Serious People (35 page)

Early was clearing his desk of files when Hawkins walked into the office; he didn’t see the DCI enter. The fat lazy detective kept an unbelievably tidy desk; it seemed to be one of the only accomplishments the man could still put his name to.

Early was old school and his reputation had been called in to question on more than a few occasions down the years. But Hawkins had always felt he had a valuable place in his team; Early’s record was loaded with experience in some heavyweight criminal taking teams. He was once a serious copper.

Hawkins also had a reputation for being an old-schooler and was proud of it, he valued the plus points that came with a reputation like Early’s. The two men had done a lot good work together. But the detective had nothing left in the tank these days, no appetite for real police work. He should have been the perfect mentor for Khan. The older detective’s experience a perfect filter for Khan’s ambition.

Their pairing had been a big mistake though.

“DI Khan’s dead,” Hawkins said.

Early jumped out of his skin in surprise and turned to face Hawkins. His face was covered in shock; but Hawkins suspected this shock was driven more by the DCI’s appearance in the office than the news of Khan’s death.

Early appeared to sense Hawkins gaging his reaction. He crossed his arms, as if ready for an argument, but gave Hawkins a sympathetic smile, and shrugged.

“Guv we tried,” Early sighed. “God can only say, we bloody tried. I mean you spoke to her; I spoke to her; so many countless times. I tried to tell her how the system works…”

“Where were you when it happened?” Hawkins said; his voice was still hoarse with emotion.

Early looked at his senior officer; he registered the sadness in the DCIs eyes and made a delicate change to his body language. His shoulders dropped and now looked gentler and more open.

“Guv really, you shouldn’t feel bad.” Early’s voice now softer. “Some people’s stars burn too bright, you know.”

Hawkins collapsed into a chair but held his stare on Early.

“You want a beer?” Early asked, giving Hawkins another sympathetic look. “We could just nip around the corner. I know what it’s like. It’s like she’s going to walk through the door any moment.”

“She was too pure for this bloody place,” Hawkins said, looking at Early but talking more to himself. “This place is twisted; it’s not what it seems. We tread a careful line between not lighting the touch paper and still bringing down the people that need bringing down.”

“Come on Guv, you’re letting emotion affect your mind. We’ve got a job to do here; we keep the streets safe.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you know that better than me!”

“She shouldn’t have ended up in this world,” Hawkins sighed.

Early appeared to want to say something, but wasn’t sure what. So instead he continued to nod in agreement, his face still full of sympathy. Hawkins was too shrewd to be sucked in by this.

“Guv, she was a little misguided at best and you—” Early said, seeming to struggle for something worthwhile to say, “—you couldn’t have worked harder to keep her safe. You gave her that simple counterfeiting job, after all. I mean you’d think she’d get the message.”

Hawkins looked Early up and down. Early was involved in Khan’s murder. Hawkins knew this already—it was why he was here—he had wanted to know for sure. Now he did.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“What?” Early laughed, uncomfortably. “You been drinking again Guv!”

Hawkins stood up, putting his hands on his hips. His jacket lifted a little, displaying his gun holster and the service weapon inside. He saw Early look at the gun; he wanted him to see it. He hadn’t worn it for more than three years—office bound he had no need—he only wore it with a purpose.

“You killed her for O’Neil didn’t you?”

Early looked around the office, clearly hoping to see someone else there, some witness that would help him control this situation.

Hawkins smiled; he had already gotten rid of the rest of the team. He had sent them to the bar on the corner to have a drink in Khan’s name—all except for Early. The rat.

Early was trying to hide the concern that was now on his face. “It could have been anyone, Guv. Khan pissed off a lot of people this week.”

“It was O’Neil, wasn’t it?”

A shot of panic seemed to cross Early’s eyes. “No!”

Hawkins's eyes sharpened on the old detective; Early physically retracted into his seat. Hawkins stood over him, holding back the urge to slap Early around the face.

