London Large: Blood on the Streets (8 page)

‘Give me a chance, mate, it’s
only just happened. Obviously someone’s had a pop at the Albanians on the site.
You’ve got two choices, basically. It’s either the Russians, part of the bigger
thing that’s been going on, or another Albanian firm. One of their vendettas.’

‘Which would you put your
money on?’

‘Neither H, at this stage.
The thing is, these Balkan Mafioso always keep schtum. You never get a dickie
bird out of them. Not that they speak a lot of English. They keep themselves to
themselves. They’re violent, ruthless. And they’re tooled-up to fuck. This is
all way past sawn-off shotguns, mate.’

H sighed, heavily. ‘Tell me
something I don’t know, John.’

‘What you don’t know, H, is
that this bollocks is only just getting started. Whatever that was about this
afternoon, they’ll have to meet fire with fire. If it was the Russians we’ll
wind up in the middle of a full scale war. If it was another Albanian firm
it’ll be part of a vendetta, which is almost as good as a war. Those fucking
things never end. The fun and games we’ve had so far are going to look like a
fucking vicar’s tea party by the time this lot have finished.’

H fell silent. The enormity
of what he was going to have to keep on dealing with was beginning to crush him
again. He was under heavy gravity, as he had been earlier in the park, and felt
like getting his head down then and there.

‘Time to head home, guv? It’s
been a long day’, said Amisha.

Good girl.

‘Yeah, get me out of here
Ames. Thanks John. Keep ‘em peeled.’

‘Will do, H.’

It was almost dark outside
now. And raining. And their car was gone.

As Amisha pulled out
her phone to call for cabs, H hung his head and let out one of his deep, long,
slow groans.

‘How much worse is today
going to get?’ he said, as if to himself.

I can’t take much more of
this. I’ve had enough.

‘Come on, guv, it’s only a
car. We’ve got others. Your cab will be here in a jiff. We’ve got bigger fish
to fry. If Confident, No-Longer-Shy-And-Nervous John is right we’re going to
have a full-scale war on our hands before much longer.’

‘I’m not worried about the
car, Ames. Whatever little fuckwit has had that away can keep it. It’s the
phone. We’ve lost the fucking phone. I left in in the glove compartment. The
phone
.’

‘It’s not like you to worry
about phones, guv. I thought you hated them? I’ve listened to more of your
rants about “fucking phones:”
this
and “fucking tablets
that”
than I’ve had hot dinners.’ Amisha, clearly, was beginning to go native with
the lingo.

He’s going to pieces.
Little things are starting to fry his brain.

‘Listen to me, Ames. It was
Tara’s phone. I picked up Tara’s phone. This morning. In the park.’

Silence. Amisha was taking
her time to process this one. It was a blinder, even by H’s standards.

She cleared her throat and
took a breath.

‘So, guv, let me see if I’m
getting this right. You’re telling me that you have removed a vital item of
evidence from a crime scene - the scene of a murder - and have kept it in your
possession?’

‘Ames, listen. Tara Ruddock
is…was… the wife of the very best friend I’ve ever had. A man who was prepared
to lay down his life to save mine. A man I grew up with, round here, and have
known all my life. He’s about the only person in this world I trust. Really
trust. What was I supposed to do? I wasn’t thinking straight this morning Ames,
you know that. But I’d do it again. Whatever it was that Tara got herself
into…is something that I don’t want the world and his wife to know before I do.
I need to protect them…him. Loyalty, Ames. It’s called loyalty.’

Another pause.

‘I see’, said Amisha. ‘And
what is to be my part in all this?’

‘No part. Go to Hilary and
put her in the picture. I’ve dragged you into some old-school bollocks here,
Ames, and I’m sorry. Protect your career. You’re going to be a top notch copper
one day. Go to Hilary, get yourself clear of this. I’m tired…I’m going home.’

Two cabs pulled up at the top
of the street and the pair moved towards them.

‘Have a good night’s rest,
guv, we’ll sort this out in the morning’, she said.

‘Go to Hilary, Ames. Set the
record straight. Do the right thing.’

