three, four days now. Which I would describe as
highly irregular. And didn't you and Berrin
tell him not to go anywhere during the course of the
inquiry?' I told him we had. 'So let's concentrate on
him. I want you to review the case notes, go back
and talk to his associates, particularly staff
members at the Arcadia, and Capper and Hunsdon s

198 <
are going to dig deeper into what he's been up to in
the past. What scams he was involved in, particularly
this brothel business. This Heavenly Girls.
That might give us some ideas. It's time for some
lateral thinking.'

'My lateral thinking would be helped a great
deal, sir, if I didn't have to worry about a missing
persons case as well.'

Knox sighed. 'I know it's not ideal, but you know
the problems we've got with manpower. I've got to
put bodies on that indecent assault yesterday. The
media are already sniffing around. She's a very
pretty girl, and, worse than that, her parents are
high-band council taxpayers with a lot of clout, so
we're going to need a fast result. No-one wants an
animal like that running loose, particularly when
he's doing everything possible to make his crime as
high-profile as possible, so we're going to have to
show plenty of faces. I've also got the Drugs Squad
breathing down my neck for help on some major
surveillance they're running. Operation Swift
Strike it's called, though swift it most certainly
ain't, and it's likely to take people out of the loop
for the next three or four days. You see what I'm
saying?'

'Of course I do, sir, and I appreciate the manpower
problems. We've always got them. But
you're paring back the murder squad to an absolute
minimum, and with Benin off sick, I think I should
really be concentrating my efforts on the case.' I
resisted the urge to add, 'You see what I'm saying?'
I still wanted to make DI again after all, and I'd
more than made my point today.

199
This is very much a routine one, John, and it
shouldn't take you long. The bloke's ex-wife
phoned in this morning, says she hasn't heard from
him in days, and that he's missed two family
functions which is apparently not like him at all.'
He gave me the standard look of weary scepticism
which greeted any family members' description of
someone's actions as being 'not like him at all'. 'But
the point is, he's a big bloke, an ex-con and ex
soldier who works as a freelance bodyguard, so
he's not likely to have come to much harm. He's
probably just gone off somewhere for a few days
but I want you to give it a quick once-over.
Apparently, he does most of his work for a company
called Tiger Solutions.'

I snorted. 'What sort of name is that?'

'A very foolish one. His ex says she's already
contacted them and they haven't seen him for a
week or two themselves, but I'd like you to speak to
them when you've got a moment, and then give the
ex a call and tell her what you've found out. If you
can do it in the next couple of days it would be a big
help.'

I knew there was no point in arguing. 'Sure, I'll
do that.'

'Your hard work's appreciated you know, John/
he said, fixing me with one of his managerial looks.
'It all counts in your favour, I want you to know
that, and I'm keen for you to make progress here.
But do me a favour, eh? DI Capper told me about
yesterday with Neil Vamen. Don't go talking to him
about anything unless you've got solid evidence
implicating him, and you've checked it through

200
with me.' I nodded, and he let it go. 'Now, remember,
this missing persons case is very much a side
issue, so concentrate on Matthews, and I'll keep
you informed of my discussions with DCI Peppard.
And let's try looking at it from some new angles.
Lateral thinking, that's what we need.'

I got to my feet and said I'd get on to things
straight away. Thinking that Knox had probably
never had a lateral thought in his whole life.

When I got back to my desk, my mobile was ringing.
I didn't recognize the number but picked up
anyway. 'Gallan.'

'Hello, Mr Gallan,' said a pleasant, youthful
"nice I didn't know. 'It's Asif Malik here, SO7.'

'Hello, Asif. Thanks for getting back to me.'

'No problem. What is it I can do for you?'

'I'm involved in a murder inquiry which may
have a link with the area you cover, and I wonder if
I could pick your brains about it for a few minutes.
As you'll appreciate, it's not something I can talk
about over the phone. Do you think we could meet
up for half an hour? I'll come to you.'

'Can you tell me who it's regarding, just
so I know I'm the person you should be talking to?'

For some reason, I felt impelled to whisper into
the phone. The Holtzes, and particularly Neil
Vamen.'

There was a short silence at the other end. Then,
T'm the right person. How about Wednesday?'

'Fine.'

'I'll meet you at the Soul of Naples restaurant. It's
Italian.' Like it'd be anything else. "That all right for
you? It's up near me.'

201
I laughed. 'I'm usually limited to a sandwich on «
the run, so anything above that's a bonus.' If

'Well, this place is good. I'll be there at *
midday.'

Thanks. I appreciate it.' *'

He gave me the address and some basic .
directions, then rang off.

For a few seconds, I sat there staring at the
mobile, hoping that somewhere among the morass
of information Malik and his colleagues had '
undoubtedly gathered on the Holtzes there'd be
something that would stop this case ending up in
the growing ranks of the unsolveds.

At that point, however, I was not feeling
optimistic.

Iversson

'Kidnapping, Max? It'll never work, and it's too
fucking dangerous.'

We were in the lounge of Elaine's apartment, just
the two of us, beers in hand. Elaine had gone out to
give us the privacy to talk things through.

'It will work, Joe, if we do it properly. Elaine says
that--'

'Is this her idea?'

'Course it isn't. It's a product of a lot of thinking
I've been doing. Now, all I want you to do is hear
me out. If after I've said my piece you still don't
want to know, then fair enough, all you have to do
is walk out of here and forget we ever had this
conversation.'

202
Joe took a slug from his beer. 'Go on, then/ he
said suspiciously.

'Krys Holtz likes to go to a little gentleman's club
called Heavenly Girls which is down round here,
not far from Farringdon Road. It's a nice townhouse
in a posh street, which is mainly offices, and
basically it's full of top-drawer and top-price totty.
Krys is meant to keep his movements unpredictable
to stop any of his many enemies taking potshots at
him, but word is that he tends to go to the club
several nights a week, and usually most Friday
nights if he hasn't pulled anywhere else. And sometimes
even if he has.'

'And where's this information coming from?'

'Elaine. She knows some of the girls down there.
\pparently Roy Fowler used to manage it as well
as the club.' Joe pulled a face but didn't say anything.
We might have one or two false starts but we
should be able to survey the place all right without
arousing suspicion.'

'What about you? You're a wanted man.'

'I won't have shaved for a few days, I'll be wearing
glasses, and anyway the street's not particularly
well lit or well used after dark, so I don't think we'll
have a problem there. When Krys arrives all we do
is wait for him to go in - apparently he usually
travels with a couple of associates - then one of us
goes to the door and gains entry.'

'How does the person gain entry in the first
place? Presumably they don't let in any Tom, Dick
or Harry.'

'Someone'll have to do a dummy run first to get
an idea of the place. Whoever does it'll use the

203
name of one of the regulars, say that the bloke's
recommended it to him. Then once he's been once,
he shouldn't have any problem going back a second
time. So when he gets in the second time--'

'If he gets in.'

'He goes upstairs to reception, which is
supposedly fairly quiet, and when he's satisfied
that everything's all right, he pulls a gun, takes
control of the reception area, and gets the
receptionist to let the rest of us in. Then, when
we're up the stairs, we find out the room where
Krys is doing his thing, and grab him.'

'What about the men with him? What'll they be
doing all this time?'

'They usually tend to be with their own women.
They certainly don't hang about guarding Krys.
The beauty of it is that they'll be really easy pickings.
Caught with their trousers down, so to speak.
We tie them up, disarm them, and then we're out of
there. By this time, we've hired a nice little place
out in the country on a short let, and we keep him
there until the ransom's sorted out.'

'And how the hell are we going to collect the
ransom without getting ourselves killed in
the process?'

I paused, not sure whether I still needed to
convince myself of this bit. 'We get his dad
to deliver it.'

'Who? Stefan?' I nodded. TVIax, we're talking
about a man who's a virtual recluse. How are you
going to get him out running errands?'

'Because Krys is his son. One of his boys is in
prison, and now he risks losing another one. From

204
what I hear, they're a close-knit family, and Krys,
even though he's meant to be one mean rucking
bastard, is also the apple of his mother's eye.'

'Where are you getting all this information
from?'

'A lot of it's common knowledge, Joe. You know
that. The Holtzes might try to be secretive but
everyone knows about them. I think that if we play
this right, then we're going to be able to get his old
man to come. And, obviously, if we can do that,
then the chances of anyone trying to fuck us over
are minimal. They won't dare do anything that'll
risk hurting the big boss. Then we take the money,
give Krys a nice kicking so he knows what it's like
to be on the wrong end of a beating for once, and
we're out of there.'

'And that's it?'

That's it. If we make a straight ransom demand
of half a million in cash, that'll be enough to make
up for the risks we're going to have to take, and
give everyone involved the opportunity to take off
elsewhere until things either calm down or they
don't. Either way there'll be a nice little nest egg,
and it's not a sum that people like the Holtzes are
going to have any trouble raising. Not with their
money. The whole thing'll take a few days and
then, bingo, you'll be a whole lot richer than you
are today.'

'If we get away with it.'

'It's a risky venture, I know that. I'm asking for
your involvement because you're my mate, and
you know I've got to do something to sort out this
situation. Plus, I think the money outweighs the

205

risks. Think about it. We spent months at a time fighting
people who make the Holtzes look like pussycats,
and all for five hundred quid a week tax free. This
might be dangerous, but it's no more dangerous than
anything else we've ever done, and this time we can
all take a nice long holiday at the end of it.'

Joe took another slug of the beer. 'Have you
spoken to anyone else about this?'

'Apart from Elaine, no.'

'And what does she think, this woman you've
known for all of one weekend?'

'I think she'd prefer it if we just got out of
London and forgot the whole thing, but now that
she knows I'm committed to doing it, she's right
behind me.'

'How do you know she's not going to go and
blurt the whole thing out to one of her mates?'

'Because she's no fool, Joe. Plus, she owes Krys
Holtz after what he did to her last night. She won't
let us down.'

Joe sat back in his seat and lit a cigarette, still not
back in the habit of offering me one, so I
pulled out
one of my own. 'The police came to see me again
this morning,' he said eventually.

'Oh yeah? How come?'

'Eric's missus. She's reported him missing. This
detective came round asking questions. Had we
seen him? How long's he worked with us? That sort
of thing.'

'Did he mention anything about me?'

'No, it was a different bloke to the ones who
came round Saturday. I got the impression that this
one didn't know anything about you. God knows

206

I
why. You'd have thought they'd have coordinated
things a bit better.'

That's the Old Bill for you. Do you think he
suspects anything?'

He shook his head. 'I don't think so. He sounded
like the whole thing was routine, but we really
don't need the attention, not with everything else.
And you've got to think, they're going to be
.ible to put two and two together eventually, aren't
they?'

That's another reason to go ahead with this. If
we've got money in our pockets, big money, we're
not going to have to worry about it.'

He sighed. 'I don't think they can prove much
anvway, not without a body, but it's a worry. You
kuovv, it's amazing how everything can change just
like that. This time last week everything was hunky
dory. Now look at it.' He sat in silence for a few
moments and I watched him closely, knowing that
if he didn't bite I might as well forget the whole
thing now. This sort of operation's going to need at
least four people involved, maybe even five,' he
said after a while.

'Yeah, I know. I thought we'd use Johnny
Hexham as the driver. He's always available for
work, and we don't have to tell him what we're
doing. Not until it's too late for him to do anything
about it anyway. I can even get him to nick the
vehicles we'll use for the snatch. Any ideas who
else? Anyone we've worked with in the past? I was
thinking of ex-squaddies who are looking for a bit
of extra cash.'

'Not many are going to want to get involved in

207
something like this. Too many things could go
wrong.'

With half a million to play with, we could make
it worth their while.'

What split are you suggesting?'

'Equal shares for everyone who has to carry
a gun, fifty grand for the driver, and thirty to
Elaine for her part in setting it up. Does that sound
fair?'

Joe nodded. 'Yeah, but we've got to be very careful
who else we bring in on this. We don't want to
talk to anyone who then turns round and says
they're not interested, because that'll compromise
everything and probably land me on the same
target list you're on/

'I agree, but I can't think of anyone offhand. A
week ago I'd have said Tony. He was the sort of
bloke who'd have gone for this.'

When are you hoping to make the snatch?'

'As soon as we've got everything organized. The
place where we're going to hold him, the cars, and
obviously the people. It'll be a few days yet, but
that's all.'

'And who's doing the organizing?'

'I'll do all that, if you can get the other people. I
think you're right, perhaps we should have four
gunmen. So, are you going to come in on it?'

Joe finished his beer and sighed. 'All my instincts
tell me I'm an idiot for it, and if it was anyone else
I'd run a hundred miles in the other direction, but I
guess I could do with the money. Yeah, count me in,
and give me a couple of days to come up with other
possible men. In the meantime, you get things

208
moving. Are you going to use the cash I gave you to
cover the costs?'

I nodded. 'Yeah, that should be plenty.' I offered
him another beer, thinking I could probably do
with the company, but he said he had to go.

After he'd left, I poured myself one anyway and
relaxed in my seat. In the end, I'd always known
that Joe would be up for it because, like all people
who'd worked the mercenary game, he longed for
excitement and had been shot at enough times not
to worry too much about the danger involved
in what even I had to admit was not exactly a foolproof
plan. The rewards, though, were not to be
sniffed at.

All I had to do now was make sure the basics
were in place, and then we'd be ready to go.

209
Wednesday, eleven days ago

Gallan

When I arrived at the restaurant, Malik -1 assumed
it was him - was already there, sat at a table at the
far end. I could see why he'd picked this place: he
was the only customer in it, which didn't bode too
well. I don't usually get an opportunity to sample
restaurant fare while I'm on duty, so I hoped Malik
knew something the rest of the West End's
lunchtime trade didn't.

He stood up as I approached and we introduced
ourselves and shook hands. He was a young guy,
thirty tops, with a friendly smile and the air of
someone with a lot of self-confidence. He was
dressed in a dark grey suit that looked more
expensive than a copper's wage would allow, and a
natty-looking red tie. A bit formal for an eighty
degree day with high humidity, but he carried it
well. I thought he looked more like an up-and
coming executive than a copper, but there was
something genuine about him. A sense that you
could trust what he had to say. If he'd been selling,

210
I'd have definitely been in the marketplace, and it's
not often I say that.

A waiter appeared almost as soon as I'd sat down
and asked if I'd like a drink. I saw that Malik was
on orange juice, but since the Met were paying and
I had a pack of peppermints in my pocket, I opted
for a beer. I'm not a man who has any problem
drinking alone.

'So, this case you're working on/ said Malik as
my drink arrived. What's it all about?'

I gave him a brief rundown of the Matthews
inquiry. 'It's going nowhere fast. There's still been
no sign of Jean Tanner - it's like she's vanished into
thin air - and the preliminary autopsy on Craig
McBride showed he died of a heroin overdose, of an things. Again, no signs of a struggle. Other than
that, we've got nothing. No new leads, and no joy
with any of the old ones. My hunch is that someone
from the Holtz organization is definitely involved,
because of the way everyone either ends up dead or
disappears, but I'm not in a position to do anything
about it.'

Malik nodded thoughtfully. 'I'm not sure how
much help I can be, John.'

I took another sip from my drink. 'I don't know
either, but I'm beginning to run out of options and,
you never know, you might have something that'll
move us forward. Basically, I want as much information
as you can give me on the Holtzes and
Neil Vamen. I know a little bit, but it's very patchy.'

'Let's order first,' he said. He picked up a menu
from the table and handed it to me. 'I particularly
recommend the saltimbocca.'

211
'What the hell's that?'

'Escalopes of veal and parma ham cooked in a
marsala sauce and served with veg of the day and
sauteed potatoes. Bellissima!'

'It sounds like you're part-owner of the place.' I
gave the menu a cursory scan but nothing else leapt
out at me. 'OK, I'll go with the escalopes. In honour
of my ex-wife/

'She used to like them, did she?'

I allowed myself a malicious smile. 'No, she was
a strict vegetarian.'

'Clearly not an amicable separation.' He laughed.

'Are they ever?'

'Maybe more amicable than that. But who am I to
judge?' He waved the waiter over and gave our
order. 'Anyway,' he said when the waiter had gone,
'the Holtzes. I've been part of a team that's been
investigating them for getting close to eighteen
months now, and let me tell you, they are no easy
target. It's like trying to penetrate concrete.'

'Why's that?'

'A couple of reasons. One is they've been around
as an organization of sorts for getting close to thirty
years so they're very well established. The old man
Stefan's the lynchpin. He started out as a nasty little
thug and amateur boxer who got into debt collecting
on behalf of various scumbags before deciding
he'd be better off branching out on his own. What
differentiated young Stefan from a thousand other
lowlifes was that he had a brain, and a very sharp
one at that. He was, and is, a very good businessman.
I'd say he was wasted in crime but he
probably earns ten times more through that than he

212
would do by being legit, and he's expanded
majorly over the years. Moved into gambling,
counterfeiting, armed robbery for a while, though
of course never getting his hands dirty himself. He
organized everything but he made sure he only
surrounded himself with people he could really
trust. That's why in many ways it's always been a
family outfit. His two brothers were heavily
involved with him in the early days, and then,
when they got old enough, his sons got into it as
well. They probably never would have been a
massive outfit, though, if it hadn't been for drugs.'
I allowed myself a wry chuckle. 'Same old story.'
'Always the same old story. Everyone's made big
cash out of drugs, no doubt about it, but for an out
nt like the Holtzes, with an infrastructure and good
underworld contacts already in place, the opportunities
have been huge. And they've taken them.
You know, the word is Stefan Holtz can't stand
drugs. Won't let any of his family touch them,
although of course they all do. But as an organization
they were into them from the outset. Dope,
amphetamines, coke particularly, even heroin. Over
the years they've forged alliances with numerous
other crime organizations both here and abroad
and now they're one of the biggest importers in
Britain. They also supply a lot of the gear, particularly
Ecstasy and coke, to Ibiza for the summer
season. So, if your nice middle-class teenage kid
goes over and drops a tab or snorts a line, the
chances are that some of the profits on that are
heading straight back to the Holtzes, and we're not
talking about small quantities here. Thousands of

213
people are taking millions of pounds' worth of gear
every night between May and October. And that's
just one part of their smuggling activities.

'But what sets them apart is their levels of
sophistication and the seniority of their contacts in
the criminal world. These days they get their
cocaine straight out of Cali in Colombia, no middle
men at all. And we believe they've set up a major
smuggling route through Bosnia and into western
Europe, not only for heroin from Pakistan and
Afghanistan but also for illegal immigrants, particularly
now the Mehmet Ulan/Raymond Keen
operation's out of business. They even smuggle in
ancient artefacts. There's nothing they won't touch.
If it makes money, they'll be there. And the sort of
money that comes their way is incredible. We don't
know exactly how much it is for sure, there are so
many front companies and money-laundering
operations, and Holtz employs an army of accountants,
but we reckon as a group they turn over in
excess of forty million sterling per year.'

I whistled through my teeth. 'No wonder they're
difficult to penetrate.'

'Exactly. That sort of money buys a lot of loyalty.
And, as I've said, they're well enough established
that the main players involved are all very well
known to one another, so they're not likely to start
grassing each other up, especially if there's no
obvious benefit to it. A guy from SO10 did get on
the periphery of the organization once but they
sniffed him out, found out where he lived, and sent
a couple of their people round to pay a visit to his
wife and baby.'

214
'Christ/ I said, wondering how I'd have reacted
ten years earlier if the same thing had happened to

me.

'They didn't hurt them or anything, just made
sure he knew that they could if they wanted to. It
spooked the guy so badly he left the Force. And that
was the closest anyone ever got. Having said all
that, we have had some successes against them, as
have other branches of the Met, and Tomas, Stefan's
oldest son, is currently doing a nine stretch for
possession of two kilos of cocaine and twenty-four
M-16 rifles.' I raised my eyebrows quizzically. 'Yes,
they also smuggle weapons as well, although that
was the first evidence we ever had of it, and of
course young Tommy denied knowledge of any
such enterprise and claimed that, like the gear, they
were a plant.' He smiled wearily, the standard
copper's reaction to such boring and uninventive
lies.

'What about contacts within the Force?' I asked,
thinking of that arsehole Burley. 'Have they got any?'

'We've never actually uncovered anyone, but you
know as well as I do there are coppers out there
susceptible to corruption.' He paused for a moment
as if he was waiting for me to make some mention
of his old boss, but I kept silent. 'Anecdotal
evidence suggests there's quite a few coppers on
the Holtz payroll,' he continued, 'and it would
stand to reason. But they've been good at keeping it
under wraps.'

'You said there were two reasons why they
were so hard to penetrate. One's the way they're
organized. Whaf s the other?'

215
Malik gave me a serious look. Their ruthlessness.
If you cross them, your days really are
numbered. Every criminal firm's prone to violence,
of course. I suppose you've got to be in that line of
business, especially these days with all the
competition, but the Holtzes take it one step
further. To them, killing's just another way of protecting
their investments. If you get in their way, or
do anything that might foul up the smooth operation
of their moneymaking, then you die. It's as
simple as that. We estimate they've been
responsible for something like thirty-five killings
since 1985 alone. Incredible when you think that
most people have never even heard of them. But
we've only ever recovered fourteen bodies which
could actually be linked to members and associates
of the family. Of those fourteen, not one has ever
resulted in a conviction. People don't go against the
Holt/es because the consequences are simply too
grim, and the rewards of staying onside simply
too great.'

'You make it sound like an impossible task to
bring them to justice.'

We'll get them in the end,' he said, and he
sounded like he truly meant it. I thought it was a
pity there weren't more coppers like Malik. 'We'll
pursue them to the ends of the earth if we have to,
but I'll be honest with you, it won't be easy. In the
eighteen months I've been with the team we've not
been able to secure anything above minor convictions,
and those have only been against the
lower-level players, but things are changing. The
government are getting very concerned about

216
criminal gangs supposedly running the country so
they're putting a lot of resources into the fight to
bring them down. We're not the only people
involved. ML5 are looking into them too. So are the
National Crime Squad, and even Customs & Excise
are involved, which is probably the most
frightening prospect of all from a criminal's point
of view. So they're feeling the squeeze. But I can't
ace them bursting just yet.'

The food arrived, and Malik was right, I wasn't
disappointed. As I ate, I stole occasional glances at
him and I had to admit to being impressed by his
overall demeanour. Here was a man whose immediate
boss and mentor had been uncovered as a
cold-blooded killer, an event that had placed Malik
under the microscope of the press and had led to
unfounded whispers about his own involvement. I
knew what it was like to have the media on your
back from my own experience, but the Dennis
Milne story had been a much bigger one than our
squalid little cover-up, yet Malik didn't portray the
remotest hint that it had adversely affected him. If
anything, it was quite the opposite. From what I'd
gathered from talking to people at the station
who'd known him in his time there, he'd been a
fairly quiet, unassuming guy, nothing like the
confident-looking individual sat in front of me now.

'So, Neil Vamen,' I said between mouthfuls. 'I
know a few things about him, none of them particularly
nice, but I'd like to hear anything you've
got.' I decided not to say anything about my visit to
him at the Seven Bells, since it didn't exactly place
me in a positive light.

217
He sawed off a large chunk of veal and popped it
in his mouth, clearly savouring the taste. 'Sorry
about that/ he said when he'd finished chewing.
'Vamen's an interesting one. He joined the family
firm at a fairly low level back in the mid-seventies,
apparently as an enforcer. He's thought to have
committed at least one murder on Stefan Holtz's
behalf, in 1978 when he was twenty-one, but he's a
cunning bastard, and very shrewd, and he's moved
right through the ranks. Of people outside the immediate
family, he's easily the closest to Stefan, and
acts as his chief adviser, especially now that
Stefan's a virtual recluse. I suppose in many ways
Vamen's the most dangerous of all of them because
he's as intelligent as Holtz, if not more so, and he's
still got the drive. The other family members don't
cut the mustard in that respect. Stefan's two
brothers are both dead: one, Terry, died from a heart
attack ten years ago while he was in prison; the
other, Kas, got killed in a car crash last year. And of
the three sons, Tommy's in the nick, Robbie's not
interested, and Krys is too much of a nutter.'

'I've heard about Krys.'

'A real nasty piece of work, and in a way the
others aren't. Everyone connected with the Holtzes
is violent, some in the extreme, but in the main it's
just business. I'm not saying that that justifies it, of
course it doesn't, but at least there's a reason
behind it. With Krys, it's all about the enjoyment of
inflicting pain. He's the sort who likes pulling the
legs off spiders - you know the type. In fact, in
many ways he's probably their loosest cannon,
although such is the fear he inspires in people he's

218
never been convicted of a thing. No-one would ever
testify against Krys Holtz.'

'Do you think it's feasible that Neil Vamen could
be behind the murder of Shaun Matthews?'

'Be realistic, John. What have you got? The word
of a dead man/

'So, the name Jean Tanner doesn't actually mean
anything to you, then?'

He shook his head. 'Not off the top of my head,

no.'

I refused to give up. The don't see why McBride
would have been bullshitting. He said it was well
known that Neil Vamen played away from home.
Would that be right?'

'Well, it's certainly well known that Vamen has
.,,Stresses, but, like everything else in his life, he
likes to keep them as secret as possible. We put him
under surveillance whenever resources allow, and
we've photographed him with a number of women
other than his wife, but as far as I'm aware we've
only positively identified two, neither of whom
goes by the name Jean Tanner. What I'll do, though,
is go through what we've got back at HQ and I'll
email over the information, including any photos
we have of the women.'

I'm sure that whoever killed Matthews was also
responsible for the murder of Craig McBride,
although God knows why. To me, that level of
organization suggests someone like Neil Vamen.'

'But you haven't got much of a motive.'

'Not yet, no.'

'Whatever did happen, it wouldn't have been
Vamen inflicting the fatal dose, although I suppose

219
I1
<

.ass

i? I
>j|

admittedly, but still someone who's not going to
risk his position by committing rash crimes. And ~*
even if he had something to do with it, you're going
to have a sod of a time proving it.' J

I nodded wearily, having already heard this
several times. 'I know, I know. No-one ever said it «i
would be easy.' I stabbed a couple of sauteed " j
potatoes. 'It would be useful if I could find *j
Matthews's boss, Roy Fowler, as well. Do you ^ know anything about the ownership of this club, jfj
the Arcadia? I'm hearing that the Holtzes run it, but *
I've got nothing concrete.'

Malik shook his head. 'Not specifically. The
number of front companies they've got is incredible;
it has to be when you've constantly got ; i
millions of pounds to launder. I'll ask around i
within the team and see if they've heard anything,
but don't hold your breath.'

'So you don't have any informants within their „ '
organization, then?' -, i

For the first time during the course of the conversation,
Malik appeared cagey. 'I'm afraid that's
classified information, John, as you'd appreciate.'

'Well, if you do, I'd take it as a favour if you |
could ask the questions.' |t

Malik said he'd see what he could do. 'I'm sorry
if I'm not being too much help/ he added with a V i
sheepish smile. 1;

'It's a lunch's worth,' I said, 'and, anyway, I came 1

it's possible he could be behind it. Remember this,
though: he doesn't do things that are going to bring
attention on himself. In the end, unlike Krys, he's
first and foremost a businessman. A nasty one, *?

' ' »¥ I
220
here more in hope than expectation. But if you can
get me that info on Vamen's associates and women,
I'd appreciate it. It might even be worth buying you
coffee for.'
Malik smiled. 'Now that's an offer I'll take you

up on.'

I ordered two coffees - a cappuccino for me, a
black filter for him - and the conversation drifted
on to other things, mainly what life was like back at
the station. I told him I didn't think he was missing
much: Capper was still a talentless arsehole, Knox
was still yearning for a detective superintendent
role, the chief super was still an idiot. We had a few
laughs about things, and found we got on pretty
wpll,. but soon Malik was looking at his watch and
sdying it was time to go.

We stood up at the same time, me a good four
inches taller, and shook hands.

'Good luck with the case, John,' he told me, 'but
be careful as well. The Holtzes, and Neil Vamen in
particular, are not people to mess about with. If it
came to it, they're not afraid to put a bullet in a
copper.'

Which is just the sort of uplifting advice you
need on a Wednesday afternoon.

Wednesday was Berrin's first day back at work
after his impromptu bout of summer flu, which
was the reason I hadn't allowed him to come on the lunch with Malik, but had instead got him reviewing
witness statements. He wasn't going to get a
decent meal on the Met when he'd spent the last
three days lolling about at home. The bastard

221
looked quite brown, too, which made me
suspicious. When I got back to the station that afternoon
he was doing an interview with a man who'd
been arrested for possession of eight hundred
quid's worth of counterfeit currency. Apparently
there'd been no other CID available, and such was
the quality of the fakes it was thought appropriate
that there was plainclothes representation when
Ihey were talking to him.

While I waited for him to come out of his interview,
I wrote down what I'd picked up in the
meeting with Malik. I also checked my emails but
he'd yet to send through the information he'd
promised me, which wasn't a huge surprise. He
was a busy guy and it could wait, particularly since
it didn't sound like there was going to be anything
earth-shattering contained in it. The Shaun
Matthews incident room was eerily quiet again that
afternoon, with me the solitary person in it. For
some reason, it made me feel sorry for Matthews in
a way I doubted he'd ever deserved, but there was
something vaguely undignified about the way his
death was steadily being forgotten by those
charged with finding his killer. As if he simply
wasn't important enough.

I picked up the phone and dialled the elusive DI
Burley, expecting to get his voicemail as I had on the
last two occasions I'd called. He hadn't returned
either of those calls. This time, however, I was in luck.

'Burley/ he grunted. Even his telephone manner
was obnoxious.

'Hello, sir/ I said, trying hard to sound as polite
as possible. 'It's DS Gallan here.'

222
'You again. What the fuck are you hassling me for

now?'

'I wondered if there was any sign of Jean Tanner

yet.'

'Listen, I told you the other day, and I've told
your DCI since then, that when she turns up we'll
let you know.'

'Is there any actual effort being made to find
her?' I asked.

What do you want me to do, run adverts on the
front page of The Times? Do a door-to-door poster
campaign? We're looking all right, but we haven't
got unlimited money and manpower, so it's going
to take some time.'

'And what sort of progress are you making?'

'A lot more if I didn't keep getting my voicemail
clogged up by the likes of you.'

'If you'd let us fucking help in the first place--'

'Don't ever swear at me, Gallan/ he growled, but
by this time I was past caring.

'Is someone paying you to drag your feet on this?
Is that why you're taking so fucking long about it?'

'You piece of shit. You'll be hearing from me
about what you just said.'

I think we both hung up on each other at pretty
much the same time, and I was left staring at the
phone, wondering what motivated some people to
join the police force. In Burley's case, it was probably
a desire to mess up people's lives. I hoped he
didn't make a formal complaint to Knox, who had
no idea I was hassling Burley.

Next, I tried Roy Fowler's numbers, more out of
habit than anything else. I knew he wouldn't

223
answer, and he didn't. I then phoned the Arcadia
and asked the man who picked up whether they'd
heard from him, but they hadn't. It also turned out
that Elaine Toms had left, which was vaguely
interesting. No-one had a forwarding number for
her, and there wasn't one on the murder log, so I
was reduced to scanning the phone book until I
found it. She wasn't home; a man I assumed was
her boyfriend or flatmate answered. I introduced
myself and asked if she could call me back. The
man on the other end politely asked what it was
about and I gave him the usual spiel that it
was simply a routine police inquiry. In truth, I
wanted to find out why she'd left the club and
whether or not there was anything she might want to
add to her existing statements. A bit of a straw
clutching exercise, perhaps, but if you don't ask, you
don't get.

When Benin came back from his interview, we discussed
any new developments on the case, but there
was nothing of note to report. At about five o'clock,
Elaine Toms phoned back. She seemed in better
spirits and was certainly a lot politer than the last
time we'd talked, but that didn't alter the fact that she
had nothing further to add to her statement.

Fifteen minutes later I decided to call it a day, and
on the way out I bumped into WDC Boyd in the
corridor. I hadn't seen her for a couple of days as
she'd been transferred to the assault case on the
thirteen-year-old girl and was in charge of liaising
with the victim. It was a role I reckoned her well
suited to. She had the right combination of sensitive
and strong.

224
We both stopped and made small talk for a minute
or two. I asked her how she was getting on with the
new case and she told me that, like all sexual
assaults, it was a difficult one, but particularly so
when the victim was so young. 'She's bearing up
well, considering,' she told me, 'but it breaks your
heart, John.' There was a genuine pain in her eyes as
she spoke, and all I could do was tell her that hope
full}' the girl was young enough to shrug off the
trauma of what had happened. I wasn't sure I
believed it, though.

'Have you managed to get anywhere further
with the poisons lead?' she asked me.

'No, I'm still not sure where else I can go with it.'
T'H taken Boyd's notes on what she'd uncovered
itgarding the venom that had killed Shaun
Matthews after she'd left the murder squad. They
were very thorough but didn't contain any hidden
gems of information. Tou seem to have covered
every angle,' I told her.

'I've covered the obvious ones, but I'm sure
there's something I've missed and we're missing.'

'Did you ever search for any matches on the
Internet?'

'I had a couple of dabbles but as soon as you put
in key words, you get hundreds of pieces of information
that are totally irrelevant. Sometimes I
think the net's overrated as a means of finding out
about stuff. And you know what it's like round
here. If you start surfing, people think you're just
messing about and not working. They're still
Luddites in CID/

'I think I might have a go at home,' I said. 'I

225
bought this PC a while back and I never seem to get
the time to use it.'

'Story of our lives/ she said.

I wanted to ask her what she was up to now and
whether she had time for a quick drink, and I was
just about to open my mouth when Knox appeared
round the corner, looking troubled.

'Hello Tina, John.' He stopped and took hold of
my arm. Tou'll have to excuse us, Tina, but we've
had some movement on the Matthews case. John, I
need to speak to you in the incident room.
Urgently.'

I said a brief goodbye to Boyd then walked back
towards the incident room with Knox. 'What's
happened, sir?'

That stain in the car we stopped the other day.
The one you phoned in about.'

'Oh yeah?'

'It was blood. And guess who the blood belonged
to?'

'I couldn't tell you, sir.'

'None other than Mr Arcadia himself, Roy Fowler.
It matched the sample we took from him when he
was nicked for driving under the influence.'

'Well, well, well.'

He turned and fixed me with a self-important
stare. 'I think I know what's happened/ he said.

Capper, Hunsdon and Benin joined us in Knox's
office in the incident room. Capper asked me how it
had gone with Malik that afternoon. 'Has he heard
anything from Dennis Milne lately?' he asked with a
snide smile as he grabbed a chair and sat down.

226
'Yeah, he got a postcard from him the other day/
I said, smiling back. 'Apparently he's opened a
guesthouse in Bournemouth. Says he'll do discounts
for CID and pensioners.'

Capper didn't look too amused, knowing that his
attempt to score a point, however pathetic, had
backfired, but he didn't say anything. Hunsdon
yawned.

'All right, gents,' said Knox, bringing the meeting
to order. 'Important news.' He then explained what
had happened for the benefit of Capper, Berrin and
Hunsdon, before sitting back, bolt upright, in his
chair. There was a moment's silence while the news
sank in.

'That puts the cat among the pigeons/ said
C.ipper, exhaling dramatically.

'My theory's this/ said Knox, looking at us each
in turn for maximum effect as he spoke. 'Fowler
had Matthews killed. He used poison to make it
look like an accident but obviously wasn't aware
how easy it was for us to find out about it. That's
why I don't think it was the work of organized
criminals. They would have just shot him. Fowler's
motive was drugs. We know that dealing went on
at the Arcadia in fairly sizeable quantities, we know
that Matthews ran it, and we're almost certain that
Fowler organized it. I reckon Matthews was
ripping Fowler off, Fowler found out about it, and
took revenge.

'But I think Matthews had a business partner.
Someone involved with the drugs with him, and
that person was Max Iversson. He and Matthews
were both ex-soldiers, same regiment in fact, and I

227
think we'll find that the two of them knew each
other. Iversson found out about what Fowler had
done and decided to take revenge. He may have
simply assaulted Fowler, but more likely he's killed
him, and is consequently lying low.'

'It certainly sounds plausible,' said Capper,
nodding.

I wasn't sure. Given that there was no evidence
whatsoever to suggest that Iversson and Matthews
knew each other, Knox's theory relied one hell of a
lot on suppositions.

'What about McBride?' I asked. 'Where does he
fit into it? And what about the Holtzes?'

'I don't know is the short answer,' he said, which
at least was honest. 'McBride may well be
something completely different. And, as for the
Holtzes, I just can't believe that they'd use an
obviously traceable and extremely rare poison to
get rid of a business rival.'

'Fair enough/ I said, because he had a point. I
still didn't go with it particularly, but it was hard to
argue with the logic. A poisoning did seem a very
odd way for a gangster to operate.

'Anyway, the most important thing is we find
Max Iversson and see what he's got to say for himself.
His details are going to have to be distributed
to other forces, along with that photo of him we've
got.' He looked at Hunsdon. 'Paul, you get that
sorted out, OK?' Hunsdon nodded. 'Crimewatch is
going out next Wednesday and I want a photo of
Iversson on it for the rogues gallery. That ought to
get some response. Plus, I'm organizing a search
warrant for Fowler's place.' He looked at Capper.

228
'Phil/ you and Paul turn it over and see what you
can find. At the same time, start really digging up
on Fowler's background, generate some clues. I
know he's the key to it.'

Next, Knox turned to Benin and me. 'John, something's
going on down at this Tiger Solutions
company, or whatever they're called. It may be
coincidence but that missing person, Eric Home,
worked for them and he still hasn't turned up, has

he?'

'Not that I'm aware of, sir, no. I spoke to his ex
missus briefly yesterday and he hadn't then. She
seems pretty worried.'

'I don't know how we missed the fact that he and
Iversson worked for the same outfit. Anyway, you
uivJ Dave go back, grill the people there,
particularly Iversson's partner, and get some
answers. Something very dodgy's been going on,
and I want to find out what it is.'

Which were my sentiments exactly. I hoped
Knox's theory was right, because if it wasn't we
were left with dozens of pieces to a jigsaw that
seemed to be getting more complicated with each
passing day.

