THE LONDON DRUG WARS (4 page)

“Anything else sir? You don’t need
your nails doing as well do you?”

He looked at her and smiled. “Sorry
Brigid. I can be a bit bossy at times can’t I? But then I am the boss,
remember?”

“How could I possibly forget sir?”
She paused, finishing writing the notes she’d been making. Looking up, she
added, “I’ve got a date tonight sir, so I’m looking for an early finish. Is
that OK?”

He looked at his watch; it said
3.10pm. Then he nodded, waving her towards the door. “Yes, off you go, do those
things for me before you go, they won’t take long. Oh, and your date; don’t nag
him
to death will you?”

She rolled her eyes at him again as
she left the office.

His next call was to Chief
Superintendent Simon Couples. His divisional boss. After exchanging greetings
he said, “I got a message saying you were looking for me.”

“Crime reports, they’re late as usual
John.”

Brookes sighed. “I’ll get onto them
sir. Anything else?”

“Well you can buy us a pint later if
you’ve time.”

“Sadly not, I’ve an appointment to
interview a witness this evening. Perhaps later this week?”

“OK, I’ll speak to you later.”

Brookes
spent the remainder of the afternoon clearing more of his pile of paperwork
which included the monthly crime report. It occurred to him as he finally
finished reading a complicated legal aid report submitted by one of his DCs
that if he were to accept Groves’ offer he would no doubt reduce the amount of
time he spent on admin. Clearly there were pros as well as cons that went with
running a small dedicated team, even if it was under the eye of the
Commissioner.

Coincidence is the very stuff of
detective work and in long, complicated investigations it is that which often
brings the breakthrough. That afternoon was to bring that message home to
Brookes for the umpteenth time. One of the messages on his desk was to contact
the chief chemist at the police forensic science laboratory at Battersea,
Damion Pickering. Brookes got round to it just before five when he knew the
scientists left for home. Getting through on the phone he said, “Glad I caught
you Damion; John Brookes, how are you?”

“Ah, Sheerluck himself. Fine John,
and you?”

“I’m good. I got your message, what
have you got for me?”

“The heroin that Amanda Page had
taken; it’s pure Afghan which is very strange.”

“Strange? How so? You can buy it on
almost any street corner in this city, sad to say.”

“Not in that form you can’t. I said
pure. Pure as in with no additives. Out of curiosity I had our chemist test the
tiny drop left in the syringe used to inject her as well as that in her system.
His report says it was 98% pure heroin; one fifth of a gram of that pumped
directly into the bloodstream is enough to bring a bull elephant down. ”

Brookes frowned. “I see what you
mean. Now how on Earth would a university student get hold of it in that form?”

“Obviously before it was cut by the
distributor. But you’re the detective Sheerluck, detect.”

“The questions was rhetorical Damion,
as you well know. OK that does make things interesting. Anything else for me?”

“No that’s it. As I mentioned
yesterday, otherwise she was in perfectly good health, sexually active but not
preggers, which does away with that motive.”

Brookes smiled. “By the way I met
another member of your profession today, a Doctor Liza Rushmore, she lectures
at London University; do you know her?”

“Not personally, but I know of her.
Strictly speaking she’s not of my profession, she’s a chemist. I think I’ve
read one of her papers, I forget what on. What were you doing with her? She
hasn’t poisoned someone has she?”

“You’re the
second one in the few hours who has said that. No, she took me out for a drink,
she seems very nice.”

“Well I hope you two will be very
happy together; sounds as if she mixed you a love potion. Keep me informed of
your progress won’t you?”

“Fat chance of that when all you do
is take the Mickey. Thanks for the info and watch out for those sharp needles.”

Brookes was thoughtful as he put the
phone down. He knew the processes necessary to produce heroin. First the gum
was collected from the poppy heads in the hills of Afghanistan. It then went
through a series of processes that produced the heroin that was 98% pure. It
was them smuggled out of Afghanistan, through Uzbekistan into Russia. From
there one of the gangs of the so-called Russian mafia smuggled it across Europe
to the west.