“I mean…. He wouldn’t…. Why would he be that stupid?” Early said, falling over his words. “I reckon it was the nightclub owner we ran into the other day. Real piece of—”

“Stand up,” Hawkins snapped.

“Sorry sir?” Early asked, confused.

“Stand the hell up, Detective Sergeant!” Hawkins shouted, his face reddening with anger.

Early quickly got to his feet, “Yes sir.”

Hawkins thrust his fist into the fat man’s midriff. The moment the punch connected, Hawkins heard the old detective choke as the breath was forced from his lungs. Early staggered back away from the desk, clearly winded. Then Hawkins grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, with both hands, before he could step out of his reach; the fat man was barely able to stand up straight.

“Guv, what are you doing?” Early said, as he struggled to free himself from the hold of the larger man. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hawkins could see the beads of sweat building up on Early’s forehead that started to betray the man’s words. He was lying; the DS had had Khan killed.

Hawkins couldn’t help but smile at seeing Early’s reactions. “Do you not remember the old basic interrogation training? The giveaway signs of an untruth? You must remember the tell tale signs of when a toe rag isn’t being straight with you!”

Hawkins pulled Early up onto his tip toes so that their eyes were almost level. Early struggled desperately, moving his head from side to side so that their eyes wouldn’t meet.

“Guv, please! It’s not like that,” he whimpered.

Hawkins pushed the man past the desk and against the wall, pressing his forearm onto Early’s throat, pinning him. He drew his gun, and pointed it at Early’s chin.

“What are you doing?” Early said. “You’re crazy. You can’t just shoot me.”

“You think you’d be my first?”

“What with your gun?” Early replied. “Who’d buy that?”

“You're right,” Hawkins smiled. “That’s why I took your gun. Straight under the chin; that used to be how you’d perform the old suicide shot wasn’t it?”

Early now looked into his eyes; he could see Hawkins’ anger, his need for retribution.

“What? You’ll never get away with it!” Early said, trying to scream loudly, but all that came out was a splutter.

“Maybe I don’t care; perhaps it’s just a bonus if I do?”

“This is bleeding bullshit. I was just carrying out your orders!”

“What?” Hawkins said, almost losing grip of the detective.

“You’ve kept O’Neil in business for all these years. What with all your
sustaining leadership in the criminal world
shit. You’ve probably given him more tip offs then any of us!”

Hawkins staggered backwards and released Early; his mind started to whirl.

“Every copper you’ve brought into this team has received the same pitch; look after them and they’ll look after us. They’ll keep the crime away from the real world. So let me tell you. If that girl had carried on with her investigations, she could have taken everyone here down, the whole bloody department, yourself included!” Early screamed.

“I have always encouraged relationships with informants; but relationships to get information not to sustain a criminal empire!” Hawkins replied.

“When was the last time you were on the street?” Early snapped. “The lines are pretty bloody tight out there. I keep the streets safe; like you briefed me to!”

“Keep the streets safe—really?” Hawkins said, sinking back into a seat. “Is that why there’s currently an incident team at some bar in Hammersmith. Fifteen dead.”

“What?” Early said, with real shock for the first time.

“The anti-terrorist team’s down there now; the top brass think it might be a terrorist job. But one of the boys down there ran some prints. At least one of the dead bodies is a known associate of Charlie O’Neil,” Hawkins said.

“Shit.”

“Keep the streets safe; seems you’ve just started the next great fire of London,” Hawkins said.

“Khan would have done us all, she didn’t get it…!”

“Her name was Miriam,” Hawkins said, taking the gun out of his holster once again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Early said.

“Do you remember the first rule of SOCA?” Hawkins smiled.

“Keep the streets safe, anyway you can…” Early replied.

“Shhh… Shhh,” Hawkins said. “The first rule of SOCA is that we look after our bloody own.”

“Look Guv, I was trying to identify the best thing to do. I didn’t do anything for the money; it was for you and the department!” Early said, his voice desperate.