229

1

Introducing Krys Holtz

Krys Holtz was a man who knew that a show of
weakness, any show of weakness, inevitably
destroyed a man's authority. You had to be strong.
You had to break the bastard in front of
you and shut out every last fucking scream for
mercy he made, however loud it was. After all, if a
bloke didn't do Krys any wrong, then the bloke had
nothing to fear. It was only cunts who took major
fucking liberties who found themselves paying the
price, and the price was always justified. They
could yell and squeal and beg as much as they fucking
wanted. They could piss their pants, even shit
in them (and some of the bastards did, too), but it
was never going to make a blind bit of fucking
difference, because if he let the geezer go, gave him a
pat on the head and told him not to be naughty again,
then they'd be lining up to put one over on him, and
that was never going to happen. No fucking way.

'First things first. Admit to me you took that
fucking money. Because I know you fucking did so
there ain't no fucking point in pretending that you
didn't. Is there?'

230
The 'you' in this instance was Mr Warren Case,
proprietor of Elite A Security and supplier of door
staff to the Arcadia nightclub, who was, at that
moment in time, tied to a filthy old bed in Krys's
cavernous workshop. He was naked and spread
eagled, his hands and feet tightly bound, and very
very frightened, which was hardly surprising given
the fact that he'd been part of the Holtz organization
for getting close to ten years and therefore
knew exactly what Krys was like.

'Please, Krys,' he whimpered, 'I didn't do
nothing, honest.'

Krys laughed. So did the three other men
gathered round the bed: Big Mick, Fitz and Slim
Robbie. 'I tell you, boys,' said Krys, shaking his
Sv.d, 'this cunt's taking me for a fucking fool. Have
I got "gullible cunt" written on my fucking forehead
or something?'

'No, boss,' said Fitz somewhat unnecessarily.

'Oh God, God ... Please, please ...' Case might
have been a big man with a reputation to match but
his words were spewing out so fast that no-one
could really understand what he was saying. Not
that anyone was listening. It had gone way too far
for that.

'Why don't you torture him, Krys?' suggested
Slim Robbie helpfully, looking down at Case's
sweating, panic-stricken features.

'Good idea, Rob, I think I might just do that. It'll
save us all a lot of time and will, in this case, be particularly
fucking enjoyable.'

Case tried to struggle with his bonds but he
was too well secured for anything more than the

231

smallest of movements. 'Krys, please, I
swear I
didn't fucking do anything. Honest. On my kids'
lives ...'

Krys looked mildly put out by this. 'On your
kids' lives? That's a mean fucking thing to say,
Warren, especially as I know you're as guilty as sin.
I can't understand why you don't just come fucking
clean and admit it. I mean, we're going to get it out
of you sooner or later. Why don't you save us all the
trouble?'

But Case continued to protest his innocence in
forced, desperate tones, which really peeved Krys.
It reminded him of that time with Jon Kalinski.
Right up until the bitter end, that bastard had
sworn he'd never nicked a penny off Krys, when in
reality he'd had him over for close to two hundred
grand in cash and diamonds. And for a long time
Krys had believed him, too - the smooth-talking
cunt - but in the end he'd had the last laugh,
making him watch while he'd gone to work on his
girlfriend, telling him to be patient, because it
would be his turn next. Come to think of it, Kalinski
had shat himself as well. Terrible smell it had been.
Runny, too. Some people have got no self-respect.

It was time, Krys decided, to drop the Mr Nice
Guy act with Case and take more radical measures.
He picked up a dirty apron from the chair beside
him and made a great show of putting it on, ignoring
Case's whines. When that was done, he walked
up to his tool rack where a vast array of implements
covered almost the entire length of one dank, grimy
wall. He stopped, inspected what was on offer
for a few moments, then selected his Bosch 3960K

232

I
battery-operated drill, a fine piece of German
workmanship if ever there was one, and vastly
superior to the equivalent Black & Decker. It had
been a birthday present from his dear old mum and
was something he only liked to use on special
occasions. Removing it from its handy carry-case,
he spent some time selecting a suitable drill bit,
opting eventually for a nice thin three mill. After
all, he didn't want any accidental fatalities. Not
before he'd found out what he wanted to know.
After that, he'd have to see.

He fitted the bit and turned the drill on, enjoying
the rewed-up shriek it made as it shifted between the
two gears. He turned it on and off several times in
rapid succession, and once again the naked

> C'

prisoner struggled on the bed, tears of frustration
and bowel-churning fear streaming down his face.

'It ain't looking good, is it, Warren? This is
Teutonic toolmaking at its finest. Vorsprung durch
technik, and all that. This cunt goes through
concrete like it ain't even there, and with hardly an
ounce of pressure. Not like its cheaper, more substandard
rivals. So, think how easily it'll go through
human flesh. Your flesh.' As he spoke, he
approached the bed until he was standing right
above it, looking down at Case's fear-engraved
face.

'Please, Krys, I swear. I have never, never, never
fucked you over. I've never skimmed you, I've
never taken nothing that wasn't my due. Honest.
Please, for my kids' sakes. Don't hurt me.'

'Admit you did it, Warren. That's all you've got
to do. Just fucking admit to me that you took my

233
fucking money, and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you
go.' He switched the drill on again.

'But Krys, I didn't, I didn't. I promise--'

Krys shoved the drill into his face, ripping a
vicious hole right through the cheek. Blood
splattered angrily across his features and the dirt
encrusted mattress, and flecks of it splashed onto
Krys's apron. He held the drill in there for a few
moments while it made a nice mess, careful not to
push too hard and damage the tongue, then pulled
it out, taking a lump of meat with it. He switched it
off, removed the lump, and chucked it back at Case.
That's yours/ he said evenly.

Case coughed and choked as his mouth filled
with blood. He managed to turn his head and spit
most of it onto the pillow. Then he sicked up some
pinkish fluid.

'Ooh, that's horrible,' said Fitz, attempting to
wrinkle his flattened nose.

Krys grinned. 'Fuck that, I'm only just warming
up.' He turned to Big Mick and told him to turn the
radio up a few notches. 'I think we've got a
screamer here.' A couple of seconds later, the sound
of Take on Me' by veteran eighties rockers a-ha
jingled catchily over the airwaves.

Case stopped vomiting and looked towards Krys
with wide, pleading eyes. He opened his mouth to
say something, perhaps to make a confession, but
Krys would not be denied his prize. The cunt had
held out, he'd had his chance and refused to take it,
and now he was going to pay the price, there was
no getting away from that. No fucking way.

He pounced on the bed, half-screaming,

234
half-laughing, and shoved the drill into his prone
victim's left knee. There was a moment's stubborn
resistance, as he worked to create a decent opening,
but then he was into his stride and the bit was
coursing through bone like the Nazis through
Poland, triumphant in its efficiency. Krys was
forced to look away as the debris flew off in every
direction, the screams of Case so loud that they all
but drowned out the vocals of one-time Norwegian
heart-throb Morton Harket, but then old Morton
had never had the most forceful of voices.

Finally, the bit was through and cutting into the
mattress beneath. Krys pulled it out, a crackle of
almost sexual excitement surging from his groin to
hia neck. He paused for a moment to relish the feeling,
then fell upon the other kneecap like a wolf
upon freshly killed prey, lost in the noise and the
blood.

By the time he'd finished this one, Case had
passed out and a-ha had been replaced by trendy
American rockers Mercury Rev. Krys thought that
he preferred the Norwegians, mainly because the
song reminded him of his youth. He was sure he'd
once fucked a girl to the sound of 'Take on Me'.
Take her on, he fucking had. And won.

'Wake him up/ said Krys, looking down at the
blood as it dripped onto the bed. Fitz put some
smelling salts under Case's nose. At first they
didn't seem to do too much, but then Case started
coughing and dribbling, and his eyes opened. 'Oh
God,' he managed to say, then shut them again.
Krys wiped the drill bit with a handkerchief and
noticed that some blood had got onto his jeans,

235
which annoyed him still more. This cunt, Case,
hadn't yet paid enough. It was hardly Krys's fault if
he was such a fucking nancy boy that he fainted
rather than took his punishment.

He walked back round the other side of the bed,
switched the drill on again, then shoved it into
Case's other cheek, this time pushing hard and
twisting it around a bit before retrieval. Case didn't
scream at all this time, he just turned his head from
side to side, alternately coughing and moaning.

'So, did you nick my money then, Warren?'
Nothing. Case didn't even open his eyes. Instead,
he vomited again. Krys's face darkened. 'I said, did
you nick my drugs?' Then, louder: 'Did you nick
my fucking money, you fucking cheap dirty lying
cunt? Well, did you? I'm fucking talking to you, you piece of shit, fucking answer me!'

And then the rage came surging up like a wave in
a storm and, with his face carved into a terminally
unforgiving sneer, Krys Holtz pushed the drill into
Case's left eye, at just the moment when the
weather girl came on to say that heavy rain was on
the way.

Some time afterwards, while they were standing
drinking beers and wondering whether to call a
doctor for Case or patch what was left of him up
themselves, Slim Robbie made an interesting point.
'What if he was telling the truth all along, and he
hadn't ripped you off?'

Krys shrugged. 'Fuck it. I never liked the bald
cunt anyway.'

236
Thursday, ten days ago

Gallan

This is beginning to become worryingly regular/
qaid Joe Riggs with a slight smile as he led us into
Tifjer'b cramped offices and took us into a back
room where the window above the street was wide
open and a desk fan tried in vain to disperse the
intense heat. Quarter to eleven and it was already
excruciatingly hot, the last hurrah of the heatwave
before the expected storms came in.

Riggs went out and brought in another chair for
Berrin, then sat behind the small, untidy desk
facing us. Unlike the other day, he didn't ask if we
wanted anything to drink. 'Before last week, I'd
never had a visit from the police in my life and, as
you're no doubt aware, I've got no criminal record.
Now three times in five days.' He didn't sound particularly
worried, just mildly curious as to why
we'd come again.

The name of your company and individuals
who work for it just keep coming up in our
inquiries,' I told him, a smile of my own playing

237
round my lips. It was all very civilized.

Riggs was a powerfully built individual with
very muscular, tattooed arms. He had a thick
moustache and a vaguely rural Home Counties
accent, and there was no mistaking the fact that
he looked like a soldier. Not necessarily an officer,
which I knew he'd been, because there were no
obvious airs and graces, but definitely a soldier. I
suppose women would have found him quite
attractive in a rugged sort of way. He looked
the outdoor type. He also looked a fairly upfront
bloke although, as a copper, I knew that didn't
necessarily mean anything.

'So, how can I help you this time?'

'It's about your partner, Mr Iversson.'

'Have you found him yet?'

'I presume that means you haven't heard from
him?' put in Berrin.

'You presume right. And I've got no idea where
he is either, before you ask. I haven't seen him since
last Thursday. He was meant to come in on Friday
and he didn't. He called in to say he was feeling
under the weather and that was the last I heard from him.'

'You supply security, don't you?' I said.
'Bodyguards for celebrities and business people.'

That's right, as I mentioned to you when we met
on Monday.'

'Do you ever supply doormen?'

He shook his head. 'No.'

'Why not? I'd have thought it was quite a
lucrative trade. There are plenty of bars and nightclubs
out there, and plenty of trouble.'

238
'There are specialist companies who do that sort
of thing.'

I nodded. 'I've heard.'

'Look, no offence, Mr Gallan, but I'm a busy man.
Particularly now that Max has gone AWOL. So, if
you could let me know what all this is about, I'd
appreciate it.'

'Do you know a Shaun Matthews?' asked Berrin.

He shook his head. 'Never heard of him.'

'How about a Roy Fowler?' I asked, and I
thought I caught a tiny glimmer of recognition in
his eyes, though I couldn't be a hundred per cent
sure.

'No, no-one of that name either.' He sat back and
folded his arms. 'I think I'm entitled to know what
;1;.L is all about, don't you?'

'We found a bloodstain belonging to Mr Fowler
in the back of Mr Iversson's car. That's why.'

'Really? Are you sure?' I gave him a look that
said of course I'm sure, I'm not sitting here making
it up as I go along. 'It's just I've never heard of this
bloke, and it doesn't sound at all like Max. I mean,
he's a tough guy, I won't deny that, but he's no
murderer.'

'How do you know Mr Fowler's been
murdered?'

He fixed me with a moderately annoyed
expression, the first time in both my meetings with
him that he hadn't looked like he was trying to
help. The don't,' he said firmly. T'm guessing. But a
substantial bloodstain in the back of a car ... It
doesn't sound promising, does it?'

'But you still don't think Mr Iversson's capable

239
of murder?' said Berrin, looking up from his
notebook.

'If s certainly not in character/ he said wearily.
'But then again, it's not in character for him to lash
out at police officers either.'

'Has he been acting at all strangely recently?' I
asked.

'In what way?'

'In a way that suggested that something might
have been bothering him.'

'We're business partners but we don't tend to
socialize much outside work these days, and we
certainly don't talk like we used to. I'd say that at
one time we were good friends, but ironically
enough, since we've been in business, we've drifted
apart. I haven't noticed him acting particularly out
of the ordinary lately but I'm not sure I'd have
noticed if there had been something bothering him.
He's always been quite a cool customer. Someone
who's good at keeping his emotions to himself.'

We talked for another ten minutes, Berrin and I
trying to squeeze out of him any possible motives
Iversson might have had for killing Fowler, but he
couldn't, or wouldn't, provide us with any further
information. According to Riggs, Iversson was as
normal as normal could be, totally above board, not
one to get involved in anything dodgy. Or, even
worse, to talk about it.

'Have you heard anything from Eric Home?' I
asked eventually.

'Nothing,' he said. 'Not a dickie bird.'

'You don't think he's connected with all this,
then?' asked Berrin.

240
'With all what?' said Riggs. 'I haven't seen Eric in
two weeks, maybe even longer. Long before Max
went missing. I'm sorry, but I can't help you any
more than that.'

I got to my feet and Berrin followed suit. 'Well,
thank you for your time, Mr Riggs. If Max Iversson
does make contact with you then I'd strongly
suggest you advise him to give himself up. Because
we're after him, and we're going to get him. And
the longer he stays out there on the run, the more
we're going to assume he's responsible for Roy
Fowler's disappearance, and possibly worse.'

'I will/ he said, leading us to the door. 'I don't
want him getting in any more trouble than he's
already in.'

When we were back out on the street and walking
along the Holloway Road in the direction of
Highbury Corner, Berrin said that he wasn't sure
about Riggs. 'He reminded me of what Fowler was
like the first time we interviewed him,' he said.
'Very keen to help, but never actually said one thing
that we could use.'

'No, I know.'

'Plus, I think he was lying. He was good at it, but
I reckon he was definitely giving us the runaround.
Especially that bit when he let slip about the
murder.'

'Do you think he knows what's happened to
Fowler, then?'

He nodded, thinking about it. 1 got the impression
he does. What about you?'

'What I'm thinking is that every time we talk to

241
someone about this case we seem to come up
against a brick wall, with no-one willing or
able to help and not enough evidence to break the
thing apart. I think it's time we tried a new
approach.'

'What kind of new approach?'

'I'm not sure,' I told him, but I was beginning to
get an idea.

Iversson

I was in bed with Elaine when the phone rang. It
was five past two in the afternoon and we were
taking a short break from one of those sex
marathons you sometimes have when you've met a
girl you're really into and you've still got the sex
drive to do something about it. To be honest with
you, it had been like that all week. Great fun, yes,
but parts of me were beginning to feel the strain. I
was absolutely fucking cream crackered, and still
only just past the panting stage from the last bout
when Elaine picked up on the fourth ring and
handed me the receiver. 'Joe,' she said.

'All right, Joe, where are you calling from?'

'A phone box in Tufnell Park, no trace possible.
I've got two interested parties for our arrangement,
men I think we can trust.'

'That was quick.'

'I had a good idea where I was going to look.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Yeah. You see plenty of people owe our man big
time, which is what happens when you spend your

242
days throwing your weight about and upsetting
people.'

'So, who are they?'

'You know I told you about that jeweller,
Kalinski, and his business arrangement with our
man? The one who ended up at the maggot farm
with his girlfriend? His brother Mike's an ex-armed
robber and someone with a grudge.'

'Are you sure it's a good idea to use someone we
don't know?'

I've got it from decent sources that he's reliable.
Plus, he's greedy. Plus, they chopped up his
brother, and they're a close family. That's enough
pluses, as far as I can see.'

'Fair enough. Who's the other one?'

'T.iin Lewis, remember him?'

'Christ, yeah. I didn't think he was still alive.'

'Alive, well, and short of money.'

Iain Lewis, Tugger to his mates for a reason best
not gone into, was a Geordie ex-marine and
mercenary who'd served with me and Joe on some
of our more exotic overseas tours, and who'd been
wounded in Bosnia fighting against Serb forces
back in the early nineties. He'd be useful on this
sort of job because the potential calibre of the
opposition wouldn't faze him.

Where's he living now?'

'Down in Swansea of all places, but he'll be up
here tomorrow. How are you getting on with your
end of things? Have you talked to your mate
Johnny yet?'

The saw him last night. He's in already. I've
dropped him five hundred in expenses and he's

243
going to sort out the vehicles. He's meant to be calling
me back later.'

'But he doesn't know anything about the
targets?'

'Not a thing.'

'Good. Have you taken a look at any possible
locations for storage?'

'I drove out to Essex yesterday and visited a
couple of letting agents.'

'What cover did you use?'

'I said I was a writer looking for a short let somewhere
nice and isolated so I could complete my
first novel in the peace and tranquillity I needed.
It's a thriller apparently.'

I heard Joe sigh down the phone. 'Look, we've
got a problem. The police have traced the stain on
the seat of your car back to Fowler.'

This was bad news. 'So?' I said all casually, keen
not to worry Elaine.

'So now they're really after you, although they
still don't have a clue about what's happened. The
thing is, if anyone who rents you out a place sees a
picture of you anywhere, it could put the whole
thing in jeopardy.'

'Don't worry, I wore specs, and I've got a bit of a
beard now, so I don't know how easy it'd be to
make the connection.'

'It's still too risky, Max. You're not exactly a
master of disguise.'

'I thought I looked quite good.'

'I'm sure you did, but I'd better take over on that
side from now on. Did they show you any suitable
properties?'

244
'There were two I liked the look of. One'll be
empty next week, the other's empty now. Both
farmhouses. I said I'd get back to them but I wanted
to run the details past you first. See if there was one
you preferred.'

'All right, I'll come over and get the stuff off you,
and then I'd better do the booking. I'll need some of
that money back.'

'NTo problem. Come over now.' Elaine pulled a
face. It looked like she wasn't finished with me yet.
Much more of this and I was going to have to find
some bromide to stick in her tea.

'I'll be there in an hour/ he said.

'One last thing,' I said, 'before you go. The tools
we're going to need for the job . . .'

i \c got enough. Don't worry about that.'

Till see you in an hour, then.'

I rang off and forced myself to smile at Elaine. I
was trying to take in the news that I was now a
suspect for a murder. One more reason, I reckoned,
to make sure everything went to plan with the
Holtz snatch.

She sat up in the bed and lit a cigarette. 'So,
things moving along then, are they?' she asked.

'Everything's going peachy,' I said, but there
must have been something in my tone.

'But?'

What is it about women? They can always see
through your lies. I gave her a quick rundown of
our conversation, mentioning about the police
being on to me.

'What are you going to do about it?'

I shrugged. 'Not a lot I can do, really. It's a pain

245
having them on my back, but if I keep my wits
about me, then that's all it'll be. Not enough to mess
up any of the plans.'

'It's suspicion of murder, Max, not unpaid parking
tickets, so they're going to be making an effort
to find you.'

I nodded. She was right. 'I'll be careful, don't
worry.'

She took a drag on her cigarette and blew the
smoke up towards the ceiling. 'What are you going
to do when this is all over?'

'I'm going to get out of the country for a while. I
know a bloke who puts together perfect-quality
fake passports, and I'll have money as well, so I'll
be able to survive. Anyway, everything'll die down
in a few months. I mean, they haven't got any other
evidence against me on the Fowler thing, and
they're never going to find the body, not if the
Holtzes have done their bit, so it'll end up gathering
dust in the unsolveds. I'll just come back in a
while and tell them it was nothing to do with me.'

'What about me, though?' she asked.

I thought about that one for a moment. 'Do you
want to come with me? We'll both have cash, and
there's nothing keeping you here any more.' I
might have only known Elaine for a few days but
sometimes you can just tell when they're right for
you. My mum and dad had got engaged after only
two weeks, so whirlwind romances obviously ran
in the family. They'd lasted close to five years, too.
Not that I fancied getting hitched just yet.

'Do you want me to?' she asked, her expression
serious. I knew then that she felt the same way.

246
Sometimes, with her, it had been difficult to tell. She
could be a bit distant on occasion, to be honest with
you, and it had made me wonder more than once
whether I was maybe outstaying my welcome.

I nodded. 'Yeah. I do/

'Have you got anywhere in mind?'

'As long as it's not Sierra Leone, I don't much

care.'

Che smiled. 'How about Bermuda? I've always
fancied going there.'

I shrugged, thinking that whoever said money
didn't buy happiness was badly fucking mistaken.
'Sure, Bermuda it is.'

'Let's have a little celebration, then. Fancy a
beer?'

Life doesn't get much better than that, does it? A
beautiful naked woman with a devil tattooed on her
shapely rear offering to go and get you a nice, cool
lager while you lounge idly on her bed.

'Yeah, I'd love one,' I said, getting myself comfortable
and lighting a cigarette of my own.

I watched as she breezed out of the bedroom,
thinking that this time in a week I'd either be the
happiest man on earth, or dead. And if I was dead,
none of it was going to matter anyway. High stakes,
yes, but then that's what it's all about, isn't it?
That's what made it all the more exciting. I remembered
a phrase someone had quoted to me when I
was out in Africa. It was something a French
general had said to his men back in the nineteenth
century when they were defending a town from the
British. The enemy have vastly superior numbers.
They are coming at us from three sides. Soon their

247
encirclement will be complete. Our right flank is
collapsing, casualties are high, our forces are in
retreat. Situation perfect. Attack.' And that's the'
thing. Half the joy is facing superior odds and
winning. I might have thought I wanted the quiet
life, but in the end, like all true soldiers, I longed for
that old call to arms. Even better when there was a
pot of gold at the end of it that would set me up for
ever.

When Elaine returned with the beers, I had a grin
on my face the size of China.

248
Friday, nine days ago

Gallan

I was in court all Friday afternoon giving evidence
in the case of a child molester. He'd been accused of
,v_ i ing young boys at the swimming club he
helped run for inner-city kids with limited access to
leisure facilities. It was something I'd worked on
months before but, as everyone knows, the wheels
of justice turn incredibly slowly. The defence
barrister gave me as hard a time as possible in the
stand, taking full advantage of the fact that forensic
evidence was limited and that most of the case
against his client rested solely on the words of
children, several with learning difficulties, who
could easily be lying. But I'm no pushover and I
held my ground firmly and with barely concealed
contempt for the man in front of me. The defendant
already had three previous convictions for exactly
this type of offence - not that the jury were aware of
that - so, as far as I could see, the defence barrister
had to be pretty damned sure the man he
was defending was guilty. In which case, he was

249
helping to put a dangerous man back on the street
so that he could continue to prey on the kind of
people least able to stop him. You can couch it how
you want it, spout all this bullshit about everyone
being entitled to a proper defence, but it was still
wrong. As far as I was concerned, to put the rights
of someone who abused children for his own
enjoyment above those of the same children to live
their lives free from these kinds of assaults was
probably the single most perverted aspect of the
British justice system, and one of the few things
that made me doubt my own role in upholding the
law. That well-educated, supposedly respectable
men and women were paid sums of money vastly
out of proportion to their talent to help keep this
situation going, and from the public purse as well,
only served to spawn that doubt.

The best way to combat this, however, is to beat
them at their own game, and in that particular
battle I knew I'd done just that, constantly staring
my enemy down and using just the right levels of
sarcasm in my answers to make him look foolish in
front of the jury. It was a small victory - after all, the
lawyer still went home with a nice fat sum of
money for his efforts, if you can call them that - but
it was a victory nonetheless, and I felt confident
that a conviction was on the cards which,
ultimately, was the most important thing.

So I was in good cheer when I escaped at just
after five (the wheels of justice are not only incredibly
slow but also work, with rare exceptions,
to office hours) and took the DLR south of the river
to pick up my daughter for the weekend. I hadn't

250
seen her in close to a month, so I was looking forward
to it, and so it seemed was she, still being of
the age where she can appreciate her dad's company.
We travelled back by Tube and I took her to
the Pizza Express on Upper Street for an evening
meal during which I caught up with everything in
her life: school, fashion, friends, boyfriends, all that
hair-raising stuff that makes you think kids grow
up far too fast these days, while at the same
time being careful to avoid the topic of her mother
and the boyfriend. She mentioned him once, telling
me about some clothes he'd bought her, but I
changed the subject. I really didn't want to hear
about him. In the early days after I'd left, Rachel
v.'oriW ask me when I was going back home, and
wuuiU say how much she missed me. She'd tell me
how much she disliked Carrier and how he could
never take my place, and it used to break my heart
because I could do nothing about it. Over time,
though, she'd complained about him less and less,
and, although she always said she missed me, and
would always give me an enthusiastic hug whenever
we met, she talked less and less about me
going back there, as if she'd finally got round to
accepting the situation, and Carrier had finally got
round to convincing her that he wasn't such a bad
bloke after all. Even though the bastard was.

During our meal that evening she talked just like
a happy, well-adjusted kid leading a happy, well
adjusted life. It seemed I'd become somewhat
surplus to requirements.

We didn't get back to my flat until quarter past
nine, and it was gone ten by the time I finally shut

251
the door to the bedroom and left her sleeping. I'd
forgotten how tiring kids can be.

I wanted to sit down and veg out in front of the
TV but things were still bugging me on the case,
and I'd promised myself I'd try a new angle, so I
cracked open a beer and booted up my rarely used
PC. It was time to see what the Internet had to offer
as an investigative tool.

First of all I went through the ritual of checking
my emails, which didn't usually take very long as I
rarely received any, and immediately saw that there
was one from Malik entitled 'Information as
requested' which came with a load of attachments.
It appeared to have been sent that morning and had
been copied to my PC at work.

The first set of attachments comprised photographs,
mostly surveillance ones, and short
biographies of known or suspected associates of Neil
Vamen. There were nine of them in all and they
included Jackie Slap Merriweather and several others
I recognized. The biographies contained the criminal
records of the nine, which encompassed a whole
variety of offences with a particular emphasis on
ones of violence, and a summary of each of their
relationships with Vamen. I blew each photo up to
full size and printed them off one by one so they
could be shown to the neighbours of Shaun
Matthews and Jean Tanner, in the hope that they
might be familiar.

The second set of attachments contained details
and photographs of three women suspected of being
Vamen's mistresses. One of them, as suggested by
McBride and missed initially by Malik, was Jean

252
Tanner. According to the records, Vamen had been
seen visiting her home in Finchley on a number of
occasions. He'd also taken her for a long weekend to
his luxury apartment in Tenerife back in March with
one of his other mistresses in tow. The report confirmed
that she was a prostitute with two previous
convictions, but said nothing else of note. Out of
curiosity, I looked at the files on the other two
mistresses and was vaguely interested to see that
both women were very different. The one who'd
accompanied Jean and Vamen to Tenerife was a
glossy-looking nineteen-year-old former dental
nurse, now full-time plaything, while the other was
an attractive forty-six-year-old psychotherapist
who'd fallen for his charms while she'd been review
ii.0 lus progress during his only stint in prison (drugs
and weapons offences). They'd apparently been
enjoying an on-off relationship for the past twelve
years, ever since he'd been released, and I wondered
idly if she was pleased with the way he'd come on.

But nothing really stood out, so I sent a quick
message back to Malik, thanking him for his help,
and moved on to the net proper. I started by
finding a search engine and typed in the words
'snake poison', which I thought ought to give me
some hits. It did, far too many, most of which
were totally irrelevant. I tried different search
engines, then narrowed the hunt down, putting in
'venom', 'snake venom', 'elapid venom' and,
finally, 'viper venom'. I reeled through the
dozens of hits I picked up, switched search
engines constantly, and went back over Boyd's
notes on the subject, all the time racking my brains

253
for ideas that could actually move me forward.

I'd been at it well over an hour, and was already
beginning to agree with Boyd's assertion that the
Internet was a hopelessly overhyped means of
uncovering information, when something caught
my eye. The intro line read: 'Snake Venom part of
Mujahidin Arsenal' and referred the reader to what
looked like an eastern European media website. I
yawned and double-clicked. Outside, I could hear
the rain tumbling down, and the ominous rumble
of thunder.

The article from which the intro line came had
been written in October 1995 and concerned the so
called mujahidin, foreign Islamic fundamentalists
who were fighting alongside fellow Muslims in
Bosnia Herzegovina. It seemed they had become an
integral part of the conflict, being both well organized
and well financed, with extensive backing
from a number of Gulf states, particularly Saudi
Arabia. According to the article, they were also
using some interesting weapons in their fight, one
of which was snake venom. Vials of venom from
the Egyptian viper, or asp, had been used by their
spies within the enemy camps to poison senior
enemy officers. In one cited instance three Bosnian
Croat officers, including a colonel, had had the
venom slipped into their food by a female Muslim
cook posing as a Croat (an easy thing to do since
they were essentially the same ethnic group) and all
had died before the plot had been uncovered. The
article didn't say what had happened to the cook
but stated that the poisons definitely existed and
had originated with the mujahidin and, in particular,

254
an Arab officer with the nom de guerre Tajab.

At last I had something. It wasn't much, but it
was a start. Malik had mentioned Bosnia as a
supply route used by the Holtzes to bring both
drugs and illegal immigrants into western Europe
and, ultimately, Britain, although the connection was a tenuous one. There was a list of related
articles on the left-hand side of the screen and I
scrolled through them, skim-reading about the role
the fundamentalists had played in what was
described, quite accurately it seemed, as the
bloodiest European conflict since 1945. Ruthless in
battle, they were a formidable fighting force, their
infamy far outweighing their actual numbers. So
much so that, according to one of the articles
.v^U^ii in January 1996, the United Nations
demanded their removal as part of the 1995 Dayton
Peace Agreement between the warring parties. The
next article, written later that month, continued in
the same vein, this time citing a claim made by the
Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadzic that
mujahidin had attacked Serb positions northwest
of Zenica, and that, in separate ceasefire violations,
Iranian military advisers and British mercenaries
were continuing to train Muslim forces in bases east
and south of Sarajevo.

The British connection again. Still tenuous, but
there all the same. I made some notes, then left the
website and typed in 'mercenaries in Bosnia' in
the search-engine box. Plenty of hits came up, as
expected, and once again I began the long trawl.

As I looked, I began to wonder whether this man
Karadzic was making things up. After all, all wars

255
contain plenty of lies and propaganda. But then I
found an article in the New York Times, dated
October 1995, which covered the story of foreign
involvement in the war, stretching back to its beginnings
in early 1992, and contained information
about who'd been involved. There'd been the usual
suspects: the mujahidin; the occasional middle
class Western boys who'd been so sickened by the
atrocities being visited on the Muslims that they'd
gone out to try to help; the adventure seekers and
nutters who for some reason are always attracted to
the world's troublespots; and there'd been a
company called Contracts International, based in
London, who'd been supplying former British
soldiers to help train Muslim forces in a variety of
military techniques, including guerrilla warfare.
The spokesman for Contracts International was
Martin Leppel, a former captain in the Parachute
Regiment. In the article, he admitted that some of
the firm's employees were in Bosnia but declined to
comment any further. The writers stated that no
fewer than twenty-one of the company's operatives
were there, and that it was almost certain they were
being bankrolled by senior members of the Saudi
Arabian royal family.

I noted the name of the company and its representative,
then checked to see if they had a website.
Not surprisingly they didn't, so I did a search on
Contracts International and discovered a number of
newspaper articles about the company. Founded in
1991 by Leppel, and with a full-time staff estimated
at two hundred, they'd been involved in conflicts all
over the world, but I concentrated solely on Bosnia.

256
From what I could gather, there was nothing untoward
about their activities in the region. You could
even say, depending on your point of view I
suppose, that they were actually providing a service,
since the Muslims were so hopelessly outgunned.
But the other warring parries had demanded they
leave after the Dayton Accord because their presence
was seen as provocative, although there was
evidence that some had stayed behind to continue
their work in breach of the treaty.

It was getting close to midnight when I opened
an article from Der Spiegel, dated September 1997,
in which the words Contracts International
appeared. I was too tired to take in the fact that it V;?c written in German, but something immediaitiy
caught my eye. It was a black and white
photograph of two men walking towards a camera
along what looked like a mountain road. One of the
men, the younger of the two, was dressed in
military fatigues, the other in a dark suit. They
appeared to be talking to each other, and neither
was looking at the camera. In fact, it looked as if
they were unaware their picture was being taken.

The one on the left, the soldier, looked familiar,
but I couldn't work out from where. It wasn't a particularly
good shot of him, but I knew I wasn't
mistaken. I'd definitely seen the man before.

As for the one in the suit, he was even more
familiar. But then he would have been. Not only
had Malik supplied me with his photograph: I'd
run into him only days earlier.

It was Neil Vamen's man, Jackie Slap
Merriweather.

257
Saturday, eight days ago

Iversson

The rain came down like a tropical monsoon. A
month with none and then the whole lot arrives at
once, just like London buses. It was difficult to see
out of the car window, there was so much
of it, but I suppose in a way that was useful. At least
no-one would be paying me too much attention as
I sat parked across the road from the flash-looking
four-storey townhouse where the Heavenly Girls
brothel was based.

For the hundredth time that night, I looked at my
watch. 1.15 a.m. I'd been there close to two hours
now, watching and waiting, seeing how much
activity there was, wondering if that pervert Krys
Holtz was going to turn up. A steady flow of cabs
had been pulling up and spitting out their male
passengers, mainly of the suited and booted
variety, all looking like they had the cash to pay the
sort of prices this place apparently asked. Elaine
had told me she'd heard that thirty or so women
worked for them but only about ten were there at

258
any one time, in keeping with the intimate
atmosphere. I reckoned that those ten were being
kept pretty fucking busy if tonight was typical, and
there'd probably be as many as twenty-five bodies
in there when we hit the place. This meant we were
going to have to move extremely fast. With that
many people and that many rooms, it would be
impossible to secure everyone, so you had to guess
that one of them was going to be able to get a call in
to the police. The Met were never the speediest
bastards in the world, but if the person on the other
end of the blower sounded desperate enough,
they'd probably pull their finger out. That would
mean a five- or six-minute initial response time,
which didn't give us a lot of leeway.

uui. things were coming together, and that was
the main thing. Johnny Hexham, a man always in
pursuit of money, had already stolen the first car,
the one I was in now, and was currently hunting
down a van to use as transport for Holtz. Joe, acting
as a businessman in pursuit of some much-needed
recuperation, had made a verbal agreement to hire
one of the farmhouses I'd seen on a one-month let,
starting the following day, and was scheduled to go
down there in a few hours' time to put down the
money and pick up the keys. Johnny was on
driving standby every night the following week,
and the rest of the team were together, although I
still hadn't met the jeweller's brother, Kalinski. If all
went according to plan, I'd get to give him the onceover
the following night when the four of us, minus
Johnny, met to discuss the final details.

A black Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up outside

259
Heavenly Girls and stopped, engine rumbling, by
the side of the road. A couple of seconds later a big
bloke, at least six four, probably more, stepped out. This was Fitz, if Elaine's description was correct.
Another bloke, only slightly shorter and with the
same build, came out the other side. Big Mick. And
then the man himself, Krys Holtz, emerged from
the front passenger side and stepped onto the pavement.
Krys was a lot shorter than the other two,
probably no more than five ten, but again he had
the big build. He was no fucking oil painting either,
and you could understand why he had to pay for it
a fair amount. He dressed well, in an expensive
dark suit and leather coat, but his face was all
fat and jowly, like someone had lived in it too long,
and his haircut - a big black Elvis-style quiff that
had gone out of fashion when the King was still
below fifteen stone - was all over the shop. He was
only meant to be thirty but he looked at least ten
years older. I was surprised that the sight of him
didn't fill me with rage. Instead, I watched him
calmly, knowing that I'd be getting even shortly.

Krys hurried up the steps to the house, flanked
by the other two, then the door opened and a very
satisfied-looking Tugger Lewis stepped out. Tugger
moved aside, avoiding the group, who walked
through the space he'd just occupied as if he wasn't
there. He made his way over to the car and, after
turning round to check that Krys and his men had
entered the building, got in the passenger side. I
started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. It was 1.25 a.m.

'So, how did it go?'

260
'Very nice/ said Tugger in his thick Geordie
accent. 'The lasses are high quality, I have to say.'
They ought to be for that sort of price.'
'Aye, I know. Two hundred quid for half an hour.
That's about two quid a thrust. It's a shocking price.
I was down at a place in Puerto Banus a couple of
years back and it cost 38 pounds 70 pencefor a girl once the
exchange rate was taken into account. And you got
fortv minutes.'

'See, that's what I'd consider a fair deal. A quid a
minute. Not much more expensive than a fairground
waltzer.'

'And considerably more exciting.'
'Exactly. So, what's the layout in there like?'
'Rpreption's on the second floor. There's a lift
guuo up there. You come straight out into a foyer
and you're facing the lass on the desk.'
'Security?'

'Two bouncers in dickie bows. Big lads, mind,
but not armed. As far as I saw, it's only them, and
they won't be any trouble. There's a bar that's off
the foyer and that's where the lasses hang out when
they're not otherwise engaged. You can go in there
and have a drink with them; if you like one, you go
off with her to one of the rooms. I'm not sure how
many rooms there are, definitely no more than a
dozen. I went up to the next floor and there were
six that I counted, all very spacious and comfortable.
They use rooms on the fourth floor as well,
and I reckon it'll be the same layout. The second
floor's just the reception area, and the first and
ground floor's accommodation for the staff, I think.
Basically, the whole building belongs to them.'

261
'Well, you know the plan, Tugger. Will it work in
that sort of place?'

He appeared to think about it for a moment.
'Aye, I think so, but it's risky, no doubt about it.'

I grinned at him. 'But think of the rewards. Think
of how far a hundred grand'll go up your way. You
could probably buy a whole street in the northeast
for that.'

'Aye, maybe so, but you'll have to move up there
too, Max. You can't even get a garden shed round
here for that sort of price. Hardly worth risking
your neck for.'

'It's only a short piece of work,' I replied,
stopping at a red light. It struck me then that
Fowler had said pretty much the same thing on the
day we'd first met.