Arriving at its destination, one of
the major Western European cities, it is then sold to distributers who have
their own chemist, who adds an innate substance such as baking powder to bulk
it out before passing on to the street dealers; this process is called
‘cutting’. In the diluted form in which it is sold on the streets, it is less
than twenty per cent pure. The United States has a separate supply source. The
poppies are also grown in Mexico, the gum harvested and processed locally then
smuggled north across the leaky border between the two countries together with
people, cocaine, arms, and just about anything else from which a profit can be
made.

As the report had indicated,
injecting a syringe full of pure heroin into someone’s body would result in
certain death. What struck Brookes was the only known distributer of
Afghanistan grown heroin in this part of London was the Russian, Ivan Bronchi.
What possible connection could there have been between Bronchi and Amanda Page?

Brookes’ deliberations were disturbed
by a diplomatic cough from the doorway. Standing there was DS Fred Middlemiss.
Fred was a Cockney, by birth as well as by inclination. His language was as
flowery as any you might hear, his manner was ‘chirpy’ for which the true
Cockney was famous, and his wit legendary. In his mid-thirties, he was happily
married with four young children and managed to combine the duties that flowed
from such responsibility with police work. He said, “You sent for me boss?”

“Yes Fred, come in. Take a seat.”

Middlemiss put a bulky loose-leaf
binder on the desk between them. Tapping it, he said, “The logs; there’s a
week’s worth there boss. A week’s bleeding hard graft.”

“I don’t doubt it Fred. OK, without
the witness we don’t have a chance of pinning that murder on him. But now I’m getting
pressure from upstairs and I need
something
with which to ‘screw this
bastard down’, to use the DAC’s exact words. What have you got for me?”

Middlemiss blew out his cheeks.
“That’s a hard one boss, most of the time Bronchi just floats above it all. He
doesn’t get his hands dirty anymore, he leaves that to his soldiers. You know
the score boss, no-one would dare to put him in the frame; if they did they
know he’d cut off their balls and stuff them in their mouths to say nothing of
what he’d do to their families; so everyone’s running scared. And all those
close to him are from back home in Moscow so they ain’t going to turn him in.
The best we can do is nibble away at his business at street level.”

“He must be vulnerable some time;
what about when he takes delivery of the drugs? Surely he will be there for
that. Isn’t that what happened in the film, The French Connection?”

Middlemiss smiled. “You’ve been
watching too much telly boss. But you’re right. The only other time he’s likely
to go near the drugs is when he visits his chemist, the guy who cuts them.”

Brookes pointed to the binder. “What
do these tell us?”

“First they tell us he knows we’re
watching him and he’s crafty. Most of the time he makes it easy for us to keep
up with him. But when he’s got something on that’s private he loses his tail.
We thought of putting a tracker on his car but according to DCI Bolton’s mob he
has it swept when he’s got something on. The crafty bugger doesn’t just smash
it, he attaches the thing to another car and we follow that like idiots. The
last time two of Bolton’s crew ended up going shopping with Bronchi’s bird.”

“Well there must be some point to the
surveillance Fred. Are there any discernible patterns?”

“Well, one of the lads, Stumpy
Gerrard; you know him boss?”

Brookes nodded. “Go on.”

“Well Stumpy reckons his chemist must
be over here in the East End somewhere.”

“How did he work that out?”

“You said it yourself, boss.
Patterns. The one time we got lucky was three days ago. Bronchi and his
bodyguard who drives his Merc set off from Bronchi’s pad in Chelsea late one
afternoon. They crossed the river to Battersea bold as brass with our crew
following. Then they headed east through Kennington to Bermondsey. It was there
they pulled a fast one. The Merc turned off the main road into a side street.
Our crew followed just in time to see it disappear round another corner. They
followed but when they caught up they realised it was a different Merc; the
crafty buggers had done a switch.

But it wasn’t a complete disaster. We
put out an all cars on Bronchi’s car and an hour later it was seen travelling
west in Roam Road, Bow. From there it drove straight back to Bronchi’s pad in
Chelsea.”

Brookes frowned, Roman Road was only
half a mile south of Victoria Park; Amanda Page had lived just north of the
park. “OK. But what made Stumpy think he’d been to see his chemist?”

“Well we brought
this up at a meeting at the Yard with the drugs squad. They’ve pulled two
motors in the last three months travelling west out of the East End each with a
boot-load of ‘H’ all packed nicely in little plastic bags ready for sale on the
streets. Stumpy put two and two together and reckoned that Bronchi was over
this way checking up on his chemist. I reckon he could be right boss.”