‘Fuck Hilary’, Amisha said.
‘We’ve got to get that fucking phone back. God alone knows what it might be
able to tell us.’

They walked towards their
cabs. The rain fell in sheets. Amisha didn’t know it yet but her attempt to
calm H’s inner demons was about to be blown off course as his fragile composure
came under renewed fire when he heard the ringtone, the ringtone that told him
his ex-wife was on the other end of the line. It was a sound out of time, a
ringtone he wasn’t sure he would ever hear again.

Time slowed into small
chunks, like a film moving at one frame per second, as H considered the name
emblazoned across the screen of his mobile. The last time he’d upgraded his
phone he thought about removing her number but he’d kept it in case she ever
needed to talk to him about one of the kids. It had been a long time since they
had last talked, or rather screamed at each other outside the court after
completion of the final divorce proceedings.

‘Fuck you and fuck your prick
of a boyfriend’, had been the last words he’d said to her.

Julie and H had met at
school. As a young girl Julie loved to read stories of princesses trapped in
towers, of chivalry and knights in shining armour. When they had first met it
seemed as if she had found the man she had been looking for since she’d heard
her first fairytale. He was strong, full of life and ambition, and his wry
sense of humour made her laugh. They had met young, married young, as in a true
love story that never ends.

H had done his best to put
Julie out of his mind - but every now and again his subconscious forced her
back to the foreground of it. He still regularly recalled the moment they first
met. The young, striking blond with the winning smile and bubbly personality, laughing
with carefree abandon at his childish jokes and youthful pranks. So beautiful,
so genuine, so perfect. How he had once loved her.

What does she fucking
want?

Amisha noticed his facial
expressions distort with a peculiar mixture of anger and puzzlement, and the muscles
in his back constrict and contort, whilst he considered whether to accept or
decline the call. He pressed the accept icon.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

It was painful for Julie to
hear his voice again. She knew he knew this wasn’t a social call so dispensed
with the social niceties.

‘Little Ronnie’s in trouble.’

When one of the proudest
moments of his life had arrived there was only ever one name he was going to
give to his first-born son. He’d dubbed him Little Ronnie to distinguish him from
the other Ronnie, and it had been a tag that Ronnie Hawkins had to live with.
As a boy he’d enjoyed it, loved it to bits in fact. Being named after the great
Ronnie Ruddock, as his father always referred to his friend, had been an
honour, and he always listened attentively when his father told him about
Ronnie’s meteoric rise to riches. But he’d enjoyed much more the few occasions,
after H had had a few too many down the local boozer, when his father opened up
and told him some tales from the old days. He’d loved the stories of Ronnie and
his dad growing up in Bermondsey, the skirmishes and brawls they had got into,
the tight spots they had, more with luck than judgement, managed to worm their
way out of. How they had finally ‘grown up’ when they made their pact to join
the army and fight for Queen and Country.

‘Better to believe in
something’ H had schooled him, ‘than waste your life rucking on the streets of
London.’ Once or twice Little Ronnie had asked his father about his time in the
Falklands, but on each occasion he had got the look. H never spoke to him about
his days in the army.

Little Ronnie himself had
been a good kid. Not the brightest kid on the block, for sure, but he’d always
had a good attitude and worked hard to make his father proud. Until the
divorce. The divorce had ruined everything. H had only seen Ronnie a couple of
times in the last few years. Neither time had gone very well.

‘What kind of trouble?’

Julie gave it to him
straight:

‘Serious trouble, he’s been
arrested for smuggling heroin into the country.’

Amisha couldn’t hear the
words and watched on helplessly as H convulsed and his face drained of blood.

If his son had been involved
in a few youthful skirmishes, no problem. After all H had not exactly been a
paragon of virtue in his early years. But heroin smuggling was different. H had
witnessed first-hand lives destroyed, talent wasted, families ripped to shreds
under the influence of hard drugs. He hated them and he hated the people who
dealt them. In H’s world view the heroin trade was evil: no ifs, no buts, and
no shades of grey. He’d put so many dealers away during his spell in narcotics
that he’d lost count. H hated the bastards. He was known for it.

