THE LONDON DRUG WARS (16 page)

Taking the plastic wrappings from
two sound tapes, Brookes inserted them into the tape recorder already in the
room. One tape would be retained by police and one offered to the defendant
after the interview. A video camera mounted above the door was permanently on
when the room was occupied. Such precautions did away with the possibility of
defence counsels suggesting that police obtained confessions by threatening or
beating the prisoner.

Activating the tape recorder, Brookes spoke into it,
stating the date and time. Then, “I am Detective Superintendent John Brookes
and I am about to question the driver of a van involved in the placing of an
explosive device earlier this morning. Also present is...”

He paused and pointed to the uniformed constable
standing guard who spoke his name into the microphone.

Brookes then read the caution.

He was met with complete silence.

“Do you understand the caution?” he asked.

Still no reply.

Brookes said into the microphone, “The prisoner has
been read his rights under the Police and Criminal Evidence act, and made no
reply.”

“Is there anything you need?” Brookes asked.

The question hung in the air. The eyes of the man
opposite were fixed on a point on the table; he said nothing. After what seemed
an age, the prisoner shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Brookes spoke into the microphone
.
“The prisoner shook his head.” Then
to the man. “Do I take that to mean no?”

The man nodded.

Again Brookes spoke into the
mike.
“The prisoner nodded.”
Brookes stared at the prisoner for a long moment. “Do you speak English?”

After a pause he was rewarded with another nod.

“So you don’t need an interpreter?”

His response was a shake of the head.

“What is your full name?”

Yet another minute of silence, finally broken by the
detective
.
“You will be aware that your
passenger placed a bomb at the Railway Tavern, a bomb that killed at least two
people. He was shot and killed whilst resisting arrest. But your involvement
leaves you open to charges of murder. You had the good sense to give yourself
up without a struggle so you obviously value your life. This is your
opportunity to give your version of events. If you fail to co-operate with
police, this will be mentioned in court and could count against you. Is there
anything you want to say?”

Again there was a long silence
.
F
inally the man looked into Brookes
’
eyes and said in heavily accented
English, “Do you think I am stupid? If I co-operate with you, I am dead.”

“If you don’t co-operate my friend, you will spend the
whole of the rest of your life in prison; people were killed by the bomb your
colleague planted. And this is not Russia; here the criminals do not do as they
like.”

The prisoner smiled disdainfully but said nothing.

Again Brookes spoke into the microphone
.
“
The prisoner smiled.”
Then to the man, “Is there something funny? As I have said,
people were killed tonight and you are in serious trouble. Now, who sent you?”

More silence. Then in a broad East European accent,
he said,
“
I have nothing to say to you.”

Brookes tried another tack
.
“Your future doesn’t look too bright anyway. Just think on
this, if you don’t co-operate we won’t know who to protect you from. It seems
that your people are pretty ruthless. To help yourself you must help us. We
have enough evidence to proceed without your help. I’m not going to waste my
time with you. We are going to take your fingerprints then you will be put in a
cell. If you want to talk to anyone, call.”

Brookes got up to leave, the prisoner looked up; he
appeared confused. Brookes suspected that he had steeled himself for the third
degree and was surprised by the detective’s apparent lack of interest.
Let
him stew on that for a while.

Back in the charge room, Brookes gave his instructions
to the custody officer. His forensic team would come and take fingerprints,
nail scrapings and examine the prisoner’s hands and clothing for evidence of
handling explosives. Then he was to be put in a cell and left alone. The cell
had a camera in the wall above the door; Brookes
’
instructions were that this should be manned at all times.
No-one
was to interview the prisoner
without his express permission. He was to be kept incommunicado under the
Prevention of Terrorism Act; exploding a bomb on the streets of London was an
act of terrorism whatever the motive.

Brookes signed the custody record to that effect. He
then drove back to the scene of the bombing; there would be no more sleep for
him this night.

The
blue Ford Transit van used by the bombers had been taken directly to the
vehicle examination unit of the forensic science laboratory. It had already
been established that it had been stolen in North London the day before and
false number plates affixed to it. Over the next few days it would be
dismantled and examined with great care. It would be found to contain nothing
of value to the investigation; the Russian drug gang was a great deal more
careful than the Yardies.

“
Oh, East is East and West is West and never the
twain shall meet
,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s Great
Judgement Seat.
”

–
Rudyard
Kipling

Brookes returned
to the scene of the bombing to find that uniformed officers had taped off an
area around the scene of the blast and were keeping the press and crowds of
curious onlookers back. Showing his warrant card, he was allowed through. He
found all kinds of experts picking over the rubble. The Fire Brigade was still
busy checking among the smouldering ashes. An Army bomb disposal team had
arrived and was searching for the remains of the explosive device. The gas
company and local council were also represented. In the midst of all the chaos,
detectives and forensic experts were already scouring the scene for evidence.
It would take several days to complete their tasks.