Brookes had a smile on his face.
“It’s a long shot but you could indeed be right. Check your log here for
Thursday of last week.” He pushed the logs across the desk to Middlemiss.

Middlemiss flicked through the sheets
in the binder. “Yeah, here we are boss.” His face screwed up in concentration
as he read the log entry. “Not much that day. Bronchi spent the afternoon at
his club in Knightsbridge. Picked up his dolly bird at six then took her for a
meal. Then home to bed with her at about nine. Confucius says, ‘Early night means
heavy nookey’ boss.”

Brookes smiled. “What do we know
about Bronchi’s gang? The personnel I mean.”

“Well the drug squad have identified
a couple of his lieutenants. One’s the collector who looks after the loot and
another we think is the enforcer. Then there’s a few gorillas who we think are
part of his heavy duty team; they keep the natives in line.”

“Do we know what kind of car the
enforcer drives?”

“I expect so boss, the squad will
know but I’ll guarantee it’ll be a Merc. Ivan’s got a fleet of them.”

“OK, find out for me Fred.” He
paused, scratching his head. “I’m dealing with a suspicious death. Amanda Page,
died from an overdose of heroin. And the heroin was pure; that’s uncut, not
like the stuff you buy on the street. It’s just possible she saw something she
shouldn’t have when she was out jogging. It would be interesting to know if one
of the gang’s cars happened to be in Cutler Street, next to Victoria Park
sometime last Tuesday. Or even hanging around the vicinity early that week.

“If
we have details of a vehicle a few house to house enquiries of Amanda’s
neighbours might just come up with something. Get the info on the enforcer’s
car to Bill Moore and get him to organise the house to house enquiries.” He
looked up and smiled. “OK. Thanks Fred that was useful. Here, take the logs
with you.”

Peter Robins lived in a bedsit in the
eaves of another old Victorian house some half-mile from the student let. One
of the messages on Brookes’ desk had been from him, saying he would be at home
this evening. By now it was already early evening and there was a lot of
traffic as people travelled home from work. Arriving at Robins’ address,
Brookes spent five minutes looking for somewhere to park. Finally finding a
spot some hundred yards away Brookes walked to the house and climbed the steps
to the front door. There were four door bells, each with a name beside it. He
rang the one at the top and after a second or two a mechanical sounding voice
said, “Yes.”

Brookes gave his name and the door
was a buzzed open. By the time he had climbed the stairs to the third floor he
was panting. Robins was waiting for him on the top landing. Brookes weighed him
up as he regained his breath. The lad was in his early twenties, tall and slim.
His hair was slicked back at the sides with a raised ‘Mohican style’ quiff
running from front to back in what was the current fashion for men; in Brookes’
view it looked ridiculous. But then he thought, so had the DA
he
had
worn in
his
youth. Robins was dressed in blue jeans and a tracksuit top.
He had a nervous smile on his face.

He led the way into his tiny flat. It
was fairly typical of a down-market bachelor pad, with dirty plates and cups
piled on the small draining board beside an even smaller sink, and clothes and
old newspapers everywhere; clearly Robins had made no effort to tidy up.
Against one wall was an old settee that obviously doubled as a bed, as pillows
and a duvet were piled at one end. Moving clothes from an armchair Robins
invited Brookes to sit; he sat on the settee. He said, “I’d offer you some tea
but I haven’t got any milk.”

“No problem,” Brookes said, “I need
to talk to you about your relationship with Amanda. How long had you known
her?”

“Just a couple of months.”

 “Can you be more exact please? When
did you meet her?”

“Just before Christmas, we met in the
Butchers Block.”

“And how did you meet?’

“I knew some of the other students
she was with; they introduced us.”

Brookes noticed a thin film of sweat
that was already forming on Robins’ forehead. The detective said, “How close
were you?”

Robins licked his lips. “Fairly
close.”

“Don’t play games with me. What does
that mean?”

“Well, we were an item I suppose
you’d say.”

“How often did you see each other?”

By now the sweat was running down the
sides of Robins’ face. But he was trying to ignore it so as not to draw
attention to it. Brookes smiled. “You’d better wipe your face lad. And stop
worrying, I won’t eat you.”

