THE LONDON DRUG WARS (15 page)

By one-thirty that afternoon
Middlemiss’s team were in position in Soho. The street was busy with the normal
hustle and bustle of inner city life. Delivery vans brought fresh supplies to
the restaurants and shops and street cleaners brushed away the debris from the
previous night ready for the coming one. Tourists mingled with locals going
about their business. Everything looked normal.

At just before 2pm Middlemiss got the
heads-up. Minutes later a silver Mercedes drew quietly to a halt outside the
delicatessen. The two men in the front remained in their seats, the two in the
rear got out; one was carrying a large black briefcase. They walked to the
green door. One looked around him, but his eyes took in little of his
surroundings; having gone through the routine many hundreds of times without
interference he’d lost his sharpness.

The other man pressed the bell push
and spoke briefly into the intercom. The door was buzzed open from inside and
the two entered and started up the narrow staircase. The door swung-to
automatically behind them.

Stumpy Gerrard, dressed in jeans and
donkey jacket approached the door just as it was closing. His timing was
immaculate, he stopped it an inch before the lock engaged and inserted a strip
of plastic between the door and the lock on the doorframe, allowing it to close
but not lock. He used his body to shield his actions from the two men in the
Mercedes behind him. He then went through the pretence of ringing the bell and
talking animatedly into the intercom. Thanks to the practice he’d had his act
was convincing.

The two men in the Mercedes watched
Stumpy’s antics without alarm as he gave the perfect impression of an early
punter seeking sex. Whilst their attention was on him they didn’t notice the
four men who approached their car from the rear, two on each side of the
vehicle. The first two opened the rear doors to the car and slid quickly in.
One shouted, “Armed police, don’t move!”

Even as he spoke the front doors of
the car were ripped open and two other detectives leant in, pinioning the
Russians’ arms to their sides, preventing them from either sending a message to
those inside the building or attempting to draw weapons. The two were subdued,
handcuffed and led off to a waiting police van.

In the meantime, eight other
detectives wearing flak jackets over their plain clothes and baseball caps with
the familiar black and white chequered bands around them, gathered at the green
door. At a nod from Middlemiss, who had also donned a baseball cap with a
chequered band and led the way, the door was pushed open and the detectives
went quickly and quietly up the narrow staircase.

This was the part of the operation
that had worried Middlemiss most of all as the staircase was narrow and the
stairs creaked. He arrived at the top of the stairs with his handgun extended
in front of him. Ignoring the middle-aged woman seated at a desk, he went past
her and kicked open the door behind her, shouting, “Stand still, armed police!”

The surprise was
complete. Three men stood around a desk, on which stood a stack of bank notes
and an open briefcase. One of the goons actually had a bundle of notes in his
hand, raised ready to put it into the briefcase. A camera clicked behind
Middlemiss, capturing the scene for posterity.

Other armed detectives crowded into
the tiny room behind Middlemiss and none of the goons offered any resistance.
Each was handcuffed and led down to the street and a waiting police van.

A detective from the Fraud Squad
carefully counted the pile of money on the desk, it amounted to £4,400; it
seemed that it had been a quiet night. In the briefcase, a further £16,500 was
found, collected from the other brothels. In the safe behind the desk, another
£800 was found, apparently held back for wages and expenses. All the cash was
placed in evidence bags and taken away.

The most valuable find of all, one
that brought a smile to the Fraud Squad detective’s face, was a ledger
detailing the brothels daily take over the past thirteen months. It was this
find as much as any other that would ensure the convictions of those concerned
for being involved in the running of a brothel. The icing on the cake for Fred
was that two of the four Russian collectors had carried handguns and would be
charged with firearm offences; it also made him realise how important the
careful execution of their plan had been.

In the meantime, things were
happening elsewhere. Timed to coincide with the raid on the brothel, a
detective, dressed in the uniform of a postman and carrying a large parcel,
rang the doorbell of the Moscow Nights club. A giant of a man, obviously a
bouncer, opened the door. The ‘postman’ stepped forward, holding the parcel in
front of him. Automatically the bouncer took hold of the parcel and was unable
to resist the surge of detectives who appeared from both sides and pushed
through the doorway. The bouncer was immediately handcuffed and led off to a
police van that had drawn up to the entrance of the nightclub.

Detectives spread out through the
building, gathering together the cleaners and barmen, who were the only
occupants this early in the day.