But you know what they say. Once bitten, twice
ready.

262
Monday, six days ago

Gallan

My weekend was blissfully quiet. Rachel and I did
the tourist thing, stuff we'd never done together
when we'd been living in the same house, because
at that time I'd never really felt the need. We went
to the Tower of London, the London Aquarium,
Madame Tussaud's, and even the Houses of
Parliament. And when we weren't treading the
pavement, we were taking it easy and enjoying
each other's company. I cooked curry on the
Saturday night and we ate it in front of a video of The Nutty Professor. The food was terrible, the film
not a lot better, but it didn't matter. It was just a nice
way to spend the evening. I let her stay up until
quarter to eleven but warned her not to tell her
mother. 'Otherwise she won't let you stay with me
again.' She winked and gave her nose a conspirator's
tap, telling me not to worry, it would be
our secret. Girls can be so manipulative.

Manipulative or not, I was a lot sadder than I
thought I'd be when I had to take her back on

263
Sunday evening. I promised I'd have her for the
weekend again in two weeks' time and she told me
that she'd look forward to it. I think, then, I must
have done something right, but it was still a lonely
journey home.

When I walked into the station on the Monday
morning, however, I was feeling more refreshed
than I had for a long time. Crime in the area had
continued to be fairly stable in the intervening time.
A fifteen-year-old Somali refugee had been put in
hospital with severe head injuries after being
beaten with a baseball bat during a gang fight
(three minors had been arrested at the scene and
bailed pending further enquiries); a spate of seven
muggings had occurred on one estate, one ending
in a stabbing, but the two perpetrators, both fresh
out of a young offenders' institute, had already
been arrested and charged; and a twenty-one-year
old woman had knifed and seriously wounded her
common-law husband with a kitchen knife. She too
had been arrested, and charged with GBH.

Although harrowing for the victims and their
families, particularly the parents of the Somali boy
who'd come to Britain seeking sanctuary and who
now had to keep vigil at their son's bedside in
intensive care, in many ways these crimes were a
CID officer's dream because they were all pretty
much self-solving. There'd be plenty of paperwork,
as there always was when someone was arrested,
but other than that the manpower effort would be
minimal, and it would make our clear-up rate that
much better. All of which meant less pressure from
above.

264
In fact, so confident were the Brass that morning
that the chief superintendent, in tandem with Knox,
announced that the long-awaited 'Back on the Beat'
initiative was going ahead that week. Members of
CID, including the DCI, were to spend a night out
patrolling with uniformed officers in an effort to
regain an understanding of the pressures the
uniforms had to endure, and to help, in the words
of the chief super, 'to foster a continued and ever
deeper spirit of co-operation between these two
essential and ultimately symbiotic arms of law
enforcement'. These words were uttered with a
completely straight face, which told you a lot about
the sort of leadership we had. I was pissed off to
le?™ that members of the Matthews murder squad
wert also being used on this exercise, and I was
told later during the squad meeting by Knox that
Berrin and I would be going out on Wednesday
night. I made a brief complaint about this, but I
knew that one way or another I was going to have
to be in attendance. The chief super had sanctioned
it, therefore Knox would enthusiastically go along
with it, as would Capper. My problem, like that of
so many other coppers, was that the chain of
command above me was made up almost entirely
of politicians.

In the meeting that morning, the first ten minutes
were taken up with Knox's prime suspect, the
elusive Mr Iversson, and his possible victim,
the even more elusive Mr Fowler. Of Iversson there
remained no sign, although his photo and details
had now been distributed to all the relevant
security services, so progress was expected in this

265
quarter; but more worryingly, at least for Knox's
theory, was the fact that there didn't appear to be
anything to link him with Matthews. Capper and
Hunsdon had also been digging further into
Fowler's background, and had even searched his
flat, but it soon became clear, as they detailed what
they'd been doing and who they'd been speaking to,
that they hadn't found out anything that wasn't
known already. Effectively, things hadn't moved on.

Knox then casually dropped a bombshell. Jean
Tanner, he said, had turned up safe and well, and
had told DI Burley that she and Craig McBride had
been experimenting with heroin and that McBride
had taken an accidental overdose. 'Apparently she
panicked, put him in a cupboard and fled her
home, going up north for a few days. She thought
everything would die down, which I know was a bit
stupid of her, and she got nicked when she arrived
back yesterday. She's still in custody. We're still going
to need to talk to her, of course, and Burley's given
us permission to do that later on today.' He turned
to Capper. 1 think it's best if you and Paul do it,
Phil/ he said. I opened my mouth to protest but
Knox put a hand up to stop me. 'I know you
originally turned up the lead, John, but I think
you must have rubbed Burley up the wrong way.'

"The Pope would have rubbed him up the wrong
way/ I said, thinking that I would have put money
on the fact that Burley was somewhere on the
Holtz payroll. 'All I did was ask him a few civil
questions.'

'I know, I know, but he's a touchy sort. Let's leave
it at that, eh?'

266
VVe moved on, and now it was my turn to explain
the poisons lead. I went through what I'd discovered,
trying to ignore the occasional quizzical
looks from Capper and Hunsdon, and even Knox, as I detailed the background to the Bosnian conflict
and its connections with Britain, and ultimately
with organized crime in the form of the Holtzes.
Tve emailed the photograph of Merriweather and
this soldier down to Malik, along with the article,
and I've asked him if he can find out the identity of
the soldier and get someone who can translate it.
The words Contracts International appear in the
article so I think it's fair to say there's some link
between them and the Holtzes. I haven't been able
to gf* anything on the company as yet, but I want in look into it a bit more closely.' No-one said anything
for a moment; they all looked like they were
thinking. Quite what was anyone's guess. 'Look, I
know it's a long shot, but I spent three hours hunting
down information on this sort of poison, and
the only place I could find where it was used before
was in Bosnia. And there's definitely a link between
Bosnia and the Holtzes, and also a possible link
between the Holtzes and Shaun Matthews.'

'Well, go that route for the moment, John,' said
Knox, not sounding too confident that anything
would come from it, 'and keep me and Phil posted
on what turns up.'

'I'm not sure, guv/ said Capper. 'It looks like it
could be another red herring. Maybe it'd be better
if John and Dave went to see Jean Tanner, as it was
their lead. We've got quite a lot of other things that
need doing.'

267
But Knox wasn't keen on that idea. 'No, it'd be
better if you and Paul did it, Phil. Much better.'

Capper nodded, but didn't look too pleased. I
wondered again if he really had been a customer at
Heavenly Girls, and couldn't help but think how
amusing it would be if Jean Tanner had been one of
the women whose services he'd used. It would
make for an interesting meeting even if it didn't
help us too much. I was pretty certain Jean knew a
lot more than she was letting on. The thing was,
nothing about her story smelled right. No-one had
said anything about her being a smack addict, and 1
there'd been absolutely nothing in McBride's i
demeanour or appearance when we'd questioned 'I him to suggest that he was one either. And if he'd
OD'd, why hadn't she? I could have done with
questioning her, but instead I'd have to make do I
with getting hold of interview transcripts and pushing
Knox to find out what he could from Burley.

The meeting broke up shortly afterwards and I
brought Berrin further up to date with my extracurricular
enquiries as we sat at our desks. He also
looked vaguely sceptical and said something about
it all sounding 'a bit obscure', but, in the absence of
anything else, I was determined to press ahead
with what I had. The important thing initially was
for us to track down Martin Leppel, the man who
could tell us more about Contracts International. I
got Berrin to check police records and liaise with
Special Branch and the NCIS to see if they had anything
on him, while I phoned round journalist
contacts to see if any of them could dig up an
address.

268

It didn't take long to strike gold. Roy Shelley, a
local scribe who was well known to the station's
CID, had taken barely half an hour to come up with
the goods. Now a leading reporter on one of the
nationals, he told me that Contracts International
had been disbanded in 1997 after some financial
irregularities and an unwelcome TV investigation
into alleged illegal arms shipments to Liberia, but
tiuii Leppel was now running an outfit called
Secure Consultants from an office in Moorgate. I
wrote down the address and telephone number.

'Apparently it deals with much the same thing as
Contracts did/ Roy told me. 'Supplying ex-soldiers
abroad to provide training for the natives, and also
hostage negotiators for kidnappings and the like. Ifs
much smaller than Contracts was, and I think
it's probably a lot more above board as well. Leppel
got his fingers burnt last time. He hasn't got a record
as such, but he came close to it.'

'Any information on what he's like?' I asked. 'Is
he a crook?'

Shelley chuckled. 'Now if I answer that, I might
be done for slander. How come you want to know
anyway?'

'I might have a story for you.'

'A good one?'

'I'm not sure. But I promise if anything comes of
it you'll be the first to know.'

That's what I like to hear. To answer your
question, he's not a hundred per cent kosher, but
from what I understand he's not an out-and-out
villain either. He's like a lot of people, Mr Gallan.
Tries to stay on the right side of the law because it's

269

easier that way, but doesn't let it stand in the way of
a money-making opportunity.'

I thanked him and, after promising once again to
inform him immediately if a story presented itself,
rang off.

'All right, Dave, we've got him,' I said, and rang
the number Shelley had given me.

It was answered on the third ring by a well
spoken male voice, stating the company's name. I
asked to speak to Martin Leppel. 'Speaking,' came
the crisp reply.

I introduced myself and explained why I was
phoning. Td like to have a chat with you with
regard to one of your former employees at
Contracts International.'

'Contracts was wound up years ago,' he
answered brusquely, clearly not wanting to waste
time speaking to the police.

Tm aware of that, sir, but you may have information
that would be of use to us. It'll only take
up ten minutes of your time.'

'I don't see why I should help, DS Gallan, since
the police have never done anything to help me.
Most of the time I'm being harassed by members of
Scotland Yard who appear to have bugger all better
to do than try to ruin the reputations and livelihoods
of perfectly respectable businessmen.'

I remembered Neil Vamen saying much the same
thing. It made me wonder sometimes whether they
did in fact actually believe it. 'Any cooperation
you give will be favourably viewed, sir, and, as I
said, it'll only take up a very small amount of your
time.'

270

'What type of investigation is it?'

'Murder.'

'All right. I've got a meeting in the West End this
afternoon but I'm free after that. Come to my office
at five o'clock and I'll see you then. I presume you
know where to come?'

'We do indeed, sir. Thank you very much.'

Leppel grunted something and hung up.

The offices of Secure Consultants were on the sixth
floor of a grand-looking City building on a road off
London Wall. I rang the bell next to a polished brass
plaque with the company name and logo on it and
Berrin and I were buzzed through the door without
preamble. A lift opposite took us up to the sixth
floor where we were met by Martin Leppel, a short
b^t fit-looking individual with an aquiline nose
and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a short
sleeved shirt and what looked like a regimental tie,
and his thin, slightly weathered face was deeply
suntanned. He nodded in greeting and we shook
hands all round.

He led us through a glass door emblazoned with
the company name, then through a small reception
area which was unmanned (Leppel explained that
his secretary had the day off) and into his spacious
office that looked out on to the street. Photographs
of various men in military uniforms, including
a large one of Leppel in officer's garb holding a
regimental sword, adorned the walls. It set off the
right image of a man with a very strong army
background.

Leppel took a seat behind his imposing and

271

spotless desk and motioned for the two of us to sit
in chairs opposite. He didn't offer us a drink. 'So,
what can I do for you, gentlemen?' he asked,
getting straight to the point.

'We're after some information regarding
Contracts International's involvement in the
Bosnian conflict.'

'Can I ask why you need this information?'

'We're investigating a murder and it might be
that an employee or employees of the company
working in Bosnia at that time could throw some
light on an area we're still a bit hazy on.'

'Which is?'

'I can't tell you that, sir. Not at this time.'

'Well, I'm afraid I wasn't in Bosnia. I've never
been to any of the Yugoslav republics in my life.'

I could tell this wasn't going to be easy. 'But you
managed the company, which is why we're here
today. Now, as I said to you on the phone, this
shouldn't take long.'

'What is it you want to know?'

'How long were Contracts International involved
in Bosnia?'

'We got our first contract in October 1993 when it
became obvious that the West was going to stand by
and watch the Muslim population suffer. It was to
train regulars of the Armija BiH.'

The who?' asked Benin.

The Bosnian Muslim army. The contract was
successful and we were awarded a number of
others. We remained in situ until the Dayton Peace
Agreement in December 1995.'

'I heard suggestions that some of your operatives

272

on the ground remained after this time/

'You heard wrong, then/ said Leppel icily. "There
were, aside from our employees, freelancers in the
area providing a similar if somewhat inferior
service to ours. They were the ones who stayed on
after the ceasefire. As soon as Dayton came about,
our contracts were terminated and we left.'

'Could you tell me who funded the work your
company did in Bosnia?'

'Plenty of people have written that we were
funded by all kinds of fanatics, but they're wrong.
However, I'm afraid I have always treated my client
list, both at Contracts and at Secure Consultants, as
confidential, so I'm not going to comment on that.'

The nodded. 'Fair enough. Can you recall how
many employees you had in Bosnia in total during
tilt- Iwo or so years you were there?'

Leppel thought about it for a moment. It looked
like he was making calculations. 'I would say something
like forty altogether, though it's possible it
could have been more. Bosnia was one of our
biggest operations at Contracts.'

'Now I know you weren't there, Mr Leppel, but
were you aware that any of your men had contacts
with the so-called mujahidin, the Islamic fundamentalist
fighters who were also in the region at the
time?'

'Yes, I know who they were, but as far as I'm
aware, no, none of them did. You must remember
that these fundamentalists hated all Westerners,
whom they regarded and regard as infidels. Some
of them have even been linked to Osama bin Laden,
so they would never have socialized with our people,

273

even if they were nominally on the same side. Might
I ask where we're going with these questions?'

'We're trying to build up a picture, sir, that's all.'
I fished in my jacket pocket for the photo of
Merriweather and the soldier. When I'd got it out, I
unfolded it, stood up, and showed it to Leppel. 'Do
you recognize the man on the left?' I asked.

He nodded slowly without looking at me. Tes, I
recognize him. His name's Tony Franks.'

The name, like the face, had an immediate ring of
familiarity, but still I was unable to pinpoint from
where. 'Do you recognize the man standing next to
him?'

Again, he nodded. 'His name's Merriweather. I
can't remember the first name.'

'Jack/ said Benin.

That's right/ he said. 'Jack.'

This photograph came from an article in Der
Spiegel.'

1 know.'

The article was in German, and we're waiting to
have it translated. Could you tell me what it was
about?'

'It was libellous. I almost sued them over it.'

'What did it say?'

'It suggested that Contracts International consultants,
they called them mercenaries, were
involved in drug smuggling through Bosnia and
into western Europe. They never produced any
hard evidence other than that photo yet it helped to
ruin the reputation of an organization that
employed a lot of people and, whatever anyone
likes to think, provided a service that was needed.

274

Ever since that article came out, I've had problems.
Scotland Yard were round like a shot, asking all
sorts of questions, and our client base simply dried
up. That's why I'm perhaps not as co-operative as I
might otherwise have been.'

'I understand that, sir, but I can assure you I'm
not interested in having a go at your company or
you, I'm simply interested in solving this murder.'

Leppel observed me for a few moments as if trying
to gauge how genuine I was. I gave him my
standard I-won't-piss-you-about look back, thinking
that I might just be winning this sanctimonious
bastard over. 'As I've said, they never actually
named names but said that our consultants were in
partnership with organized crime figures in Britain
and vvt'ie using UN aid convoys to transport the
contraband into western Europe. But they had no
proof, nothing.'

'Do you think, Mr Leppel, in all honesty, that one
or two of your employees might have had some
contact with these organized crime figures?'

That photograph was taken close to two years
after we ceased operations in Bosnia. Yes, it's clear
from the picture that Tony Franks had at least some
dealings with them, and others might have done so
too, but it was entirely off their own bats. Until that
article was written, I knew nothing about it.'

I nodded, trying to work out whether Leppel was
telling the truth or not. He was certainly exhibiting
the right level of indignation, but it was difficult to
say for sure. 'And Tony Franks? Do you know
where he is now?'

The last I heard he was doing some work for a

275

company called Tiger Solutions run by two of J
Contracts' ex-employees/

Tiger Solutions. Things kept coming back to^
them. 'Can you give me the names of these two ex
employees?' I asked, wanting to get it confirmed.

7oe Riggs was one of them; the other was Max
Iversson.'

'Do you know if they had anything to do with
Jack Merriweather or any of his associates?'

'No, as far as I know, they didn't.'

'Have you got a list anywhere of the employees
of Contracts who served in Bosnia?'

He sighed. The thought you might ask that. I
haven't, no.'

'But presumably you could dig up the
information?'

He sighed again. 'It means going back over
the old accounts for the company, but yes, the information
can be dug up, as you put it. Though it
would probably take a bit of time.'

'I would greatly appreciate it, sir, if you could
provide us with a complete list. It may well be very
useful to our inquiry.'

'I'll see what I can come up with.'

I stood up, and Benin followed suit. Thank you
very much for that, Mr Leppel,' I said, putting out
my hand, 'and for your time.'

Leppel stepped forward and gave it a brief shake.
'You're certainly a lot less difficult to deal with than
the last lot who paid me a visit.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'If you do get to speak to Tony, send him my
regards, will you?' he said as he led us out to the lifts.

276

I nodded, and said that I would. 'Did you get on well with him, then?'

'He was good company, and very professional. I
like dealing with people like him.'

When we were outside, I looked at my watch.
Twenty past five. The streets of the City of London
were beginning to fill with the first wave of smartly
dressed workers hurrying like ants in every
direction, none looking as if they had a moment to
spare.

'Do you think this Tony Franks character could
have something to do with Matthews's death, then,
Sarge?' asked Benin as we started walking towards
Moorgate Tube.

He's linked to the Holtzes, albeit fairly indirectly,
and he's linked, again indirectly, to the
snake poison. It's not a lot to go on, but it's something.
Did the name mean anything to you?'

Benin shook his head. 'No, never heard of him.
Does it to you?'

'It does, but I can't think from where.'

'Something's going on at that Tiger Solutions,
though, isn't it?'

The name keeps coming up, that's for sure, and
it's not a name you're going to forget. We're going
to have to pay another visit to Joe Riggs, but I think
maybe we should leave it for a day or two. I'd like
to have something to pressure him with, and at the
moment we haven't got much.'

'At least now we're beginning to get somewhere,
though.' For the first time in a while, he sounded enthused.

When we got to Moorgate Tube it was shut by a

277

security alert, and the traffic had near enough
ground to a halt. I called Malik on my mobile but he
wasn't answering, so I left a message, asking him to
call back urgently. I'd intended to go back to the
station, but by the time the two of us had walked
up to Old Street it was twenty to six and hardly
worth it, so we went our separate ways.

But on the Underground, heading back home, ,„ sweating with the commuters, I couldn't get the ***
name Tony Franks out of my mind. It bugged me,
so much so that I got off at Highbury and Islington
and returned to work, thinking that I'd never be
able to relax until I'd satisfied my curiosity.

As usual, the incident room was empty, which
suited me just fine. I switched on my PC, got a coffee ^
while it booted up, and logged on to our criminal =*
database. I then typed in: Franks, Anthony.

One match.

I opened the file and a photograph of a good
looking, youngish man with short dark hair and a
calm, almost mocking expression appeared. It was
the same man in the photograph with Jackie Slap.
According to the computer, he'd been arrested in
December 1997 on suspicion of the importation of
Class A drugs, but released without charge. He had
no convictions, and did not appear to have been
arrested on any further charges.

I looked at the mugshot for a long time, racking
my brains, trying to remember where the hell I
knew him from. I'd questioned him about something.
Something not that recent, but also not that
long ago. It had been a serious crime but Franks
had not been a suspect. He'd answered the

278

questions put to him helpfully and with the right
level of concern. I remembered I'd found him a likeable
character. He'd said he worked in security.
He'd once been a bodyguard for Geri Halliwell.

And then it came to me, and I was puzzled
because I wasn't sure what the information meant.
I'd questioned him at his home, and the reason was
that Tony Franks had lived on the very same street
on which thirteen-year-old paperboy Robert Jones
had last been seen alive on a cold, dark February
morning all those months ago.

Iversson

'Go you can't tell me nothing about it?' said Johnny
looking at me like he honestly thought I might
suddenly change my mind.

'Not at the moment,' I pulled the cap low over
my face, then climbed into the passenger side of the
red Mercedes van that would be used to transport
Krys Holtz the two miles from Heavenly Girls to
the lock-up in Finchley Joe had rented the previous
day where we'd be changing vehicles. Johnny got
in the driver's side and took the car out onto City
Road.

'I hope it's nothing that's going to get me in
trouble, Max. I like a quiet life, you know.'

'As do I, Johnny, which is something you should
have thought about when your recommendation
almost got me blown away.'

'Give us a Scooby.'

'A what?'

279

'AScooby Doo, clue. Just so I've got some idea. Is
it something illegal?'

'I've asked you to steal two vehicles, both of
which are going to end up burnt out. What do you
think?'

'I think I'm fucking nervous.'

'Don't be.'

Where are we heading, then?'

'A pick-up in Muswell Hill.' I gave him the
address and the main road it was off. 'You know
how to get there?'

He nodded. 'Sure.' It was half ten and long dark.
The streets were fairly quiet, it being a Monday
night, and a light rain was falling. 'So, I might not
be needed after tonight, then?'

'Not if all goes according to plan, but don't bet on
it. It might take a while.'
We didn't speak for the rest of the journey.
Johnny continued to look nervous and uncomfortable
but he drove without losing concentration and
within fifteen minutes we'd pulled up outside Joe's
place, a flat in a slightly worn-out-looking redbrick
townhouse. I rang up to him on the mobile and a
couple of minutes later Joe, Tugger Lewis and Mike
Kalinski came out of the door. Tugger was dressed
in a suit while Joe and Kalinski wore similar boiler
suits to the ones Johnny and I were wearing, and
both were carrying holdalls. Tugger came round to
my door while the other two went straight to the
back of the van and climbed inside. I stepped out and
let him in. Johnny, Tugger. Tugger, Johnny. You two
are going to be spending some time together.
Johnny, do whatever Tugger says.'

280

'Hold on, Max. I thought--'

'I'm going in the back. Less attention that way.'

I gave Johnny the address of Heavenly Girls, shut
the passenger door, and got in the back with Joe
and Kalinski. Joe gave a double knock on the
interior panel separating the back from the front,
and Johnny pulled away from the kerb.

Ten minutes later, the van parked up and I heard
Tugger gettm§ out to feed the meter. I looked at my
watch. It was five to eleven.

An hour passed, and we sat there in relative
silence, occasionally hearing Johnny's muffled
voice jabbering on about something in the front,
and the odd bored-sounding reply from Tugger.
Traffic on the road seemed quiet. Joe had watched il..'.- place the previous night and Krys hadn't
shown. It was anyone's guess whether he'd come
again this evening, but if he did we were
prepared.

I watched Kalinski as he sat staring up at the
van's ceiling, chainsmoking Rothmans. To be
honest, I didn't much like him. He was too flash; a
typical robber really. When I'd met him the
previous night, he'd been dressed in an immaculately
tailored suit, with gold cufflinks on his
shirtsleeves and a thick gold Rolex any self
respecting mugger would have killed him for. I
don't like people who think they're bigshots, and
Kalinski definitely rated himself as one. Joe had
told me that he'd claimed to have earned more than
a million quid down the years through armed
robbery and the investment of the proceeds in dope
deals. He might well have done, but I didn't like the

281

way he thought it was worth boasting about. You
could tell he thought he was better than us, sort of
a cut above us riffraff who had to earn their livings
by actually working, though fuck knows why. A
thief and a dope peddler. He was hardly royalty,
was he?

Still, as Joe had pointed out, he knew how to
handle a gun, which meant he was less likely to use
it. The last thing we needed was a shootout in the
brothel. The whole thing had to be neat and professional.
That way, as always, lay the route to
success. And if he didn't want to say much, then
that was fine by me. Johnny more than made up for
his brooding silence.

I sat back in the seat and relaxed, unaffected by
the boredom of the wait. I'd learnt how to be
patient a long time back. It was one of the first
things you got used to in the army.

Another hour passed. Then two. Kalinski
shuffled about, stretched, muttered the odd curse,
and at one point told us a story about how he'd
once been out with a Lady someone or other who
had apparently liked nothing better than to have
Kalinski dress up in a balaclava, complete with
sawn-off shooter, and pound her from behind while
calling her a dirty rich whore. Kalinski seemed to
think this made him come across like a stud, but I
thought that it would be a bit of an insult if some
chick I was sleeping with asked me to put a mask
over my face, although in Lady whateverhernamewas's
case, I could see her point. Kalinski was not
what you'd call a handsome sort. He had a face like
a frog and pockmarked skin.

282

Neither I nor Joe reacted much to his story and,
seeing that he hadn't impressed us with his sexual
forays into the upper classes, he settled back into
sullen silence, which was just the way we liked it.

In the front, I heard Johnny say that he needed a
mickey bliss, like some annoying fucking kid.
Tugger, once he'd deciphered what he was trying to
say, told him to piss in an empty bottle of mineral
water, hut Johnny said fuck that, he would wait. He
didn't sound too pleased.

At ten to three I heard a car pull up somewhere
across the street and I tensed, stretching, hoping
that this was it. But Tugger made no signal. Just
another punter looking for an enjoyable end to the
g von ing

At three o'clock I heard the sound of Johnny
finally succumbing to nature's demand as he took a
leak into the bottle, continuing for what seemed
like an impressively long time.

At five past, I turned to Joe and said that we
might as well call it a night. Kalinski grunted something
in agreement, and Joe, who'd been
half-asleep, nodded. I banged the interior wall four
times. Thirty seconds later the engine was on, and
Johnny was pulling away from the kerb.

I lit a cigarette and hoped we didn't have to do
this for too many more nights. But that, I suppose,
is what warfare is all about. Hours, sometimes
days, of long waiting, then a few stunning
moments of adrenalin and excitement that are gone
before you know it, but live on in the memory,
etched with pride, for years afterwards.

283

Tuesday, five days ago

Gallan

I hadn't been down that road since the investigation
had wound down all those months ago. It
was an attractive tree-lined street of large semidetached
whitewashed villas that meandered north
of the Lower Holloway Road past the greenery
of Highbury Fields. An oasis of calm in the midst of
the bustling city. From where I stood now, looking
down the incline in the direction of Clerkenwell, I
could see the imposing spire of Union Chapel on
Upper Street as it towered upwards above the trees
that peppered the bottom of the park in the foreground.
So often London's residents and councils
liked to tag the word Village' onto the end of their
middle-class ghettoes in a usually futile bid to
create the illusion of community and push up the
area's property prices, but the description actually
seemed to fit here. You could almost be in the
middle of rural Gloucestershire. Even the traffic
wasn't that bad. It was a place that reeked of
money.

284

r

Perhaps that was why I felt I should have looked
into the background of Tony Franks more. A man who worked in security wasn't the sort who could
afford to live on a street like this. As I recalled, a lot
of the neighbours had been bankers and lawyers,
the sort of people with serious cash. I thought he
might have said something about being part-owner
of the firm he was employed by but I couldn't
remember for sure, and there was nothing in the
notes to confirm it. At that time, I hadn't been
unduly interested in Tony Franks. He had no
criminal record as such, didn't come across like he
had anything to hide, and, rightly or wrongly,
simply wasn't a suspect. We'd always assumed that
Robert had been snatched by a predatory
paedopnile who'd taken advantage of the dark
morning and the quieter residential area to abduct
his prey from the street. Robert had been a small
boy, four feet eleven, and wouldn't have been able
to put up much of a resistance if his attacker was of
a reasonable size, and determined.

The weather was fine and sunny that morning,
very different from the bitterly cold February
mornings when we'd been doing the house-to
house enquiries on this, probably the grimmest
case I'd ever worked on. I stood on the spot where
Robert had last been seen alive by an accountant for
Citibank who was leaving for work. The time then
had been five to seven and Robert had been walking
past the man's driveway as he'd pulled out in
his car. The man had recognized him instantly
because Robert wore a distinctive woolly hat with a
green fluorescent strip running round it. He'd been

285

doing the round for more than six months, and they
often saw each other in the morning. Robert i
had given him a brief wave and the accountant had
waved back. He'd started crying when he'd related
this story to the detectives because he had a son of
his own the same age. I knew how he felt. There
was nothing worse than the taking of a child's life,
particularly for a parent. I remembered how grimly
determined I'd been to solve the case and bring the
perpetrator to justice, and how impotent I'd felt
when we'd finally had to scale everything down
because the leads had simply not materialized.

It was difficult to believe that a crime so heinous
had taken place on what was such a quiet and
peaceful street, and for me that's the worst thing
about policework, the knowledge that effectively
nowhere's safe. In a free country, those with evil in
their hearts can roam wherever they want.

I'd wanted to come here alone. I'd told Benin
that this was because it would waste less time. I'd
got him hunting down any further information he
could find on Contracts International, and chasing
Leppel for the list of Bosnian operatives. The real
reason, however, was to give me an opportunity to
revisit the scene of what I considered one of my
most important pieces of unfinished business, and
perhaps take a bit more time to reflect on what had
happened that cold, dark morning.

The newsagent for whom Robert did his round
was situated on Highbury Grove, approximately
half a mile north-east of where I now stood. This
street, Runmayne Avenue, was about halfway
along his route. He would make his way down

286

Runmayne, which was just under a quarter of a
mile long, then come back the other way on
Fairfield Avenue, the next street down, before
returning along the main road back to the
newsagent's. I was sure it was on this street that
Robert had been snatched. Even at that time in the
morning, there were cars and people about. Not
that many, but enough to expect that if he'd con
limifu the whole length of it he'd have been seen
by someone else. After all, he would hardly have
been inconspicuous.

Franks's house was about a hundred yards
further along from the spot where Robert had last
been seen and wasn't one to which he delivered.
qiowly The started towards it, trying to remember the
cac.v i route he would have taken and which houses
he delivered to, but without much success. It was
too long ago. Too much time and too many cases
had come to pass since then, and already the life of
Robert Jones was passing into ancient history. He
would always be remembered, of course, by his
parents and his sister, but even they would think
about him less and less as time wore on, and to
everyone else he would simply become a vague
memory, a smiling, permanently young face in a
photograph that would occasionally inspire a sad
and wistful conversation. It was more than a
tragedy, it was an injustice. Someone, some day,
would have to pay.

Franks's place was the end extension of a huge
villa, set back a few yards from the road, that probably
housed at least half a dozen professionally
spacious flats and which had two grand entrance

287

porticoes along its length. The extension had been
built much later than the villa, probably in the
sixties, and looked as if it had been attached at a
slightly crooked angle. The paintwork was a fading
sky blue rather than the white of the rest of the
building, making it stand out for the wrong
reasons. Apart from that, though, it looked OK.
Small, but reasonably well kept. Newish windows
had been installed on both floors, and there was a
tiny, recently cobbled driveway in front of it with jg room for two cars at a squeeze. A high stone wall '^^ separated it from the main parking area in front of
the rest of the villa, as if its occupants didn't want
anything to do with their tattier neighbour.

Today, Franks's driveway was empty as I walked
up it to the front door. Through the net curtains, I
could make out a clean, well-furnished interior but ^
no obvious signs of life. I rang the doorbell but no
one answered, then looked through the letterbox.
There was a pile of tacky-looking brochures and
various other bits of junk mail on the carpet - at
least a week's worth, probably a lot more. It looked
like he might have moved out.

I went round to the nearest entrance portico and
saw that there were buzzers for three flats on the
wall outside. Beneath the buzzers was a sticker saying
that the building was protected by CCTV
cameras - not that I could see any in evidence. I
rang the first two but got no answer, so I tried the
third. I needed to ring several times but eventually
a moderately annoyed female voice came on the
line. 'Yes?' she said in an accusatory voice. I
identified myself, and explained that I was here as

288

part of an inquiry. Her voice immediately lost its
initial hostility, and she buzzed me in. Hers was the
ground-floor flat, and she came out of the door to
greet me, clad only in a dressing gown and slippers.
She was about thirty with short blonde hair, and
nice-looking in a Sloaney sort of way. In a dressing
gown as well. Perhaps I was going to have to watch

out.

'I'm sorry/ she said. 'I didn't realize you were
the police. I thought you were here to sell me
something.'

'I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not,' I told
her.

She smiled. 'I don't know either. Anyway, please,
come in. You'll have to forgive me, I've got a
tei'able cold. That's why I'm not working.' She
sniffed loudly to prove it, then stepped aside to let
me in. 'I hope it's nothing about David,' she added,
leading me into a spacious, well-furnished lounge.

'David?'

'My husband.'

I took a seat and she sat down on the sofa opposite,
her legs tightly pressed together. Somehow,
I got the feeling I was safe from any predatory
advances. 'No, it's nothing to do with him. It's
about your neighbour to the left, a Tony Franks?'

'Oh yes, Tony. Nice-looking guy. Dark hair.' Her
tones were clipped and upper-class. This girl had
definitely not been educated at the local comprehensive.
Mind you, who had round here?

I nodded. That sounds like him. This is a photo.' I removed the mugshot from my jacket pocket and
briefly showed it to her.

289

'Oh yes, that's him.' She excused herself while i
she sneezed into a tissue she'd removed from the*
pocket of the dressing gown. 'Why? Has he done
something wrong?'

'I don't know is the short answer. Possibly.'

'I thought it was funny.'

'What?'

'Well, the way he moved out. It was all quite
sudden.'

'When was that?'

'I don't know for certain. I didn't actually see him
go. All I know is about a week ago a man turned up
in a van and took some stuff away.'

'This man, had you ever seen him there before?'

She shook her head. 'No, I hadn't. On the day he
came I was outside putting the rubbish out for the
dustmen when I saw him loading it up. I don't
normally take too much notice of what the neighbours
are up to -1 mean, you don't in London, do
you?' I nodded, thinking that that was probably the
root cause of so much that was wrong with it, and
waited while she continued. 'But there are quite a
few burglaries around here, as you probably know,
so I asked him what he was up to, and he told me
he was Tony's brother.'

'Those were his exact words: "I'm Tony's
brother"?'

She nodded. That's right, so I thought he must
have something to do with him. He was friendly
enough, too, not at all furtive, as you'd expect a
burglar to be.' She paused to blow her nose, once
again apologizing. 'He said that Tony was moving
out, and he was helping with the removals. There

290

wasn't a lot I could say to that. I asked him if Tony
would be coming along later and he said he would.
But he never did.'

'You never saw Mr Franks again?'

'No. I haven't seen him for two or three weeks at

least.'

I made some calculations. It was sixteen days
since Shaun Matthews's murder. The timing
sounded very convenient. Now for the big
question. 'Did you take down the registration of the
vehicle this gentleman was driving?' I mentally
crossed my fingers.

'Yes, I did. I don't like to be a busybody and I
know it's none of my business, but I memorized it
while I was speaking to him, just in case, and I
wrote it down on a piece of paper as soon as I got
back in.' She stood up, sniffing loudly. 'Now, what
have I done with it? Excuse me for a minute, will
you?'

She wandered out of the room and I hoped I was
going to get a break. Even if it proved difficult to
locate Franks, whoever was moving his stuff had
to have some information as to his whereabouts.
Somehow I knew I was on the right track. Call it
instinct, if you like. It was just a matter of continuing
to pursue the scent while at the same time
persuading my superiors that it was a worthwhile
investment of my time. This would be the hardest
part, particularly now that it looked like the area's
criminals were beginning to wake up from the
previous week's inactivity. An aggravated burglary
the previous night in which a pregnant woman had
been threatened with a knife by two intruders,

291

/
/

who'd threatened to cut her open if she didn't
reveal the whereabouts of her valuables, had
already caused the chief super yet another serious
resources headache. What with the continued
clamour over the assault on the young girl, things
were getting extremely stretched. Already Knox
had hinted that the murder squad was likely to be
reduced still further in the next twenty-four hours,
so time was of the essence.

'Here it is/ she said, coming back in the room
with a piece of paper. 'I wasn't sure whether I'd
thrown it away or not, but it was in the drawer.' She
handed it to me, and I put it in my top pocket,
thanking her.

'Can you describe the man for me, Miss ... ?'

'Deerborne. Mrs Judy Deerborne. I'm not too
good at this, but I'll give it a go. He was quite well
built. Sort of tough-looking, which was why I
wasn't entirely sure about him. About fortyish,
maybe a couple of years older, five nine or ten, and
I think he was bald, although it wasn't easy to tell,
because he was wearing a cap. He also had quite a
big head.'
'I disagree with you,' I said, 'I think you are good
at it.' I was glad I'd worn the suit I'd been wearing
yesterday because it still contained the photograph
I'd shown to Martin Leppel. I fished it out now, and
handed it to her. 'It wasn't the man on the right,
was it? The one in the suit?'

She looked at it closely for a few seconds. In the
photo, the Slap had a cap with him but was holding
it in his hand rather than wearing it. His bald dome
seemed to stand out a mile.

292

Finally, she looked up. 'You know, I think it is. I
can't be a hundred per cent sure - it's not a brilliant
photo, is it? But, yes, it looks a great deal like him.'

Interesting. 'You've been here for how long, Mrs
Deerborne?'

'My husband and I bought this place ten years
ago. I think it cost us about a third of what it would
go for now.'

That seems to be the case for most of London.
And how long has Mr Franks been your next-door
neighbour?'

'A long time.' She appeared to think about it for a
moment. Three or four years at least, probably
longer. Why? What is it you think he's done?' She
iiiiffed loudly. I'm dying to know.' I told her politely
that 1 couldn't divulge that. 1 hope it's nothing to do
with what happened to that poor paperboy. The one
who got killed.'

I smiled reassuringly. 'No, it's a separate matter
entirely. Did Mr Franks live there alone?'

'I saw people come and go occasionally, but as far
as I know it was just him in there. He wasn't always
there either. He'd be away for a few weeks at a time
sometimes.'

'Did he ever tell you what he did for a living? I
mean, it's an expensive house.'

'I know he rented it but I don't know how much
for. A lot, I suppose. But no, he never said what his
job was. He tended to keep himself to himself. He'd
talk if you talked to him, and he always said hello,
but I don't think I had more than half a dozen conversations
with him in all the time he was here, and
not one of them lasted more than two or three

293

I

minutes. Usually they were about the weather or
something mundane like that.'