“DS Early, you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence, if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later—” Hawkins said, pointing his firearm at Early.

“You’re mental, I’ll bring you down with me!”

“—Rely on in court. Anything you do say can be given in evidence,” Hawkins finished.

It took Hawkins all his strength to not squeeze the trigger. Only his belief in his warrant badge stopped him; but perhaps it was more to do with Kahn’s belief in justice.

Charlie only answered the phone because it was Jackie; a matter of seconds ago his whole focus was on the office door. He'd deliberately left it open because it gave him a good view of the stairs behind it. This would ensure he'd have the drop on anyone who might be coming up.

O’Neil & Payne Logistics’ offices were basic and functional; it was a sixties built three storey building that stood out like a control tower in the middle of their truck yard.
The main front door led into a small foyer, with a reception desk as the only furnishing.  The existence of the desk had always been a standing joke, with him and Robert, as they didn’t have a receptionist. If anyone viewed the company accounts though they’d believe that Dawn Dunne was employed in the role, earning eighteen grand a year. Today, though, O’Neil knew that the desk was occupied; Pete was sat there with strict instructions to keep a gun on the office entrance and phone Charlie if anyone entered.

Charlie was not sure exactly who he was expecting but he knew there would be someone. It didn’t matter to Charlie who it was anymore. All that mattered was that this challenge to his authority would be ended today; he would end it.

Charlie looked out of the panoramic window behind his desk; he loved the view he had from his office. It took in the Chiswick flyover, and a variety of buildings that Charlie liked to look over. No two buildings looked the same. All had been built up over the last two hundred years with different designs and styles, from boat shapes to rockets; they captured his imagination and reminded him of his father.

Part of him knew it wasn’t a good idea to turn away from the door when his phone rang; but he couldn’t remember the last time Jackie had called him. It was one of those things that couples take for granted—how many phone call had Charlie received from Jackie over the years, thousands? All of them taken for granted, but not this one.

He wanted to enjoy his wife’s call, enjoy it with his favourite view, with his back turned to his current difficulties. He had confidence now. Yesterday he wouldn’t have turned his back on the door—but today—today he was thankful for what he had and wanted to enjoy it and keep it. Anyway, Pete was downstairs. If nothing else, he would hear a commotion if something kicked off. 

“You wanted them; of course, I got them for you,” Charlie smiled.

It had been too long since he had heard the same sort of life in Jackie’s voice. Her excited tones were invigorating to him. He felt younger and stronger.

“I know, but I can’t believe you got them to stage a reunion,” Jackie replied, from the other end of the phone. “I’ve managed to get all their autographs—even Ronny Wild's!”

“Ok calm down,” Charlie said. “You don’t want me to get jealous; I might end up shooting him.”

“He’s nothing on you,” Jackie replied. He could tell by her voice, she was smiling. “When are you getting here?”

“I’ve got a couple of things to tie up, I need to get finished. And then I’ll be with you, I promise. I couldn’t possible miss that dreadful band,” Charlie said.

Jackie laughed. “You know you’ll be dancing to that dreadful band later.”

“You better believe it; I’m wearing my dancing shoes and everything,” Charlie said, hoping it would make her laugh again.

She laughed. He felt butterflies in his stomach; he had forgotten how glorious her laugh was.

As he ended the call, something made O’Neil look at the window again, and there was a reflection that shouldn’t have been there. No noise but ever so slight a movement.

Charlie remained motionless. He watched the faint reflection in the window and saw two men creep into his office. He stayed still, not sure of the best move to make. His gun was in his inside pocket; but any move he made could give away his advantage of surprise. At this moment, his attackers must think him oblivious to their presence.

The two male figures got closer; O’Neil was running out of time. It was clear that one of the men had a knife, some kind of large hunting knife, and Charlie didn’t like the odds as to whether or not it could be sunk into the back of his chair, before he had shot the intruder. If he was laying a bet he’d have said that the blade would reach his spine for sure. He had to make his move.