Brookes,
accompanied by Dick Mann and four armed detectives, headed straight for the
manager’s office. Sitting behind his desk, the manager, Andrei Popov, looked up
in surprise as the door burst open and the detectives walked in. The only other
occupant of the office was a hard-looking man seated in a comfortable armchair;
he tried to rise and pull something from his waist at the same time. Hampered
by the soft cushions, he was far too slow and failed in both actions. Two
detectives pushed him back into the seat, disarmed him, handcuffed him, and led
him away.

Brookes walked up to the desk.
“Andrei Popov, this is a warrant to search these premises.” He laid the warrant
on the desk. “Please open the safe.” He pointed to a huge shoulder-high metal
box standing against the wall behind Popov.

Popov, still recovering from the
shock, said nothing.

Brookes gave him a few seconds then
said. “I have a locksmith with me, if you refuse to open it, I shall be obliged
to open it forcibly, causing unnecessary damage. One way or the other, we will
get into it.”

Popov shook his head. In heavily
accented English, he said, “You can’t do that.”

“Watch me,” Brookes said, turning to
one of his detectives. “Bring the locksmith in.” The detective left the office.

Popov looked
defeated. He pushed a bunch of keys on the desk towards the detective and said,
“Here are the keys.”

Brookes turned to Dick Mann beside him
,
who picked up the keys and went to
the safe. It took the detectives four hours to count the cash; they finally
arrived at the grand sum of £843,068. On the bottom shelf of the safe, Dick
Mann found a pile of books and papers. Among those were the leases to six
premises. Five were the brothels, the sixth turned out to be a pornographic
book and video shop.

Popov’s computer was seized. On it would later be
found the carefully kept accounts for the nightclub. They would not account for
the huge sum of money found in the safe. The cash would be confiscated by
Revenue and Customs.

Everything was taken away and Popov arrested. The
hands-on policy of the Russians would result in the conviction of Popov and all
of the gang members involved in the prostitution business and forfeiture of all
the monies seized. Revenue and Customs would add charges of tax evasion later.
The club would also have its liquor licence revoked. Convicted criminals are
among those barred from holding such licences.

The five brothels in Bronchi’s chain were closed down
and the girls who had worked at them had been rounded up. The Vice Squad and
Immigration Department would spend months working out who among them were
illegal immigrants and what should be done with them. There were some
heartrending stories that would be revealed about their pasts. Many were
allowed to remain in the UK and chose to do so seeking other means of earning a
living; the people who work in the Immigration Department are not as heartless
as some would have us believe.

When Brookes later put together the results of the
raids, he was quietly pleased; he had destroyed Bronchi’s income from the
brothels. It was the first step in what was likely to be a long campaign.

But
they had no evidence yet against the man himself.

“
There is a reaper whose name is death

And with his sickle keen.

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath

And the flowers that grow between.
”

-
Longfellow
.
The Reaper and the Flowers.

The next two days Brookes
’
team had been busy sorting out the evidence gathered from
the two raids and preparing the resultant charges. But later that week events
were to take another turn.

 It was a chilly night and DCs Bill Harris and Sally
Wright of the
d
rug
s
quad had drawn the dog watch. They
sat in the back of a nondescript grey Transit van feeling miserable. The rear
windows had a one-way mirror; they could see out but no-one could see in.

The van was parked some fifty yards from
t
he Bridge Tavern on the opposite side
of the road. From their vantage point the two detectives had a clear view of
the pub’s entrance over the tops of cars parked. The van bore a current
resident
’
s parking permit on its windscreen
and looked perfectly at home amongst the other vehicles parked in the street.

Harris stirred in his seat, easing the pressure on his
rear
end. He did so gently so as not to
rock the van on its springs. Any romantic notions a person might have about
police surveillances would immediately be dispersed if he were ever to try it.
Especially in circumstances like this. Concealed in a vehicle at night with no
heating or toilet facility was no fun. With their movements restricted, cramp
added to their discomfort.

The two detectives knew perfectly well why they had
been given the dog watch and did their penance without complaint. They’d been
on the surveillance of Manning, or ‘
M
eatball’ as he was known, the previous week and had lost him. Each had
brought with them thermos flasks full of soup and coffee, sandwiches and an
empty plastic bottle for the inevitable waste body products. Collecting those
waste products with a mixed team was a particular problem but they managed as
best they could.

