THE LONDON DRUG WARS (14 page)

“That doesn’t make sense. How can you
say that?”

“I’m coming to that now. Something
over 80% of the people in this country and probably all the countries in the
world are nice people. People who wouldn’t steal from others or intentionally
hurt them. But that leaves a lot who would. From a policing perspective you can
split people into two categories; those are predators and prey. Our job is
simple, it’s to protect the prey from the predators. Perhaps the fact that you
don’t come in to contact with the predators means we are doing the job well.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if you had had much contact
with the predators you too might be a bit cynical and wouldn’t need to ask why
we police were.”

The young girl sat with a frown on
her face for some moments as she thought about what he’d said. But before she
could respond Liza arrived at the table with plates that she proceeded to put
on the place mats in on the table. “Please don’t touch these they’re very hot.”
Then to Emma, “Will you give me a hand and bring the vegetables?”

As the girl turned to go to the
kitchen Liza winked at Brookes. “I hope the cynic likes his lamb pink.”

“He certainly does.” He almost added,
‘like his women’ but thought that might be pushing his luck.

Emma returned to the table and Liza
brought the lamb. Emma seemed more relaxed and the conversation flowed during
the meal which was excellent. But Brookes was on tenterhooks throughout in case
he made a blunder. When they’d finished eating Emma diplomatically said she was
off to visit a friend. As she closed the front door behind her Brookes puffed
out his cheeks and exhaled in a deep sigh. “Phew, I felt like one of my
suspects there under interrogation. She can be a bit intimidating can’t she?”

“Yes I suppose she can. But you seem
to have passed the test so you can relax. If she hadn’t liked you she wouldn’t
have left us alone.”

“Alone? Goodness what will we do with
ourselves?”

“How about a game of snakes and
ladders?”

“Oh goody, can I go first?”

The
evening again ended in Liza’s bed and appetites were satisfied. Around midnight
Brookes heard the front door open but no-one knocked on the bedroom door. It
seemed that maybe Liza’s daughter was coming to terms with his seeing her
mother. He slept well that night but at six thirty his mobile phone alarm woke
him and he left quietly to make his way home to shower and shave ready for
work. He just about had time for a coffee before Brigid arrived to pick him up.

“Never kick a man when he is down; that is supposed to
be the rule of gentlemen. How ridiculous. There is no better moment to put the
boot in.”

–
Minette
Marrin

Fred Middlemiss and Vincent Abbot sat
in Brookes’ office drinking coffee. The room was quiet as Brookes read the
report they’d brought with them. After several minutes he looked up. “Hmm. How
certain are you that the punters’ statements will stand up in court?”

Middlemiss answered, “I had a word
with the legal bods, boss. The guy I spoke to said he could promise them
anonymity; apparently there’s a precedent somewhere. He said the statements are
solid.”

Brookes nodded and read on. A minute
later he looked up again.
“You say here the goons collecting the takings always take the same route
and do the run at about the same time. How long do they spend in each brothel?”

“Five minutes max. And they’re not
very alert. They’ve been doing it so long it’s become routine.”

Brookes looked at DI Abbot. “What do
you think?”

“Well we’ve got the punters evidence
of paying money for sex. We’ve got photos of the goons delivering the briefcase
to the Moscow Nights. The only link we need now is evidence of them picking up
the cash at the brothel and putting it in the briefcase. If Fred’s team are
sharp, they should get that. Then we’ve got a case; certainly enough to
confiscate the cash and take them to court.”

Brookes nodded thoughtfully. “So it
all depends on seeing the cash actually change hands between the madam and the
guy collecting the cash. Exactly where inside the place will that happen Fred?”

“Top of the stairs there’s a small
reception room. The punters pay their money there then sit and wait their turn
for one of the girls. There’s a counter on one side, behind that there’s a door
to a small office. We reckon the cash is picked up there in the office.”

“So you will have to be really sharp
to catch them with it in their hands. How will you get through the street
door?”

Middlemiss smiled. “Stumpy Garret’s
been practicing all week. The door shuts and locks automatically when the
visitor’s passed through. Once the goons are in Stumpy is sure he can get there
before the door locks.”

“That’s important Fred, if you have
to break the door down everything will have disappeared by the time you get up
the stairs. What about the goons who remain in the car, won’t they see Stumpy
stopping the door before it locks?”

“We’ve thought of that. We’ll hit
them at the same time. We’ve practiced the manoeuvre and have got the timing
right. I reckon we can pull it off.”

“OK, we’ll hit the place tomorrow. Go
and get the warrants for the brothel and the Moscow Nights club; Dick Mann and
I will hit the club once you’re in the brothel. Briefing here at eleven in the
morning, OK?”