In one motion, Charlie O’Neil dropped to the floor from his seat, turned, and took a blind shot in the direction of his attackers. Almost in the same moment he fired, there was a thud of a body hitting the floor. He looked up at the reflection in the window again and now only saw one person, who appeared to have his head in his hands. He must have taken one of them down already—time to take a risk now and deal with the other.

Charlie quickly stood up, pointing the gun in front of him, hoping it would be in the direction of the man left standing. He got lucky; there was only one man remaining and he had his hands up. He glanced at the floor and saw another man with a bullet hole in his forehead. At last he’d got lucky, seriously lucky.

“Don’t shoot, please… Don’t—” the man said.

The man looked nothing like an assassin here to kill him; he looked weak and afraid. And there was something familiar about him.

“You’re a Blake?” Charlie said. “Robert was giving you a bit of office work for a while, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, yes. I just want to go home!” The man pleaded.

Charlie should kill him; now wasn’t a time for sympathy. But there was something about this guy. Shooting him would be like shooting Bambi, and he had no time for shooting civilians.

“Who else is here to kill me?”

“Only my brother Billy, no one else. I swear,” the man said, almost in whisper.

Charlie believed him; maybe he shouldn’t have, but he did.

“Come here,” Charlie beckoned to the man.

The man fearfully stepped forward and Charlie swiftly whipped his gun handle around the man’s head. The man crumpled to the floor.

Charlie looked down at his weak assailant and it was clear the man was unconscious. Indeed potentially, due to the nasty wound his gun handle had inflicted, he could well be dead. But that was the best he could offer this Blake; potentially dead was a lot better than definitely dead. He couldn’t help but wonder if hearing his wife’s laugh had lessened his murderous mood.

He quickly made his way to the ground floor, via the fire exit route at the back of the building. It was the only way to covertly get down to the groundfloor without being seen. He'd checked the first floor and then looked down the stairs. He had not been disappointed, he could only see one other man, just as he had been told.

That must be Billy Blake, he thought, as he watched the man who stood near the entrance. The man called Billy had a gun by his side, and there was something about his eyes that told Charlie he was waiting to use it. 

“Boys,” Billy hissed and pointed the gun up the stairs. “Where the fuck are you? Come on.”

Charlie thanked his luck, once again, as he saw his chance. He stepped out from behind the reception desk and pointed his gun towards Billy Blake.

“I take it, you're Billy Blake.”

The man turned, looked at O’Neil and gradually lowered his gun. It was clear that Charlie could shoot him before he had the chance to move his weapon.

“I’m Billy Blake,” he replied with a smile. “And I surrender!”

Billy threw his gun to the ground, towards the stairs.

Experience told Charlie, that there was only two types of person who could smile in this type of a situation, a man who was either not afraid of dying, or a psychopath. And he knew then the Billy Blake must have been the man who had been behind Robert’s killing. The brother upstairs with the knife had been a dangerous man; but this man Billy Blake had a confidence—the confidence of a man who had killed before.

Who was behind this though? There must be someone higher up the food chain who was responsible, who was using this killer as some kind of puppet. Could this guy really have killed Robert on his own?

“Who are you working for Billy Blake?” Charlie asked, with no hint of any reaction to Billy’s smile. “Who’s behind this?”

“Working for?” Billy grinned—there was something about Billy’s eyes that Charlie didn’t like. “I’m a boss, a boss who has taken all your connections, taken your firm.”

Cheeky little bastard, Charlie thought. But a part of him was impressed by the balls of this guy. All of this had been the work of three brothers?

Charlie smiled. “Are you ready to die, Billy Blake? You’ve caused me a lot of stress, and you killed my best friend. Now I’m going to kill you.” 

For the first time, a shot of fear entered the face of Billy Blake. You are afraid of dying, Charlie thought. “Did you make Robert suffer…?”