'Do you know who owns the house?'

Tes, his name's Roddy Lee Potter. He's owned it
for years. I know because he's come round here a
couple of times, trying to buy our place. I think he
owns a few houses in London. It's how he makes
his money.'

I asked her if she had a phone number or an
address for Mr Lee Potter and, after a bit more
hunting around, it turned out she had both. She
wrote them down on a sheet of paper and handed
it to me. 'I don't know why we bothered keeping
his details,' she said. 'It's not as if we'd ever consider
selling. We love it round here.'

'I can see why,' I said, getting to my feet. 'It's a ^
nice area.' I put out my hand and she shook it |
vigorously. Thank you very much for your help,
Mrs Deerborne. It's most appreciated. If Mr Franks
does for some reason turn up, can you call me on
this number straight away?' I handed her my card.

Tes, of course,' she said, leading me back to the
front door.

'I hope your cold improves,' I told her as I
stepped outside.

'I'm sure it will. They never did catch the man
who killed the paperboy, did they?'

'No,' I said. 'We didn't. But one day we will. We
always get them in the end.'

When I was back out on the street I phoned Benin
and brought him up to date. 'I've got a couple more
visits to make/ I told him. 'We'll meet back at the

294

station. Do me a favour, can you check on a car
registration for me?' I reeled out the number.

T)o you think you might have something then,
Sarge?' he asked.

'I don't know. Possibly. Do me another favour as
well, will you? Speak to Capper and Hunsdon. See
how the interview went with Jean Tanner.'

When I'd rung off, having given Benin plenty of
things to do for the morning, I suddenly felt guilty.
There I was, supposedly teaching the poor kid the
ropes of CID, and instead I was dumping all
the routine stuff on him and going my own way. I
made a conscious decision to be more inclusive in
future. But for now, I needed to move fast.

I'd turned my mobile off for the duration of the
u.ccting with Judy Deerborne, a long-standing
habit since interruptions always messed up my
thought process, and I now saw that I had a
message. It was Malik returning my call, and he'd
only phoned ten minutes ago. I pressed 5 for callback
and waited while the phone rang. Malik was a
sod of an individual to get hold of so I had to make
the best of the opportunities I had.

He picked up on the fourth ring. 'Hello, John,
I've just tried to phone you.'

The know. You got my message, didn't you, and the
emails I sent you?'

That's right.'

The guy in fatigues in the photo with Jack
Merriweather. We've identified him as a Tony
Franks. He's been living at 41F Runmayne Avenue
in Highbury Fields for the past few years. Do you
know anything about him?'

295

Tes, I
do,' he said. 'He was suspected of being
involved in drug-running for the Holtzes out of
eastern Europe, where he'd built up a lot of
contacts. He was brought in for questioning and
put under surveillance for a while in 1998, mainly
because of that article in Der Spiegel, but nothing
ever came of it. In the end, apart from that photo
and two or three other snippets of information,
there was no real hard evidence to speak of. Franks
has also been seen with Merriweather at least
twice in the past few months, but then so have a
hundred other people. We've got nothing concrete
on him.'

The address he's been living at doesn't ring a
bell, then?'

'Not off the top of my head. I'll have a look for
you, but I don't think so.'

I was undeterred. 'It's a decent place in a nice
area. The rent must be two grand a month, absolute
minimum, probably more. As far as I can tell, this
guy Franks's job was as a part-time bodyguard, so
someone else must have been paying for it. The
question is, why?'

Malik sighed. 'You're right. It does seem an odd
set-up, even if he is linked to organized crime.'

'Listen, let me run something by you. It's strange,
it might even be outlandish, but it's something
that's bugging me.' I looked up and down the quiet
street. A brand-new-looking BMW 7-Series drove
slowly past in the direction of the Holloway Road.
'And, you know, the more I think about it, the more
I think there's something in it.'

'Go on.'

296

I
So I told him, and when I'd finished Malik said
that I was right, it was outlandish.

'But if there is something in it, think of the possibilities.
Think of what it could do to help you
against the Holtzes.'

Talk to the landlord,' said Malik. 'Find out how
he gets paid every month and where the money
comes from.'

297

Wednesday, four days ago

Gallan

Roddy Lee Potter lived in a swanky apartment
situated on the ground floor of an attractive
Georgian townhouse just off Kensington High
Street. When I'd finally got him to answer the
phone the previous day he'd been in a bar in Soho,
sounding extremely drunk. We'd arranged to meet
today at midday at Roddy's place, but I'd phoned
ahead to make sure he hadn't forgotten our conversation,
which he had. He'd wanted to postpone,
the hangover in his voice obvious, but I wasn't going
to let him off the hook that easily and insisted we
keep the time as arranged.

I got there ten minutes early and was buzzed in
straight away. The door to the apartment was
opened by a large, red-faced gentleman with curly,
greyish-black hair who looked like he hadn't been
out of bed that long. He was dressed in a crumpled
pair of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt.

'Detective Sergeant Gallan, please come in.'

I followed him inside and through to a lavishly

298

furnished but very messy lounge. It looked like the
cleaner hadn't been in for a few days. Lee Potter
motioned me to a leather armchair and I sat down,
wrinkling my nose at the three-quarters-full pub
sized ashtray on the table beside him, the smell
reminding me why I'd chosen to give up all those
years ago.

'Would you like some coffee?' he asked.

I said 1 would, and waited while he went to get it.
He seemed a genial enough chap, but then I guess
you would be pretty genial if you lived an easy,
relatively wealthy life from rental income, and had
no responsibilities. Was I jealous? What do you
think? Of course I was.

When Lee Potter came back with the coffees, he
aokcd how he could be of assistance. 'I hope I'm not
in trouble for anything,' he added in a tone that was
a little bit too ingratiating, and sat down opposite
me.

'No, but it's something you might be able to help
with. You've been renting a house out to a Mr Tony
Franks?'

He nodded his head. That's right. He moved out
a couple of weeks ago.'

'How long's he been renting from you?'

'About four years now, something like that.'

'Can I ask how much you charged him in rent?'

Lee Potter looked taken aback. 'Is it strictly
necessary to know that? What's it got to do with
anything?'

'I'm trying to build up a picture/ I said, 'and this
information's an important part of it.'

Two thousand two hundred a month. I probably

299

could have got more but he was an easy tenant, and
they're not all like that, I can tell you.'

'How many properties do you rent out, Mr Lee
Potter?'

Tour altogether.'

'I expect they make you a tidy little income, don't
they?'

Lee Potter smiled nervously. 'It's not bad. Not
bad at all.'

'No, I bet it isn't.' My tone was deliberately
suspicious. Lee Potter struck me as a weak
character, someone you could push. 'What does Mr
Franks do for a living?'

'I believe he owns his own company. I'm not sure
what it does, though. As long as he paid the rent on
time--'

'... Then you didn't ask too many questions.
How many times have you met Mr Franks?'

'Er, I don't know. Not many. Two or three times at
most.'

'In four years?' I raised my eyebrows.

'There was never any need to see him more than
that.'

'He lived there alone, did he?'

Lee Potter nodded, clearly flustered by my
rapid-fire questions. 'As far as I know, yes. That's
right.'

'Where did the money come from?'

What do you mean?'

'Did he pay you directly or did it come from
someone else?'

'His company paid. They used to send a cheque
here every month, and they were always on time.

300

That's why I never bothered too much. Is there
something wrong?'

I ignored the question. 'Did he leave a forwarding
address when he moved out?'

'No, no he didn't. In fact he never actually came
round at all. I got a phone call from his brother saying
that he'd gone, and asking what was owed. I
was concerned because obviously it was all a bit
sudden, so he suggested I go round and check that
everything was OK. I did, the house all looked very
clean, and then he phoned back a couple of days
later, we divvied everything up, and the company
sent another cheque for the balance.'

'Did his brother leave a phone number you could
rearh him on?'

Ik shook his head. 'No, he didn't. He--'

'So you couldn't actually say for certain that it
was his brother?'

'Well, no, but there was no reason to believe
otherwise. Why should there have been?'

The reason I'm asking is that we want to talk to
Mr Franks about some very serious matters, and
I'm particularly interested in details of any of his
associates.'

'As I said, Mr Gallan, I only ever met him a
couple of times, and that was alone. He was
a model tenant in pretty much every way. He never
called me out, never complained, nothing. Just paid
his rent and that was it.'

I paused for a moment and took several sips from
my coffee before speaking again. Was there ever any
suspicion on your part that the house was being used
for anything other than simply being lived in?'

301

Lee Potter tried to look like he was thinking hard
about the question. It didn't really work. "No, not
really/ he said eventually.

'Are you absolutely sure? It's very important we
know about it if there was.'

He sighed. 'I once went round there, I don't
know, about a year or so ago, mainly because I
hadn't even seen the place for God knows how
long, and I was in the area anyway.'

'Go on.' m

'It was nothing really, but all the curtains were
closed, which I thought was a bit odd as it was the
middle of the day, and there were also a couple of
cars there. Anyway, I rang on the doorbell a couple
of times, but no-one answered,' He paused before
continuing. 'Only, I was sure there were people
there, because there was a tiny gap in the sitting- §|
room curtains and I was certain I saw the shadow
of someone moving around in there. It was
probably nothing, almost certainly nothing, but I
phoned Mr Franks up a couple of days later and
he made out that he'd been away, which was
odd.' He shrugged expansively. 'But that's about it.
I can't think of anything else. What do you think
was happening there, then?'

'I don't know,' I said, but I had my ideas.

I finished the coffee, got the name of the company
that paid Franks's bills from Lee Potter, and
then left.

Outside, the sky was darkening and it was
already raining, but I hardly noticed as I started off
in the direction of the Tube station. I was too busy
thinking.

302

Twelve hours later my thoughts had turned to very
different matters. Like why wasn't the chief super
traipsing round the rain-drenched midnight streets
of Islington if he was so bloody keen to 'foster a
continued and ever deeper spirit of cooperation'
between those pounding the beat and those who'd
hoped it was all behind them? It was ten past
fvvclve and we'd just been called to the ground
floor council maisonette currently occupied by
Brian and Katrina Driscoll.

The smell hit me in the face as soon as I followed
Berrin and the two uniforms in through the open
front door. Shit and GO and stale rubbish. Food that
V>aH gone off, trapped stagnant air; the standard,
ciij-pervading odour of decay. A kid of about eight
dressed in filthy pyjama bottoms, his ribs sticking
out like they were going to burst through the skin,
stood watching us impassively at the bottom of the
stairs. It was dark in the hallway but there were
lights on further in.

A hysterical wailing came from one of the rooms
down the hall. The voice was female. She sounded
drunk. 'I can't believe you fucking did that to me,
you fucking cunt!'

'Fuck off you old slag or you'll fucking get some
more!'

She screamed again. 'Fuck off!'

Then him. 'Do you want some, then? Do you
fucking want some?'

There was a sound of glass or crockery breaking
and the first uniform, PC Ramsay, called out that it
was the police responding to a call. We walked

303

down the hall in a long line to the kitchen, past the
boy who continued to stare at us blankly.
'I fucking called you! Look what he did to me!'
She came into view, a big, misshapen woman in
jeans and a white vest that rode up over her ample
belly. A thick trail of blood ran down her face and
onto her neck. Its source was a large cut on her forehead
where she'd clearly been struck by something.
She grabbed hold of Ramsay and pulled him to her
like a sexually aggressive bear. 'Look what the cunt
did to me! Look!'

The WPC with Ramsay, Fames, shepherded the
victim into the lounge away from her partner, who
now appeared, bare-footed, in the kitchen doorway.
'I ain't done fucking nothing/ he said, shaking his
head, the words oozing drink. He was tall with a
thick head of messy brown hair and an out-of
proportion beer belly. Aged about thirty-five, and
dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. We'd been
warned he was violent, particularly when drunk.
Apparently, the police had been called here plenty of
times before.

'Come on now, Brian,' said Ramsay, who seemed
to know him. 'I think it's best you come with us.'
The words were spoken calmly, almost soothingly.
Ramsay was understandably eager to avoid a
scene. I was too, since I'd have to get involved if he
didn't come quietly.

His response, however, was predictable. 'Fuck
off. I'm all right. I didn't touch her. She's fucking
lying again.'

Brian came forward, trying to get into the room
where his partner was. Ramsay stood in the way

304

and put his hands up to stop him. 'She's made a
complaint, Brian. Now we've got to follow up on it.
You understand that, don't you?'

'Fuck off. Get out my way.'

'Look, don't make this hard on everyone, Brian.
Let's just go nice and quiet now.'

Brian lunged forward and I did my best to grab
him in a bearhug from behind while Berrin
managed to get him round the neck. Ramsay produced
some handcuffs from out of nowhere and the three of us wrestled him towards the front door.
Two more recently arrived uniforms came in and
helped with what was no easy extraction. Brian
cursed and screamed, then fell over, trying to lash
out- with his arms. I grabbed one, one of the
uiuioinis grabbed another, and Ramsay forced on
the cuffs.

What are you fucking doing to me, you cunts!
Leave me alone! Bastards!'

I looked up and saw the kid on the stairs still
watching the whole thing, as if it was the most
natural thing in the world to see your dad wrestling
with a load of police officers. The man reeked of
sweat and his hair was greasy. I had my knee in his
back and I felt this sudden urge to grab him by the
back of his greasy mane and slam his head into
the floor.

Till fucking kill you, you bastards! You're dead!
You know that? Dead!'

We pulled him to his feet and he snorted loudly,
filling his mouth with phlegm.

'All right, get rid of that spit,' demanded one of
the uniforms in his line of fire. 'Get rid of it now.'

305

r

'Come on now, Brian, let's be having you,' continued
Ramsay, persisting with his softly-softly
approach.

Brian gobbed something thick and horrible onto
his carpet, deciding against sending it into one of
the arresting officers' faces and risking a charge
of assault, and continued with his pointless
invective. We got him outside on the pavement
and, while one of the uniforms got the doors of the
van open, he had a final angry struggle, just to
show he wasn't coming quietly, and tried to kick
Benin who dodged out of the way. I grabbed him
by the shirt and pulled him back.

'Fuck off, you fucking wanker!' he shouted, and
lashed out again with a bare foot, this time in my
direction.

I stepped aside, then stepped back and stamped
hard on his other foot, grinding the heel of my shoe
in. Brian howled in pain and I felt a momentary
burst of satisfaction.

'Did you see what he fucking did, the cunt? Did
you fucking see?'

I turned away as he was manhandled into the
back of the van and cursed myself for losing
control. I'd forgotten what these lowlife domestics
were like, and how irritating drunks could be. Still,
that was no excuse for rising to the bait. As much as
anyone, I knew the possible long-term consequences
of a two-second loss of control.

'Nice one, Sarge,' said Benin, giving me a pat on
the back.

Another patrol car had arrived now and two
more officers went into the house. The van

306

containing the prisoner remained where it was
while Ramsay and the other two officers chatted
among themselves, ignoring the steady rain that
beat down from the night sky.

I didn't say anything. I was pissed off. It struck
me as ridiculous that Benin and I should be sent
out on worthless exercises like this that did nothing
to bolster morale or understanding, while every
effort possible was being made to squeeze the life
out of the Matthews murder squad. Capper and
Hunsdon had now gone over to the aggravated
burglary inquiry involving the pregnant woman,
and I'd even had difficulty holding on to Benin.
Knox had lost interest in the case. Particularly now
there was no evidence to back up his theory of a
Matthews/Iversson partnership. Maybe if the Crimewatch mugshot helped to flush out Iversson,
things would change, but for the moment
Matthews's murder was slipping down the endless
list of priorities.

The sound of a baby crying came from inside and
I walked back in. The kid on the stairs had gone,
and the two officers who'd just arrived were talking
in the doorway of the room where WPC Fames had
taken the victim, who was still sobbing and cursing.
Since no-one else seemed bothered about the crying
baby, I mounted the stairs, wrinkling my nose
against the smell, and walked onto the landing. I
found a light switch, flicked it on, then went to the
door where the crying was coming from.

The smell when I opened it was foul, fetid. I had
to work hard to stop myself from gagging as I
switched on the lights.

307

The room was a cramped mess of toys, boxes,
tissues, all sorts. It was difficult to make out the
floor in places. In the corner was a cot, and in
the cot was a baby of no more than six months,
naked except for a nappy and crying hysterically.
The stench of shit was horrendous, and I saw that a
lot of the tissues were stained brown with it.

I walked over to the cot, the smell getting worse
with each step, and looked down at the crying infant. He or she had sores round the thighs where
the nappy, which looked almost full to bursting,
must have been chafing. I wanted to turn round
and walk out of there, and I could have done, too there
was nothing to stop me. It wasn't my business
if this family, and I used the term loosely, couldn't
look after their own. But it wasn't the kid's fault
either so, steeling myself against the smell, I leant
down and picked it up. My hands immediately felt
wet and slimy and I knew without looking that
they were covered in shit. Grimacing, I turned the
baby over and saw that the nappy had leaked and
the stuff was all up the poor little kid's back. No wonder it had been crying, having to lie helpless in
its own waste. Nobody had changed this nappy for
hours, possibly days.

'Whatchoo doing with her?' came a hostile voice
from the doorway.

I turned to see the kid who'd watched us come in
standing in the doorway. 'Trying to change her/ I
said. 'Find me some wipes or a tissue, will you?'
The kid didn't move. 'Look, do as I say. I'm trying
to help her.'
As the kid rummaged through the crap on the

308

floor, I laid the baby on her front and removed the
nappy/ using it to mop up the worst of the stuff that
clung to her. I folded it up and put it on the floor,
for want of a better place. 'Here y'are,' said the kid,
handing me a half-used roll of toilet paper. Not
quite what I had in mind, but at least it was clean.

Thanks/ I said, continuing the grim process. 'Do
me a favour, will you? Wet some of these tissues as
well, and see if you can find a cloth. If you do get
one, put soap and water on it, and bring it in.'

'Is she all right?' asked the kid.

'Yeah, she's fine. I think she was feeling a bit
neglected.'

The kid came back a few moments later with a
i_i<mi and two wet bundles of tissues. 'Right, see
that plastic bag over there?' The kid nodded. 'Put
the dirty nappy in it, then bring it back here so I can
chuck this stuff in it.' The kid did as he was told,
and I thought he'd probably make a good assistant.

When I'd finished making the baby half
presentable, the kid and I hunted round for a clean
nappy, finding a bag of them in the corner. 'Have
you ever changed your sister before?' I asked him.

'Course I have,' said the kid.

'Good. What's her name?'

'Karen.'

We cleared a place on the floor, then I lifted her
out of the cot and put her down gently on her back.
'OK, Karen. Your brother's going to change you
now, while I go and sort myself out.'

I found the poky little bathroom and washed my
hands thoroughly in the dirty sink. There were a
load of hairs clogging up the plughole - hopefully

309

from heads, but it wasn't that easy to tell - and I
thought that this woman and her partner deserved
absolutely no sympathy whatever. They behaved
worse than animals - which was fine if that's how
they wanted to live, but to ruin their kids' lives too,
that for me was unforgivable.

I went back into the bedroom and helped the kid
with the rest of the nappy. Then we both put Karen
back into her cot. She was still crying.

'What's your name?' I asked him.

'Dean,' he said.

'I think Karen might be hungry, Dean. You go to
bed now, and I'll sort out some feed for her.'

The kid disappeared without a word and I
walked wearily back down the stairs, thinking that
he didn't really have a chance with parents like
that. Neither of them did. The ambulance had
arrived for the mother and they were tending her
wounds in the lounge while WPC Fames looked
on. The mother was wailing drunkenly and I found
it hard not to hate her for her selfishness.

Tour baby needs feeding,' I told her. 'I presume
she's on bottled milk.'

There was a commotion outside the front door
and Benin walked inside, talking excitedly to PC
Ramsay. He saw me and immediately came over.
'Sarge, we've got an all units out. There's been a shooting.'

'You'd better wait here until social services
arrive,' I told Fames. 'And sort out the baby's feed,
can you?' Fames tried to say something but I
wasn't listening. 'Where's this shooting at?'

'Heavenly Girls.'

310

Iversson

It's true I stood to make a lot of money from the
abduction of Krys Holtz, but I'll tell you this, I was
going to earn every fucking penny of it.

It was our third night in a row outside Heavenly
Girls, and tempers were fraying, particularly mine.
It was Johnny Hexham. He was driving me mad.
/.Her two nights stuck in the back, I'd finally
decided to risk sitting in the front where it was a lot
more comfortable. I now had a full beard, and with
a cap on and a pair of specs, I looked a lot different
than I had two weeks back. In fact the look quite
suited me, to tell you the truth. Showed my
intollpctual side.

uui unfortunately there was no escaping Johnny, who'd spent the night constantly trying to weasel
information out of me about what we were doing
on this street, and coming up with all these
theories, some of which veered dangerously close
to the truth. Not to mention the complications of his
love life, which he insisted on going on and on
about even though I wasn't in the least bit fucking
interested. Apparently, his ex-girlfriend Delia was
pregnant, the result of a flying visit by Johnny to
pick up some CDs he'd left there, but she was
already shacked up with some seventeen-stone
black bloke who thought the baby was his and who
was going to have something of a shock come the
happy day. Delia wanted to run away with Johnny,
who it turned out she still felt something for, and
was threatening to tell the boyfriend Johnny had
raped her if he didn't. But Johnny, not surprisingly,

311

wanted nothing further to do with her, and was
getting worried that any day now he was going to
receive a leg-breaking visit from half a dozen of the
boyfriend's mates. Also, he had another serious girl
now, Amanda, who he'd met at Arcadia some
weeks before, and who he was really smitten with.
Matters were further complicated, if you could
believe it, by the fact that Amanda was vigorously
bisexual and wanted Johnny to share her with her
other lover, German student Beatrix. Sp

'The problem is, Beatrix is, like, a full-on **
Magnus.'

'A what?'

'Magnus Pike, dyke. She wouldn't touch a dick if
her life depended on it, so there's no way of, you
know, having a bit of fun with both of them
together, which would definitely have helped to
numb the pain of having to share her. But I don't
want to lose Amanda. I don't know what I'd do if
she pulled the plug on it. But it's a bit of an odd
fucking way to run a relationship, isn't it?'

'You know, Johnny/1 said, taking a swig from my
bottle of mineral water, 'you are the only thirty
four-year-old I know who complains that he gets
laid too much.'

'It's not like that, Max. Honest. I really love her,
but I know what's going to happen. Beatrix is going
to make her choose between us.'

'So buy her some flowers or something. Get in
there first.'

'No, Max, you don't understand.'

'I know I fucking don't.'

'Amanda says there's something special about

312

girl-on-girl love. It's more gentle than the stuff you
get with a bloke, more sort of tender. Do you know
what I mean?'

'Not really, Johnny, no. I've never really thought
about it, to tell you the truth. I've seen women at it
with each other in porno films, though, and they
always seem to be enjoying themselves.'

'I tell you, Amanda swears by it. Says it's the only
way for her to achieve a multiple orgasm. There's
no way she's going to turn down that sort of action,
is there? Which means it'll be me who gets the old
heave ho. It's making my life a fucking misery, it
really is.'

'I'm sure there are millions of blokes out there
"'ho really sympathize.'

i turned away and stared out the window in the
direction of Heavenly Girls, a hundred yards away
down the road. It was raining steadily again, which
at least was helpful. We'd been parking on the same
stretch of road night after night, so we had to be
careful about the amount of attention we attracted.
Every wasted night increased the risks, not to
mention the stiff-legged, claustrophobic boredom
of it, blunting our senses and making reaction times
just that little bit slower - something that could
prove fatal in this sort of operation.

Johnny continued to rattle on about Amanda,
Beatrix, Delia and all his other birds, but I was
blanking him totally now. I had enough worries of
my own. The waiting around was beginning to lead
to the first rumblings of discontent from the others.
Kalinski had suggested that snatching him from
a place he only visited periodically, and with no

313

obvious advance warning, was tempting fate,
which was true I suppose, but there were no other
suitable venues. Joe hadn't helped matters either by
remarking, after we'd finished a frustrating four
and-a-half-hour stint the previous night during
which Kalinski had stunk the place out by shitting
in a Tesco carrier bag, that maybe it might be an
idea to knock the whole thing on the head. I knew
Joe was feeling a bit spooked thanks to his almost
daily visits from the Law, but I hoped it was just the
frustration talking. If he - or, to be honest, any of us
- pulled out then the whole thing was bolloxed and
I'd be back to square one. On the run, skint,
and with the near rape of my girlfriend unavenged.

I took another swig from the water as Johnny
recounted how Beatrix was the dominant partner in
the lesbian relationship even though she wasn't
good-looking at all, and was, in his opinion, bullying
Amanda into dropping him. 'She's got whips
and chains and everything,' he explained, shaking
his head. 'Apparently, her gaff's like a fucking
torture chamber. She's even got a selection of butt
plugs. How's Amanda meant to resist?' In the back
of the van, I could hear movement as they shuffled
about trying to make themselves comfortable.

A Land Cruiser pulled up outside the brothel. It
looked familiar. The time was ten to midnight.

'Are you listening, Max, or are you fucking
ignoring me?' Johnny whined.

Krys Holtz, Big Mick and Fitz stepped out, and
the car did a U-turn and pulled away, driving past
us. It looked like the driver was Slim Robbie, and I
wondered if he'd be coming back.

314

'I'm ignoring you, Johnny/ I told him, watching
as Krys and his men rang the buzzer, and a couple
of seconds later went inside. Johnny hadn't seen
them, which suited me fine. If he'd had half an
inkling that our job was to kidnap Krys Holtz, he
would have been out of the van faster than Wile E.
Coyote and running all the way back to Amanda,
Dolia, even Beatrix and her butt plugs, without
stopping.

'I thought you was a mate of mine/ said Johnny,
sounding put out, but I hardly heard him. My
blood was up, and like a youthful Elvis I was ready
to rock and roll.

The banged three times in quick succession on the
vt.u t> interior panel, then twice slowly, the signal
that they'd arrived. Three more bangs came back to
acknowledge that the message had been received
and understood.

'Sorry, Johnny, but we've got work to do. Start
driving.'

Johnny pulled the Mercedes van away from the
kerb and drove slowly along the road until he was
about fifteen yards past the entrance to Heavenly
Girls.

'All right, stop here/ I told him. 'Double park/

'Can you tell me what's going on now, Max?'

'No.'

I banged on the interior panel twice to let them
know we were in position. The back doors opened
and I saw Tugger Lewis in the wing mirror as he
walked up the steps to the entrance. It was on.

I pressed the stopwatch and watched it as the
seconds ticked by, knowing that this was it, the big

315

one. Just like the old days. All my senses fusing
together into one single core of absolute concentration.
It's life or death, this. Nothing's got
higher stakes. You fuck up, you die. Your life ends,
just like that. Kaput! You're history. But nothing
beats it either. Nothing ever beats the pure
adrenalin rush, the intensity, the sheer joy of battle.
I bet not even one of Amanda's multiple orgasms
comes close.

Thirty seconds. Forty. Johnny said something to
me, but I couldn't hear him. His voice was just
interference, meaningless. Fifty seconds. Time to
go. I banged the interior panel five times in quick
succession, put the stopwatch in my pocket, and
stepped out of the van. I pressed my mouth against
the half-open window. 'Stay here/ I said. 'Do not
move.'

I turned away before he could answer and
walked towards the front entrance of the brothel,
Joe and Kalinski coming up beside me. Joe had a
holdall over his shoulder. No-one spoke. As we
walked, we took black balaclavas from the pockets
of our regulation blue boiler suits, and pulled them
over our heads. The rain was coming down in
sheets and the street was empty. We didn't look
suspicious, we just looked like three normal
kidnappers.

Kalinski pressed the buzzer and the door clicked
open straight away. So Tugger had the reception
area under control. Good. Part one had at least gone
to plan. We stepped into the lift, and Joe put the
holdall on the floor and took two automatic shotguns
with sawn-off barrels out of it, handing one to

316

Kalinski. He then pulled out a dozen spare shells
which he stuck in one of the pockets of his boiler
suit before replacing the holdall on his shoulder. We
didn't want to leave any evidence behind. While he
was doing this, I produced the Clock, gave it a
quick check, and chambered a round. We were

ready.

The lift opened directly into the reception area
and the three of us stepped out, weapons at the
ready. Tugger was standing there in his suit,
balaclava on, in front of a good-looking young
receptionist with strawberry blonde hair. She had
her hands flat down on the desk in front of her.
Tugger was facing her but pointing his gun at two
^roll-built doormen in dickie bows - one white, one
bicick - both of whom had their hands arrow
straight above their heads, their faces suggesting
there was no way they were going to be heroes. I
couldn't blame them. Being a hero can be a very
overrated pastime. And you don't even get paid.

The receptionist's eyes widened when she saw us
come striding in and she looked like she was going
to scream. Tugger put a finger to his lips. 'Now
now, pet, don't go causing a scene. No-one wants to
hurt a pretty little thing like you. Just tell us which
room Krys Holtz is in.'

I saw the white doorman's eyes widen, like he
couldn't believe we'd be messing around with
someone like Krys Holtz. Believe it, my friend.
Believe it.

'He's in the Lovers Suite on the next floor up/ she
stammered, keen to co-operate. 'It's the second
door on your left when you come out of the lift.'

317

What about the other two with him?'

'I don't know which rooms they'll be in, but
they'll be on the same floor. They always stay close
together.'

Tugger pulled her to her feet while Joe and me!
handcuffed the two bouncers under the watchful
eye of Kalinski. When they were secured, and'
Tugger had got hold of the CCTV tape, wi
shepherded the three of them towards the room to
our left. At the same time a potbellied businessmanSB
emerged from it on the arm of a stunning-looking
oriental girl.

'Ohmigod!' whispered the girl. The businessman
simply stood there, looking surprised.

I raised the gun and pushed them back into the3^
room, following them in. Two more men in suits sat -- in the corner with two equally stunning and
scantily clad women, while another girl sat at the j;
bar talking to the lone barman, a baby-faced guy in
his early twenties. All eyes went to the door as our
unusual-looking convoy entered, but no-one was
stupid enough to cry out.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' I said in my best public
speaking voice as we ushered everyone into the far
corner of the room, 'you have nothing to fear. We
are here to collect a debt from an individual within J
the building, and are interested in that man only. If
you do as you're told and co-operate, no-one will
be hurt and we'll be out of your hair within a few
minutes.' I motioned to the barman with my gun.
'You, get over in the corner with the rest of them..
And you.' The girl sitting at the bar scowled at me
but did as she was told, as did the barman.

318

It was exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds
from the moment Tugger had entered the building,
and so far things were running smoothly.

Kalinski was tasked with guarding those in the
bar, so ne stepped forward and stood blankly
watching his charges, shotgun pointed towards
them, while the rest of us exited and headed up to
the next floor, using the stairs behind the reception
area Trigger was leading because he'd gone up that Way the other night. When he got to the next floor,
he slowly opened the door and looked down the
corridor, then turned and gave us the all clear. We
followed him in, and Joe took up position by the
lift where he could make sure no-one interfered
wifti things. Tugger and me crept quietly towards
the c.ocond door on the left.

When we reached the Lovers Suite, Tugger
stopped and listened at the door. The rooms were
meant to be soundproofed but he could obviously
hear something because he motioned for me to
have a listen. I put my ear against the wood and
immediately caught the noise of some serious
humping. The girl was sounding like she was
having the time of her life, which, for the money
Tugger claimed it cost, was no great surprise. Holtz,
meanwhile, was making these horrible grunting
noises, sounding like something out of a wildlife
documentary.

Tugger turned the handle very slowly and gently
eased the door open. When it was six inches ajar the
noise of the shagging was amplified several times
over, and so far neither of them appeared to notice
that they were being interrupted. Tugger used the

319

barrel of his gun to push it open further and,
quietly as possible, we tiptoed inside.

The sight that greeted us was pretty fui
horrible, to say the least. Krys's hairy and surprisl
ingly large arse viewed us like an angry cycl<
from its position on the four-poster bed as
pounded up and down, piston-like, while
shapely legs sprouted out like feelers on either si
It was impossible to see the girl's face as it was"
almost completely enveloped by Krys's furry fonnfSB
A few locks of blonde hair peeped out over one o(t
his shoulders, and that was about it. I wondered i
she could even breathe down there. I looked across
at Tugger and he grinned at me beneath the
balaclava. I grinned back. I was enjoying this.

The room itself was very flash-looking and-3
worthy of such a high-class establishment. A thick M
shagpile carpet obscured the sound of our footsteps;
as Tugger quietly closed the door and we crept up|
to the bed. Not that it was likely we would ha
been heard anyway above the noise being made(
Krys was grunting like a herd of hungry pigs as
pummelled his way down the home straight, onl;
seconds from the finishing line.

'Aiiieeeee!' he wailed in a final flurry of activity^
lifting his head up as he unloaded his milky cargo.
'Ooooofff!'

At that point, two things happened. The girl, her j
face red and sweaty, courtesy no doubt of being
stuck in Krys Holtz's armpit for the previous five|
minutes, saw me standing over her. Her eyes|
widened and she went to scream. At the same time
Tugger smacked Krys hard on the back of the head

320

with the handle of his gun. Krys let out a surprised
gasp and rolled off the girl, moaning faintly.

I stuck the barrel of the Clock against the girl's
head and told her not to cry out. 'We're not
interested in hurting you, so if you keep quiet and
do not say a word, everything will be fine. If you do
cry out or raise the alarm at any point in the next
ten minutes, then we will kill you. Understand?
Nod once for yes.' She nodded frantically. 'Good.
Now turn over, put your face into the pillow and be
absolutely quiet.'

While I was speaking, Tugger whacked Krys
again, just for good measure, before handcuffing
his hands behind his back, encountering little
resistance from the semi-conscious gangster. The
gni JiJ as she was told and I handcuffed her, taking
a long second to admire her beautifully rounded
rear and ponder the question that has vexed so
many observers down the ages: why is the female
form so much more attractive than the male? And
thinking that maybe Johnny's girlfriend Amanda
had got the right idea.

What the fuck's going on?' moaned Krys while
his eyes made a bad job of trying to focus.

'Shut the fuck up!' snapped Tugger, pulling him off the bed by the handcuffs and forcing him to his
knees. He gave him a quick smack round the face
with the barrel of the gun to establish control.
'Now, get to your feet. Now!'

'Fuck off,' snapped Krys. 'You know who you're
rucking dealing with?'

'Course I do, you prick. Now shut it.'

Krys opened his mouth to say something else but

321

I came round the bed, bolstering my gun and
pulling open a roll of adhesive tape. I bit off a piece
and shoved it over his mouth while Tugger held his
head still. Krys's face went red with rage and he
started struggling wildly so I kicked him hard in
the stomach, doubling him over. It was important
to break him quickly so we could get out of the
place with the minimum of fuss.

Tugger pulled him up by his hair and we manhandled
him to the door. When we reached it, I *
fished out the keys to the girl's handcuffs and
chucked them on the bed. No point inconveniencing
her any more than was necessary.
Krys was struggling again, and in his rage he
managed to kick the door, making a little bit too
much noise for my liking. So I grabbed him by his
bollocks and yanked hard. Twice in quick J|
succession. His eyes bulged and I could almost m smell his pain. I put my mouth close to his ear. ip
'Struggle again and I'll have the fucking things off/ M
I hissed. J

He seemed to get the message, and we pulled
him out of the door without further incident. Joe
was still standing at the end of the corridor next
to the stairs, shotgun in hand. He nodded in
acknowledgement as we came towards him. Krys
turned to me as we walked and his eyes narrowed,
the message in them clear. I stared right back,
daring him to try anything.

Then, suddenly, it all went wrong.

A door swung open just behind us and a white
haired geezer of at least sixty came out, saw what
was going on, and shouted, 'Oh dear! What on

322

earth's happening?' in tones that made you think
he half-expected us to turn round and tell him.
However, he decided against waiting around for an
answer and immediately jumped back into the
room, slamming the door behind him. At this point
we were ten feet from the stairs, and fifteen from
the lift.

Krys, sensing the possibility of rescue, tried to
slow up, dragging his heels along the floor, but I
tugged on his nuts again while Tugger pushed the
barrel of his gun hard against his face. It seemed to
do the trick, and this time he didn't resist as we
pushed him right up to the lift entrance. Joe had
already called the lift and he pressed the button to
open the door. At the same time, out of the corner
ui my eye, I saw another door open further down
the corridor. A second later Big Mick's naked upper
half emerged, wielding a handgun that was pointing
in our direction.

There was a deafening roar as Joe pushed us
aside and pulled the trigger on the shotgun. A huge
chunk of skirting and wall disappeared and Mick
leapt back out of sight. We immediately pushed
Krys into the lift, and I kneed him hard in the
groin to minimize any further disruption. He went
down to his knees and I turned and pointed the
Clock back down the hall. Big Mick appeared
again, his body crouched down, and let off a couple
of wild shots. Joe and I held our ground and
returned fire, sending dust and skirting flying in all
directions. Tugger held on to Krys.

Then, without warning, the door opposite the
Lovers Suite flew open and Fitz appeared in view

323

with a revolver in hand, firing wildly in our general
direction. A bullet whizzed straight past my head
and into the lift, narrowly missing Krys. It hit the
full-length mirror at the lift's rear, shattering it
instantly. Taking advantage of the covering fire,
Mick also appeared again, firing off another series
of rounds. Joe's shotgun erupted in return, blowing
a huge hole in the doorway where Mick's head had
just been, while Fitz was forced to retreat as I
unloaded a steady burst of gunfire in his direction.
I then jumped to one side and disappeared into
the stairwell while Joe retreated into the lift as the
doors closed.

I dashed down the first flight of stairs until I was
in the second floor stairwell. The lift carrying Krys
and the others was going all the way to the ground,
and from there they were going straight into the
back of the Mercedes van. My job now was to make
sure Big Mick and Fitz didn't get a chance to balls
anything up. I ejected the Clock's magazine and
replaced it with a full one, chambering the first
round. Above me the door on the next floor up
banged open and heavy footfalls came down the
stairs. Taking a deep breath, I stepped back so I was
leaning against the door that led into the reception
area, and raised the gun. Behind me, I could hear i
people crying out and shouting in the bar, and I
hoped Kalinski was calm and ruthless enough to
keep a lid on things until it was time for him to go.