Brookes saw that Brigid Jones had
arrived and got stuck in; she appeared from a huge hole in the rubble talking
animatedly with Fred Middlemiss. Her fashionable navy jacket and designer jeans
were smudged with ash, her hair in a mess and there was a streak of dirt on her
forehead; clearly she was not frightened to get involved. Noticing his glance
she smiled her greeting. Brookes returned her smile.

In contrast Arthur Bolton stood off
to one side, looking immaculate in an expensive looking woollen overcoat;
clearly he was not the kind of person who liked to get his hands dirty. Brookes
joined him and learned that there were four fatalities and several injuries.
The four dead had all been sleeping in first floor bedrooms immediately above
the blast. They were identified as the publican and his wife and one of the
gang’s criminal lieutenants and his girlfriend; they had all been killed
instantly. The gang lieutenant, Coles, was believed to have been responsible
for drug distribution. The other lieutenant, ‘Meatloaf’ Manning, the enforcer,
was not among those found. Two other gang members and a woman, who’d been
sleeping in rear bedrooms, were among the injured; they would survive.

An army captain was in the street
examining debris thrown out by the blast. Brookes watched him use a pair of
tweezers to pick up a speck of grey matter adhering to a vehicle. The man
sniffed the substance and was about to put it into a plastic bag when he saw
Brookes watching, he beckoned him over.

He held out the tweezers and said,
“Smell that, detective.”

Brookes leant forward and sniffed,
the substance had a distinctive pungent odour. “What is it?” he asked.

“Semtex; it’s made in the Czech
Republic. It’s widely used by the military and the demolition trade. But it’s
also the favourite explosive of terrorists. Easy to obtain and easy to handle,
provided you know what you are doing. The explosive itself is odourless but so
much of the stuff was being used by the IRA and Middle East terrorists that the
manufacturers were persuaded to add ethylene glycol to make it detectable,
that’s what you can smell.”

“What about Russian criminals, would
they have access to the stuff?”

“Undoubtedly, although with some
difficulty in this country. But on the continent? Officially, you can’t buy it
on the open market unless you can prove that you have a legitimate use for it.
But there are dozens of arms dealers over there who are not fussy who they sell
it to. There has always been a black market for munitions and explosives in
trouble spots throughout the world; and where’s there’s a demand someone will
inevitably meet it if there’s a profit to be made.

“Dealers are supposed to ask buyers
for something called an End Used Certificates issued by the government of the
countries the explosives are destined for.” He smiled. “But it’s a bit like
FIFA, football’s governing body; more than a few government officials from
third world countries will sign anything if the price is right.”

Brookes nodded. “So you think this
stuff comes from the continent?”

The man nodded. “Probably. We’re a
little more fortunate here; being an island we have better controls. Thefts do
occur from legitimate users but they are usually reported and easy to check on.
My guess would be that this stuff was smuggled across the channel.

“One thing I can tell you is that the
stuff used in this bomb is quite old. That’s why it didn’t all explode;
probably kept in a store somewhere for some considerable time. When it’s fresh,
it
all
goes up in the big bang.”

“That’s useful, thanks a lot. Is
there anything else you can tell me about it?”

“Not from the explosive, no. Maybe if
I find the remains of the detonator or triggering device I’ll be able to tell
you more. Every device has a signature; occasionally it leads us to the
bomb-maker. One of your team told me how the device was delivered. There was a
short delay from the time the device was placed to the time the explosion
occurred, so the detonation was either by timer or remote. Mobile phone signals
are quite popular these days. I’ll keep looking.” He paused, giving Brookes a
frown. “Interesting that you ask about Russians. From what little I know of
Russian gangs, there are a lot of out of work Red Army veterans who have joined
them. Some of them will have the know-how on explosives. If you do come across
any, most of them have tattoos naming the regiments they served in. That should
help you identify them.”

So do their criminals
, thought Brookes. Fred
Middlemiss had appeared at Brookes’ elbow, he waited for the army captain to
finish. “We’ve had some luck here boss. You’ll want to see this.”

Brookes thanked the army captain and
excused himself. Then he followed his sergeant as he scrambled across the
rubble to the rear of the shattered building; Brigid brought up the rear.

Ducking through the remains of a
doorway, Middlemiss led him along a corridor to a staircase leading down to a
cellar. Halogen lamps placed by the Fire Brigade provided stark lighting to the
scene. Firemen were everywhere shifting rubble and making what remained of the
building safe enough for the investigators to do their work.

In the cellar, the smell of beer was
overpowering; the remains of crates and broken bottles were everywhere. There
was an inch of beer and water from the fire hoses underfoot. They waded their
way across the cellar.