“Use your head Charlie!” Billy said quickly. “It makes no business sense to get blood on your hands. You’re a boss; that’s not what bosses do. We should talk about this. There are things I could offer you.”

“You think?” Charlie asked.

“Our parents were on the same boat together from Ireland. We're from the same neighbourhood, the same background,” Billy said. “You know what it’s like to need more than you’ve got.”

Charlie looked at the man in front of him. He could identify with his words, but there was something about him that was unfamiliar. He was like a warped version of the kids he’d grown up with.

“Were you part of Father Declan’s parish?” Charlie asked, his gun still firmly pointed at the intruder.

“Who?” Billy shrugged. “Fuck religion!”

Charlie felt himself shudder at the words. His eyes began to harden and his trigger finger tensed. This guy wasn’t from where he was from.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?”

“Cause you’re a boss, Mr. O’Neil and that’s what you have people like Mickey the Bag for,” Billy smiled; confidence was starting to return. “Bosses don’t kill people like me. You’re too smart to pull that trigger yourself.”

Charlie smiled; he was going to enjoy this.

“Shit, there’s a bit of a problem with that, Billy.”

“What?” Billy asked, not showing any concern from the question.

“I've got some blood on my hands already,” Charlie smiled and looked Billy straight in the eyes. “Not Metaphorically, I mean really.”

Billy stared back silently, now unsure about himself.

“When I killed a couple of your brothers upstairs,” Charlie smiled. “I think I may have got a couple of bits of them on me. It’s the real drag part of shooting someone; you don’t really notice until you do it a lot. A bit of brain there, a piece of tooth. It plays havoc with your wardrobe after a while.”

Billy just stared back at Charlie for a moment, making no response to this. And then looked to the ceiling suddenly and screamed, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Tears started to stream down Blake’s face. Charlie started to feel good as he watched Billy Blake scream at the ceiling; breaking people was a lost love of his and this man deserved to be broken.

Billy wiped his face with his hand, careful to keep the hand closest his gun at his side. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Wait, wait,” Billy said looking back at Charlie.

Even Charlie was surprised by how cool he now looked again. Symptoms of a psychopath.

“I got shit you’d want to know…”

“Don’t move! I’ve got him covered Billy,” his other brother shouted. “Run, get out of here!”

Charlie looked up at the stairs and saw the pistol whipped brother standing there. Shit! He should have shot him; Charlie cursed the sympathy he’d shown the weaker brother.

“John, I thought you were dead,” Billy said, like an accusation.

John gestured to a wound on his head with his free hand, whilst keeping the gun trained on Charlie. “Took a hit, but it was nothing. Us Blakes are made of tougher things than that.”

John eyed Charlie again. “Drop your gun!”

Charlie cursed his stupidity again and lowered his gun.

“Shit, what a funny world it is,” Billy laughed. “Me saved by John. Fucking hell!”

“I text Emma; told her to get some medical help here,” John replied.

Eleven and half minutes and counting, Charlie thought to himself. He knew the emergency response times for every quarter of London by heart. It was information that kept him alive and free from prison.

“What?” Billy spat.

“Nick’s up there; he needs some help,” John said. He looked visibly shaken.

“He’s dead mate,” Charlie said.

“No, no, he just needs help…” John replied.

Billy seemed to ignore his brother and walked towards John. O’Neil was surprised that neither of them had told him to drop his gun and were oblivious that he’d just lowered it. Perhaps his good luck hadn’t expired just yet.

“Give me the gun, John,” Billy asked.

John appeared to question, for a moment, whether he should before handing his brother the gun. It seemed that even the brother was worried about Billy’s stability. Charlie considered trying to raise his gun, shoot one of the boys while John’s weapon was being passed over, but decided it was too risky.

“Sorry Mr. O’Neil,” Billy said, after taking the gun from his brother. “Every family has their black sheep.”