Big Mick came crashing into view, dressed only 5
in trousers, almost slipping up in his haste to get ]
down the stairs and intercept the lift before it
escaped with his boss. Fitz was right behind him.

324

Mick's eyes momentarily widened when he saw
jne, but before he could react I pulled the trigger,
holding the gun two-handed.

Mick never had a chance. He took a bullet in the
gut, then the chest, then the neck, the force of
the rounds knocking him back in the direction
of the wall. He tottered for a moment, then fell
heavily. Fitz dived out of the way, but I kept shooting,
my bullets ricocheting off the carpet and taking
chunks out of the paintwork. From his position
lying on the stairs, and partially covered by his
friend, Fitz returned fire, his bullets passing
dangerously close. But I stayed calm, adjusted my
aim, and hit him in the shoulder and chest as he sat
up and tried to get a better shot at me. He fell bark
do^'ii again with hardly a sound, and I turned and
charged through the door and into the reception
area. Kalinski was already retreating out of the bar,
his weapon trained on the spot where I appeared. I
gave him the thumbs up and the two of us went
back into the stairwell where the bodies of Fitz and
Big Mick lay sprawled above us, their blood
mingling as it dribbled onto the carpet. Kalinski
paused for a moment to view the men who'd
almost certainly helped to murder his brother.

Then, without warning, Fitz sat back up, blood
dribbling from the corner of the mouth, and aimed
his weapon at us. There followed an excruciatingly
long one-second pause, as if we were all just frozen
there, and then I pulled the trigger. My first bullet
missed but the second ripped the top of his head
off, depositing a lump of something nasty on the
wall behind. Fitz continued sitting where he was

325

for maybe a couple of seconds, then tipped straight
back. I didn't need any more encouragement to
get the hell out of there, and turned and charged
down the stairs in the direction of the ground floor,
Kalinski in hot pursuit.

The van was still double-parked with the engine
idling when we got outside. We ran straight for it,
pulling the balaclavas from our heads, Kalinski
heading for the back, me for the front. In the
distance we could hear the first faint sirens.

'What the fuck's going on?' howled Johnny as I
jumped inside. 'I saw them shove some naked!
geezer with an Elvis barnet in the back!'

The back door shut as Kalinski got in, and there
were two knocks on the interior panel to tell us
they were ready to go.

'Shut the fuck up and drive! Now!'

Johnny took one look at me, saw something in
my face he didn't like, and did exactly what he was
told.

Gallan

There were already at least a dozen police vehicles'i and several ambulances double-parked along the^
street when Ramsay pulled up about fifty yards!
down from the scene of the shooting. I pulled open;
the side door of the van and stepped out into the!
rain. I didn't wait for the others and started walk"ing
down in the direction of the brothel, Benin
following behind. The call had said that there'd
been a serious shooting incident with several;

326

casualties, but it was the location that intrigued me.
Heavenly Girls. The brothel Neil Vamen's girlfriend,
the woman who had had nothing to say
regarding the death of a man in her home, had
worked in; the place in which the mysterious disappearing
Roy Fowler had an alleged interest.
Something was happening, and I desperately
wanted to get a handle on what it was.

The front door of the brothel was under police
guard, and in the doorway I could see a very
concerned-looking DCI Knox with his back to the
street, talking to someone. The person came into
view as we mounted the steps, and I was pleased to
see that it was Asif Malik.

Knox and Malik turned round as we approached

'Hello, John/ said Knox grimly. 'Dave/ he added,
nodding towards Berrin. Tou both know Asif,
don't you?'

'I do, Dave doesn't/ I said. We stepped out of the
rain, then did the introductions. 'So, what's
happened?' I asked.

'A double murder/ said Knox.

'Off the record/ said Malik, 'they're both associates
of Krys Holtz: Danny Fitzgerald and Mick
Noble. According to the witnesses here, a number
of masked men came in, shot the two of them, and
then, from what we can gather, abducted Krys
himself.'

'Shit/ was the only reply I could manage.

'Exactly. God only knows what this is going to
lead to.'

'We think the Serious Crime Group are going to

327

be taking this case, John/ said Knox, sounding not
entirely unrelieved by the prospect, "but we're
going to need some help taking statements. There
must be thirty people up there we've got to talk to,
quite a few of whom are not going to want to cooperate
very much.'

'Sure, no problem. We'll get on to it.'

Knox nodded, and headed up the stairs to the
reception area. 'I'd better get up there too/ said
Malik.

'Before you do, can I grab a moment?' I asked.

'It'll have to be quick/ he answered. 'This little
lot has really complicated things.'

'It will be.' I turned to Benin. 'I'll meet you up
there, Dave.' Berrin looked put out but didn't say
anything and did as he was told.

I took Malik by the arm and led him to the far
corner of the foyer. 'I spoke to the landlord/ I told
him, giving him a brief synopsis of what had been
said. 'Something was going on in that house, something
very illegal.'

'And you haven't been able to get hold of this
Franks guy?'

'Not a word. He's disappeared, just like Roy
Fowler, who, for your information, apparently had
a share in this place.'

That's interesting, except it still doesn't prove
anything. Whatever was going on in that house
won't be going on now, and if there's no evidence
of a criminal enterprise taking place, there's not a
lot we can do.'

'Does the company name mean anything to you?
Dagmar Holdings?'

328

'John, the Holtzes have God knows how many
front companies washing their money. I honestly
can't remember them all individually. But I promise
I'll look into it for you.'

I could tell that Malik was beginning to think of
me as an irritant, and I could hardly blame him. I
might have unearthed a few matters that needed
explanation, but in the end I had absolutely nothing
concrete, and it was the concrete stuff that any
police officer needed.

'You know, Asif, you're always looking for a way
into the Holtzes. If what I spoke about to you
yesterday ... If that actually happened, think what
it could mean. Someone would definitely open his
mouth.'

Ifs and maybes, John. At the moment the most
important thing is trying to prevent some sort of
gang war breaking out, and that means finding out
which madmen decided it would be a good idea to
snatch Krys Holtz.'

'Do me one favour.'

'What?'

I'm going to ask DCI Knox to authorize a full
search of Franks's house for any traces that might
back up my theory. I'd like to add that I've got your
support for it as well. Please. If I can turn something
up, I'm sure it'll help your investigations. If I
don't, then it's no loss to you.'

Malik thought about it for a moment, then,
deciding that it was probably easier to agree
than put up with more hassle, said he would.
'But that's the extent of my involvement. Is that
clear?'

329

I'As daylight.' I patted him on the shoulder.
Thanks. I owe you one.'

;fIt

It was two hours before Benin and I finished taking
statements at Heavenly Girls. A number of the
clientele and staff were severely traumatized,
including one of the security people, a huge ex
boxer who'd had the misfortune to witness what
was left of the two shot men, and who now
kept bursting into tears, so it hadn't been an easy
task.

The rain had stopped by the time the two of us
descended the steps to the street. The van we'd
been travelling around in all night remained
parked further up and I could make out Ramsay
behind the wheel eating a sandwich, lazy bastard.

'Sarge?' said Benin as we walked along. |

I yawned. It was half two in the morning, a long 1
way past my bedtime. Tes, Dave?' J

'Have you got a problem with me?'

I stopped and looked at him, and realized how
difficult I'd made things for him lately. 'Of course I
haven't. I'm sorry about the last few days. I've been
trying to follow up on a couple of theories I've got,
and I suppose I didn't want to share them until
they'd come to something.'

'But we're working together on this. I need to
know what's happening otherwise I'm not going
to be of any use to you at all.'

'No, I understand that.'

'So what was it you were talking to the SO7 bloke
about?'

I sighed. 'A theory I'm working on, but a real

330

vague one.' And it was vague, too, but I was sure
there was something in it.

Benin lit a cigarette. Well, let's hear it then. You
never know, I might even be able to help.'

So I told him. By the time I'd finished talking, it
had started to rain again. What do you think?' I
asked, wondering if I was really any good at man
management.

Benin finished his cigarette and chucked it in the
gutter. 'I think I hope it isn't right because if it is
then it's a gruesome chain of events. But it wouldn't
totally surprise me, you know. I reckon it's got the
ring of truth about it.'

'So do I/ I said. 'So do I.'

331

I

Thursday, three days ago

Iversson

It was just after nine a.m. and raining hard when
I stepped into a phone box on Seven Sisters Road. I
dialled the number of a restaurant owned by Stefan
Holtz. A foreign-sounding gentleman answered on J|
about the tenth ring. 'L'Espagnol/ he grunted
miserably, which I thought was a bit cheeky. I might
have been a punter looking to book a table, and that
sort of tone would have put me right off.

Tell Stefan Holtz that the man from Heavenly
Girls wants to get hold of him. He's got a
message from Krys. I'm going to call this number
back in fifteen minutes and I want to speak to him
then.'

The guy on the other end didn't speak and I hung
up, getting out of the phone box and walking along
the street in the direction of Camden Road. Fifteen
minutes later, I entered another phone box on
York Road and dialled the L'Espagnol number
again. This time it was answered on the first ring
by the same guy as before. 'I've got a number to

332

ring/' he told me hurriedly. I wrote it down and
rang off without further comment, then dialled it.

Four rings later and Stefan Holtz was on the line.
'Where the fuck's my son?' were his first words,
delivered in a rough north London rasp that made
me think I'd been daft to start smoking again.

'He's unhurt. If you want to see him again it'll
cost you half a million quid in cash, used fifties.
You've got twenty-four hours to come up with the
money otherwise we'll chop his head off, and use
his quiff as a bog brush.'

'If you fucking touch him, I'll rip you limb from
limb.'

'I'm going to call back tomorrow morning at this
Hme with further instructions.'

I need more fucking time/ said Holtz, the first
signs of desperation in his voice. For all his money
and influence, he was powerless in the current
situation, and he knew it.

I put the phone down, confident that he'd follow
the instructions he'd been set. The two bodies left
behind the previous night should have been proof
enough of that. I was pissed off that we'd had to kill
two men to get what we wanted, particularly since
the whole thing had almost gone completely to
plan, but it was too late to worry about it now.

I hailed a cab and fifteen minutes later I was back
at Elaine's apartment. I used the key she'd given
me to let myself in and went up to the bedroom.
The curtains were still closed and she was lying in
bed, looking good. She opened her eyes and smiled
when she saw me.

I grinned back at her. 'We did it.' And then,

333

coming forward towards the bed, 'We fucking did
it!' She sat up and we clutched each other tightly. I
pushed my face into her neck, revelling in her
smell. And do you know what? I almost said I love
you, but stopped myself just in time. It wasn't the
moment for that yet.

'If s not over yet, hon.'

'No, but the worst part's sorted.'

'I saw on the news that two people got shot/ she
said, easing herself away from my grasp. 'What
happened?'

'They were Krys's associates. They tried to stop
us, we had no choice.'

'Did you know that they've shown your mug on CrimewatchT I shook my head. 'It was on last night.
I saw it.'

'How did I look?'

Tucking ugly, so better than usual. I hope your
passport photo looks a lot different.'

'Don't worry. It'll look beautiful.'

That'll take some work.'

'You know, Miss Toms, you're getting a little bit
too disrespectful for my liking.' I removed my shirt
and flung it on the floor.

'You need a suntan.'

'You need to be taught a lesson.'

'How's little Krysy doing?'
'Blindfolded and shackled in a cellar, on a diet of
bread and water.'

'Good. Kick that bastard for me, will you?' She
pulled me towards her.

'I already have/ I said, tugging at my belt.

As I entered her, she asked me if I'd been the one

334

who'd pulled the trigger in Heavenly Girls. I told
her I had been.
The sex was fantastic.

Gallan

Knox looked at Benin and me with a mixture of
annoyance and confusion. We were in his office in
the Matthews incident room, the last three people
on the case, and it was eleven a.m.

'Explain this to me again/ he said, rubbing his
eyes. 'We've all had a late night and I know I'm not
quite with it this morning, but I'm sure you've just
told me that your possible suspect in this inquiry is
^w lied in with the Jones murder.'

That's right,' I said, feeling that at this point I
had nothing to lose. 'I wouldn't say I'm sure of it,
but I've got enough suspicions to warrant a full
search of the house, and I believe I can get the
owner's permission.'

'How many murders are you trying to solve
here?'

'As many as I can.'

Knox sat up in his seat and took a large gulp of
coffee. 'If we send SOCO round, what do you think
they're going to find?'

'Maybe nothing, but it's got to be worth a shot.
The Jones case has ground to a halt, everyone
knows that. Even the Essex police found nothing
when they reviewed it. So, if we can be seen to be
doing something it certainly won't do us any
harm.'

335

'I don't want to raise the hopes of the family.
They're good people.'

'I know they are, but look at it like this. Robert
Jones disappeared from that street one morning
without anyone ever seeing him get taken. Now,
that road's quite busy at that time, as we all know, "^
so that was unusual in itself.'

'Not that unusual.'

'If you'll let me finish, sir.' Knox motioned for me
to go on. 'I checked the pathologist's notes again
yesterday. Robert's clothing had been interfered
with but there were no other signs of sexual assault.
It was also noted that he was murdered elsewhere
before being dumped, and that, because of the lack
of signs of a struggle or defensive injuries, he probably
died very quickly after being taken. But the
most important thing is that there were no signs of
him being bound or gagged.' i

Knox shrugged. 'We went over this during Jj
the investigation. He could have been thrown in the ~~
back of a van from where it would have been
impossible for him to get out, and driven somewhere
isolated where the murderer could finish
him off without having to worry about him making
a noise.'

I knew this wasn't going to be easy. Knox had
been, still was technically, the man leading the
inquiry. He was not going to want to have
the theory that had underpinned it, that it had been
a predatory paedophile who'd killed Robert, taken
away from under him. That's possible, yes/ I
persisted, "but the thing is, we've never come close
to finding the killer, and there's been no other

336

abduction and murder of a young boy anywhere in
south-east England since. Or, for that matter, in the
year leading up to it.'

'That doesn't necessarily mean anything, John.
Robert Black was one of the worst predatory
paedophiles of the last twenty years, and he often
waited up to three or four years before
re-offending.'

True, but we know, or are pretty certain, that the
house on Runmayne Avenue that Tony Franks
rented was being used for some sort of illegal
purpose linked to one of north London's most
dangerous crime families, and it's going to have to
have been something pretty lucrative for the
Holt/es to shell out that much in rent every month.
». hat if Robert saw something that caught his eye
that morning and went to take a closer look?'

'Like what?'

'I don't know,' I admitted, 'but let's say he goes
up to the house, takes a look, as any inquisitive
thirteen-year-old would, and sees something he
shouldn't. He gets spotted, is taken inside the
house, and he's then murdered because his killer or
killers have no choice but to get rid of him. They
then dump his body, making it look like a sex crime
in an effort to cover their tracks. Just like they did
with Miriam Fox that time. I know it may well not
be the likeliest scenario but it's got to be a
possibility.'

Knox sighed. 'I understand your desire to get a
result on the Jones case, John. I know how much it
affected you, all of us, but we're meant to be concentrating
on the Matthews investigation.'

337

'I know, but let's face it, from what we've found
out so far, the Holtzes or one or more of their
associates had at least something to do with the
murder of Matthews. Maybe Iversson's involved
there too. And the problem we've got is it's difficult
to get anyone to talk, but if somehow we can link
members of their organization with what happened
to Robert Jones, maybe we can loosen a few
tongues and make some headway on both cases.
No-one wants to protect child killers.'

'You know how much it costs to get a team to
give a house a full once-over?'

'Yes, sir, it's a lot, but we've got a lead. It's not a
great one but it's something, and on the Jones case
particularly we haven't got any others, and haven't
had for months. 1 know that SO7 are potentially
interested in this too,' I added, trying to attach
some authority to my request. 'It might give them a
route into the Holtzes.'

'Maybe they should pay for the SOCO team,
then.'

'It's still our case, sir.'

Knox sat there not saying anything, sipping
thoughtfully on his coffee. I knew I'd boxed him
into a corner. He could say no and claim there
simply wasn't enough in what I was saying, but if
he made that decision and then, at some point
down the line, it turned out that this had indeed
been what had happened to Robert Jones, the buck
would stop with him. That was one of the problems
with twenty-first-century policing. Such was the
power of technology that important evidence could
be found years after the event. Although this

338

could mean far more convictions, it also meant that
the mistakes of police officers investigating crimes
were forever open to exposure. Knox, like the
consummate politician he was, decided to play it
safe.

'What do you think, Dave?' he asked Benin.

'I think the sarge is right, sir. It's got to be worth
looking into. And it may well help the Matthews
r.^e.'

Knox finally nodded. 'All right, we'll go with it.'

339

Friday, two days ago

Iversson

'Have you got the money ready?'

'I told you, I need more time.'

'So you haven't?'

'Look, you don't know who you're fucking
around with here. If you don't let him go, I'll be
coming after you, you hear me?'

Tm not listening. Now, you hear me. We'll start
pulling your boy's fingernails out unless you do
what we say, when we say it.'

'If you touch one fucking hair on his head--'

'Then what? What will you do exactly?'

'I will kill you. Understand that. I will find you
and I will saw your fucking legs off.'

'Nothing'11 happen to him if you give us
the money we've requested. Why haven't you got
it?'

'What guarantee have I got that he's even still
alive?'

'There's no point us killing him. He hasn't seen
our faces and he doesn't know who we are.'

340

'You hurt him and I'll hunt you down. There'll be
no fucking hiding place.'

'You've said that already. It wasn't frightening
the first time. Now, have you got the money or not?
Answer me now.'

There was a pause. Teah, I've got the money.'

'Good. Now, listen carefully. At six-thirty p.m.
tomorrow, be in the rear car park of the Post House
Hotel on the Epping High Road. It's on the
southern outskirts of Epping, just before the road
crosses the M25. Have your mobile with you, as
well as the money. And do not bring anyone else.
Do you understand?'

'How do I know you're not going to have a pop
at me?'

All I want's that money. Nothing else. Be at the
Post House tomorrow and I'll call you then.'

I thought I was getting good at this as I stepped
out of the phone box into the light morning drizzle.

Gallan

After much persuasion, I managed to push the DCI
into organizing the SOCO team to start their
painstaking work that Friday morning. I watched
them arrive from across the street, hoping they
would turn up something, however small, that
could solve the murder of the thirteen-year-old
paperboy.

The previous evening I'd gone round alone to
Robert's parents' house to tell them of the new
developments and to remind them not to get too

341

optimistic. They'd both nodded in understanding,
and had thanked me for my help and my thoughtfulness
in keeping them informed. I'd told them I
was just doing my job, and Mrs Jones had put her
hand on my arm and told me I was doing it well.
And I'd thought then that, whatever happened
with this lead, I would never stop until I found the
person who'd killed their son and brought him to
justice. It was why I was a copper. It was my vocation
in life. The constant desire to give some sort of justice
to people for whom fate had denied it. "£

I waited there for a long time as the white
overalled SOCO officers strode in and out of 41F
Runmayne Avenue with their various paraphernalia.
Only when I was satisfied they were taking the job
seriously, that they would scour the place until they'd
covered every square inch of it, did I finally turn and
make my way back to the station.

When I got back to the incident room, Benin was
just coming off the phone. 'That was Martin
Leppel,' he said, as I went and got myself a coffee.

'Has he got together that list of people we were
after yet?' I knew Benin had been hassling him
about it all week.

He nodded. 'Yeah, he faxed it through about an
hour ago. That's what I was phoning him about.'

'Anything interesting on it?' I asked, heading to
his desk with the coffee.

'Here, take a look.' He passed over the typewritten!
list of names and dates and I scanned down it, immediately
seeing what had caught his attention.

'Well, well, well. So, Craig McBride was there.'

Twice. And for a total of nearly eighteen montl

342

Leppel remembers him well. Says he was a right
nasty piece of work, but definitely not a drug
addict. Apparently some of his colleagues used to
take the piss out of him because for all his so-called
hardness he was petrified of needles.'

'I knew there was nothing natural about his
death. But that arsehole Burley's saying it was a
self-administered overdose.'

'Capper told me this morning that all they're
charging Jean Tanner with is possession of a Class
A drug.'

I sighed. 1 can't see why they don't at least charge
her with the illegal disposal of a dead body. At this
rate, we'll be lucky if she ends up with a fine.'

'Maybe we should try and talk to her.'

j j

..itiybe.' I sipped my coffee, wishing there was
something I could lean on her with. But what did I
have that Neil Vamen didn't? There was no way
I could put pressure on her and she'd know it. But
in spite of everything, I'm an optimist, and that
means I don't give up. I was just going to have to
think of a way.

'Anyway, good work, Dave. You've done well.'

Berrin shrugged. 'I'm not entirely useless, Sarge.
I can do more than just routine enquiries, you
know.'

I nodded. 'Yeah, I do know. I'll do a better job of
keeping you in the loop in future.' He nodded,
acknowledging the fact that I was indirectly
apologizing, and I hoped we could leave it at that.

I picked up the phone and tried Malik's number.
Amazingly enough, he actually answered, though
he informed me he was in a hurry.

343

This Krys Holtz thing's turning into a nightmare/
he explained.

How come?'

'Well, no-one's co-operating, as usual. The family *
say they don't know what we're talking about and
apparently Krys is fine, just not around at the
moment, and now suddenly all the staff at
the brothel are retracting their statements. Plus,
we've got no intelligence on the ground as to who
might be behind it.'

Tm sorry to bother you, Asif, but did you find
out anything about this company, Dagmar
Holdings?'

'I haven't had time. I'll get something sorted for
you by tomorrow, I promise. Have you tried
Companies House for any information?'

Tes, I have. The company exists all right. They
sent me pages of stuff but nothing that really tells
me very much.'

Till see what I can come up with. Can you give
me your mobile number again?'

I reeled it out and Malik said his goodbyes, saying
he had to go.

I flicked off the phone and stared at the pile
accounts for Dagmar Holdings Ltd in my in-tray,
really needed to give them a closer look. I looked
my watch. Ten to twelve. It could wait until later.

'Do you fancy a drink and a bite to eat?' I ask<
Benin.

He nodded and grinned. 'I could do with both.' |

Then let's get out of here,' I said, and we got
our feet, once again leaving the Matthews incid
room empty and silent.

344

Iversson

lugger Lewis cooked supper that night. Thai fish
curry with noodles and stir-fried veg. Very nice.
Apparently he'd been working as a trainee chef for
the previous six months, and whatever they'd been
teaching him seemed to have done the trick because
it was one of the best meals I've had in years. It
gr.vo me renewed faith in the British education
system, to tell you the truth. The only thing spoiling
it was Johnny, who'd been moaning pretty much
non-stop ever since he'd discovered who the owner
of the 'Elvis barnet' was. As I finished my last mouthful,
he was just starting up again, like a stuck CD.

'T've got to earn some more out of all this/ he told
ti»- iCbt of us as we sat round the kitchen table. 'That's Krys bark-at-the-fucking-moon Holtz we've
got down there, known affectionately as the
Barnsbury Torturer, and that's by his mum. The one
geezer in the whole of north London you don't
want to get on the wrong side of, and I'm part of the
team that's kidnapped him. It's all right for you lot.
You're all making a decent wedge out of this. I've
got to make do with fuck all.'

That's because you haven't had to do fuck all,
Johnny/ I told him. 'All you did was drive the car.
We had the hard work.'

'I've had to put my Niagaras on the line, Max,
just like everyone else, even though no-one asked
me if I wanted to. And I've got to live round this
fucking city for the rest of my life, permanently
wondering if I'm going to end up making a oneway
visit to Krys's workshop.'

345

'No-one's going to find you out,' said Joe, taking
another mouthful.

'I nicked the cars, remember? The coppers could
get some sort of lead that puts them on to me and
then I'm fucked. I might get nicked for something I
didn't even want a part in, and then it'll get back to
the Holtzes, which is far worse.'

Tou worry too much,' I told him. Take the
money you're going to get, be pleased with it, and
leave it at that. You never know, tomorrow might
be your last day on earth. Don't spend it crapping
your pants about something that'll probably never
happen.'

'It's easy for you to say. You'll have enough so
you can fuck off wherever you want.'

'Ah, stop being so fucking gutless.'

It was Kalinski who spoke, his tone contemptuous.
He was wearing a black polo-neck
sweater with three thick gold chains over it, and his
greying hair was slicked back. It made him look
like a gangsta version of the Milk Tray man. He'd
pushed his plate to one side, having eaten less than
half the food he'd been given, and was puffing on a
Rothmans.

*You think you know fear?' he said, pointing his
cigarette at Johnny. 'Eh?' Johnny didn't say anything.
He looked like he was an expert in it. 'You
don't know shit. I'll tell you that now. Fear's when
you're standing on the street with no fucking cover
and the Filth, them bastards from SO19, are taking!
potshots at you with sighted rifles, and your best!
mate, the one you did the job with, is lying dead on 1
the pavement in a pool of blood, inches from yourl

346

feet, and you know that in two, maybe three fucking
seconds you're going to go exactly the same way.'
Kalinski stared Johnny down. That, boy, is fear.'

'What happened?' asked Johnny, eyes wide.

Tou mean, why am I still here? I took a bullet in
the gut and one in the leg. I was in hospital for six
weeks and the cunts still charged me afterwards.
I got fourteen years for armed robbery and
,-,!' ompted murder, because I managed to hit one of
their fucking blokes as well. My only regret about
the whole thing was that I didn't kill the bastard.'

To be honest with you, I wouldn't get too carried
away about Kalinski's role in the gunfight at the
OK Corral. From what I'd heard, he'd only ever
fi'-pr) one shot in anger during his long criminal
i.i^eer, and that had been into a sub post office
ceiling. And he wasn't exactly Papillon either.
According to what Joe had told me, he'd only ever
done a couple of short stretches inside, which was
another of the reasons we'd hired him. It showed he
was careful. Something smelled a little fishy, and it
wasn't just Tugger's curry.

Johnny sighed and put his head in his hands.
What am I fucking doing here?' he said to no-one
in particular.

'Being gutless,' snarled Kalinski.

'Give him a break, Mike/ I said. The poor sod's
had a bad week. His missus is bisexual.'

'What the fuck's wrong with that?' said Tugger.
'Nothing better than a bit of three-in-a-bed experimentation.'

'Not if the third one doesn't want fuck all to do
with you.'

347

1

Tugger patted him on the back sympathetically.
'Shit, Johnny, is that right? Does her lover not swing
to the beat of the phallic drum?'

'Look, fuck off, will you?' said Johnny, brushing
off lugger's hand. He turned and gave me the evil
eye. That was private what I was telling you, Max.'

'I had a session with a couple of lesbians once,'
said Kalinski. Torn stars they were, American.
Candy and Brandie they was called. Brandie's been
in loads of stuff.' He shook his head in awe. They
knew what they was fucking doing, I can tell you.
Could have sucked ballast through a straw, both of
them. Did it in a penthouse in the Savoy.'

If Kalinski had been Pinocchio, he'd have had my
fucking eye. out. This bloke could bullshit for
England.

I got up from the table. 'I'd better give Krysy boy
something to eat.'

Kalinski glared at me. 'Fuck that, let him starve.'

'I tried him this morning/ said Joe, 'and he told
me to fuck off. So I did. We're releasing him Sunday
morning. If he wants to lose weight in the meantime,
let him. He's had some water so he won't die.'

'He's been here nearly two days and he hasn't
touched a thing. I'll just check on him.'

'You just want a chance to give him another kicking/
said Joe, with something close to a smile.

Which was partly true, I did. Krys, like Johnny,
had been a pain in the arse from the start. When
we'd dragged him out of the van and into the farmhouse
on the first night, he'd gone absolutely
apeshit, kicking like a donkey and screaming all
sorts of uncalled-for insults. Me and Kalinski had

348

been forced to give him the beating of his life, just
rewards for past wrongs, Kalinski taking particular
pleasure in stamping repeatedly on his bollocks
until Joe pulled us both off, fearful we'd kill him.
When I'd tried to feed him the following morning,
he'd spat in my face and told me I was a dead man,
which had been a pretty fucking stupid move on
his part and had cost him a broken nose, but he still
routed any effort at co-operation and in those
increasingly rare moments when his gag was
removed he was full of bluster and threats. In the
end, I had no choice but to award him a grudging
respect. He was a champion arsehole and about as
pleasant as a skidmark, but he was no coward. It
m^Hp me think, too, that this was a much better
wu/ or" dealing with him than shooting him outright.
This way we broke him down, humiliated
him, but we didn't kill him in cold blood. I'm not a
bad lad, to be honest with you, and I don't think
I'm capable of just executing someone outright
without them having a chance to fight back. Plus,
this way we made money out of it, so it seemed to
me to be a pretty decent sort of revenge all round,
really.

'At the moment, Joe, he's the most valuable thing
we've got and it's in all our interests to keep him
that way. At least if we give him back alive, one day
the Holtzes'll forget about what happened. If he
turns up dead, we'll have them on our backs for
ever.' I picked up a couple of pieces of bread from
the kitchen top. 'Look, I'm not exactly giving
him the lavish stuff.'

I went out of the room, through the hallway, and

349

over to the door under the stairs that led down to
the cellar. I unlocked it, switched on the light, and
walked slowly down the wooden steps.

Krys was strapped to a chair which was in turn
secured to the bare brick wall. He was wearing a
shirt and piss-stained trousers with nothing on his
feet. He had a black blindfold round his eyes and
masking tape securing his mouth, and his face was
covered in bruises. Dried blood had formed a
crusty trail running from his nostrils, where I'd
delivered the nose-breaking blow, down to his
neck. Another badly healed cut wound its way
across his forehead. Basically, he looked a mess.

His head turned as he heard my approach. I
stopped and picked up a jug of water, filled a dirty
cup, then leant over and pulled the masking tape
away from his mouth. Usually this was the cue for
a burst of swearing, but instead he just coughed
and cleared his throat. 'I think some of my ribs are
broken,' he said quietly, 'and I need to change these
trousers.'

'If you're looking for sympathy, you've come to
the wrong place,' I told him. 'Now, open your
mouth, I'm going to feed you some bread.'

Krys did as he was told and I ripped off bite
sized pieces and placed them in his mouth. He
chewed hungrily and finished off both slices
quickly. 'Have you got any more?'

'That's your lot. Now, I'm going to give you some
water.' I put the cup to his mouth and held it there.
He gulped it down, drinking about half of it before
turning his head away.

I put the cup back down by the jug and thought

350

that I could almost feel sorry for Krys Holtz, tied up
and stewing in his own urine. But then I thought of
what he'd done to Elaine, and to Kalinski's brother,
and that soon put a stop to it. What he was going
through now was certainly no less than he
deserved, and far more temporary.

'I've got money,' said Krys. 'Plenty of it. If you
help me get out of here, I'll make it more than
n'Tth your while. How much do you want?'

'Sorry, Krys, no can do.'

'A hundred grand, hundred and fifty. I could get
that for you. Honest.' His voice had suddenly taken
on a whining quality which didn't improve my
opinion of him.

We're going to be picking up a lot more off your
v,U man tomorrow.'

'He'll kill you, you know.' This time his voice
was quiet, but there was an edge to it. He believed
what he was saying. 'It doesn't matter where you
hide. He'll find you and he'll kill you.' I started to
replace the masking tape and Krys's tone immediately
changed. 'Please change these trousers.
Please.'

I ignored his request and finished what I was
doing. Krys struggled violently in the seat for a few
moments until his strength deserted him. 'In
the morning,' I told him. 'We'll change them in the
morning.'

Then, wondering if I really was being too
sadistic, I turned and walked back up the steps,
switching off the light when I reached the top.

351

Yesterday

Iversson

I got the call at 6.26 p.m. 'He's here/ growled
Kalinski into the phone. 'Just pulled in now.
Driving a matt-black Merc.'

'Does it look like he's alone?'

'I can't see anyone else.'

'No-one's pulled in behind him or anything?'

'No-one. He's definitely on his own.'

'All right. I'll talk to you shortly.'

I rang off and pulled the cap down over my head.
It was raining hard again, and you had to think the
gods were smiling on us as far as the weather was
concerned. Usually there were plenty of walkers in
Epping Forest, the only serious stretch of woodland
this close to London, but tonight I had the feeling
that most would be staying away. Tugger and I had
taken up position at the edge of the treeline looking
down across a slightly inclined grass clearing about
a hundred yards long and fifty wide. It led down to
more woodland from which Stefan Holtz would
emerge, once we guided him to the spot. There was

352

no-one else in the vicinity that we'd seen, and I was
confident the transaction could be made without
fuss.

Tugger sat on a thick branch, his feet resting on a
log, an M-16 in his hands. Purely precautionary, but
always worth keeping, just in case. Trie's there, then?'

I nodded. 'Yeah, he's there.' I pressed the button
to dial Holtz's mobile and waited while it rang.

He answered with an angry grunt.

'Mr Holtz, I'm glad you made it.'

Where's my son?'

'He's safe and he's well.'

'How do I know that?'

'Listen to this.'
The flicked on the short tape we'd got Krys to make iit.u morning in exchange for changing his trousers
and allowing him to use the toilet in privacy. It was
short and to the point: he gave the date and the
time, and said that he was OK and was being
treated well. He hadn't wanted to add this last bit
but I'd suggested that he ought to unless he wanted
Kalinski to stamp on his bollocks again. Krys might
have been no coward but he was no fool either, and
had done what he'd been told.

I switched off the tape. 'Satisfied?'

'He'd fucking better be all right.'

'Don't threaten me, Mr Holtz/ I told him coldly.
'You really haven't got much of a bargaining
position. Now, have you got the money?' Holtz
grunted that he had. 'Good. Now, when we finish
this conversation, drive out of the car park and turn
right, crossing the M25.' I then gave him a short set
of further instructions, about where he should turn

353

1

off the main road and how he should proceed from
there. 'When you get to the sign that says "No
Tipping", stop and park up the car on the bank.
That whole journey should take you fifteen
minutes. I'll call you then. Let me tell you something
else as well, something very important. Do *
not bring anyone else with you. When you park the
car, you're going to be watched. If anyone else is
with you, the whole thing's off, and that'll be the
last you hear from your boy.'

Holtz started shouting something but I rang off. I
wasn't prepared to listen to threats. J|

'Christ, Max,' said Tugger with a laugh. 'You
were almost scaring me then. You'd make a great
film villain, I tell you.'

'Alan Rickman's got nothing on me, mate.
Anyway, you've got to be harsh, haven't you? I
don't want him thinking he's dealing with
amateurs.'

I called Kalinski back and told him to be at the
rendezvous point at 6.45 sharp, then phoned down to
Joe. Tve made contact,' I told him. Tie's driving a
black Merc and he'll be with you in fifteen minutes.'

'No problem/ said Joe. 'If there's anyone else
with him, I'll let you know. Otherwise I'll follow
him up, then peel off when it's sorted, and meet
you at the rendezvous.'

The call ended. Everyone knew what they were
doing. Now it was simply a matter of waiting.

'It's a long time since I've used one of these,' said
Tugger, stroking the rifle like it was some sort of
cuddly toy. It was one Joe had brought back from
the Gulf War in '91. 'I think Bosnia was probably

354

the last time, and, Christ, that was years back. A
good weapon, though. I can see why the Yanks like

it.'

'I think I prefer the AK if I was to be given the
choice. Less prone to jamming.'

'You know, Max/ he said, loading and unloading
the rifle's magazine, 'I do like chefing, and I reckon
I could make a lot of money out of it, especially if I run afford to open up my own place.'

'You make a mean Thai fish curry, I'll give you
that.'

'Aye, I know, but...' He thought about it for a
minute, at the same time putting the stock to his
shoulder and aiming at an imaginary target among
fhp frees. 'But it can never give you quite the same
ooii of buzz as a job of violence does. You know
what I mean? You don't get that sort of excitement
out in the normal world.'

'Yeah,' I said, remembering the mad adrenalin
rush I'd had when I'd been standing in the stairwell
of Heavenly Girls, ripping holes out of Fitz and Big
Mick. 'Maybe you don't.'

At 6.44 my mobile rang. It was Joe, and he was
whispering. 'He's here. Looks like he's alone.'

Thanks.' I rang off, then dialled Holtz's number.
It was answered immediately. 'Stand facing the
"No Tipping" sign, five feet away from it.'

'How do I know what's five feet?' he demanded
angrily.

'Just do it. Now turn ninety degrees to the left
and start walking, keeping in a straight line. You'll
see the outlines of a path in front of you. Follow it.'

Where's my son?'

355

'I told you, he's safe and he's well. Are you on the
path?'

Teah, I'm on the path. When am I going to see
my boy?'

'If the money's all there, you'll see him first thing t
tomorrow morning. He'll be dropped off somewhere
in London, reasonably close to a telephone
box.'

'He fucking better be.'

'Keep walking and stop speaking.'

From his vantage point in the undergrowth, Joe watched
as Stefan Holtz turned away and began walking up the
wooded incline in the direction of Max and Tugger. Holtz
had a mobile to his ear and a large holdall slung over his
shoulder. Within a minute he'd disappeared from view,
and the forest was silent once again, except for the steady J| crackle of rain hitting the trees, and the distant hum of
traffic. No-one else had turned up to follow him and the
car he'd been driving, the Merc, was empty.

He kept listening for a few moments, then, satisfied
that Holtz had come alone, he slipped slowly and carefully
out of his hiding place, crossed the track from which
the Merc had appeared, and started up the path after
Holtz, keeping as far back as possible.

Too late, he heard the noise behind him. The rustle of
bushes, the sound of heavy footfalls on muddy ground, and
then the terminal, gut-wrenching sensation of the hard
metal gun barrel being pushed into the back of his head.

I saw Holtz emerge from the trees at the bottom of
the slope, carrying the holdall. He was about a
hundred and fifty yards away. 'All right, keep

356

walking/ I told him, and switched off the mobile.

I turned to Tugger. 'Here he comes.' Tugger
nodded, and we both pulled on balaclavas. I
checked the Clock, gave Holtz another thirty
seconds to get nearer, then pushed my way out of
the bushes. Fifty yards now separated us.

Holtz saw me but didn't quicken his pace, and
we closed in on each other as casually as a couple of
,<.irly-evening strollers. When we were ten feet
apart, we both stopped. Holtz looked pissed off.
The rain, which was pouring down now, had
flattened his iron-grey hair and it was running
freely down his grizzled, lined face and onto his
khaki raincoat. I'd never seen a picture of him
before (Holtz senior, like all his close cohorts, was v *.;i y camera shy), but thought that he looked a lot
like Karl Maiden, the veteran actor from seventies
cop show The Streets of San Francisco, even down to
the bulbous round nose.