This was the third night of the surveillance and much
had already been learned. Two detectives from another part of the capital had
been brought into the team to observe the goings on inside the pub. They were
black skinned
,
as were most of the customers who
used the place and they had no difficulty merging with the other customers. It
was they
who
had spotted the street dealers
,
who came in a steady stream to buy
their drugs.

A pattern had emerged. As a dealer arrived he would
approach the barman; words were exchanged and the dealer would be directed to a
door at the end of the bar with an old-fashioned sign on it announcing it to be
‘The Snug’. At a nod from the barman the two men guarding the door would admit
the man. The other customers knew better than to approach the door. The dealers
did not re-emerge through the door. After doing their business, they left
through a side door leading to an alley.

The watchers outside had seen the
dealers emerging from the mouth of the alley and hurry away. A mobile
surveillance team had followed one all the way to Tottenham in North London.
There the vehicle he was in had been stopped on the pretext of reckless
driving. It had been searched and a plastic bag containing over a hundred small
packets of heroin had been found in the glove compartment. The car’s occupant
was arrested and charged with possession with intent to supply. When questioned
he would not reveal his source but subsequent events would persuade him to
co-operate. His evidence would later form part of the case against the Jamaican
gang.

What confounded Bolton’s team was that the Tavern had
been raided several times in the past but no drugs had ever been found. Short
of tearing up the floorboards the search teams had looked in every conceivable
hiding place without success. Even the sniffer dogs had had no success. Clearly
the Jamaicans had found some clever way of concealing their stock.

On this particular night Harris and Wright had watched
the comings and goings at the pub until the last customer had left shortly
after midnight. Soon after that the lights on the ground floor had been
switched off. Half an hour later the upstairs lights had been extinguished.
Since then there had been no sign of life from the premises. The two detectives
had settled down to what they thought would be a boring night.

The area was well lit by street lamps and the only
access to the pub was via the front door or the alleyway beside it, the only
exit of which was into the street they were keeping observation from. Wright
and her partner were certain this time that they would miss nothing. Between
twelve and two there had been a few pedestrians and vehicles that had passed
the tavern without showing any interest in the place. Since then it had gone
very quiet. In the next two hours the only thing that moved in the street was a
cat;
a
ginger tom that had emerged from the
alley and crossed the road
,
intent on its own important business.

Then, just before 4am, a blue delivery van cruised
slowly past. Wright nudged her companion
,
who had been dozing. Both watched the van; it slowed almost
to a stop outside the Tavern then pulled quietly forward. At the first junction,
some
fifty
yards further on, it turned left.
Wright recorded the van’s details in the observation log.

Harris yawned
.
“Probably some local toe-rags looking for a decent motor to
nick.”

A few minutes later, the same van made another pass,
again slowing but not stopping. Now fully alert
,
Harris radioed the van’s description to their central
control. A mobile surveillance vehicle nearby was alerted, its occupants told
to standby.

The blue van came past a third time. This time its
brake lights came on and the watching detectives saw it pull silently to a stop
outside the pub. A man wearing dark clothing and what looked like a balaclava
covering his face got out of the van carrying a package. He looked around him
then carefully placed the package in the pub’s doorway and got back into the
van. The van then accelerated quickly away.

Harris was radioing details of the activity to control
when suddenly there was a massive explosion; a white flash obliterated
everything.

A fraction of a second later, the blast hit the police
van
,
rocking it on its springs. The
occupants were only saved from serious injury by the fact that other vehicles,
parked between them and the explosion, absorbed much of the blast. Had they
been closer, they would no doubt have been killed or seriously injured.

Two cars, parked closer to the blast were thrown into
the air by the shockwave. Bricks and debris began to rain down over the whole
area. A huge chunk of brickwork landed on the roof of the surveillance vehicle
,
making a massive dent. Fortunately
for the two people inside, it did not penetrate the thin metal.

It took several moments for the two detectives to
recover from the shock. When they did they saw that the whole of the front of
the pub had disappeared and much of the remainder had collapsed. Windows in
nearby buildings were shattered and fires had started in the remains of the pub
and adjoining buildings. As soon as he was able, Harris radioed the news to
control.

Within ten minutes, the street was full of emergency
services vehicles. 

*

Elsewhere, a high-speed chase was taking place across
the near
empty streets of South London.
Several police patrol vehicles, alerted by radio, joined the chase. Police
armed response units were among them. Whilst London’s normal police patrols do
not carry firearms, heavily armed colleagues patrol in vehicles throughout the
twenty-four hours, ready to back up their unarmed colleagues. They take pride
in the fact that their response time is seldom more than a few minutes.