But Ronnie was his son, and
for H blood was thicker than a euphoria inducing drug.

‘Where is he?’

‘Being held at Peckham police
station. I’m here now.’

‘On my way’, said H.

Peckham nick had been
re-built in 1990s; it was south London’s Fort Apache: the four feet thick
concrete walls were reinforced with steel and built to withstand rioting and
terrorist attack.

H jumped into the cab and
ordered Amisha in beside him.

‘Where are we going guv?’ she
asked.

‘Peckham nick’, said H.

H burst into the police
station, flashed his police badge at the constable on the entry desk and
demanded to see Ronnie Hawkins immediately.

Police Constable Tony Jarrow
was a new recruit, unsure of the limits of his authority, unaware of who H was
and unsure of how he should deal with the force of nature that had just
confronted him.

‘I’m not authorised to allow...’

‘Don’t fuck about with me
son, I’m not in the mood. Now go and get duty sergeant in charge before I ...’

The door immediately behind
the reception desk opened and Sergeant Bobby Venables walked out. He was a
solid man, who respected the authority of the force and the power of his
superiors, who believed in the chain of command and stuck to protocols. He was
never going to be a spectacular success and in H’s eyes he was a plodder, but
like all organisations the force needed its share of plodders and as far as H
was concerned he was ok.

‘Bobby, what the fuck is
happening with my boy?’

It might not be strictly
protocol to allow a Detective Inspector direct access to his newly arrested son
but, as a plodder, Bobby understood when the unwritten protocols of the police
should prevail. And he knew what H was capable of.

‘H. We’ve been expecting you.
This way’, he said.

H followed Venables into the
heart of the police station. It was now late and most of the lights were out.
Only a few officers were at work, poring over their computers in the corner of
the poorly lit open plan office. The moon shone through the rain and the windows,
its light side throwing a soft radiance onto the numerous paper files still
used by the Metropolitan Police, as if trying to reveal the details of the
myriad secrets within them. But it was H’s dark side that was in ascendance as
he followed his guide down a stairway to the subterranean cells and interview
rooms on the lower floors.

‘Bobby, who’s in charge of
the case? It’s no random pick up if they’ve got him banged up in Peckham. How
long has the case been running? How long has my boy been in the frame? Why
didn’t anyone fucking tell me about this?’

Venables just had time to
tell him that all he knew was that Inspector Marshall was in overall control
before they entered a seating area outside a series of interview rooms. Julie
and her husband Justin Evergreen sat holding hands.

Justin’s and H’s eyes met and
Justin hurriedly averted his gaze.

Prick.

H looked at Julie and Julie
looked at H.

A few more wrinkles had
appeared on her face since last they met. Slowly, ever so slowly, her beauty
was fading. But the contours of those luscious lips, the bright green eyes and
the beautifully soft long blonde hair were still intact. H’s heart rate
quickened.

The worry frowns had deepened
considerably on his forehead, a new scar had appeared below his left ear and
the thatch of hair on his head now looked faintly ridiculous. But she sensed
the same old H still lived inside, the same aura that had enveloped him in the
last years of their marriage still hung on him, followed him like a dark cloud,
ever ready to pour its contents and unleash its remorseless thunder and
lightning onto the world.

It was not long after the
Falklands, she recalled, that the flashbacks and changes really kicked in. She
thought it was temporary, at first, but then it gradually got worse.

She remembered the defining
moment. He had arranged a weekend trip to Manchester to meet up with some of
his old 2 Para muckers. He’d arrived eager and fully prepared for a nice
two-day bender but had instead found Bobby Swan, their host, swinging from a
rope in his front room. When he returned the change was complete. She knew she
had lost him. The anger, the drinking, the inability to compromise all
increased. She tried to love him, to comfort him, but he had pushed her away.
She blamed him for killing their love.

Partly in desperation, and
because she needed more from life, she had enrolled in an adult education
centre to study sociology at evening classes. Justin could hardly believe his
luck when the gorgeous blonde walked into his class, looking sad and insecure,
like a child at her first day in school.