Tou've made a big fucking mistake doing this to
me/ he growled, making no effort to hand over the
holdall.

'And you made a big fucking mistake trying to
kill me/ I said, unable to resist letting him know
who'd done this to him, even though it effectively
meant exiling myself for life. Sometimes you just
had to show that you hadn't been intimidated.

'I don't even know who the fuck you are behind
that poxy mask, so what makes you think I've been
trying to have you killed? I'll tell you something,
though, you cunt. If I want someone dead, that's
how they end up. Dead. No fucker ever escapes
from me.'

357

I thought about lifting my balaclava, but that
really would have been stupid. But then it struck
me that maybe he didn't know who I was. Maybe I
was that insignificant. "That holdall looks very
heavy/ I told him. 'Why don't I take it off your
hands?'

Holtz managed the beginnings of a smile for the
first time. It wasn't a pleasant sight. 'No, mate, it
ain't as easy as that. Before you get this cash, I want
to see my son. So, get on the phone to whichever
cunt's holding him and get him to drive him down
here. Now. Then we'll see if it's worth a trade.'

'I don't want to have to take that bag off you by
force, Mr Holtz, but, believe me, I will.'

'No you won't, son,' said Holtz, shaking his
head. 'No, you fucking won't.'

Tugger had the rifle to his shoulder, the barrel pointing
through a gap in a large evergreen bush towards Stefan
Holtz. He could see him and Max talking, but Max was
making no move to take the holdall. They used to say that
Tugger Lewis had a nose for danger, could sense when
something bad was going to happen. One time, years
back in County Down, five of them had been patrolling
in a Land Rover down remote country back roads when
they'd seen a car parked in a layby up ahead. Afterwards,
he'd said it was just something about the angle it was
parked in, slightly skewed with the bonnet pointed
towards the road, like someone had abandoned it too
quickly, that had caught his attention. But it wasn't that.
He'd just felt it, known that something was going to
happen. He'd told the driver to stop and turn round even
though he'd only been a private and the driver was a

358

lance corporal, and the road had been so narrow that any
turn was going to require some serious maneuvering,
but something in his tone - the desperation, the surefire
knowledge that they were driving straight towards their
doom - convinced the driver to do what he said. Ten
seconds later, while they were still turning round, the
IRA man with the remote control, seeing that his targets
were escaping, detonated the bomb in the car's boot. Two
cf the men in the jeep had been slightly injured, but no
one was complaining. If they'd been driving past it, the
impact of the blast would have killed them all.

He had the same feeling now. It had started slowly,
about an hour before, but had accelerated markedly when
Stefan Holtz had appeared out of the woods below.
Something was wrong. There was no escaping the j..l.. Something was definitely wrong. Max and
Holtz were still talking, and Tugger thought he
saw Holtz smile, but he might have been imagining
things. Was this a set-up? His jaw tightened and his
finger stroked the trigger. He was listening now, listening
for any sound that was remotely out of place.

The faint rustle of leaves being trampled underfoot,
could he hear that? Off to his left, not far away, coming
from somewhere in the trees. He listened harder, couldn't
tell for sure, thinking, concentrating ...

Then he swung round ninety degrees, still holding the
rifle at shoulder height, and saw the figure creeping
through the undergrowth, twenty-five feet away, gun in
hand.

Reflexively, he pulled the trigger, firing off five shots
in rapid succession, the angry bark of the weapon echoing
through the undergrowth. Then he hit the deck as
bullets came flying back in the opposite direction.

359

The loud crackle of gunfire startled us both. I
clocked the first shots as coming from the M-16,
which had to be lugger's, and then further shots
from at least two other weapons. Holtz might have
thought he had some cards up his sleeve but he
obviously hadn't expected anyone to start shooting.
His eyes widened and he swung round to me with
a look of suspicion mixed with panic. 'What the
fuck's going on?'

These were the last words Stefan Holtz ever
spoke. Before I could even open my mouth to
answer, his left eye seemed to burst out of his face,
and he fell forward, still clutching the holdall. I
dived to the ground and pulled out my gun.
Suddenly, shooting seemed to be coming from
everywhere. I could see a figure armed with a rifle,
kneeling down on the other side of the clearing
about thirty yards away, partially concealed by the
foliage. I knew straight away that he was the one
who'd gunned down the gang leader. The shooter
fired again, and blood sprayed up from one of
Holtz's thighs as the round struck. I scrambled
down behind his body, then, using it as cover, leant
over and clattered off five rounds from the Clock in
the shooter's direction, knowing that my chances of
hitting him were slim but wanting to put him under
pressure. He fired two shots back, both whizzing
close by, then slipped back into the trees.

But now shooting was coming from behind me,
and coming close, too. Clumps of mud flew up
from the ground only feet from where I was lying. I
whirled round and fired three shots in the general

360

direction of their source, unable to see my assailant;
then, knowing that I was a sitting duck as long as I
stayed where I was, I jumped up and pulled the
holdall from Holtz's dead fingers. I hauled it over
my shoulders, surprised at the heavy weight, then
started running for the nearest trees, keeping as low
as possible. From behind me I heard the rifleman
who'd taken out Holtz cracking off shots at my
rvposed back, and in front of me I could make out
the second shooter behind some bushes. He had
what looked like a shotgun balanced over a branch
and he was steadying himself to fire. I didn't give
him a chance. As I charged towards him, I lifted the
Clock and pulled the trigger, bang bang bang. It
was a battle of nerves and he lost it, jumping out of
tuv. way and dropping the weapon.

I zigzagged wildly, teeth clenched in anticipation
of a striking bullet, and at the last second half
dived, half-slid into the treeline and out of sight of
the shooter behind me. The second gunman, only
partly visible through the undergrowth, swung his
shotgun round in my direction, pulling the trigger
at the same time. The weapon kicked and he took a
stumbling step back, the shot passing way over my
head. I fired twice in return and at least one of the
rounds hit him. I heard him yelp in shock and drop
to one knee; then, without even pausing for breath,
I jumped up with the holdall and ran in a crouch in
the direction of the spot where I'd left Tugger, keeping
within the trees. The branches and bushes
battered and scratched me as I charged through
them, every sense and nerve-ending homed in on
my surroundings, knowing we'd been set up and

361

that there were bound to be more of them about. As
if to confirm it, an unseen round whistled by a few
feet above my head, letting out an angry crack as it
struck a thick branch and ricocheted off into the
gloom. I couldn't see the shooter and doubted that
the shooter could see me.

Without warning, a figure appeared out of the
trees in front of me, no more than ten feet away,
running and stumbling in my direction. He had a
gun in one hand and was holding an injured leg
with the other. I didn't recognize him, and that
meant he was the enemy. He didn't even see me
until the last second, which was a fatal mistake.
Without dropping my pace, I raised my weapon,
stretched out my arm so the barrel was no more
than three feet from its target, and shot him straight
through his open mouth. He died with an
expression of confused shock on his face and I was
already five yards beyond him by the time the body
hit the ground. A staccato burst of automatic
weapon fire rattled through the trees somewhere
off to my right, but it sounded like there was more
hope in it than judgement, and I kept running,
undeterred, hoping that Tugger was OK and had
followed the instructions should things go wrong,
which were to head straight back to the place where
Kalinski was picking us up from. The last thing I
needed now was for him to hold his ground and
take a potshot at me as I came over the brow of the
hill. Unlike the rest of these blokes, he'd always
been a good shot.
But Tugger wasn't there when I passed the spot,
and there was no sign of blood or anything else to

362

suggest that he'd taken an injury. So I kept going,
charging through the trees down the other side of
the hill, feeling that terrible exhilaration danger
always brings, even though it was tempered by
another, far more worrying thought. What the fuck
had happened to Joe?

The back of the van was open and the engine
running when I came out of the trees and onto the
roid. I threw the holdall inside and jumped in after
it. Tugger was already inside, but there was no sign
of Joe.

'What the fuck happened, Max?' he demanded,
still clutching the M-16. What the fuck went wrong?'

'I don't know/ I panted between breaths, finding
if difficult to think. 'Somehow Holtz fucked us up,
uui Christ knows how. We had everything planned
down to a tee.'

'Do you think they got Joe?'

'I don't know.'

There were a lot of them. They could easily have
taken him out.'

I leant out the back door and looked up towards
the trees. Nothing moved up there. I punched Joe's
number into the mobile. It rang. Five times, six,
seven. No answer. I kept staring at the trees. No sign.
No answer. Eight rings, nine. He would have picked
up by now if he was all right. The longer we stayed
there the more dangerous our predicament became.

'We've got to move, Max. They could be on us
any minute. And the Old Bill could have been
called by now. That was some fucking gun battle in
there.'

Ten rings, eleven, twelve. Still nothing. Tugger

363

was right, I knew he was. But to leave, to desert my
mate. It was a big call to make. We'd agreed to meet
back at the farmhouse if it became impossible for
any one of us to make the rendezvous, but still I
was reluctant to make the decision to move.

Thirteen, fourteen.

'Come on, Max, we're soldiers. We can't stop
everything because one man's missing, you know
that. We're endangering the whole operation by
staying here. Come on! Think about it!'

'What the fuck's going on in the back there?'
came Kalinski's muffled but frantic voice. 'Let's get
out of here!'

Fifteen, sixteen. I cursed, then closed up the back
doors, knowing I had no choice. I leant over and
banged the panel twice. 'All right, go!'

Kalinski hit the accelerator like he had lead boots 9
on and we were on our way in a screech of tyres.

As we drove, I holstered my gun, wiped sweat
from my brow and, with a deep breath, opened the
holdall, wondering exactly what was going to be in
there.

It was full. Crammed full with tightly packed
bundles of used fifty-pound notes. So Holtz had been
genuine. Which begged a major fucking question.

Why had they started shooting?

Gallan

I had a takeaway curry that night. Chicken tikka
masala, pilau rice, two poppadoms and an
accompaniment of sag aloo. I knew I wouldn't

364

finish it all, that's a lot of food, but I thought I'd at
least give it a try. What I couldn't eat, I'd have cold
tomorrow. I'd also purchased a four-pack of Fosters
and rented a video. It might have been a Saturday
night and I might have been on my own but I was
determined to enjoy myself. The lounge was comfortable,
the telly - a twenty-eight-inch Sorry
widescreen bought on hire purchase - was on, and
all the worries of the world had been relegated to
beyond my front door.

I was sitting on the sofa in my dressing gown,
warming up for the video by watching a Denis
Nordern pastiche of out-takes and bloopers on ITV,
and was just about to tuck into the food when my
mobile rang. It was ten to nine. I thought about
Laving it. I was hungry and I was sure it could
wait, but habit got the better of me. I've always
been the curious type. I put down my food, went
over to the kitchen top, and picked it up.

'John? Asif Malik here.' He sounded breathless,
and the line wasn't too good.

I walked out of the kitchen with the phone to my
ear and back into the lounge. 'Asif, how are you?'

'Not good. I suppose you haven't heard the
news, then?'

'What?'

'Stefan Holtz. He's been shot, up in Epping
Forest. That's where I am now. It looks like whoever
kidnapped Krys got Stefan out of that fortified
house of his, lured him here, and blew him away.'

I was shocked but not sorry. 'So, it looks h'ke
some sort of takeover, then?'

The don't know,' said Malik. That's what we think,

365

but there's absolutely no intelligence coming from
any quarter that gives us a suggestion as to who's
behind it.'

'Will his death make your job any easier?'

Malik managed a humourless laugh. 'I doubt it.
Now they'll all be fighting over the scraps. It means
we've probably got to end up watching ten big
villains instead of one. It never gets easier, John,
you know that. Now, before I forget. This Dagmar
Holdings--'

'I feel bad hassling you about them when you've
got so much else on.'

'Sure you do. To be frank, I don't know how
much help I'm going to be. They are a company
suspected of links with the Holtzes but no major
associate of theirs sits on their board, so it's going
to be extremely difficult to connect Dagmar to
individuals, unless you can lean on the board
members, see what they know.'

'But they won't be inside players?'

There are three people listed as being on the
board. They'll all be known to the Holtzes, but no,
as far as we're aware, they're not inside players. But
they might be worth talking to. I've got their
addresses if you want them.'

I went back into the kitchen and grabbed a pen
and paper from one of the drawers. 'I do. Thanks.'

Malik read out the name and address of the
chairman, then the managing director. When he
said the name of the company secretary, I froze.
'Are you sure that's the name?'

'Definitely,' said Malik.

I took the address, thanked him, then rang off. I

366

looked around, then found the statement of
accounts on Dagmar Holdings I'd brought home
the previous night. Then I checked the surnames
and first initials of the board members, listed at the
bottom of the first page. Malik was dead right. How
the hell had I missed that?

I looked at the address he'd given me. It might
lead to nothing but I knew I was going to have to
give the place a visit.

I looked at my watch again. Too late now. I'd go
in the morning.

Iversson

,, hichever way you want to read it, it was a setup/
I said, looking at the other three in turn.

We were standing round the kitchen table, all
grim-faced, the holdall containing the money open
in front of us. There was no sign of Joe. The clock on
the wall above the cooker said that it was five to
nine. Outside, it was raining even harder than it
had been earlier.

'It had to be a set-up. How the fuck did Holtz get
all those people to the drop point without some sort
of inside knowledge that it was going to be where
it was? There were at least three other shooters
there, minimum, and probably more, because
somehow they managed to take out Joe as well. So
someone fucking talked.'

'Not necessarily,' said Tugger. 'They could have
put a tracking device on his car, something that
helped them locate it/

367

'No way. They were on us within minutes of
Holtz arriving. If they'd been tracking the car
they'd never have had a chance of getting into
position in that length of time. I don't care what
anyone says, they were already there. And the way
Holtz was talking to me, it sounded like he knew
his men were in the vicinity. He was way too cocky
for a man delivering a ransom.'

Teah, but you said yourself he was shocked
when the shooting started/ said Tugger. 'I mean,
Christ, they shot him, didn't they?'

'But it was you who fired first.'

'There was some fucking bloke creeping up on
me with a gun! What the fuck was I supposed to
do? Wave to him?'

'Shit,' said Johnny, who was having difficulty
keeping his eyes off the money. 'I can't fucking
believe this. Do you think they popped him by
accident when they were trying to shoot you?'

'Fuck knows/ I said. 'Maybe.' I turned to
Kalinski. 'No-one followed him into the car park,
right?' He glared at me, then shook his head firmly.
'And you drove out when he left and no-one was
following him then?'

'I'm no fucking fool/ he snarled. 'I know what
I'm doing. I followed him and there was no other
car, and no other people with him. When he turned
off the main road, he turned off on his own.'

'Well then, they were already there. There's no
other explanation, is there?'

'No-one rucking talked/ said Kalinski firmly.

"Then you're going to have to explain how the
shooters got there that fast. So far, you haven't.'

368

The don't have to explain nothing.'

'Fuck it, Max/ said Tugger in exasperation. 'It
could have happened. Of course it could. It doesn't
take a huge great battle plan to arrive, advance up
both sides of a clearing so they're flanking their
boss, and confront us. And what's the alternative?
That one of us was talking to them? Who? It wasn't
Joe. Christ knows what's happened to him, but it
doesn't look good. It wasn't me. I'd never even
heard of Stefan fucking Holtz before last week. And
Kalinski here ... hardly. Holtz's people murdered
his brother.' Kalinski grunted in agreement. 'And
Johnny. You had to virtually pressgang him to get
him involved. If someone talked, that only leaves you .'

Or your missus,' said Kalinski.

'She didn't know any of the details,' I snapped. I
didn't like the way this conversation was going.

'Are you sure?' Tugger sounded suspicious.

'Of course I'm fucking sure. I never told her anything
about the drop-off, where it was going to be,
how we were going to do it. So leave her out of it.'

'She might have overheard you talking,' said
Kalinski accusingly. 'You know what women are
like. I had a bird once--'

'No way. No fucking way. You're right up the
wrong tree. I was always careful to keep her out of
all the planning, and that's the God's honest truth.'

'Well, that doesn't leave us with anyone, does it?'
said Tugger.

I stopped and exhaled loudly. Tugger was right,
of course, there wasn't really anyone who could
have talked, but I still wasn't convinced. Something

369

had happened out there, something that hadn't
been planned for either by us or Stefan Holtz, and
somebody somewhere knew a lot more than they
were letting on. I looked at them each in turn, trying *
to keep the deep suspicion I felt off my face. They
all looked back with various expressions: Kalinski
glowering; Johnny nervous; Tugger calm but
concerned.

'We may as well finish off the boy downstairs/ * I
said Kalinski. 'He's no use to us or anyone now.' 5|

'No way,' I said. "This whole thing's been fucked
up enough as it is without us adding another
reason for the Holtzes or the cops to come after us.
He can't recognize anyone, we've got the money, so
we keep our side of the bargain. That means we
stay the night here, wait to see if Joe turns up, and
release Krys and go our separate ways in the morn- j
ing. Just like we originally planned.'

'Joe ain't going to turn up now,' said Kalinski.

I knew Kalinski was pretty much on the button
there, but I didn't need to hear it from him. 'He
may, he may not. We don't know. Anyway, we stay
here. Now, let's count this fucking money. We'll
divvy up each man his due and I'll look after Joe's
share.'

'I don't think it should be kept for him,' said
Kalinski. 'If he ain't here, he ain't here. We share it
out between ourselves. That's the only way.'

1 thought you were only in it for the revenge.'

'Well, I ain't got my fucking revenge, have I? The
cunt's still alive and you're saying we should
release him tomorrow. Even though he fucked your
missus.'

370

'Watch what you're fucking saying.'

'If it was me, and he'd done that to my missus,
I'd have fucking killed him.'

I took a step forward, feeling my temper boiling
over. I'm a patient man, but this bastard Kalinski
was pushing it big time.

Tugger put his hand out in front of me. 'All right,
boys, calm down. Let's all take it easy, have a drink,
and talk about it again tomorrow morning. How
does that sound? We're not getting nowhere like
this.'
'I think I should get a bigger share of the Russell,'
said Johnny. 'You say I didn't have to do too much
but, what with all this lot, things ain't never going
to be the same for me again.'

1 turned to him, wanting to re-establish control.
'Bullshit. You've done your bit, and you've done it
well, but nothing changes with the death of Holtz.
No-one knows who we are and no-one's going to
be able to find us. As long as we keep calm and
release Krys. I'll hold the money until tomorrow. If
Joe still isn't here when we're due to leave, then
we'll split his share evenly, but if he is alive, and he
comes looking for it, then it's got to be remembered
that it's his money, and it's each bloke's lookout if
he doesn't want to give it up. Now, let's count this
fucking stuff. Then we can divvy up.'

The atmosphere was tense, unpleasant. No-one
felt much like talking, or even eating. Beers were
cracked open, as per Tugger's suggestion, but there
was no celebration even though every man in the
room was significantly richer. It was all there, too,
every last note. Half a million pounds in fifties, just

371

as Holtz had been instructed, and that settled it for
me. There was no way he'd been accidentally shot
by one of his men who was trying to put a hole in
me. However many times I went over it in my *
mind, one thing remained certain, and that was that
he'd had every intention of paying up.

Before we retired for the night, I took some bread
down to Krys and fed it to him without speaking.
Eventually he asked me whether his old man had
paid the ransom. He didn't sound angry or defiant
any more, just tired and uncomfortable. He'd
pissed his trousers again but didn't ask for them to
be changed.

'Yeah, your dad paid,' I told him.

'Are you going to let me go?' he asked, his voice
sounding strangely like a kid.

'You're going to be released tomorrow morning.
Then it'll all be over.'

'Thanks,' said Krys.

I didn't say anything as I replaced the gag, thinking
once again that I was glad we hadn't killed him.
He deserved it, no question, but you couldn't feel
too much hate for a person in his state.

As I came out of the cellar and locked it behind
me, I looked at my watch. 10.50 p.m. The others had
all gone upstairs. I could hear them moving
around. Yawning, I picked up the holdall from the
kitchen table, checked to see that no-one had
tampered with it, and went up to bed, noticing for
the first time that it had stopped raining.

372

Today

Iversson

My eyes snapped open and I listened hard for a
sprond. Nothing. It was dark in the room; the alarm
cio^k by the bed said 2.57. Something had woken
me. I was a good sleeper, usually went straight
through, couldn't remember the last time my
slumber had been interrupted naturally. I could see
through the gap in the door that the landing light
was on, but that was how I'd left it when I'd come
into the bedroom. Maybe someone had got up to go
for a leak. I sat up and waited for a few moments.
Still nothing. I picked up the Clock from the side of
the bed and checked that it was loaded - there was
a round in the chamber - then lay back down again,
thinking that I was getting paranoid. No great
surprise, I suppose, when you're in a house with
half a million in cash and three men with less than
scrupulous backgrounds.

I shut my eyes and thought of Joe. Joe Riggs, the
man who'd been good to me down the years.
The man I'd betrayed by sleeping with his missus,

373

and now the man who was almost certainly dead as
a direct result of me getting him involved in a
dangerous scheme when all he'd wanted to do was
run a business in peace.

There was a noise downstairs. Footsteps on the
bare floorboards in the hall, faint but distinctly
audible. Someone was moving around down there.
This time I slid out of bed, pulled on trousers and a
shirt, and picked up the gun. I paused and listened again. It had stopped. I decided to investigate, just
in case. The holdall was under the bed but I made
the decision to leave it where it was. I'd be back in
a few moments. To hinder anyone who thought
they could sneak in and take it, I removed the light
bulb from the main light and placed it under the
pillow.

Slowly, I unlocked the door and opened it as
quietly as possible, then stepped outside, straining
against the silence. The other doors on the landing
were all shut, and nothing moved. Flicking
the safety off the gun, I crept over to the stairs. The
lights at the bottom were all extinguished, just as
I'd left them, but that meant nothing. Someone had
definitely been creeping about down there and,
whatever the reason was, I was sure there was
nothing innocent about it. Could it have been
Kalinski deciding to ignore his instructions and to
finish off Krys? If he had, he hadn't come back up
the stairs again, nobody had. Maybe he'd taken his
share and left. But then I would have heard a car
start, and I hadn't.

The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up,
the second time they'd done that in just over a

374

fortnight. The first had been in the minutes before
Tony Franks had started shooting, and sent us all
down the rocky road to where we were now.

I took a step onto one of the stairs and it creaked
loudly, interrupting the night's silence. I stood still
for a moment, resisting the urge to call out the way
they always do in horror films, just before they get
sliced into salami by the killer. Is anyone there? If
comeone was, he didn't want to be discovered.
Hearing nothing, I took a second step, paused, then
continued down the stairs as cautiously as possible.

When I was at the bottom, I concentrated on trying
to pick up any sound that might seem out of
place. Breathing, the shuffling of feet ... but the
dead silence remained. My eyes scanned the gloom, :':-j darkness almost inpenetrable, only thin shafts
of half-light coming through the kitchen windows.

I took two rapid steps forward and switched on
all the lights to the hall, then turned and started.
Because I spotted it immediately.

The cellar door was half an inch ajar. I'd definitely
locked it, no question, and I'd also been the last
person in there. Which meant one of two things,
neither very good. Either he'd escaped, or ...

I stepped forward, and pushed the door wider. It
was silent, and the air smelt fetid, as it always did.
Krys Holtz had been incarcerated in there for three
days. He stank, no question. I put a foot on the
cellar steps, took a quick look round to check there
was no-one behind me, and switched on the light.

I could see Krys's feet. So he was still there. I
moved down the steps, one at a time, trying to
make as little noise as possible ...

375

And froze.

Krys lay back in his seat, still bound and gagged,
still wearing the clothes I'd left him in, but very
very dead. His throat had been sliced through *
deeply. The head was hanging back in the seat at
such a precarious angle that only the fact that it was
leaning against the wall prevented it from toppling
off altogether. Blood had turned the front of his
shirt a deep crimson and it had run down onto the
tops of his legs. The blindfold had been removed,
too, and his eyes were wide and terrified. The killer,
then, had given him advance warning of what he'd
intended.

I moved closer to the body and touched the forehead.
Still warm. The flow of blood had stopped
and it was coagulating rapidly round the throat
region, so it was unlikely he'd been killed in the
last few minutes, but it hadn't been hours ago
either.

I hurried back up the steps, switched the light off,
listened for a few moments to check that no-one
was waiting at the top for me, and then stepped
out. I walked back into the hallway, then round to
the front door. It was locked. I doubled back and
checked the back door of the house, which led
into the utility room. Also locked. I went back
through the hallway and into the kitchen, holding
the Clock tightly, and went to check on the kitchen
door, the last means of entry into the house.

It was unlocked. I couldn't remember if I'd
checked it earlier or not, but thought I had. I'd been
security conscious these past few nights, even more
so since we'd taken ownership of all that money,

376

but so much had happened that I couldn't recall
anything for sure.

I stopped for a moment and thought about it.
Who knew we were here? Who wanted Krys Holtz
dead? Who would have bothered to remove his
blindfold before he killed him? Only someone who
had a personal reason for wanting him dead.
Kalinski. It had to be Kalinski. I was going to have
fr> wake the others. I turned round.

A shadow suddenly filled the doorway. I started,
then brought up the gun instinctively, finger
tensing on the trigger.

'What the fuck's going on?'

It was Tugger. I felt myself relaxing. 'Something
vpry fucking bad/ I said, approaching him.

Tagger retreated, and I saw that he too was holding
a gun by his side, though where he'd got it from
I didn't have a clue. He lifted it so it was pointing
in my direction. 'Hold on, stop there. What are you
talking about?'

I stopped. 'I think Kalinski's snuffed Krys. I
heard some movement down here; it woke me up.
I came down, saw that the cellar door was open,
and went to take a look.'

Tugger didn't move. 'Where were you going just
now?'

'I was checking the doors to see whether they
were locked.'

'And are they?'

That one isn't,' I said, motioning towards the
kitchen door. 'Look, you can put the gun down
now, Tugger. I'm not the one who's offed Krys.'

'You put yours down, then.'

377

I did. 'Look, Tug, how long have we known each
other? A long time, right? I'm telling you the truth.
If you don't believe me, take a look. Krys is dead
and there's no way I'd want to kill him.'

He stepped over to the cellar door, and peered
down, switching on the light as he did so. He
watched me carefully out of the corner of his eye as
he put his foot on the first step. It was funny what
a lot of money did to people's personalities.

'I'm going to check on Kalinski,' I said. 'See if
he's done a runner.'

At that moment, the sound of a car starting came
from out front. Tugger jumped back through the
cellar door. 'What the fuck?'

'Go see who it is/ I snapped. Till see if Kalinski's
gone.'

Once again, he gave me a suspicious look, then
turned and hurried out to the kitchen door. I ran up
the stairs, wondering why Johnny hadn't surfaced
by now, and tried Kalinski's door. It opened immediately
and I knew he'd gone, an assumption
that lasted as long as it took me to reach for the light
switch and flick it on.

Kalinski lay on his back under the covers of his
bed, his eyes open and staring at the beamed ceiling.
The pale sheets covering him were stained with
blood around the chest area, and he didn't seem to
have made any attempt at a struggle. I stepped
forward and pulled them back. Three deep knife
wounds an inch to the right of his left nipple
suggested that death had been instantaneous, the
result of stab wounds to the heart. Whoever had
killed him had known what he was doing. But then,

378

I already knew that, because he'd left two people
dead with hardly a sound. My bedroom was right next door to Kalinski's, and I'd been lying no more
than ten feet away from him while the knife was
going in. And I hadn't heard a fucking thing. My
luck was still holding, but only just. Whoever was
trying to kill me - to kill us all - was getting closer
and closer.

The thought I heard a shout from outside and it was
at that point that I made a decision: something had
gone badly wrong and I needed to get out of there
with the money, and fast. I flung the sheets back
over Kalinski, turned and ran back to my own
room, knocking on Johnny's door as I passed but
no*- bothering to wait around for an answer. The
wandered whether the Holtzes had the place
surrounded and who among us was the one feeding
information to the other side.

I pulled on some shoes, grabbed the holdall from
under the bed, and went back out onto the landing.
Johnny wasn't responding. I knocked again, then
opened the door. Even in the gloom, I could see that
the bed was empty. What the fuck did that mean?
Was Johnny the traitor? All kinds of thoughts were
flying through my mind, clouding an issue that was
already as murky as a peat bog. But there was no
time to stand around and analyse, so I ran down the
stairs and pulled open the front door.

The van we'd used for the ransom pick-up was
about ten yards away in the middle of the driveway.
It was in the exact spot where Kalinski had
parked it earlier but the lights were on and the
engine was idling. I stepped outside and looked for

379

lugger, but he was nowhere to be seen. The thick
walls of trees on both sides of the driveway were
silent and empty, but who knew what or who was
behind them.

Clutching the gun in one hand and the holdall in
the other, I jogged up to the driver's side of the van,
keeping my head down and turning round every so
often, just to check I wasn't being followed, and
pulled open the door.

Johnny Hexham's body tipped out unceremoniously
and I had to jump out of the way to
avoid being knocked over.

'For Jesus's sake ...'

Johnny stared blankly up at me, glassy-eyed and
dead, his throat, like Krys's, ait from ear to ear. But
this time the wound was fresh and bubbling, the
blood still dripping down onto his shirt. Blood
dribbled out of the sides of his mouth like something
out of a horror film. For a moment I couldn't
move, so stunned was I by the turn of events. I'd
been set up, and set up beautifully, and I still didn't
have a clue why, or by who. Johnny lay dead in
front of me, probably murdered only a couple of
minutes ago, if that, and his killer was almost
certainly still in the vicinity. And where the fuck
was Tugger? Had he taken out Krys and been coming
after me when I'd turned round and spotted;
him? But there'd been no blood on his clothes. Still,
that didn't mean anything. He could have changed.
Could have stood out of the way of the blood's*
trajectory as it spurted from the wound. And what I
had he been doing creeping around down there?

I chucked the holdall across the driver's side and!

380

onto the passenger seat of the van, then went to

jump in-
Which was when I saw the front tyre. A deep
slash ran all the way down it. I looked at the back
tyre. The same. Set up perfectly, absolutely perfectly.
I'd never been in a situation like this, one
where I was so alone, so utterly out-thought, facing
an enemy I couldn't see, let alone identify, and who st-r-rned to know every step I'd take before I'd even
taken it. At that moment in time I was the most
frightened I'd ever been in my life, and the most
certain that this was a situation I wasn't going to
get out of alive.

I stopped for a few moments to compose myself,
to ralm down so I could take stock of the situation.
Bu, johnny's dead eyes continued to stare up at me
like something out of some murderous, madness
inducing dream and I was forced to use every
ounce of self-discipline to stop myself from falling
into a blind panic.

Then I heard movement over by the side of the
house. Turning round, trigger finger tensed, I saw
Tugger coming back round. Shoot him, my instincts
screamed. Shoot the bastard now! Except he was
staggering drunkenly, not seeming to focus on anything.
He stumbled, then fell to his knees, eyes
making contact with mine, surprise in them, blood
dribbling down his chin.

Instinctively, I started to run towards him, and
that was when I saw the knife sticking straight
out of his back, only an inch of blade still visible,
and there was something in his eyes, and his mouth
was opening in a desperate effort to speak. It

381

looked like he was trying to warn me of something^

And then I heard footsteps coming round fj
from behind the van, and the next thing I knew
something smashed hard into my face, knocking*
me completely off balance. I felt the gun drop front ' my hand and I fell to my knees, my vision blurring *
into watery colours. Someone was standing above Jr
me and whoever it was had what looked like a If
sharpened spade in his hand. He hit me again, this
time in the side of the head, and I felt my face ~
smack against the concrete drive. ^

I was still conscious but couldn't seem to move.
Vaguely, I heard my assailant walk over and pick
up my gun, and I knew that this was it. The end.
Strangely the blows seemed to have knocked all thi fear out of me as well. My head ached ferociously _
and I was still having difficulty focusing, butS
slowly, I rolled over and lifted my head up, wanting
to at least take a look at the man who was about
to kill me.

'How are you feeling, Max?' asked a smiling Joe
Riggs, the shovel in his hands.

Even in my dazed state, I felt the shock surge
through me. 'Joe,' I managed to say, through split
and bloody lips, 'what the fuck are you doing?'

'Getting payback, Max. Getting payback.'

I spat blood out of my mouth and managed to si|
up. I still couldn't believe that it was Joe who'dl
killed Krys and the others. 'Why? What for? I
thought you were dead. I kept your share. I wasj
waiting here for you.'

'I know you were,' he said. 'I was watching,
fact, I was back here before you were.'

382

My whole world seemed like it was as blurred as
my vision. 'Why?' I managed to ask again.

Joe stared down at me grimly. There was no
humanity in his eyes, just a quiet intensity. I'd
already come round to the fact that I was going to
die but couldn't work out whether the bang on the
head was causing me to see things or whether it
really was true that my friend and business partner \\-?.« going to be the one doing the killing. 'Why
these blokes? Because it's business. They mean
nothing to me. Not your friend, Hexham, who's a
fucking coward, not Kalinski, not even Tugger
Lewis. He was an OK bloke but nothing special,
and I remember once he fucked me over in a game
of cards. Cheated, and took money off me that
vv^ii't his. I don't forget things like that.'
'But why me, Joe? What did I ever do to you?'
'You killed my wife, Max. You killed my wife.'
'What the fuck are you--?' I never finished the
question. I saw Joe raising the spade, the metal
gleaming in the moonlight, and threw up my arms
to protect my face as it came crashing down on my
elbows, blade first, sending a searing pain up them.
I fell backwards and lay there, curled up in a ball. 'I
don't know what you're talking about, Joe/ I said,
my voice muffled by the fact that my arms were still
pressed close to my face. 'Honest, I don't.'

'Modern technology, Max. That's your problem.
You remember Dietrich Fenzer, the guy who got
convicted? Well, he committed suicide six months
ago, still protesting his innocence. Said he definitely
saw and argued with Elsa that night but that he
never killed her. Three weeks ago, I got a call from

383

the German authorities, saying that they were
reopening the case. Apparently they'd started to get
their own doubts about it, and they looked again at
DNA samples taken from Elsa's body at the time,
and after further investigation it turned out that
they didn't come from Fenzer at all.' He stopped
and struck me hard across the back, making me cry
out in pain. Too late for him, but it got me thinking
back. Because you see, at the time, I knew she was
having affairs with other men. It upset me, but I
could tolerate it because I really fucking loved her.
But I remember things she said, things that made
me think that maybe one of the men she was having
an affair with was you.'

'Joe, I swear--'

The spade came down again, this time on my
fingers. I heard several of them break but didn't
move them, knowing that to do so would invite a
further blow to my exposed head. I clenched my
teeth hard against the excruciating pain.

'I always tried to push those thoughts out of my
head because you were Max Iversson, my good
mate, my fucking drinking buddy.'

'I was. I am.'

'Like fuck you are!' he snarled, smacking me
again on the broken fingers. I wailed with the pain,
my eyes watering. I wondered how much more of
this I could stand. 'But then the copper who phoned
me said they were looking again at the soldiers on
the base at the time because they believed that
several of them had been having affairs with her,
and I got to thinking about how you'd been after
the murder, and how jittery you were, and that

384

maybe, just maybe, if they hadn't arrested Fenzer
so quick I would have probably ended up suspecting
you, even though you were my friend. And
then I also thought that if you'd seen her arguing
with Fenzer then maybe you could have planted
the weapon you used in his house--'

'Please, Joe ... please. I didn't do it, I swear.'

I felt the edge of the spade cut deep into my thigh
as Joe brought it down with all his strength.
Instinctively, I grabbed at the wound with one of
my battered hands, feeling the blood gurgle out,
and Joe lifted the spade high above his head ready
to strike. 'Why don't you just admit it, Max? Why
don't you just fucking admit it? I know you--'

The gunshot cracked across the still night air and
suddenly Joe's expression changed from rage to
mild surprise. He stumbled, and the spade fell from
his hands, clanking loudly on the concrete. A
second shot rang out, and this time he fell forwards,
narrowly missing me, and rolled over. Within a
couple of seconds he'd stopped moving.

Slowly and painfully, I manoeuvred my body
round so I could see who the shooter was. Tugger
was holding the gun, a .38 by the looks of things,
different to the one he'd been holding when he'd
bumped into me in the hallway. He was still lying
on the ground, having propped himself up on one
elbow to deliver the shots, and he looked close to
death. His eyes seemed glazed and the blood was
still coming out of his mouth. The knife, too,
remained firmly embedded in his back.

Somehow I managed to stagger to my feet,
wincing as I used my broken fingers to lift myself

385

i

1!

up. I limped over to lugger, still holding my bleeding
leg, but he was fading fast.

He rolled onto his side and coughed violently. A
thick load of gluey blood and phlegm emerged,
winding its way slowly towards the ground. I sat
down in front of him, trying to think what I could
do to save his life, but knowing it was a lost cause.
His eyes tried to focus on me but they couldn't.
Finally, he spoke, slowly but emphatically, the
effort looking like it might prove too much for him
at any time.

'I don't cheat at cards,' was all he said. Then he
rolled onto his back and died.

For a long time I watched him, my mind so torn up
by what had happened that I found it impossible to
think straight and to come to terms with events.
Eventually I forced myself to my feet and staggered
towards the van, knowing that I had to get that flight
to Bermuda if it was the last thing I ever did.

I had difficulty turning the key to let myself into her
apartment, but managed it on the third go. It was
five past seven in the morning and I looked a mess,
probably the worst I'd ever looked. My eyes had
been blackened, my lips were split, and I had a
long, deep cut across my forehead. Three fingers
were broken and the wound in my thigh looked
like it might be getting infected. It had been a
bastard of a journey to get here, but I'd made it.

The apartment was dark. I didn't call her name,
figuring that she was probably asleep. I needed
sleep too, more than I'd ever needed it. I was going
to have to get myself cleaned up before she saw me,

386

otherwise the poor woman would get the shock of
her life, but it was going to have to wait.

I walked down the hall to the bedroom and
slowly opened the door. It was dark in there
and the curtains were drawn, but I could make out
her figure under the sheets. It was the most
welcoming sight I thought I'd ever seen. I put the
holdall on the floor and removed my jacket and
shirt, chucking them down too. When I was naked,
I checked my wounds again, and saw that my thigh
was still oozing blood. I was going to have to bandage
it before getting in beside her.

