London Large: Blood on the Streets (5 page)

No answer.

‘You’ve got to snap out of
this guv’, Amisha shouted, ‘you’ve got to take hold of things. We can’t let
people see you like this. Big crowd here now. There’s media people here,
cameras, the lot. This thing’s gone viral, big man.’

The colour returned to H’s
face. He sat upright, and his eyes met Amisha’s for the first time.

‘Are you getting this, guv?
Are you getting what I’m telling you?’, she asked.

‘I need a sharpener, Ames.
There’s a flask in the motor. Glove compartment.’

Amisha sped off. H got to his
feet. He felt a little steadier now. He saw for the first time the phone lying
beside what was left of Tara’s head. He trousered it without thinking. No way
was he going to let the phone’s contents go public before he’d had a look. He
owed that to Tara. And Ronnie.

Amisha returned two minutes
later, breathless, to find H standing, a little woozily, and surveying the
scene. She handed him the flask. He took a long slug. And then another. And
another. He straightened up and swept back his thatch with both hands. The
bright morning was changing as clouds began to congregate.

‘Sorry about that Ames. Had
to sit down for a bit. Bring me up to speed.’

Amisha decided to start him
off on details, to get him focused, and save the worst for last.

‘Well, the forensics people
are here. They want to get started and I can’t hold them off. The scene is
secure but there’s a lot of people milling about, rubberneckers mostly but a
good few professionals now. TV, radio and plenty of freelancers. They’re all
screaming for a statement, in between snapping and filming and uploading,
and…we’ve got to try and get some control of this guv. Oh, and your mate Joey
Jupiter just arrived. Will you say a few words to them?’

‘No I fucking will not.’

Amisha was exasperated: ‘Guv,
you’ve got to put on a show here. Provide some presence, reassurance…something.
This incident is now well and truly viral. It’s worldwide. God knows what kinds
of spin’ll be put on it. We’ve got to try and control the message, guv. Or the
likes of Joey Jupiter will crucify you.’

‘Amisha, if you put Joey
Jupiter in front of me now I’ll ram his rinky-fucking-dink phone so far up his
fucking arse he’ll have to lasso it out with dental floss.’

Phew
,
thank God.
He’s back. The guvnor is back
.

‘Steady on guv. No need for
that. You want to give them more ammo to throw at you? Try and think big
picture. Please, for all our sakes.’

Amisha’s phone rang. H found
it in his hand. It was Hilary.

‘Where on God’s earth have
you been H? What the hell is going on down there? This whole thing’s exploding,
whatever it is. What are you doing?’

‘Guv, I…’

‘Shut it, H. Listen. Go now
and talk to the media. Face the cameras. Calm and steady messaging, the usual
things. Is that clear?’

‘Guv, the thing is…’

‘Detective Inspector Hawkins,
you will go, now, and you will follow my orders, or you will never set foot in
this office again. Unless it is to come and clear your desk and empty your locker.
The choice is yours.’ Click.

Shit
,
she’s in Mary Poppins mode
.

He steadied himself on his
feet. Amisha touched his arm and motioned him towards the throng. He’d already
made out the greaser hair, the massive comedy beard, the huge belt buckle, the pointy
shoes…Joey Jupiter and his pals were waiting, like a pack of braying hyenas
ready to tuck in to their wounded prey.

The big TV company
cameras - BBC, ITV, Channel 4, Sky, CNN and the rest - were still setting up on
the Mall, two hundred yards from the crime scene. Behind the newly installed
perimeter fence barring access to the park itself their anchors were jockeying
for position, along with hundreds of phone and tablet wielding observers.
Stationed at the front of this heaving mob, nearest to the park, were Joey
Jupiter and his entourage.

H and Amisha were closing in
on the melee slowly, the big man himself feeling and looking weak, dizzy and
unsteady on his feet.

‘I’m not up for this, Ames’,
said H. ‘My mind’s a blank. Tara… Tara’s dead. Nothing‘s making sense.’

‘Steady, guv. You can do it.
Calm and steady, as per your instructions. Keep it simple. Just the usual
clichés. Don’t get drawn into anything.’