The two nodded.

Brookes added, “Make sure everyone is
tooled up and wearing flak jackets. There’s a very good chance the goons will
be armed carrying all that money. I do not want any accidents.”

Brookes continued to scan the report
after they’d gone. The gist of it was that Middlemiss’s team had discovered
five brothels under the Russian’s control. This had been simple to establish
as, each day, four members of the gang had been seen to leave the Moscow Nights
club at 1pm in a large Mercedes. They had visited each of the brothels in turn.
They made no attempt to disguise their activities and followed the same route
every day.

The car stopped outside each of the
premises in turn; two men remained in the car, the other two went into the
premises carrying a large briefcase. After a few minutes they returned to the
car and travelled to the next location. Over five days of observation, the
routine had never varied; they ended their journey each day by returning to the
Moscow Nights, where they took the briefcase inside.

It didn’t take a genius to work out
that they had collected the previous day’s takings from each of the brothels
and delivered it to Popov, the manager of the nightclub; Brookes just hoped a
jury would agree. But, even if they didn’t, Bronchi would be starved of the
income in the meantime.

Middlemiss had concentrated his
attention on the last of the brothels visited each day. It was in a narrow lane
in Soho. The brothel occupied the two floors above an Indian delicatessen. The
whole building smelled of spices and curry.

At street level, the entrance to the
brothel was an anonymous-looking green door beside the shop. Behind the door, a
narrow staircase led up to the first floor where there was a small reception
area. The remainder of that floor and the floor above was divided into small
cubicles each with a bed and little else. There were nine such cubicles in all.

Punters rang the bell on the green
door, stated their business into an intercom on the wall beside it and, if they
said the right things, the green door was buzzed open to admit them. The punter
would climb the narrow staircase and present himself at reception, state
precisely what kind of sex he wanted, pay his money, then sit in one of the
chairs in the reception area to wait his turn. Maximum time allowed to each
customer was twenty minutes. A Russian bouncer stood behind the madam
overseeing the whole operation and ensuring that none of the customers got out
of hand.

The girls worked two shifts; six on
the day shift and six on nights, but if it was busy the day shift stayed on
till it quietened down. The girls all lived in an apartment block in Stoke
Newington; a van collected them to take them to work and dropped them home
after their shift. There didn’t seem to be a guard on the girls when they were
off-duty but they didn’t get a lot of time off, and apart from a bit of
shopping they hardly went out.

When Brookes had finally satisfied
himself that everything that could be planned for had been, he put the report
in a desk drawer and locked it. He phoned Groves and briefed him on the plans
for the raids.

Groves listened carefully then said,
“OK John, I’ll leave it in your hands. Please God we’ll have no casualties if
the Russians are armed.”

Putting the phone down, Brookes knew
that things were now in the lap of the gods.

*

Later that night in another part of
London, events took another turn. It was just after 2am; a sleek black Mercedes
pulled away from the Blue Orchid nightclub in the heart of London’s West End.
In the driver’s seat was a Russian gang member, one of the many soldiers that
faithfully served his criminal masters. In the passenger seat beside him sat
Peter Hohner, a trusted lieutenant of Ivan Bronchi. Hohner was just thirty-two
years of age and had quickly risen to a position of importance in the gang; he
had displayed the ruthless qualities admired by Bronchi. He was also fiercely
loyal and a trusted member of the inner circle. Hohner was the gang’s drug
distributor; he supervised the supply of narcotics to the many dealers who
peddled their misery on the streets of north and west London.

But tonight had been a social
occasion; Bronchi had been celebrating his birthday and his closest friends had
been invited to a party at the nightclub. Hohner was relaxed; he had drunk a
great deal of champagne and relied on his driver to get him home safely.

The Mercedes wended its way quietly
and quickly through the late night traffic in the West End, heading for the
Chelsea Embankment and the route to London’s leafy western suburbs. Hohner had
a house beside the Thames at Kew in which his lover and their young baby were
sleeping soundly at that moment. She had refused the invitation to the party,
saying that the baby had some minor ailment. In fact she didn’t like Bronchi
and made any excuse to avoid his company. It was this decision that saved her
life.

 The driver didn’t notice a Ford
saloon that followed them at a discreet distance. Once away from the West End,
the Mercedes sped up and, within half an hour, was crossing Kew Bridge. Turning
left, it made its way along a quiet road that paralleled the river. Noting that
there was a vehicle behind, the driver put on his left indicator and turned
towards the gated entrance to Hohner's house. He pressed the button of the
remote control as he made the turn. But the gate didn’t open. He pressed the
button again impatiently. It was only then that he noticed that a chain had
been wrapped around the metal frame of the gate and the gatepost, preventing
the gate from opening.