'Max? Is that you?' Elaine sat up in bed, rubbing
her eyes. 'What are you doing here? I thought you
Tvere coming back later.'

Nothing. Don't worry. I'm coming to bed in a
moment/

She switched on the bedroom light and gasped.
'What the fuck's happened to you? Have you been
attacked?'

I think I might have managed a grim smile. Tou
could say that. Look, don't worry about it. I'm OK,
I promise.'

'Christ, come here.' She stepped out of bed,
dressed only in a baby doll nightie, and for a
moment I felt my troubles fading. It's amazing
what female flesh can do for a man. We embraced,
and I kissed her on the mouth, ignoring the pain in
my lips. 'It's good to have you back/ she
whispered, looking up at me, her fingers stroking
my inner thigh. In spite of everything that had
happened, I began to get a hard on. 'Did you get the
money OK?'

387

I smiled as her fingers drifted across to my balls,
and motioned towards the holdall. Teah, I got the
money. And I think I've earned it.'

Gallan

I yawned. It was early, far too early for a Sunday,
but it was all about surprise. Confront your quarry
when they least expect it. However, quarter past
seven on a Sunday morning could almost be
construed as harassment. I was sure a clever lawyer
would see it that way, but I'd worry about that later.
I didn't want to waste any time. With all the
absentees on the Matthews case, it was good to get
the chance to speak to someone who was still
actually around.

I crossed the road and walked up to the entrance
of the apartment building. An attractive middle
aged lady in jogging gear was coming out. I smiled
at her, and she automatically kept the door open for
me to walk through. Very careless, particularly in a
city like London. I could have been anyone. I didn't
complain, though, since it made my job easier. Just
smiled and thanked her, and she smiled back.

When I was inside, I started up the stairs.

Iversson

She pulled me towards her, kissing me hard, her
tongue slithering and tumbling into my mouth
like a three-legged lizard. 'We're rich, baby. Rich

388

beyond our wildest fucking dreams.' She laughed
out loud, stroking my cock while I let loose with the
old moans of pleasure, beginning to forget all my
various aches and pains. Bending down in front of
me, she brushed her lips across my nipple, gently
nibbling it, before sinking slowly down to her
knees in a way that was guaranteed to bring forth a
bout of premature ejaculation. I let out a thin gasp
like a hamster's squeak as she slowly swallowed
me up, all the time gazing up at me with those big
brown bedroom eyes.

I smiled down at her, then let my eyes drift
around the room as I tried to stop myself from
coming, eager to prolong things as long as possible.
My battered face stared back at me from the
mirror on the opposite wall, grinning stupidly. I
focused on it for a moment as Elaine's tongue
created sensations I could hardly stand.

And then, as I was beginning to turn away, I saw
it. A wicked-looking silencer coming into view.
Pointing straight towards the back of my head. I
heard the creak of a floorboard behind me and
knew immediately that I was one second away
from death.

In one single movement I threw myself against
the wall, ignoring the pain as Elaine bit me in the
shock of my sudden withdrawal, and lashed out
with my arm, knocking the gun flying. Its owner, a
stocky bloke in a baseball cap, looked momentarily
shocked. I took my chance and jumped forward,
grabbing him as best I could and headbutting him
on the bridge of his nose. The cut on my forehead
immediately reopened but the gunman had been

389

hurt. He took a step backwards but quickly recovered
himself, delivering a sudden flurry of
rabbit punches to my kidneys as he struggled to
break my grip.

Every part of my body seemed to be burning
with pain, and blood from the head wound was
dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. But
I knew I couldn't give up. I had to protect us.

Summoning all my strength, I headbutted the
gunman again and wrestled him through the bedroom
door and out into the hallway, banging him
hard against the opposite wall. His cap fell off,
revealing a hairless head beneath, and for some
reason this seemed to give him a renewed burst of
strength, like Samson in reverse. He cursed and
managed to push me away, before trying but failing
to deliver a punch to my bollocks. I gasped as he
got a better shot to my ribs, and took a step back as
if hurt, before charging forward, head bowed like a
bull, and delivering another ferocious headbutt
right to the chin. Something cracked in there and
the gunman made a sound half like a cough, half
like a scream. Realizing my head was my best
weapon, I shoved him back against the wall, then
swung round so my back was facing him and
delivered a skull-jarring reverse butt. His resistance
simply evaporated and he slid down the wall,
unconscious.

My head was spinning and my eyes stinging
with blood, so much so that I could hardly see.
Regaining my balance, I wiped at my face with my
forearm, clearing the worst of the obstruction, and
tried to focus again.

390

Which was the moment when the silencer hissed
and a searing pain that eclipsed anything I'd yet felt
surged through my shoulder, the force of it sending
me reeling into the wall.

Gallan

I was just about to knock on the door when I heard
a loud commotion from inside and the sound of
shouting. I put my head against the wood and
listened. It sounded like a fight between two men,
and I wondered for a moment if I'd got the wrong
place. One of the men howled in pain, and there
was a crash as if they'd both just charged into a
wall. They were big blokes, I could tell that from the
force of the impact, and I decided that discretion
was the better part of valour and that it was best
just to call for reinforcement.

Then there was a pause in proceedings for a
couple of seconds, followed by a faint popping
sound, then a cry of pain and a dull thud.

I'd seen enough Hollywood films to know immediately
that it was a gunshot from a silencer, and
the damage it had done was obvious, even if I
couldn't see it. I stepped back from the door and
dialled the station on my mobile. The controller
answered after four rings. I gave my location and
called for backup.

The need firearms units as well as an ambulance,' I
hissed into the phone. 'Someone in there is
definitely armed, and it's the address of a person
we need to question with reference to a murder,

391

although I must emphasize that at the moment the
person is not, I repeat not, a suspect.'

I switched off the mobile and went back to the
door and listened. There were voices coming from
inside, one sounding in pain, the other dominant,
firm. Ruthless. I knew I should wait for reinforcements.
All my training told me there was no point
confronting armed suspects in an enclosed space
when unarmed, particularly when it was obvious
that the suspect had just shot someone. All my
instincts agreed. It was a united stand. But at the
same time I also knew I couldn't stand there and do
nothing while someone was murdered, and from
the tone of the conversation in there it sounded like
that was exactly what was about to happen.
Sometimes, like it or not, you simply have to stick
your neck out. The alternative is the eternal knowledge
that you could have done something to save a
life but chose not to.

I pulled a credit card out of my pocket and, using
the method a convicted burglar had once taught me,
went to unlock the door.

Iversson

I was sitting back against the wall, shaking as my
body went into shock. To my left lay the unconscious
gunman. In front of me stood the woman
I was in love with, half naked, very beautiful, and
pointing a long-barrelled Browning at me, the end
of the silencer only a few feet from my face. After
everything else, it was a sight my mind really

392

couldn't fathom. It felt like I'd finally cracked and
this was the beginning of my short and probably
one-way route to the loony-bin.

'Elaine/ I managed to say through teeth that
were chattering manically. 'What are you doing?'

She managed a sympathetic smile. Tm sorry,
Max, I really am. If it's any consolation, it's just
business. Nothing else. You're actually not a bad
bloke, even if Joe Riggs does say you murdered his
missus a few years back; you were just in the wrong
place at the wrong time. Now, I didn't want to do
this - that was his job.' She motioned towards the
unconscious gunman. 'In fact, it was Joe's job, but
the thing is, you don't seem to want to die. And
now it's left to little old me to do the dirty deed. You
'now something, Max, I've never shot anyone
before, and I've never really wanted to either, particularly
someone who was such a good lay, and in my
fucking flat as well, but you know what they say,
never let emotions stop you from doing your job.'

Still I couldn't get a grip on what was going on. I
heard her words, delivered in a slightly weary
matter-of-fact tone, saw her standing there pointing
a gun at me, but none of it seemed to register. It
seemed like maybe I'd fallen asleep, and that any
second now I'd wake up in her arms with her
stroking my head, telling me it was OK, it was just
a bad dream, like my mum used to do when I
was a kid.

'Elaine,' I whispered. 'I love you.' And I know it
sounds stupid, but I really meant it.

'I know you do, darling,' she said, her finger
tensing on the trigger. 'I know you do.'

393

Gallan

The door lock clicked, and slowly, ever so slowly, I
pushed it open.

Peeking my head round, I saw a naked man in
the hallway about three yards away, bruised and
bleeding, and apparently suffering from a bullet
wound to the shoulder. He looked a mess, and he
was shaking badly. Next to him lay another man in
casual clothes, not moving, his head turned away.
The naked man was staring into a room right in
front of him, from which emerged a slender hand
and forearm holding a long gun with a silencer
attached, aimed at the naked man's head. I couldn't
see the actual person holding the gun but I was
pretty confident it was Elaine Toms, company
secretary of Dagmar Holdings, who owned the flat
in which I was now standing.

The naked man whispered something I couldn't
quite make out but which sounded a lot like
'Elaine, I love you', and his face suggested he
meant what he was saying, which was a bit unfortunate.
And I thought I had problems with my
love life.

I took a step forward, then another one.

'I know you do, darling/ said Elaine Toms in her
slightly grating north London accent. 'I know you
do/

Her finger was tensing on the trigger, I could
see it. I took another step forward, frantically calculating
what I could possibly do to prevent her from
killing him. The naked man's eyes were widening
and his mouth was opening, though no words were

394

coming out. He knows, I thought. He knows he's
about to die.

'Armed police!' I yelled suddenly. 'Drop your
weapon and come out with your hands up. You're
surrounded. I repeat, you are surrounded!' My
voice was loud and authoritative, probably the
most it had ever been. I hoped Elaine Toms didn't
recognize it from our earlier meeting.

It seemed she didn't.

'Get back!' she called out, still not showing herself
and making no effort to drop the weapon. 'Get
back or I'll shoot him! Don't think I'm bullshitting
either. If you don't get out of this flat now I'm going
to kill him. Do you understand? And you'll be the
one who's fucking responsible.'

The naked man, his face covered in blood, turned
his head and looked at me quizzically, presumably
wondering where my gun was.

'Drop your weapon, Miss Toms,' I demanded,
desperately trying to keep the fear out of my voice.
'You are in enough trouble as it is without adding
murder to your crimes. If you drop your weapon,
then this will end peacefully. If you don't, then you
risk being shot.'

'Retreat now or I kill him. I mean it!'

'Don't do it, Miss Toms. You are surrounded. It
won't do any good.'

And then my heart sank as, still pointing the gun
at the naked man's head, she stepped out of the
room and into the hallway.

For a second she looked confused, then the confusion
turned to annoyance. Slowly, the barrel of
the gun moved round so it was facing me.

395

There is no feeling in the world more hopeless,
more desperate, more frightening, than when you
are standing looking at the end of a gun that's held
steadily and calmly by someone you know is going
to kill you. And impotent, too. It's an impotent feeling
realizing that nothing you do or say, no
pleading, no begging, nothing, is going to change
the dead angle of that weapon, or prevent the
bullet from leaving it and entering your body, ripping
up your insides, and ending every experience,
every thought, every dream you've ever had. You
think about people you care about, places you've
been to that you liked, and you know you're never
going to see any of them again. Your guts churn, the
nerves in your lower back jangle so wildly that you
think you're going to soil yourself, your legs feel
like they're going to go from under you like those
newborn calves you sometimes see on the telly.
And your eyes. You know that your eyes betray
your sense of complete and utter defeat.

You are a dead man, and you know it.

And then two things happened.

First, Jack Merriweather sat up, rubbing his head
and uttering the immortal words, 'What the fuck's
going on?'

Second, the naked man kicked out with his right
leg and struck Elaine Toms in the calf of her left one,
knocking her off balance. She slipped, then fell forward,
and the gun went off, the bullet ricocheting
off the carpet before flying harmlessly into the
ceiling. She landed on her front, gun arm outstretched,
but still holding it. As she tried to right
herself, I took my chance, running forward and

396

stamping as hard as I could on her wrist. She
yelped in pain, but didn't release the gun, so I
stamped again, and this time she did. I pulled it up
by the barrel, stepped back, resisting the urge to
kick her in the face for scaring me senseless, and
turned the gun round. Toms massaged her wrist,
wailing in pain and accusing me of breaking it,
while Merriweather continued to rub at his head
and face, smearing the blood over it, still unsure, it
seemed, about what was happening. The naked
man simply sat where he was, shivering and silent.

'All right,' I said, holding the weapon gingerly,
and praying that no-one chose this moment to
make a break for it, 'everyone stay where they are.'

The need a cloth for my face/ said the naked man,
and slowly got to his feet. 'Please.'

He stood where he was for a moment, wiping the
blood from his eyes. Something about him looked
familiar. Very familiar, though the beard made it
difficult to tell for sure.

In the distance, I could hear the sirens. 'Just stay
where you are for a moment, sir.'

'Please, I need water.' He stumbled forward into
the room from which Elaine Toms had just
emerged. At the same time, she started edging
along the floor in my direction, eyes watching me
like a hawk in search of a weakness.

I pointed the gun directly at her head. 'Do not
move,' I told her.

The man with no clothes', she said, motioning
over her shoulder, 'is Max Iversson. He's wanted
for murder.'

Iversson. Shit!

397

I heard a window opening in the other room, and
the sound of someone clambering out. A second
later, a noise like a crash came from outside. I
stayed put, hoping he wouldn't get far without any
clothes, knowing that I had to make sure Toms
didn't escape. I cursed myself for not clocking
Iversson immediately. It's amazing what some
blood and the Grizzly Adams look'll do to a
person's face.

Toms looked like she was going to make a break
for it. 'You're letting him get away,' she said
mockingly.

I smiled at her, holding the gun steady. "Then I'd
better make sure I don't make the same mistake
with you.'

She gave me a very unladylike sneer but didn't
make any move. At the same time, the sirens seemed
to close in from all sides, cars screeching to a halt in
front of the building. There was a loud bang as the
front door to the building was forced, followed by
the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs.

The cavalry had arrived.

398

Wednesday, three days later

Gallan

'So, Jack, tell me. Why were you in Elaine Toms's
apartment armed with an illegal handgun and
jilencer?'

Merriweather looked at his solicitor, who gave a
slight nod, then back at me. 'No comment/ he said,
scratching absentmindedly at the plaster on his
broken nose.

'How do you know Elaine Toms?'

There was a pause. 'No comment.'

'Is it through Dagmar Holdings?' Again, he
looked at the solicitor, a bald, pinch-faced individual
with outsize glasses and an officious air.
This was the infamous Melvyn Carroll. Again, he
gave that little nod.

'No comment.'

'What do you know about Dagmar Holdings?'

'No comment.'

I sighed. 'You're not helping us much here, Jack.'

'Or yourself,' added Knox, who was sitting
beside me. 'You're facing very serious charges.

399

Charges that carry a substantial prison sentence.
We're talking years, Jack, not months. Years. I
suggest you think about that next time you get
asked a question.'

Merriweather yawned ostentatiously. 'Are you
lot going to charge me with anything or are you just
going to sit here wasting my time?'

Melvyn Carroll leant forward. He smelt strongly
of eau de cologne. 'My client insists he has done
nothing wrong, and, as he has informed you
repeatedly, has nothing further to say on the matter.
I would therefore strongly request that you let him

go-'

Knox and I looked at each other, then back at
Merriweather. Jackie Slap stared straight ahead
at me, his eyes cold. His expression was a simple
one. It said: You can't touch me. I held his gaze,
looking back at him expressionlessly. The room was
silent for several seconds as the two of us stared
each other down. Carroll opened his mouth to say
something, but it was me who spoke first.

'What do you know about the murder of Robert
Jones?' I asked, and something in Merriweather's
expression cracked. The composure was restored
within the space of a second, but it was too late. I'd
caught it. I knew I was on the right track.

He shook his head slowly. 'I don't know nothing
about anything like that. Never heard of the bloke.'

'You've never heard of Robert Jones, the paperboy
who got murdered six months ago?'

'Oh yeah, yeah, that. I heard about it, but I don't
know nothing about it. Why should I?'

That's a good question,' said Carroll. 'What has

400

the murder of a paperboy got to do with the
charges my client is being questioned in connection
with?'

We think Mr Merriweather may be able to throw
some light on the child's murder/ said Knox,
emphasizing the word 'child'.

'Look, don't try to fit me up with something like
that!'

'No need to shout, Jack,' said Knox.

'I'm surprised you thought you hadn't heard of
him/ I continued, 'because it was, and is, a very
high-profile case, and the last place he was seen
alive, before he was so brutally murdered, was
Runmayne Avenue where an associate of yours,
Tony Franks, has a house--'

'Never heard of him.'

'And where you were seen by witnesses on a
number of occasions, including only two weeks
ago, when you were emptying out the property and
claiming you were Mr Franks's brother.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'And I don't know where this is leading/ Carroll
interjected. 'I'm going to have to ask you to
desist with this line of questioning. It's completely
irrelevant.'

I bent down beside my chair and picked up an
evidence bag. I held it in front of Merriweather's
face. 'Guess what this is.'

Merriweather squinted. 'I can't see anything.'

'Look closer.' I pointed my finger at something
almost intangible in the bag. 'It's a fibre, Jack, or
two fibres to be precise. They came from the coat
Robert Jones was wearing on the day he died, and

401

guess what? We found them in the house you were
emptying the other week. What do you think of
that, then?'

'There must be some mistake.' There was no
doubting the fear on his face now. Carroll also
looked wrong-footed by this unwelcome new
development. 'I don't know anything about a dead
kid.'

'Are you sure about that, Jack?' asked Knox.

'Course I'm fucking sure.'

'How do you explain it, then?' I asked. 'How
they got there.' 4

'It's nothing to do with me. I didn't live there.'

'Why were you emptying out the place, then?'
Knox said.

'Where's Tony Franks, Jack? We can't seem to
find him.'

'I don't know a Tony Franks.'

'Why were you emptying out his house, then?'

'I wasn't--'

'We've got a witness who says you were. She
even spoke to you.'

'Fuck this, I don't want to answer any more
questions.'

'I think my client would like a break in proceedings,'
said Carroll.

'We haven't finished yet,' snapped Knox.

'I've fucking finished/ said Merriweather, folding
his arms and making a great play of looking
away.

'Don't you want to have a look at this photo?' I
asked, taking it out of my pocket and sliding it
along the table towards Merriweather. 'It's the last

402

one ever taken of Robert. Christmas Day lunch
last year, six weeks before he died. If s a good one,
isn't it?'

Merriweather continued to look away, but I
could see that his jaw was quivering.

'I really must protest about these methods. My
client has already said he doesn't want to answer
any more questions on this matter. I am therefore
requesting, in the strongest possible terms, that you
terminate this interview.'

'Were you aware, Jack, that a company called
Dagmar Holdings paid the rent on Tony Franks's
house?'

'I've never heard of Dagmar Holdings.'

'Really?' I said, and Merriweather immediately
knew he'd made a mistake. You could see it in his
eyes. Two cheques from Dagmar Holdings
totalling a grand total of nine thousand three
hundred and twenty pounds were paid into a bank
account belonging to your wife, one in February,
another in June. You were also at the home of the
company secretary of Dagmar Holdings when we
arrested you.'

'With an unlicensed firearm/ added Knox for
good measure.

'As your representative, Jack, I advise you to
make no further comment at this time.'

'No comment,' said Merriweather.

'One way or another someone's going down for
this child murder, Jack,' said Knox. 'We're not going
to rest until we find the person responsible.'

'And for some reason, you seem to be lying a lot
during the course of this interview.'

403

'And you're connected very strongly to the house
where we believe he died.'

'Where's Tony Franks, Jack?'

'No comment.'

'Did he kill Robert Jones, or did you?'

'What did you kill him for, Jack? Did he see
something he shouldn't have done?'

'No comment. I told you! No fucking comment!'
He turned to the brief. 'Come on, Melvyn, tell 'em
I'm not answering any more fucking questions
about stuff I don't know nothing about.'

'You heard my client/ said Carroll. 'He's saying
nothing further at this time.'

Knox and I looked at each other and nodded.
'OK/1 said. 'We'll return you to your cells while we
continue our enquiries. Before we finish, though,
there's one thing I'd also like to show you.' I picked
up another evidence bag, again seemingly empty.
'It's one of Robert Jones's hairs, also found at
Runmayne Avenue. Amazing what you can discover
when you look hard enough, isn't it?'

'Not a very good clean-up job, was it?' said Knox
with a sympathetic smile.

Merriweather tried to stare us both down, tried to
appear calm and aloof in the face of our threats, but it
wasn't working. A single bead of sweat ran down the
middle of his forehead and onto the bridge of his
broken nose. He was immediately aware of it, and
knew we could see it. Knew we knew.

'Interview terminated at twelve forty-five p.m./1
said, and switched off the tape. I stood up and
smiled at Merriweather. 'We'll talk again soon/ I
told him.

404

When the two of us were safely ensconced in
Knox's office, along with Benin, we discussed what
we'd gathered from the interview.

'It's still tenuous, John. If he holds out, we're in
trouble. He's consistently denying his involvement
with the case, and the witness statements and that
little bit of forensics are hardly enough to pin him
for the murder. At the moment, all he's down for is
possession of an illegal firearm, which he's denying.
He says it belonged to Iversson. If it carries on
like this, he could easily get bail. Is there no way we
can get Iversson to talk and let us know what was
happening there?'

Iversson had been captured after a short but
dramatic chase through the streets of Clerkenwell,
but he wasn't co-operating either,

I sighed. 'He's even more of a no-comment
merchant than Merriweather. Iversson's linked
with the massacre at the farm and the kidnapping
of Krys Holtz, so I think he figures he's got nothing
to gain by talking, and nothing to lose by staying
silent.'

What about Toms? Can't we prise anything out
of her?'

I shook my head. 'She knows a lot more than
she's letting on but she's not stupid. Her story's
that she was with Merriweather, whom she knows
vaguely, when Iversson turned up and tried to rape
her. He beat up Merriweather but somehow she
managed to get his gun off him and shoot him in
the shoulder. She claims it was self-defence and it's
a story she's sticking by. Therefore, in the absence
of Franks, who we can't find anywhere, our best

405

bet's got to be Merriweather. He knows what's
going on, I'm sure of it, and he's got the most to lose
by not cooperating.'

'But will he crack?'

'No-one wants to be labelled a child killer/1 said,
'especially a macho gangster type like him, and I
don't think he's as much of a hardman as he likes to
make out. Yes, in my opinion, he'll crack.'

Ten minutes later, while we were still talking, the
phone on Knox's desk rang. He picked it up,
listened for twenty seconds, smiled, and told the
caller we'd be right down. He looked at me with
the sort of expression my wife's lover would pull if
he'd just stumbled on a story that would put the
prime minister out of a job. 'It looks like you're
right, John,' he said, and I think there might even
have been some admiration in his voice. 'He wants
to talk to us.'

"That's good.'

'Better than good. He wants to do it without his
brief present.'

'First things first. I want immunity.'

'You haven't told us anything yet, Jack,' said
Knox, lighting his cigarette for him.

'I've got stuff, all right?' he said, looking at us
both in turn. 'Stuff that'll put people away, but if I
help, I don't want to fucking go down. I'm going to
need the works. Immunity, new identity. All that
shit. Understand?'

'If what you tell us is the truth,' said Knox, 'and
it's a big if, and if you're prepared to testify, then
obviously special arrangements will be put in place

406

for you. But no decision's going to be made on that
until we hear what you have to say.'

There was a long silence while Merriweather
thought about what had just been said. 'You know,
I've never done nothing like this before/ he said
eventually. 'I'm no grass, I'll tell you that now. If it
hadn't been for that fucking kid - that's when it all
went wrong.'

'What happened?' I asked, unsure whether I felt
excited or depressed that we were so close to the
truth.

'I wasn't even there at the time, and that's a fucking
promise. I had nothing to do with it. I'd never
kill a kid. I mean, I've got three of my own, haven't
I? I'm no fucking nonce.'

'Let's start at the beginning. Jack/ said Knox.
'What was the house being used for?'

He took a drag on his cigarette, then answered
without looking at us. 'Smuggling. A lot of the
smack from eastern Europe went through that gaff.
It used to get dropped by the couriers at sites in
Kent and then Franks and whoever else he was
using would go and pick it up and bring it back
to the place for storage. We always reckoned it was
the perfect cover because it wasn't the sort of place
you'd expect to find gear. You know, it was a nice
posh area.'

'And the gear was paid for by Stefan Holtz,
right?' I said. 'It was his stuff?'

'It belonged to the organization, yeah.'

'So what's this got to do with Robert Jones?'

'Well, it wasn't just smack that was being
smuggled. You see, Tony Franks, me and him both

407

report to Neil Vamen, and there was other sidelines
Neil had going that the boss, Stefan, didn't know
about, because he wouldn't have approved.'

'What were they?'

'Guns, that was the main one. And not just any
guns either. All sorts. Grenade launchers, AK-47s,
even anti-fucking-tank missiles. You see, Tony had
been a mercenary or something over there, and he
got us involved with the drug-smuggling routes
through Bosnia. It was his idea to do guns because
we had the route set up and the place was chock-a
block with firearms. Well, Stefan never liked that
idea, he didn't think we should be putting weapons
in the hands of people who could use them against
us, but Neil had contacts. Not just here but in
Ireland, and he reckoned he could make a serious
packet out of it, and there was no need to let the
boss know, so that's what we did.

'It worked pretty well, too - so well that Neil
began to get this idea that maybe things would be
better if he ran the organization rather than Stefan.
He used to say that Stefan was too traditional in the
way he did business, that he didn't think big
enough. A couple of years back he even got us to
plant a load of rifles on Tommy Holtz to get him
put away. I think Neil's idea was to start taking out
the Holtzes one by one. Anyway, things were going
nice, Tony's doing most of the work, I'm just checking
up on him now and again, and then suddenly I
get a call one morning last February from Tony saying
he's got a problem. A big problem. I get round
there and I can't fucking believe what I see. I still
can't fucking believe it. There's this kid, this Robert

408

Jones, and he's laid out on the floor with his paper
bag, and he's dead, and Tony's standing over him
with this geezer, Shaun Matthews, who used to
help him out sometimes, and they're saying what
the fuck are we going to do?'

He dragged hard on the cigarette, shaking his
head, reliving the scene. Tirst things first, I ask them
what the fuck's happened, and Tony says that they
was unloading some boxes in the front room full of
rifles they'd taken delivery of when they heard a
noise round the back. Tony goes out to take a look
what it is and catches this kid, who's been looking in
the window at what they've been doing. Fuck knows
what he was up to. Maybe he saw them taking stuff
out of the van and got suspicious, and just decided to
have a butcher's. It was a stupid thing to do,
whatever it was.

'So Tony nabs him and drags him inside, but now
they don't know what to do with him. They
know they can't let him go because he's bound to
tell someone, and then that someone'll tell you lot,
and you'll come sniffing round asking questions,
and even if they get rid of the stuff and it's their
word against the kid, Stefan'll probably find out,
and it'll look bad on them. As it happens, I think
they just panicked a bit as well, and Matthews, he
admitted it was him, took a knife to the kid and
killed him. Then they're wondering what to do
with the body so they call me. Can I have another
fag, please?'

Knox pushed the pack over to him and we
watched as he pulled one out with shaking hands,
put it to his lips, and lit it. Jackie Slap Merriweather,

409

for all his initial bravado, was carrying a lot of guilt
about with him, and had been for six months.

He exhaled loudly. 'So I tells them to get some
gloves, not to touch the body unless they're wearing
them, and to make it look like a nonce has done
it, then get rid of the thing.'

'Did you help in that process?'

He shook his head. 'No. That kid was only a
couple of years older than my oldest. I wasn't going
to do nothing. It was their problem, not mine. So I
left them to it, but not before I'd told them to keep
their gobs shut. I didn't want Neil finding out about
it.'

'So where's Tony Franks now?' asked Knox.

'Dead,' answered Merriweather.

'What happened?'

'It's a long story and, I have to tell you, it's one I
can't hardly believe myself.'

'We're in no hurry, Jack. I think you may as well
start talking.'

He exhaled loudly again, then began. 'Well,
nothing happened for months. Obviously you lot
were looking for the boy's killers but I was pretty
sure we -1 mean they - were in the clear because it
looked like you was searching for a nonce, and I
think they'd covered their tracks well enough.
Then, a couple of weeks back, it all went wrong.
Someone offed Shaun Matthews.'

Knox looked surprised. 'What? You don't know
who?'

Merriweather shook his head. 'No. It was no-one
from the organization.'

Knox and I looked at each other quizzically. This

410

was an interesting development, and something
we'd have to pick up on later.

'Anyway, as well as doing a bit of work with
Tony, Matthews also ran the door at this club
called Arcadia, as you probably know. Now, Neil
owns Arcadia even though his name's not on the
deeds, but a bloke called Roy Fowler's the one
who's actually been managing it for him. But
Fowler was skimming the club, taking money that
was meant for Neil, and Matthews was involved as
well. So, when Matthews gets topped, Fowler
panics, thinks we're on to him, which we were, and
thinks we're going to kill him, which we weren't.
Not as far as I knew anyway. The problem is,
though, Fowler's convinced he's a dead man, so he
f-akes evasive measures.'

'What sort of evasive measures?' I asked.
'Blackmail. You see, he's got something up his
sleeve he's been keeping as a bargaining chip for
just this sort of eventuality. In fact, he's got two
things. He's got a tape recording he made of a conversation
he had with Matthews, and in this
conversation Matthews, who as it happens was
pissed, is talking about the weapons scam and how
if s run by Vamen, and also what happened with
the kid. Just the sort of tape you don't want falling
into the hands of Stefan Holtz. But he's got something
worse as well. He's got the knife that killed
the kid.'

'How the hell did he get hold of that?' demanded
Knox.

'I honestly don't know. Maybe Matthews
panicked when they got rid of the body, kept it for

411

a while, then gave it to Fowler to get rid of.' He
shrugged. 1 couldn't tell you. But, either way, Fowler
decided to hang on to it, just in case it ever proved
useful, and so, when Matthews died and he
suddenly thought he was next, he sent a message to
Neil saying that he had this incriminating stuff and
that if we tried to do anything to him he'd make
sure Stefan and the Old Bill got to hear about it. He
also said he wanted a hundred grand so that he
could get out of the country, and if Neil gave him
that, then he'd hand over the knife and the tape.

'So Neil, who's none too pleased to find out
about the dead kid, arranges to meet up with
Fowler to do the exchange. At the same time, he
finds out from Elaine Toms, who's like his eyes and
ears in Arcadia, that Fowler's going to be getting
his security from Tiger Solutions. Well, Tiger's run
by a bloke called Joe Riggs, who's a bit of an
associate of Neil's, nothing major, but he's had
some involvement in the weapons side through
Tony. So we set it up that Tony would be on the
team taking Fowler to the meet. He'd deal with
Fowler, and anyone else who got in the way, and
take back the evidence. End of story, end of
problem.

'Except it didn't work out like that. Joe's been
rumbling on about his partner, Iversson - the naked
bloke you nicked - for a long time, and even thinks
that Iversson might have offed his missus - that's
Joe's missus - years back. So, when it's all set up,
Joe makes sure that Iversson's one of the ones
escorting Fowler, because he wants Tony to take
him out as well. Only problem is, Iversson was a bit

412

tastier than Tony was prepared for, and Tony was
the one who got shot.'

'So Iversson didn't have anything to do with the
murder of Fowler?'

He looked at me. 'No. He didn't have a clue what
was going on. The thing was, though, he was now
a fucking complication. He knew what had
happened, plus you lot were after him, so things
could have got very dodgy if he'd been picked up.

'We were still thinking what to do about him
when he turns up at the Arcadia and ends up in the
sack with Elaine Toms, who, as it happens, is one of
Neil's exes and a girl he's got a real soft spot for.
They were going to have Iversson killed round her
Hat, which was where he was staying after you lot
started looking for him, but then Neil has a bit of an
idea. A better way of dealing with him. Like I said
earlier, Neil's been looking to move in on Stefan for
a while, but it was never going to be easy because
Stefan didn't move from that fucking house of his,
and he's guarded to the hilt. Plus, Neil doesn't want
to be seen to do anything that'll make him look disloyal.
Far better to get someone else to do it. So he
gets Elaine to push Iversson into kidnapping Krys
because he knows that's the only way he's going to
get Stefan out into the open. Joe helps her set everything
up, Krys gets lifted, and when Stefan turns up
at the rendezvous with the ransom money, he gets
popped by our people. And the beauty of it is that
no-one suspects Neil at all.'

'What happened at the farmhouse?' asked Knox.
'We found Riggs's body there, as well as a number
of others, including Krys Holtz's.'

413

Merriweather sighed. 'That was Riggs's fault. He
was meant to sort out Krys and Iversson and leave
their bodies there so that Iversson would get the
blame for everything, but that fucker's got a real
knack for staying alive, and it was Riggs who got
killed. When Riggs didn't show up to say that it
had all been sorted, we had to take our own evasive
action. We thought Iversson would head for
Elaine's so I went round there, just in case she
couldn't handle things, and that's where you found
me. She tried to kill him, he attacked her, and I just
got in the way.'

'What about Shaun Matthews?' I asked. 'Who
killed him if it was no-one from your own
organization?'

'Christ knows/ said Merriweather. 'Who the fuck
poisons anyone anyway? It's a recipe for getting
caught these days, what with all them technological
advantages you lot have got.'

'Our information strongly suggests that
Matthews's girlfriend of a number of months was also a mistress of Neil Vamen.'

'Who's that, then?'

'Her name's Jean Tanner.'

For the first time in the interview, Merriweather
laughed, although there wasn't much humour in it.
'Oh yeah, you were on about her in the Seven Bells
the other week, weren't you? Nah, I wouldn't put it
quite like that. They went out for a little while - old
Neil likes to have a few girlfriends - but it was all
over way back.'

'When?'

He shrugged. 'I dunno, four, five months ago?

414

But she was a right weirdo. Used to work in
Heavenly Girls, but even the punters stayed a bit
clear of her. She was nice looking, and all right
when you first met her, but, I dunno, it's difficult to
put your finger on, but something about her wasn't
quite right, know what I mean? I know old Neil
was glad to get rid of her. As it happens, I think
she was the first girl he'd ever been with who
ictually scared him - not that he'd ever admit it, of
course.'

'So, what about Craig McBride?' I asked.

'Craigy? They said he died of a smack overdose,
didn't they? Not that I ever saw him take any.
Always thought he was more of a coke man myself.
He died round her place, didn't he?'

That's right.'

'Well, it wouldn't surprise me if she'd helped him
along.'

'Why would she do that?'

'I dunno, maybe he was annoying her or something.
The thing is with her, she was the sort
you could imagine doing something like that,
do you know what I mean? She was dodgy.'

'And it takes one to know one, eh, Jack?' said
Knox.

'Whatever.'

We all sat in silence for a while while
Merriweather sucked up what was left of his latest
cigarette.

'So, do you think she could have killed
Matthews, too?' asked Knox eventually.

He shrugged again. 'Fuck knows. That's for you
to find out, isn't it?'

415

Monday, eight days later

Gallan

But we never did find out who poisoned Shaun
Matthews.

Five days on, and after much internal discussion,
the likeliest scenario suggested that, for whatever I reason, Jean Tanner had been the one. The theory, t
agreed by all the original investigating team, but
with absolutely no evidence whatsoever to back it
up, was that there had been some sort of relation- :'
ship between Tanner and Matthews, but it had |
ended before his death and, for whatever reason, 4
there'd been bad blood between the two of them.
Being a girl who liked to throw her favours around,
she was also seeing Craig McBride, and had got
him to supply her with the poison to get rid of her
ex-boyfriend. McBride was the only person we
could think of who might have had the means to
obtain it, almost certainly when he'd been out in
Bosnia. He was also stupid enough to think that he
could get away with it by making Matthews's
death look like an accident. Jean had undoubtedly

416

thought the same way, and had administered the
fatal dose to her unsuspecting ex.

Then, a few days later, we'd paid a visit to
McBride and he'd panicked, thinking we were
getting too close. He'd gone round to talk to Jean,
they'd had an argument, and at that point she'd
decided that he was now a liability. Maybe he'd
been suggesting she come clean and tell the police,
or something like that.

Jean had acted decisively. Somehow, she'd
managed to obtain and inject him with a huge
quantity of heroin and, unable to get rid of the
body, had left to plan her next move, before finally
deciding that it was probably best to return and
make out that the whole thing had been an accident.
Bur ley, then, had probably not been as corrupt as I'd
first thought and, rather than trying to protect her
as a favour to Vamen, he was simply being too lazy
to do his job properly, and his obnoxiousness was
natural rather than artificially created. Fair enough.
Hopefully some day, someone in charge would
notice it, and he'd suffer as a result.

We'd brought Jean Tanner in for questioning and
Berrin and I had kept her in for twenty-four hours
while we'd interrogated her. She might have been a
weirdo (although I have to say I found her to be
pretty level-headed) but she was no fool and,
knowing that the police had nothing on her bar
theories, had denied everything. She didn't know
who'd killed Shaun, she hoped they caught whoever
it was, and, as for Craig McBride, that had
been a tragic accident that had taught her the
dangers of drugs. When I'd pointed out that

417

McBride had had a phobia about needles, her jaw
had dropped, her eyes had widened, and she'd
simply said, 'Really? How odd.' In the end, we'd
had to let her go. Benin had been pissed off, and
was particularly concerned that a woman who
might well have committed two murders in the
space of a couple of weeks was walking the streets
unmolested.

'Let me tell you something,' I'd told him. 'Crime
can sometimes be a good short-term career move,
sometimes it can even be quite a good medium
term one, but I promise you this, it's never a good
long-term one. They all get caught in the end. If she
is a psycho and she really did kill those two blokes,
then somewhere down the line, she'll try it again, and
she'll come unstuck. In the meantime, just make sure
you don't ever go out with her.'

'Do you think she did it?' Benin had asked.

'Thinking it and proving it are two very different
things. If I can't prove it, then I prefer not to make
a judgement. Probably is all I'd say. Probably.'

It was a sunny morning in early September and I
was walking down Cleveland Street towards the
Middlesex Hospital. My mobile rang. It was Malik.

'John, how are you?' His tone was cheery, which
wasn't really a surprise. The object of his last year
and-a-half's work, the Holtz family and their
immense criminal enterprise, was finally unravelling.
Some might even say it had something to do with
my perseverance.

'I'm well, Asif. You?'