‘Oi, Oi’, H heard Jupiter
shout, ‘looks like Detective Inspector Hawkins has had a few already.’

A gale of gleeful, cynical,
smartarsed laughter. The massed ranks of gadgets clicking, pinging, zinging,
popping and flashing in the gloom as the darkening clouds scudded overhead. A
roar of questions and comments, none of them decipherable. Somebody produced a
box for H to stand on. Amisha stationed herself behind him, ready to break his
fall should he collapse backwards.

Jupiter forced his way to the
front of the frenzied mob and held with both hands onto a crash barrier,
unbudgeable as the storm broke around him. This was his time. He could smell
H’s blood. He went in for the kill.

‘Detective Inspector Hawkins,
can you tell us what has happened here?’ he shouted. ‘Is this connected to the
wave of killings your force, and you in particular, appear to be unable to
control? Who is running London’s streets? What reassurance can you give us that
you are the man for the job? Are you really fit for purpose Detective
Inspector?’

More laughter. More cheers.
More jeers. H swayed a little on his box. He was looking at the Union Jack
fluttering above Buckingham Palace. It merged in his mind with another,
grubbier version of itself, tattered and torn in a field eight thousand miles
and thirty two years away. He thought of Ronnie, and he thought of Tara. He
could not, would not, meet the gaze of the mob. His eyes began to fill with
tears, and his legs began to shake again.

‘OK guv, let’s just pop you
down’, he heard Amisha say. He felt her hand on his arm, and beneath his elbow
as she eased him down onto the grass.

A minute later he became
aware that they were in the back of a car. Amisha was beside him. She was
gawping into a tablet, whispering under her breath, ‘Fuck…Fuck… Fuck.’

H came to himself. ‘What is
it, Ames?’ She turned the device so that H could see it. Jupiter had wasted no
time. Beneath a picture of a ravaged, distorted version of himself in the grip
of a thousand yard stare, he read:

HAS ‘H’ LOST THE PLOT?

LONDON’S ‘TOP COPPER’ IN ST
JAMES’ PARK MELTDOWN

‘#harryoutofhisdepth is
already trending on Twitter’, Amisha said.

Ronnie Ruddock walked
into his luxurious five star hotel in uptown New York and punched the UP
button.
What a few days
, he thought, as he rode the lift to the
penthouse suite with its dramatic views across the New York skyline. He really was
on top of the world. From barrow boy on the back streets of South London to The
Times rich list.

He popped the cork from the
champagne already waiting for him and supped straight from the bottle. He
downed the contents, took out a bottle of beer from the mini bar and cracked it
open with his teeth. Thirty years of high flying hadn’t changed him that much.

It was just after midnight as
he stood admiring the bright lights of New York. The vibrant cityscape
stretched out before him, teeming with life and pregnant with possibility. He
thought of its sublime beauty, the majestic shapes and the individual ambition
that had gone into making them. The people on the streets were rushing around
like so many manic bees in search of their nectar, looking for action, looking
for love, looking for the world’s greatest salami on rye. This really was the
city that never slept. And he’d made it here - in fact this Englishman in New
York had made it every fucking where.

He’d just pulled off one of
the biggest fracking deals yet concluded in America. He nonchalantly tossed the
signed copy of the contract onto his bed.

He did his best to put the
events of the day out of his head but his mind was still racing. He’d been
working on this deal for months and to finally put pen to paper had filled him
with immense satisfaction. After another couple of beers he started to relax,
the elixir of alcohol kicking in, calming his mind as he relinquished the
trials and tribulations of the day.

He thought about his wife and
kids back home in England. He had been working on this deal for months and had
barely had time to talk to them as he burned the midnight oil, poring over
every minuscule detail. This was one deal he was not going to lose. Relations
with his wife had become a little strained. But now there was some time to
heal, to get to know them all again. His tough upbringing had taught him
the importance of family sticking together - he was fiercely loyal. He’d make
it up to them now. A nice holiday somewhere tropical.

It was 2 am in New York when
he decided to call it a night and hit the sack; he was out before his head hit
the pillow. It wasn’t dreams of business deals and wealth that made him sleep
so soundly, but the thought of the holiday he would soon be having with the
folks back home.