Both
he and his passenger were watching the gate and neither noticed the Ford pull
up directly behind their Mercedes, effectively trapping it. Two black men got
out of the nearside doors of the Ford and moved to one side of the Mercedes.
Each opened fire with a machine pistol, spraying bullets into the car. Only when
their magazines were empty did they quickly return to the Ford, which reversed
and drove off the way it had come. When the police arrived ten minutes later,
the two Russians were dead. The Jamaicans had made their move on the rival
gang.

Brookes’ mobile phone woke him at
5.30am. Reaching for it, he checked the time and frowned, knowing it would not
be good news at that time of day. He pressed the ‘on’ button and said in a
gruff voice, “John Brookes, who’s this?”

A cheerful voice said, “John, it’s
Jeremy, Jeremy Hornsby.”

Brookes groaned. “What the hell do
you want at this unearthly hour?”

“There’s gratitude for you, I take
the trouble you give you an early heads up and you abuse me. There’s been an
assassination. One of Bronchi’s lieutenants has been killed.”

“What? You’re kidding me.”

“No, Peter Hohner, Bronchi’s drugs
distributor and his bodyguard were gunned down this morning outside Hohner’s
house in Kew. It looks like a drive past by a rival gang, the Yardies, no doubt.”

Brookes scratched his head and
frowned as his brain began to work. “When was this exactly, Jeremy? And why on
earth would you get the heads up first?”

“Just before 3am. Listen, I got the
news because there’s a flag on all of Bronchi’s known gang members who are, to
use the jargon, ‘persons of interest’. Any queries at CRO are put through to
me. The investigating officer is a DCI William Hunter at Kew. I’ve spoken to
him and he’s expecting a call from you. I’ve told him of the importance of what
you’re doing.”

Brookes sighed. “OK, thanks Jeremy.
I’ll get onto it.” Ending the call, he dialled DS Moore’s home number and told
him of the drive-by shooting and told him to call out the team. He added, “Call
Brigid first Bill and ask her to pick me up.” Putting the phone down, he went
quickly to the bathroom for a shower. He would take his electric shaver with
him and use it on the way to save time.

Brigid arrived outside his house less
than half an hour later. Climbing into the passenger street, Brookes slipped a
plastic cup into the holder on the control panel between the seats. “Head west,
we’re going to Kew Nick. I brought you a coffee as I gathered you wouldn’t have
time to make one.”

She smiled her thanks and said, “What
exactly has happened sir? Bill didn’t tell me much.”

Brookes told her all he had been
told, adding, “Someone has started our job for us, Brigid; I bet it’s the
Jamaican Yardies. I need to see what he might have had on him that could be
useful.”

Brigid frowned. “What sort of thing
do you mean, sir?”

“Well if he’s responsible for
distributing Bronchi’s drugs, he could well have contact numbers and names and
addresses on him; or even in his home. I want to get there and find out before
whatever might be there disappears.”

The journey took them less than three
quarters of an hour as there was very little traffic on the roads. They found
Hunter in the incident room of Kew Police Station. He was a wiry, 5’8” tall man
in his forties. He and Brookes had never meet. Making the introductions,
Brookes said, “Is there anywhere we can talk in private?”

Hunter frowned. “There’s nothing I
need to keep from my team, Superintendent.”

“No, but maybe there’s something I
want to keep private.”

Reluctantly Hunter led the way to his
office, a small windowless cubicle at the rear of the incident room. The three
of them squeezed in and each found a seat around a cluttered desk. Brookes
said, “I understand DCI Hornsby of Special Branch has already spoken to you?”

“Yes, as soon as I got back from the
crime scene. What is all the fuss about?”

“Have you any idea who the victims
are?”

“The passenger, yes. He had a wallet
and a bank card with his name and address. Peter Hohner. The other man, the
driver is still unidentified. We think he must have been some kind of bodyguard
as he was carrying a hand gun.”

Brookes nodded. “Have you run his
prints?”

“Yes, I’m waiting for a result now.”

“Good, if he’s a member of the
Russian gang as we think he is, you should get a result. Have the pathologist
check his body for tattoos; a lot of the gang have them.”

“What’s your interest in all his
Superintendent?”

“That’s the bit I don’t want spread
about, even in the job. I’ve been tasked with bringing Bronchi, the Russian
gang leader, down. This hasn’t been made public yet and it’s to our advantage
it remains that way as long as possible. We do have the Commissioner’s seal of
approval. I’m sure you trust all of your officers but it’s possible that
somewhere in the job the Russian might have an informant, so this is for your
ears only, understand?”

“Yes sir, now I do. What do you need
from me?”