'Very good. Look, the reason for my call, it's a

418

thanks, really, for all the work you've done, and to
let you know that this morning we arrested Vamen
and six of his associates on a whole variety
of charges relating to their activities. And
Merriweather's continuing to sing like the
proverbial canary.'

'I'm glad he's proving useful. It's a pity he's got
to get immunity, though.'

'Well, he's not going to get full immunity. There
are a couple of charges he's going to be facing, and
he might get a nominal spell inside.'

'Not nearly as much as he deserves, though.'
'You know the score, John. Sometimes you've got
to swallow your principles when you're dealing
with people like that. Whatever happens, he's a
marked man for the rest of his life. I'd rather not be
in his boots.'

'Any sign of the bodies? Franks and the others?'
'We're still searching that maggot farm but I'm
not optimistic. The maggots will have eaten all the
flesh and apparently the bones were ground down
afterwards. It seems they've done it with a few
people.'

'I bet they have. What about the knife in the
Robert Jones murder?' Merriweather had told us
that Joe Riggs had been at the Fowler murder
scene that night, and had retrieved the knife and
the tape from Fowler's briefcase while the nightclub
owner was being murdered. He had then
weighed down the objects in a strongbox, and
chucked them in the Thames.

'Nothing yet, but we're still looking.'

The think that's my only regret in all this,' I said,

419

f I
'that we didn't get a chance to bring either Franks *

or Matthews to trial for the killing.'

'In a way it's better this way, isn't it? There
wasn't a huge amount of evidence against them.
They could easily have got off, and then the family
would have been devastated. At least now they
know that the people who took their son away have
paid a pretty heavy price.'

I wasn't so sure. All we had was Merriweather's
word for that. Maybe he'd been more heavily
involved than he'd let on, which would have
explained why he'd co-operated so quickly when it J
had become obvious to him that the police were on |
the scent. If so, he was going to get off scotfree. f

Malik asked me if I'd kept the family informed of
what had been going on. 'I have as much as
possible. I think they realize now that no-one's ever
going to go to prison for the murder but, like you
say, maybe it's better this way.' Not that I really
believed it.

'I'm going to have to buy you lunch sometime
soon,' said Malik. 'When things have settled a bit.
I'll give you a call, OK?'

'Sure,' I said, doubting if I'd be eating a slap-up
meal on SO7 for a while yet. That'd be nice.'

We said our goodbyes, and I walked into the
hospital entrance.

Iversson

I was sitting up in bed in my hospital room and
thinking about how I was going to get out of this

420

situation. It didn't look good. They had two armed
coppers guarding me in shifts round the clock. I
was obviously a real VIP. Very Important Prisoner,
that is. One thing was for sure, I wasn't going to be
fighting my way out. Not only was I absolutely
fucking exhausted, I also had a minor blood infection,
and the wound in my shoulder was making
the use of my right arm next to impossible. I was
just going to have to front it and hope for the best.
I'd thrown the Clock into a wheelie bin in
Clerkenwell while I was on the way back to Elaine's
apartment on that final, fateful day when the bitch
had finally showed her true colours, so at least
there was no way that could be used against me.
Most of my co-conspirators were dead, and if
L,laine and whoever the gunman with her was
didn't break (and I had no reason to think they
would), I might just be able to scrape through
unscathed. I'd been taught anti-interrogation techniques
back in my army days so I was reasonably
confident I could hold my own, even in my
weakened state. As the days had passed and
my wounds had slowly healed, so my pecker battered
so badly (quite literally) by my experience
with Elaine, and Joe's betrayal - was finally going
back up again. I will tell you something about me: I
am nothing if not resilient.

I'd almost escaped, too, even after all the shit
those bastards had put me through. While Gallan
had been occupied by Elaine and the bloke with
her, I'd grabbed the holdall with the money, opened
up the window, and chucked it onto the roof of
a parked Audi before jumping out myself and

421

landing arse-first on the holdall and the roof.
Unfortunately, in my haste, and due to my somewhat
disorientated state, I'd neglected to put any
clothes on and, though I'd made a manful bid for
freedom, limping naked along the street with near
enough half a million quid on my back, I was
always going to look a little bit too conspicuous to
be able to melt, commando-like, into my surroundings.
I did manage about two hundred yards,
though, with half a dozen coppers chasing me
Benny Hill-style on foot, before a vicar, of all rucking
people, who was cycling to his morning church
service, had leapt from his environmentally
friendly transport and rugby-tackled me from
behind. That was it, then. I'd had enough. With
even men of the cloth against me, I knew it was the
end of the road.

But since then I've perked up. You know what
they say: it ain't over till it's over. Believe it.

I leant over and picked up the book I was reading: How to Get Ahead in Business. You see, I was
thinking of opening my own survival school, and
after all that had happened there weren't going to
be many people better placed to teach survival than
me. It was going to have to be from scratch, of
course, now that the ransom money from the Holtz
job had been lifted by the forces of law and order,
but I knew it could be done.

There was a knock on the door and I looked up.
It was Gallan again, looking quite spruced up by
his standards, a smile on his face.

I tell you, I didn't trust that bastard one inch.

422

Gallan

'Hello, Max/ I said, entering the room. I stopped at
the end of the bed. 'The doctors say you're healing
fast. Should be out of here in a few days.'

'That's right, and when I do, I don't want you lot
on my back. I've co-operated as much as possible
and I'm not saying anything else, apart from I don't
know what the fuck you're talking about with all
this kidnapping and killing lark. Is that clear?'

I smiled, used to Iversson's clumsy attempts at
putting me in my place. 'Clear as a bell.'

'Because I've got bigger fish to fry now/ He
showed me the book he was reading. How to Get
Ahead in Business. Somehow I didn't think Richard
Branson would be quaking in his boots. 'I've
always been legit, and that's how I intend to stay.
I've held up my hands to that assault on those
coppers who stopped me, but I was under duress at
the time. So, I'm hoping to get bail, and to start
again.'

'I don't think that's going to happen, Max.'

Iversson's expression hardened. It wasn't a
pretty sight. 'Why the fuck not? I haven't done anything.
If it's about that money, I had nothing--'

I held up my hand to quieten him. 'It's nothing to
do with the money you were carrying.' Looking
surprised, he stopped speaking. 'Max Iversson, I'm
here to inform you that you are under arrest at the
request of the German federal authorities who wish
to question you with regard to the murder on the
twenty-sixth of February 1993 of Elsa Kirsten
Danziger.'

423

Iversson looked at me in utter disbelief, then
seemed to slump in the bed. 'I don't believe this.
You'll be blaming me for John F. fucking Kennedy
next.'

He really looked put out, and I might even have
been tempted to believe him if I hadn't already
heard that the sample of DNA taken from him in
the hospital a week earlier had been confirmed as
matching that of the killer. He was one of the better
liars I'd come across.

I turned slowly and walked away, thinking it was
ironic that we would probably never solve the
Matthews case, yet its investigation had almost
single-handedly provided the clues that had
successfully concluded so many others. As I
thought about Neil Vamen languishing in a cell of
his own design, it also proved my point that crime
might have been a viable short-term business
opportunity, but as a long-term career it was always
the wrong move. And as the technological aids
open to the police become more and more
advanced, so even the crimes of the short-timers
will come back to haunt them. Be sure your
past will always find you out, as a preacher might
say.

When I got back to the station, I went straight to
the Matthews incident room, now the incident
room for the investigation into the attempted
murder of eighteen-year-old Barry Sevringham,
knifed in the neck the previous night in a pub fight
in King's Cross. The world was already moving on,
as were the criminals, never ones to sit around.
Berrin was in there, as was WDC Boyd. Everyone

424

else, I assumed, was out talking to witnesses and
possible suspects. They both smiled at me as I
walked in, and I thought that Boyd was looking
good. She had red lipstick on, and it suited her. I
hadn't seen much of her these past couple of weeks
and it struck me then that I'd missed her company.
Maybe I'd see a bit more of her now we were working
on the same case. I hoped so.

'The DCI'd like to see you/ said Berrin, motioning
towards the office he'd been using for the
Matthews inquiry.

'Do you know what it's about?'

They both said they didn't, but I thought I saw
the traces of a smile on Boyd's red lips. I knocked
on the door and went in.

'John/ said Knox, who was sitting behind the
desk, 'come in and sit down.'

I did as I was told. 'What can I do for you, sir?' I
asked.

'Your work's been excellent these past few weeks/
he answered, and waited briefly for the obligatory
thanks, which he got, before continuing. 'Thanks in
no small part to your efforts, and your persistence
in the Matthews inquiry, it looks like we've got a
number of results. The north London underworld's
in a lot of trouble as a result of the dismantling of
the Holtzes, and it's particularly good to be able to
close the file on the Robert Jones case, and to give
his family some sort of opportunity to move on.
I've recommended to the superintendent that you
be commended for your work on the Jones case,
and I've also got a letter here from SO7 stating how
much help your work's been.'

425

'Thank you, sir. It's always nice to be
appreciated.'

'But that's not what I asked you in here for.'

'Oh?'

'I want you to know that I've also recommended
that you be considered for a DI post here at the
station, and that the recommendation's been
accepted.'

I allowed myself a smile. That's excellent, sir.
Thanks very much. I wasn't aware there was
actually a vacancy.'

'Well, an unexpected one's come up on this
team,' said Knox. 'DI Capper's asked for a transfer,
and he's moving on to another station.'

'Really? I thought he was very happy here.'

Knox didn't say anything for a moment, clearly
debating with himself how much it was worth
letting on. 'Suffice to say some information came in
from an anonymous source that didn't cast him in a
very positive light, and it seems that a number of
officers in the station are aware of it. He didn't
think his position here was tenable and he's
moving to another division next week. He's also
dropping back down to DS level.'

So, there was justice in this world, and, more
importantly, in the Metropolitan Police.

'Between you and me,' he added in a loud
whisper, 'it turns out he was something of a regular
visitor to Heavenly Girls, which put him in a bit of a
compromising position, and we can't afford that.
Better to get him out of the way rather than have the
embarrassment of him remaining here with everyone
knowing about it.'

426

Somehow I managed to keep the smile off my
face. 'It's bad news losing such an experienced
officer/ I said worthily, remembering that it's
always best to play the game.

I wondered who it was who'd dobbed him in. It
was either Jean Tanner or Benin. Jean had told the
two of us when the tape had been off that he'd been
a long-standing and not particularly well-liked
customer at Heavenly Girls (apparently he had a lot
of difficulty getting it up, an unfortunate affliction
for which he tended to blame the girls). I suspected
that it might have been Benin. Just a hunch, but it
made sense. Jean was too much of a cold-blooded
pro. Me, I would have kept the information to
myself. You never know when it might have come
m useful.

So, you'll take up the post, then?'

Wild horses wouldn't have stopped me. 'Of
course I will, sir. When's it effective from?'

Knox smiled. 'Now,' he said. 'You're in charge of
the Barry Sevringham case. Here's what we've got
so far.'

Iversson

I never meant to kill her, thaf s all I can say. I'm
going to be pleading not guilty by reason of
temporary insanity, or whatever the defence is
these days. There was no way I was in the right
frame of mind when I bashed her head in that
night. I'd been driven mad by her constant
shagging of other men, and women, plus the fact

427

1

i

that she didn't care one fucking whit that I knew S
about it. And that Johnny Hexham reckoned he had 1
girlfriend problems! He should have hung round
with Elsa for a few days. She went through bodies
like an overworked mortician. In the end, it just got
too much, I snapped, and the rest is history. It was
bad what I did, and I feel terrible about it, but I'm
not the only villain in all this. She brought a lot of it
on herself. And that Fenzer did smack her around a
bit earlier on that night, I saw him do it. I heard that
he often hit women, so he got what he deserved as
well, didn't he?

Anyway, who the fuck ever said life was fair?
Not Max Iversson, that's for sure. Never has been,
never will be.

428

Epilogue

Max Iversson was charged with the kidnapping of
Krys Holtz, and is currently in custody awaiting
aial. He has also been charged in absentia with
the murder of Elsa Danziger, and is the subject of
extradition proceedings being brought by the
German government.

Neil Vamen was charged with murder, extortion
and importation of Class A drugs, and is currently
awaiting trial. None of the charges relate to the
events covered here.

Jack Merriweather is being held in a segregation
unit at Belmarsh Prison, London, where he too
faces charges relating to the importation of Class A
drugs. He is to be the prosecution's main witness in
the trial of Neil Vamen and six of his associates.

Elaine Toms was charged with the attempted
murder of Max Iversson but was granted bail and
promptly absconded. She is currently at large.

Jean Tanner has a new boyfriend and as yet faces
no charges in connection with either the murder of

429

Shaun Matthews or Craig McBride. Police are keeping
a close eye on the boyfriend's health.

Asif Malik remains at SO7, where he's concentrating
his investigation on several north
London crime families who have had something of
a bonanza since the collapse of the Holtzes.

And me, well, I'm a DI again, and at least
halfway back to the position I was in a year ago.

You see, there is justice in this world. It's just that
sometimes it can take a long time to show itself.

THE END

Acknowledgements

Briefly, I'd like to thank the following people for
their help in getting this book to where it is now:
c;plina Walker, my editor at Transworld; Amanda
* res ton, Amelia Cummins, Vanessa Forbes, Luigi
Bonomi, and everyone at my agent's, Sheil Land
Associates; all those at New Scotland Yard Press
Office who've provided invaluable technical
assistance with their customary efficiency and
courtesy; and last but most definitely not least, my
long-suffering wife, Sally, who's always been there
to provide encouragement and support. As well as
the occasional much-deserved kick up the arse.
I raise my glass to you all.

Simon Kernick's new novel

THE CRIME TRADE

Is now available from Bantam Press
Here's a taster

'Where's the money?'

'Where's the gear?'

'Gear?'

Stegs kept his expression neutral. The dope. The drugs.
The stuff we're buying.'

The Colombian allowed himself a tiny smirk. It reminded
Stegs of the expression Barry Growler, a notorious bully at
his old school, used to pull before inflicting one of his famous
punishments. 'It's close to here,' he said.

'So's the money.'

'OK. That's good.'

'I'm going to need to see the gear first, before I hand over
any cash. I'll have to test it, see that the quality's right.'

'You don't trust me?' asked the Colombian, his hands
raised in a gesture of jovial innocence. The smirk grew wider.

Stegs didn't like the look of it at all, but that was the thing
in their game. You couldn't trust anyone, and not only that,

you could never tell how they were going to behave either.
This was his first time dealing with Colombians and he
couldn't help thinking about the scene in that old Al Pacino
film, Scarface, when Al and his mate, Angel, go to a Miami
hotel to buy some coke from a group of Colombians, only
for the sellers suddenly to pull guns on them and use a chainsaw
on Angel's head in a (surprisingly futile) bid to get
Scarface to reveal the whereabouts of the money. No, Stegs
was not enjoying this meeting one little bit.

Neither was his colleague. Paul 'Yokes' Vokerman. Yokes
was sitting in a chair next to Stegs, across the table from the
Colombian, Fellano, and he was fidgeting big-time, like he
had crabs.

Fellano, on the other hand, was oozing confidence, but
then he also had three bodyguards scattered about the hotel
room, and Stegs would have bet a grand no problem that
they were all packing firearms. Under those circumstances,
he had pretty good reason to be confident.

Now it was Stegs's turn to smile. 'It's not like that, Mr
Fellano.'

'Jose, please.'

'Jose.' Jose. Typical. It had to be fucking Jose. 'It's not
like that, but you have to understand my position. I have to
satisfy myself, and my partners, that the goods are genuine.
We've only done business once before, on a much smaller
scale, and I don't want there to be any complications or misunderstandings
this early in the relationship.'

'Of course. You are right. We don't want any ...
misunderstandings.'

Stegs didn't like the way Fellano emphasized the word
'misunderstandings'. In fact there wasn't anything he liked
about him, and he knew Yokes felt the same way. Fellano
was about forty-five, possibly a couple of years older, and
well built with a large, square-shaped head and features that
were berry dark and more South American Indian than hispanic.
He was dressed very smartly, but without ostentation,
and he had an amiable air about him which Stegs had seen

on serious criminals plenty of times before, and which he
knew would disappear faster than a bun at a weightwatchers'
convention the moment you got on the wrong side of him.
Stegs was keen for that not to happen.

He pulled a weighing machine out of the bag and put it
on the desk, hoping that it would act as a hint, which it did.
Fellano turned in his chair and nodded to one of the bodyguards,
who was leaning against the opposite wall, next to
the kingsize bed with the silk sheets. The bodyguard left his
post and walked into an adjoining room, emerging a few
moments later with a briefcase. He brought the briefcase over
to the table and handed it to Fellano. There was a moment's
pause while Fellano fiddled with the locks, then the briefcase
flicked open. He put it on the table with the open part
facing Stegs. There was a single kilo bag of coke in there.

Stegs stared at Fellano. 'Our deal was for twenty kilos, not
tor one. I was under the impression you were a major player.'

'Come on, Steve, we're wasting our time here,' said Yokes,
using the codename for Stegs he always liked to stick to.

Fellano didn't even look at him. Instead, he addressed
Stegs. 'You talk about trust, Steve, and I understand that,
but tell me this. How can I trust you? You could be anyone.
You could be a police officer for all I know.'

'I think my colleague might be right, Mr Fellano. Maybe
we are wasting our time here. I thought I'd provided you
with all the credentials you needed, plus twenty grand of our
money for that first kilo. If you still don't think I'm kosher
after all that, then there's nothing I can do about it.' Now it
was Steg's turn to start getting up. 'Maybe you ought to look
for another buyer.'

'I have the rest of the consignment nearby, but I now wish
to see the money.'

'OK, but I want to see the rest of the gear at the same
time.'

Fellano nodded. 'Sure, I understand that.'

'The money's not here, but it's also nearby. I'll show you
it, Mr Fellano, and one of your men, but I'm not going

outside with all of you. It's too risky. We'll arouse suspicion.'

'Then your partner will need to stay here.'

Yokes looked at Stegs, his expression one of concern. 'I
told you this was a waste of time, Steve. We don't need to
deal with people like this.' He stepped away from the table.

Stegs put his hand up. 'Hold on, Paulie. Wait a minute.'

'What's the point? We're just getting taken round the
houses here.'

'Because I didn't drive all the way over here for nothing,
that's why.' He turned to the Colombian. 'All right, Mr
Fellano, here's what I suggest. My man stays here with two
of yours, then you, me and your other guy take a walk down
to wherever you've got the stuff. You show it to me, and
after that, if you want, I'll take you to the money. Then we
return here and make the transaction. How does that sound?'

Yokes wanted to say something, but Stegs gave him a look
that said 'Come on. don't blow this!' and Yokes appeared to
relent, although he didn't look too happy about it. But that
was the thing about the drugs business, particularly the high
end. The complete lack of trust meant that even a routine
retail transaction required a half-hour debate and more than
a couple of heart-stopping risks.

Fellano thought about it for a moment. 'OK,' he said,
nodding slowly. 'That sounds fair.'

Stegs turned to his mate, who'd now sat down again. 'Are
you all right with staying here for a few moments, Paulie?'

'No, not really. Maybe you should stay here.'

'We've decided,' said Fellano with some finality. 'You stay
here.'

Stegs patted Yokes on the shoulder. Till only be gone a
few moments and I don't think Mr Fellano here is reckless
enough to cause any problems in a hotel room with thin
walls in the middle of Heathrow. Am I right, Mr Fellano?'

'I want this deal done as much as you do, Steve, even if
your friend is not so keen.'

'He's just cautious, that's all.'

'A man can get overcautious.'

'Not in this game,' said Stegs, with a cold smile. 'So whereabouts
nearby is the other nineteen kilos you promised?'

'In the trunk of a hire car in the parking lot.'

Stegs nodded. It wasn't an ideal location, but it was wet
and windy outside, so they probably weren't going to get too
much attention. 'Shall we go, then?'

'Are you sure about this, Steve?' asked Yokes.

'I'll be ten minutes. No more. Then we do the deal and we
walk.'

Fellano stood up and motioned for one of the bodyguards
- a wiry little guy with a droopy moustache and seventies
hair - to come with him. He then said something in Spanish
to the other two. Yokes looked nervous, and Stegs felt a pang
of guilt, having given him the worst job. The job of hostage.
But he couldn't see any other way.

'Let's go,' said the Colombian, and he and Moustache
walked to the door.

Tell him to get his fucking shades off,' Stegs said to
Fellano. 'He'll stick out a mile in them on a wet March day
at Heathrow airport.'

Fellano gabbled something else in Spanish, and
Moustache took them off, giving Stegs a dirty look as he did
so. Stegs ignored him. 'I'll be back in a mo, Paulie, all right?
Just stay here and keep these two company.'

Yokes looked at the two silent Colombians watching him
from the far wall, then back at his partner. 'Don't be long,'
he said.

Ten minutes,' Stegs answered. Ten minutes max.'

No-one spoke in the lift down to the ground floor, and when
the doors opened, Stegs hung back while the two Colombians
walked through the busy reception area and out of the
rear doors that led directly into the hotel's car park. After
spending a few seconds perusing a selection of the day's
newspapers and magazines that were laid out on a low
mahogany table, he walked casually in the direction they'd
taken.

It was raining steadily outside and the cloud cover was so
grey and thick that the day was almost dark. Only a handful
of people were scattered about, and they were mainly
businessmen, hurrying along under umbrellas, so immersed
in their working lives that not one of them even glanced up
as he passed.

He walked between the rows of parked cars and made his
way towards the back of the car park, keeping ten or twelve
yards behind the Colombians, watching for anyone who
looked out of place. A middle-aged man in jeans and a
Barbour jacket getting out of his car caught his eye, but the
man looked away without interest, and the moment passed.

When the two Colombians got to the last row of cars,
parked against a high brick wall that marked the car park's
boundary some fifty yards from the hotel, Fellano looked left
and right as nonchalantly as possible, then back at Stegs.
Stegs smiled like he knew them both, then quickened his pace
and caught up, walking between the two of them without
speaking as they approached a new metallic-blue BMW 7
Series. A typical high-end dealer's car. It made Stegs wonder
whether BMW approved of the fact that so many of its customers
were involved in the illicit drugs trade. Perhaps one
day they'd end up sponsoring crack dens.

Fellano stopped three feet from the back of the car and
deactivated the alarm.

Upstairs in the hotel room, Yokes Vokerman paced nervously,
trying to ignore the two other men in the room as they
watched him boredly; one by the door, the other against the
opposite wall. Yokes had expected there to be the usual
to-ing and fro-ing, as there always was on a big deal like this
one, but he hadn't wanted to be the one left up here with the
Colombians while Stegs went walkabout. It had happened
before of course, them being split up on an op. More than
once, since nobody ever took you at your word in the drugs
game; except this time, it shouldn't have happened. They'd
been told by the handlers to bring the money into the room

with them, but instead had opted to keep it back, thinking it
would show they were serious buyers (i.e. distrustful) if they
turned up without it. Which was now looking more and more
like a mistake. This meeting had been in the making for
weeks, months even. The Colombians had their credentials,
knew their backgrounds - their pedigree in the importation
game - and there'd already been a test purchase of a kilo, for
which they'd handed over twenty grand. And still they
didn't seem satisfied.

Since he and Stegs had arrived more than an hour ago,
they'd been thoroughly searched, before undergoing a long
and repetitive sequence of questions from Fellano about
deals they'd done, people they were meant to know, etc. The
Colombian had been trying to read them, to probe for weakness,
not so much in their accounts of themselves, but in their
characters, and Yokes was beginning to convince himself that
the reason for this was that he was on to them. Knew who
they were and was working out what to do about it. Fellano
was a ruthless man. He had a reasonably good reputation in
the marketplace (as much as anyone who sells hard drugs has
a reasonably good reputation), but cross him - give him any
reason to doubt you - and you could expect no mercy. Vokes
had heard a rumour once that Fellano had personally cut the
tongue out of a police informant's mouth back in Cali, and
had replaced it with the man's penis. It wasn't a thought he
wanted to dwell on.

He kept pacing, telling himself that it was he who was
getting too paranoid. What possible reason was there to suspect
the two of them? As always, they'd played everything
just right, their stories standing up even to the closest
scrutiny, their demeanour that of men not to be trifled with.
And with back-up just round the corner, ready to move in if
anything looked like it was going to go wrong. But even
bearing all this in mind, Vokes didn't like the fact that he was
split up from his partner and stuck in a hotel room with two
armed men who insisted on wearing sunglasses on a wet
English afternoon.

The phone on the bedside table rang, shattering the heavy
silence.

Yokes stopped. Dead.

Slowly, he turned and stared at it. So did the two
Colombians. It rang again, a long, shrill tone that seemed far
too loud for the room. Who the hell was this meant to be?

An urgent message in his head said: Run! Get out of there!
In fact, it didn't just say it, it screamed it. RUN! GRAB
THE DOOR HANDLE, TURN IT, AND GET YOUR
ARSE OUT OF THERE!

He glanced at the two Colombians, who were looking at
each other, their expressions puzzled. The phone rang a third
time.

One of them strode over and picked up the receiver. At
the same time, the second Colombian, perhaps reading their
hostage's thoughts, produced a silver Walther PPK from
inside his suit. He pointed it at Yokes and motioned him to
get on the bed. 'Now, now,' he demanded impatiently.

Yokes looked over at the other Colombian, the one on the
phone. He hadn't said anything since he'd picked it up but
was listening to someone on the other end, at the same time
staring hard at Yokes. He too removed a gun from his pocket
- a Glock, Yokes reckoned. It didn't seem like he was pleased
by whatever it was he was hearing.

Yokes thought of his two young children and realized then
that he was too old for this game; that this was the last time
he'd ever go undercover; that no more would he attend clandestine
meetings in bleak hotel rooms with men who'd kill
him without a second's thought because that was what life
was worth where they came from - nothing. He realized too
that he was beginning to panic for the first time ever on an
op, an unfamiliar feeling of dread spreading through him like
a poison, and that was another reason why Stegs should have
been up here in this room instead of him, because he was
always able to handle the pressure.

'Get on the bed, now.'

The words came from the one holding the phone, except

now he wasn't holding it, he'd replaced it in its cradle, and
his expression behind the glasses was angry. He walked over,
gun waving, and grabbed Yokes by the arm, pushing him
towards the bed. Yokes tried to sit on it, but was roughly
pushed face down. He could feel the barrel of the Glock
against the back of his head.

'Stay there, do not move,' said the gunman, before adding
something to his colleague in Spanish.

Yokes was shaking, shaking with absolute fear, and he
could feel the sweat from his forehead sliding onto the sheets.
He offered a silent prayer to the Lord, but it didn't make him
feel any better. He had never been so scared in his life
because he knew that this was the closest he had ever been
to death. And all the time he was wondering who the hell
had made that phone call, what they'd said and, most
importantly of all, when the cavalry were going to show
themselves.

The boot opened to reveal a leather briefcase similar to the

one Fellano had shown them upstairs. He and Stegs leant in,

trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, while Moustache

stood back. Fellano undipped the locks and opened the case.

A quick count revealed nineteen kilo bags of white powder

inside.

'Are you satisfied, my friend?' the Colombian asked with

a smile.

Till need to test it, a sample from each bag.'

'Of course, we will do that back in the room.'

Stegs nodded, standing back up as he shut the briefcase

and closed the boot. Till go and get the money and catch you

up,' he said. 'My car's just over there.'

Fellano raised an eyebrow to indicate that he wasn't sure

about this change of plan.

'We'll look too conspicuous going over and staring in the

boot of my car as well,' Stegs told him, 'and now I know

you've got the stuff, plus my colleague, I've got no incentive

not to bring it up to the room.'

Fellano still didn't appear convinced and gave him a hard
stare in an attempt to prise out any lies from behind his eyes,
but Stegs kept his business expression firmly on his face, and
eventually the Colombian relented. 'All right, but I want to
get this deal sorted out right now, so hurry up. I have a plane
to catch.'

Stegs felt like telling him that if he hadn't messed them
around so much earlier he'd have had a lot more time, but
instead he turned and walked away in the direction of the
parked Merc fifty yards further along the row of cars. When
he'd gone about twenty yards, he turned and saw Fellano
and Moustache walking back to the hotel, Fellano's ample
wedge of black hair flying comically about in the high wind.
He was talking on a mobile, and Stegs wondered who it was
he was speaking to, and what exactly he was saying.

He reached the Merc, flicked up the boot and removed the
holdall, putting it over one shoulder. Fellano and Moustache
had slowed nght up in the middle of the car park, waiting
for him. Reluctantly, he started after them, wondering just
how conspicuous they wanted to be, and why they didn't
want to wait five minutes in the warmth of the hotel room
for him to arrive, rather than hanging about in the rain.

When he was within about twenty yards of them, something
caught his eye. Three smartly dressed men - two black, one
white - in raincoats and flat caps were getting out of a car a
few yards behind the Colombians and to their right, and one
of them was watching them intently from behind a pair of
glasses that looked brand new and didn't seem to fit his face.

The man didn't look right, not at all. Neither did the other
two. They might have been dressed smartly but they weren't
like any normal businessmen Stegs had ever met. Who on
earth wears a baseball cap with a suit? Maybe the odd
fashion casualty, not three together. There was something
else too. They were hard bastards, you could see it immediately;
it's not a look a man can hide very easily. He also
noticed that the one with the glasses was holding something
under his coat.

Straight away he knew it was a gun, most likely a shotgun,
and straight away he knew that it was there to be
pointed at Fellano. Instinctively, he slowed down. At the
same time, Fellano turned in Stegs's direction, tapping his
watch in a gesture of impatience, and then suddenly a look
of shock crossed his face.

Stegs froze as he heard the sound of rapid footsteps
behind him, and the next second something hard and metallic
was being pressed into his back. 'Don't fucking move,'
hissed his assailant, ripping the holdall from his shoulders,
'or you're dead. I'll blow your fucking spine out. Got that?'

'It's all yours,' said Stegs calmly, making no move to
resist, too busy looking straight ahead of him at the scene
unravelling in what felt a lot like slow motion. Moustache
was reaching into his pocket for a gun while Fellano himself
simply stood there, mouth open, watching Stegs, still completely
unaware that the three men were making straight for
him and the briefcase, weapons now appearing from under
their coats. Stegs was right about the shotgun; it was a nastylooking
sawn-off pump-action, and it was pointing straight
at Fellano's back.

At that moment, Fellano must have heard them, or seen
something out of the corner of his eye, because he swung
round in their direction. Moustache turned as well, an Uzi
coming out from his jacket, and Stegs, still standing there as
his assailant secured the holdall, knew then that this was
going to get very very messy.

'Give us the fucking case!' screamed the man with the
shotgun, now only five yards from Fellano.

At the same time, Moustache aimed the Uzi at the three
robbers, pushing his boss out of the way and going for the
safety at the same time. Beyond the group, Stegs could see
those people in earshot turning round to see what on earth
was going on, utterly transfixed by the shock of the surreal
scene being played out in front of them. It was a first for
Stegs as well, and difficult for him to get his head round,
because even in his sort of game you didn't expect everyone

I

suddenly to go for the guns and start shooting. That sort of
thing belonged firmly in Hollywood films.

'Drop the fucking gun!' yelled the pistol-wielding white
robber as he caught sight of the Uzi for the first time, but it
was already too late.

Shotgun screwed his face into a snarl and, still coming at
his target, pulled the trigger.

And that was when all hell broke loose. Moustache flew
backwards, the force of the blast lifting him off his feet, while
his Uzi suddenly kicked into life, its thirty-two rounds discharging
at the sky in a shrill clatter as his grip on the handle
loosened. He hit the ground hard and the shotgun roared
again, the noise making Stegs's ears ring. This time, though,
it missed its target and blew a gaping hole in the tyre of a
people carrier opposite, immediately setting off the alarm.

Someone somewhere let out a scream. Someone somewhere
else shouted: 'Armed police, drop your weapons!'

The white robber had reached Fellano now and was
trying to wrestle the briefcase out of his hand, with the help
of one of his colleagues. Meanwhile Shotgun was waving his
weapon in the direction of the dozen or so men in casual
clothes - all wearing black caps - who were now appearing
from among the cars, guns drawn, closing in on the scene.

'Armed police! Drop your weapons!'

But you could see straight away that Shotgun was not
going to go quietly. This was a man who had never gone
quietly anywhere in his life. His face screaming defiance, he
pointed the weapon at a youngish guy in jeans and a leather
jacket who was just coming round the back of the people
carrier, an MP5 outstretched in both hands.

The cop made the decision no-one with a conscience ever
likes to make, and he made it quicker than his target. Two
bullets cracked out of the MP5, hitting Shotgun in the upper
body. Another cop also fired from behind a Nissan, the same
two-shot double tap, this time the rounds striking their
target in the face.

Shotgun whirled round, still holding the weapon, still

trying to fire, and then a third two-shot volley struck him in
the side of the head, the final bloody coup de grace. He died
immediately, staring in Stegs's direction, the shotgun slipping
out of his hands and discharging for a third time as it hit the
ground in a final gesture of defiant rage, the blast setting off
another car alarm.

No-one else decided to go out the hard way. Fellano's
hands shot skywards, and the other two robbers made the
same gesture, although far more slowly, the shock of their
predicament taking a little longer to register. At the same
time, two cops in caps came round from behind Stegs, and
he was pushed roughly to the ground. He just managed to
get a glance at the man who'd relieved him of his holdall getting
the same treatment five yards away before his face was
pushed into a puddle and the cuffs were unceremoniously
forced on his wrists.

The hotel room was on the fifth floor and the same side as
the car park, so even with the soundproofing the shots
and the general cacophony of the confrontation were clearly
audible.

Vokes heard his two guards talking rapidly to each other
in Spanish, and his fear grew even more intense. He was
shaking violently, the dread at what might happen to him
becoming almost unbearable. If I get out of this, then that's
it, he told himself. I'm retired. Not just undercover, but the
whole thing. They had a codeword if things went wrong but
he didn't want to draw attention to himself by using it, and
anyway, help should have been here by now. They were only
in the next room. What was keeping them? Hurry up! he
silently cursed. Get your arses moving! Let me get back to
my family. Please, Father. Please, Lord. Not for me, but for
them.

One of the Colombians had stopped at the end of the bed.
Vokes could sense it. Then he heard the door opening, the
sound of movement and shouting in the corridor outside, and
he was already thanking the good Lord for listening to his

prayers when the silencer spat and the bullet ripped through
the back of his head and into his brain.

Paul Vokennan's executioner was twenty-eightyear-old
Manuel Lopez, known as Manolo to his friends, a long-term
junior member of the Cali cartel and an ex-soldier in the
Colombian army, now resident in London. He was a killer
by trade and, as Yokes had suspected, thought no more
about ending a life than he did about taking a leak. It was,
after all, just business.

Manolo fired a second round into the back of Vokes's
head, just to make sure, then turned towards the open door
where his colleague, twenty-six-year-old Pedro Daroda, was
standing. He could hear the noise of footsteps coming from
outside, then the staccato bark of orders, and he realized
they'd been betrayed. Pedro stepped out into the hallway,
raised his gun, and then fell backwards as shots rang out.
Manolo ran over to the side of the bed furthest from the
door, then crouched down, gun pointed out into the hallway,
thinking that he was at least going to make it difficult for
them.

A black-clad figure half appeared round the door, gun
outstretched, and Manolo fired twice, both rounds hitting the
burgundy-coloured wall in the hallway as the cop stepped
back. A second later, a second cop appeared round the other
side of the door, and started firing. Manolo let off a shot but
was forced to turn away as the bullets passed over his head,
the noise of them bursting in his ears. Suddenly there was a
much louder bang somewhere near the foot of the bed, and
he became disorientated and unable to see properly. It was
as if somebody had force-fed him a bottle of whisky and
dropped him on his head from the fifth-floor window, and he
knew they'd used a stun grenade. But, even dazed, he still
held the gun as the black-clad police in breathing apparatus
came into view and, with a gesture of defiance that perfectly
mirrored the expression of the man with the shotgun in the
car park below, raised it in front of him, aiming at the first
officer's crotch.

Sergeant Phil Winter of Scotland Yard's elite firearms
squad SO19 didn't hestitate. He'd already seen the body of
DC Paul Vokerman face-down on the bed, a growing bloodstain
soaking the sheets around his head; now one of the
suspects, hunched down in the corner of the room beside the
bed, was lifting his gun. Two shots, then a step, two shots,
then another step, then another two shots, every one of them
finding their target. Beside him Constable Sammy Jecks
opened up with his MP5, and the body of Manuel Lopez did
a strange dance as the bullets ripped into his head and body
and charged about his insides, ripping them and him apart.

Minimum force. The training always says only the minimum
amount of force possible must be used to incapacitate
a subject. Shoot him too many times, particularly when it's
clear he's no longer a threat, and a police officer leaves him
or herself open to charges of manslaughter, or even, in
extreme cases, murder. But Winter couldn't resist pumping
another two into the Colombian's guts as he continued
towards him, knowing that statistically he probably wasn't
going to get another opportunity to pop a bad guy. Lopez's
head slumped, the Glock with silencer fell from his dead
hand, and Winter stopped in front of him, before kicking
him hard in the face.

Jecks rushed up to Vokerman and tried to find a pulse,
but Winter could tell from the expression on his colleague's
face that it was a lost cause. He turned to the door as the
senior officers involved in what was supposed to have been a
highly successful sting operation entered the room along with
the remainder of the SO 19 team. They did not look too
happy.

And that, unfortunately, is where I, DI John Gallan, join
the tale, being one of those senior officers involved. The
thing is, I was only meant to be there as an observer, as was
my colleague, WDS Tina Boyd, but I don't think that fact
made either of us feel any better. It had been our informant
who had provided the details and false character references
that had set up Mark 'Stegs' Jenner and Paul 'Yokes'

Vokerman, both members of Scotland Yard's specialist
undercover unit, SO 10, with a group of high-level Colombian
drug traffickers, so as Tina and I followed DCS Noel
Flanagan and DI Asif Malik of Scotland Yard's organized
crime unit, SO7, into the hotel room, I was experiencing a
feeling in my insides that was a nasty combination of fear,
shame and nausea. As I saw the ruined bodies of Manolo
Lopez and Yokes Vokerman, one of whom I'd got to know
quite well over the past few weeks, watched the frantic efforts
of the medical team as they worked their futile magic, and
heard DI Malik curse loudly under his breath, the question I
remember I kept asking myself was a very simple one.
What the hell had gone wrong?

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