Brrrr, brrrr

Ronnie was relaxing on a
beach in the Bahamas; the kind of beach that in travel agent speak would be
described as idyllic, offering a fleeting glimpse of paradise amongst the sea
of troubles that come our way in this unforgiving life. He was lying on a sun
lounger, without a care in the world, sipping cocktails next to his wife; her
mind buried in the latest bestselling Romantic novel.

Brrrr, brrrr

The ringing of the hotel
phone in his bedroom was starting to impose itself on his subconscious. It
merged into his dream, re-imagined as a bird of paradise singing a sweet
overture to the world from one of the palm trees that lined the beach, like a
host of celestial angels looking over him, protecting him.

Brrrr, brrrr

The noise was forcing its way
brutally into his conscious mind now, more like a pneumatic drill boring into
his skull than a bird of paradise. The beach faded into the background as he
reluctantly came to terms with the knowledge it was a dream. Only a dream. For
a moment he tried to stay there, but it was too late. Ronnie opened his eyes.

Brrrr, Brrrr

He looked at the clock on his
bedside table. 6.30 a.m. in good old New York. The deal was all tied up and he
had left instructions not to be disturbed.

Who the fuck can that be?

Ronnie reached sleepily for
the phone.

‘Who is it?’

‘Ron, it’s H.’

In all the years he had known
him, H had never once called him while he was away on business. And in all the
years he had known him H had never once sounded so, so...

The adrenalin exploded through
his body like a catalyst thrown into a bunch of chemicals. He sat upright, the
muscles in his back constricted with tension and expectation. He was having a
fight-or-flight moment. But there was nowhere to run, no-one to fight.

‘H, what’s happened?’

H didn’t know what to say.
When he’d picked up the phone in Scotland Yard he knew he wouldn’t know what to
say, but he also knew he had to do it. The news couldn’t come from anyone else.
He loved Ronnie too much to duck it. His throat tightened. His breathing became
sporadic. Short, sharp breaths.

‘H, what is it mate?’

H realised all the
compassion, sympathy and kindness in the world were not going to make one jot
of difference, so he blurted out the three most difficult words he had ever had
to say in his life, in the only way he knew how: straight and direct.

‘Ron…Tara’s dead.’

‘Cut off heads and dump
bodies in Thames.’ Vladimir Agapov’s instructions to his minions were usually
short and to the point. He wasn’t a man to waste words.

He took a black comb from the
inside pocket of his single-breasted, dark blue bespoke jacket and swept it
through his slick black locks, whilst smiling at the two bloodstained Albanian
captors on the floor before him.

‘You kill us our brothers
will come. For you, your mother, your father. Everyone you know will die.’

Agapov knew they spoke the
truth, but the war for control of the huge riches available in London’s
underworld was well underway. The time for mercy was long gone; kill these two
or set them free, the Albanians had arrived. The game was on.

Vladimir straightened the
jacket that had been crumpled during the beating he had just administered, and
admired his thick smooth hair, good looks and muscular body in the full length
mirror fixed to the wall. Yes, he knew the Albanians were coming, whatever he
did. He rethought his instructions.

‘Cut off heads. We will
deliver to friends in Bermondsey. Dump headless bodies in Thames for eels to
feed.’

He walked, all spritely, up
the stairs of the basement and emerged into the bright plush surroundings of
his London headquarters, situated in a dead-end alley just off Peter Street in
Soho.

Soho, one of the most
expensive parts of one of the most expensive cities in the world. Where high
life millionaires sat in cafes with low life drug dealers, where tourists from
every country on earth descended for the daily round of entertainment. Right at
the heart of the capital, where the life was, where the action was, where the
money was, the unofficial corporate headquarters of the London sex trade.
Agapov loved it.

The private members club
owned by his organisation was unknown to most people, accessible by a well
policed door. The alleyway was rarely visited by anyone other than early
morning refuse collectors and, of course, the wealthy members of this most
discreet of clubs. Admission was strictly by invitation only.

Agapov walked into the small
bar at the end of the central corridor. A surly group of Russian mobsters sat
sipping vodka and laughing with a posse of prostitutes who had arrived early,
preparing themselves for the afternoon shift with a few glasses of vodka.