Middlemiss pointed to a dividing wall
that had a huge hole blown in it. “When the bomb went off at the front of the
building, it took out the ceiling of the cellar in the front of the building
and knocked that hole in the wall in this one.” Turning, he pointed to the rear
wall where several bricks had been dislodged. “It also uncovered this lot.”

Scrambling across piles of broken
beer crates, bottles and casks, Middlemiss squeezed through a gap in the
brickwork. Following him, Brookes found himself in a tunnel. By the light of
the torch Middlemiss carried, he saw that twenty yards further on was a metal
door.

“Brigid used her charm on the bloke
from the council who turned up and got a look at the building plans. Behind
that door is a house that backs on to the pub. Number 19 Garnet Street. The
owner’s a guy named Cyrus Lloyd who just happens to be a member of the Yardies
gang.”

Brookes smiled. “Seems like the drug
squad didn’t do their homework. No wonder they couldn’t find drugs in the
Tavern.”

Middlemiss nodded. “I sent Liz and
Stumpy round to watch the house. There’s no sign of life there, which doesn’t
make sense unless the occupants are stone deaf. Probably done a runner when the
bomb went off. Bill Moore’s organising a search warrant, boss.”

Brookes nodded. “Good, Arthur Bolton
and his team can take it from here. We’re only interested in Bronchi.” He
looked around but there was no sign of Bolton. “Clearly he doesn’t want to get
his shoes dirty. I’ll go and give him the news.”

*

At 11am Brookes was back at his desk
at Cundell House. The drugs squad had been busy. The search warrant had been
obtained and 10 Garnet Street had been searched from top to bottom. Several
kilos of heroin, cocaine, and crack were found in the cellar. In addition, a
locksmith had been called to open a safe in the wall of the living room, in it
was found a large sum of cash and a ledger.

An animated Richard Mann was sitting
beside Brookes, describing the contents of the ledger he’d found in the cellar.
“What we’ve got here sir is cast-iron evidence of the Yardies’ drug
distribution business. There’s enough here to put their London gang out of
business.”

Brookes gave his fraud expert a tired
smile. “I’m sure Arthur Bolton will be pleased to hear that. I now have four
more murders on my plate that are down to Bronchi. That should keep my team
busy for a while. I don’t suppose you’ve had time to look into those two
businesses whose numbers were on Hohner’s phone have you?”

“Only as far as ascertaining that
each is a legitimate registered company. But I’m on it.”

“Good, I need to know the details of
the owners and whether they are just fronts for criminal activity.”

Mann nodded. “OK sir, as soon as I
can.”

Once Mann had left, Brookes’ mind
turned back to the murders. He had the actual killers, the man who had placed
the bomb was dead and his accomplice was in custody. But he wanted the man who
had ordered the killings. There was no doubt at all that it was Ivan Bronchi
but there was no evidence that went towards proving that. The key was the man
in custody; he was the link and his interrogation would be crucial.

DS Moore brought in a message which
he handed to Brookes. It said that the driver of the van used in the bombing
had been identified as Victor Panasoff, a naturalised Russian who was a known
associate of Bronchi. He’d been identified by fingerprint comparison; his were
on file following his conviction for a serious assault, for which he’d served
three years in prison.

The note went on to say that the
bomber killed by police had not yet been identified. There was no trace of his
fingerprints in police records, neither had he previously been seen on the drug
scene in London. Moore said, “He could have been flown in from Moscow
especially for the bombing boss. We’ve got SB studying airport security videos
of recent arrivals.”

Brookes nodded. “Good, let me know if
we get a result.”

Fighting against his tiredness,
Brookes then spent half an hour studying his notes and sorting his thoughts,
preparing himself for a briefing at the Yard. He had been told that the
Commissioner would attend as the government, the media and the public were in
uproar over the bombing and he would have to deal with that uproar. The
Commissioner was due at Downing Street later that morning and would face a
press conference immediately after. The British public was not best pleased
when bombs went off on the streets of London and they would want to know why it
had happened and what was being done about it; inevitably they would look for
someone to blame. Things had suddenly come to a head. Brookes handed over a
list of urgent instruction to the unflappable Bill Moore and left for the Yard.

In the meantime, Eric Brown had paid
a visit to Pentonville Prison to interview Panasoff again. But the man had
clammed up totally. Throughout the interrogation, he had sat staring at the
table between them. He had said not one word in answer to Brown’s questions;
even ignoring the offer of cigarettes, which are the top currency among
criminals in prison. Brown guessed correctly that Panasoff had family back in
Russia and the brutal code of silence enforced by the Red Mafiya made the
threat of life imprisonment preferable to the murder of his relatives.

The
prisoner did indeed have a mother and two sisters living in Moscow. He would later
refuse even to plead at his trial; word had been got to him that his family
would be looked after financially as a reward for his silence. He was
subsequently sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.
But still Brookes was no closer to arresting Bronchi.