“First tell me what you got from the
crime scene.”

“It appears that Hohner and his
driver had turned into the driveway and used a remote control, which was on the
driver’s keyring, to open the gates. But someone had put a chain and padlock on
the gates so they wouldn’t open. Then two gunmen, who had either been waiting
for them or followed their car, sprayed the Merc with bullets. We know it was
two because of the shell casings we found on the driveway.”

“Any other evidence, tyre marks,
footprints, that sort of thing?”

“Sadly no, nothing else of value.”

 Brookes nodded. “Were either of them
carrying a briefcase, mobile phone, or notebook?”

“Yes, both had mobiles. But there was
no briefcase or notebook in the car or on the victims.”

“OK I know you will need these phones
for evidence, but I need to examine them now. Have they been dusted for prints
yet?”

“I think the CSI is doing that now.
But the one Hohner had in his pocket had a bullet through it; I’m not sure
you’ll get anything from that one.”

“That’s a shame but I need to see the
phones just as soon as he’s dusted them in case we can get anything from the
memories. We’ll also want to help when you search Hohner’s house. My guys are
on their way here now. It would be useful if you could find us a bit of space
to work in.”

“Well you can have this office for a
start and I’ll see if there’s anywhere else available.”

“What about the house, has that been
searched yet?”

“Yes, but not thoroughly, I wasn’t
aware that was going to be necessary.”

“OK, we’ll do that and soon.”

Hunter frowned. “You know there’s a
wife and baby in the house and she’s in a bit of a state?”

“OK, we’ll tread carefully, we won’t
need a search warrant as technically the house is part of the crime scene. But
if you can find a family officer to look after her and keep her out of the way
that would be a great help.”

“I’ve already got someone with her.
But what about the murder enquiry?”

Brookes smiled. “Oh yes, I almost
forgot that. Once we’ve checked everything and got all the info there is to
get, we’ll be out from under your feet. If you don’t know already this will
almost certainly be down to a gang of Jamaican Yardies run, in this country, by
a Frank Parker who lives in Brixton. DCI Bolton of the Yard’s Drug Squad who
should be on his way here will fill you in on all the details; he’ll liaise
with you on that.”

Hunter replied somewhat dubiously,
“Thanks.”

*

Three hours later Brookes and Brigid
were back in Brookes’ office at Cundell House. Brigid was writing a report of
the morning’s activities, constantly referring to her note book. Brookes was
making a succession of phone calls. The first had been to Jeremy Hornsby.
Having filled him in on what had been found at the scene, he added, “We were
lucky, one of the bullets in Hohner’s body first went through his phone. But it
didn’t wipe out the memory; we’ve got several phone numbers. It seems that
Hohner was a tidy so-and-so and there are names beside each number, mostly
Russians of course. There are a few landlines and several mobiles. No doubt
these will all prove to be throwaways but we should at least be able to find
where they were bought.”

“Good, what’s your next move?”

“I’ve a couple of things planned
which I won’t mention over the phone. I’ll fill you in when I see you next.
Thanks for the ‘heads-up’, let’s hope we find something useful.”

His next call was to DAC Groves and
briefed him on what he’d found at Kew. Groves said, “This makes your task even
more important John, the Home Secretary is already taking stick on this. Gun
battles in the leafy suburbs are not good for votes.”

“They’re not good for the people shot
sir, either.”

As Brookes put the phone down he saw
DS Moore standing in the doorway. “Yes Bill, what is it?”

“We’ve had some luck with Hohner’s
mobile, boss. The bullet didn’t destroy the phone’s memory. First the mobile
numbers; we’ve traced all but one of the numbers and they
are
all
throwaways as we thought they would be, bought in various shops in London. But
the other one wasn’t bought in this country; according to the manufacturers,
the batch it was in, was sold in France. There’s also two of the landlines that
are interesting. We’ve traced one to a small company in South London that sells
computers called PC Inc. Owned of course by a Russian. The other is the office
of a small chain of grocery stores; again the name is Russian. Dick Mann said
he’d look into these and get back to you.”

Brookes nodded thoughtfully. “That is
interesting, good. Give me the details of the French mobile, my man at the lab
might help us trace that.”

Brookes’ last call was to Arthur
Bolton, who said, “I’ll guarantee it was the Jamaicans. The two gangs were
certain to clash at some stage, they’re both looking to expand their
territory.”

Brookes said, “How will this affect
your surveillance?”

Bolton took a moment to answer. “I’ll
have to step it up, the Commissioner will do his nut if we have open warfare on
the streets of London.”

“Good,
you watch the Jamaicans and I’ll keep my eye on Bronchi. Keep in touch Arthur.”