Several attempts were made to stop the blue van. Each
time it was approached, shots were fired from the van. By now some forty police
units were involved in the chase.

The Metropolitan
P
olice fast response vehicles are coordinated by radio link
with a team of vastly experienced officers based at New Scotland Yard. Calm
under pressure
,
they have a
knowledge of London’s streets tha
t
rivals that of the black cab drivers. On this night, the senior officer
in charge, Inspector Brian Matthews, worked out the possible routes that the
van could take. He ordered roadblocks at four separate points ahead of it.

A few minutes later the blue van approached one of the
roadblocks at high speed. The hastily assembled barrier consisted of two rows
of police vehicles parked across the road. As is so often the case in London,
parked vehicles lined the street on either side. There was no way through for
the van and ramming was not a viable option. Armed police were both behind the
barrier and in one of the chasing vehicles.

The van screeched to a halt some fifty yards short of
the roadblock. A passenger dressed in black and wearing a balaclava got out and
ran back towards the chasing vehicles
,
firing an automatic weapon at the police vehicles as he ran. A police
armed response unit was the second in the chasing group. It came to a swift
halt. Two police officers got out, one armed with a shotgun, the other with a
high-powered rifle. Each coolly knelt down behind the bonnet of their vehicle,
took careful aim and fired almost simultaneously. The gunman was knocked
sideways by the twin impacts. He was dead before his body hit the ground. In
the meantime, the driver of the van had got out of his vehicle with his arms
raised high above his head.

 In the past thirty years London’s police had learned
a great deal about extreme violence; first with the IRA and more recently with
the Middle East terrorist threat. Their training and alertness had stood them
in good stead.

Aroused from his sleep, Brookes arrived at the scene
of the bomb attack some thirty minutes after the explosion. Police already at
the scene informed him that there had almost certainly been fatalities; several
other injured people had been rescued from the wrecked buildings. Two men and a
woman, who had been asleep at the rear of the pub, were seriously injured and
on the way to hospital. Six more casualties had so far been found in adjoining
buildings, two were seriously injured, and four had less serious wounds.
Fortunately, none of the injuries w
ere
life threatening. Over the next few hours, several other people were
treated for minor cuts and scratches and shock. It would later be confirmed
that four people who had been sleeping in bedrooms above the pub entrance had
been killed in the blast; these included Frank ‘Bruno’ Parker, the London gang
leader.

Bolton, who had also been called out, took charge at
the scene. Brookes was content to leave the organisation to him although
members of his, Brookes
’
,
team were assisting. The area was cordoned off and Bolton and his team waited
impatiently for the Fire Brigade to allow them entry to the ruined pub. It
would take another hour before the firemen had extinguished all the small fires
and satisfied themselves the remains of the building were safe. Only then did
the team of detectives and CSI’s move in.

In the meantime, the press who had arrived in force
were not allowed within 100 yards of the scene. Bolton’s only comment was to
confirm that there had been an explosion and some fatalities. He directed them
to Scotland Yard where a press officer would make a statement as soon it was
decided what information could be released.

Detectives from the joint teams involved in the
investigation arrived in ones and two’s and were briefed and tasked by Bolton.
After their initial search the scene would be gone over at length by a skilled
team of forensic experts.

As soon as he heard of the arrest of one of the
bombers, Brookes left for Paddington Green where the man had been taken.

On his arrival the detective’s identity was checked
and he was granted access to the cell complex. A burly police officer took him
to an interview room where the prisoner was seated at a desk. The officer
briefed Brookes on what had happened to the prisoner so far. He had been
stripped and provided with a paper overall: All of his clothing and pocket
contents had been put into evidence bags. He’d been informed of his rights
under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. He had made no reply at all. After
that he’d not been interviewed or even asked his name.

Brookes entered the interview room; another large, fit
-
looking, uniformed policeman was
standing guard over the prisoner
,
who
was handcuffed to a ring in the table in front of him. The prisoner was a short
,
stocky man in his mid-thirties.
Blond
,
straight hair cut short topped Slavic
features. His expressionless face bore a heavy stubble; pale blue eyes stared
at the table in front of him. The search that had included his body orifices
showed that he carried no identification nor anything else beyond a
handkerchief and some small change found in his pockets.