Robins pulled a dirty handkerchief
from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Sorry, I’ve got a bit of a temperature.
The answer to your question is: we saw each other about four times a week.”

“Did she come here?”

“Usually, yes.”

“And stayed the night?” He looked
around. “Surely you couldn’t both sleep on this couch.”

“It’s a bed-settee, it opens out.”

“Right. So you were intimate.”

“I’m sure you’re not entitled to ask
that kind of question. That’s none of your business.”

Brookes frowned and leaned forward.
“Listen very carefully. This is a murder enquiry and I can ask you anything I
like if I think it’s relevant and you had better make damned sure you answer
truthfully.”

Robins had a look of horror on his
face. “Murdered? I thought she committed suicide. She left a note on her
computer. Didn’t the coroner say she committed suicide?”

”What he said was, death by
misadventure. That means he’s not sure. I think someone killed her. Did she
ever take drugs when she was with you?”

Robins shook his head vigorously.
“No.”

Brookes said, “Pull up your sleeves,
show me your arms.”

“What for? You can’t do that.”

“Listen my young friend, this isn’t
some game we’re playing here. If you like I will arrest you and take you to the
station where we can examine you all over. Just show me the insides of your
arms. Let me see that you don’t inject yourself with heroin.”

Reluctantly Robins rolled back his
sleeves and held out his arms palms up. There were no tell-tale needle marks.
“OK,” Brookes said. “Don’t worry I don’t suspect you of her murder. But I had
to check.” He paused then added, “Did she confide in you?”

“What about? What do you mean?”
Robins had suddenly become agitated. His body turned to one side and he sat
forward as if he was getting ready to run.

Brookes face softened. “Listen I’m
not here to cause you problems but I need to know if she told you what was
troubling her. It could be important. Now, did she confide in you about
something that was troubling her?”

The room fell silent. Robins was
obviously struggling with something. He wouldn’t make eye contact with Brookes.
The silence went on, and on. Until finally Robins said in little more than a
whisper, “It’s nothing, honestly.”

“Clearly there’s something that’s
frightening you. Tell me what it is and maybe I can help.”

Robins shook his head. “If I tell you
they will come after me.”

“Who will come after you?”

Robins looked at Brookes with fear in
his eyes. Then he sighed deeply. “The men that killed Amanda.”

“So you knew she had been murdered?”

Robins shook his head vigorously.
“No. But I guessed.”

“I think you had better tell me the
whole story, don’t you?”

And then it came out in a rush.
Amanda had gone for a run late one night, after midnight. The park was closed
then so she took another route she knew well. At the end of her road the
Regents Canal ran across under a bridge. The towpath could be accessed down a
flight of steps. This was barely used, especially at night, and Amanda thought
it was more interesting than running along roads. It had been a clear moonlit
night so she had gone that way. Half a mile along the towpath was another set
of steps leading to a path that skirted an industrial estate.

Climbing these steps, she ran along
the path. The estate was surrounded by a twelve feet high fence made of
vertical metal spikes six inches apart. Here the street lighting was bright as
a deterrent to potential burglars. As Amanda ran alongside the fence she could
see clearly through the gaps between the spikes. She saw two men standing over
another who was lying on the ground. One was hitting the man on the floor
repeatedly with what looked like a baseball bat. Amanda had been sickened by
the sounds of bones being crushed. She had stopped running and stood frozen to
the spot.

Then a noise further along the path
she was on drew her attention. There was a man on the path jogging towards her.
She panicked, turned around and ran. She hadn’t stopped running until she’d
reached her lodgings. Then she’d staggered up the steps and into her room
before collapsing onto her bed. She hadn’t looked over her shoulder once,
frightened of the thought of the man catching her.

When she’d told Robins the story the
next day she thought she’d only got away because of the man’s bulk; he was a
brute of a man but clearly not fit and hadn’t been able to run fast. But she
had no way of knowing whether he’d seen her enter the house and was too
frightened to go out and check if he was there. Then, when nothing happened,
she began to hope she’d got away from him. She had been far too frightened to
go to the police.

Hearing this, Brookes finally
understood the connection to Bronchi. It was the murder of the man on the
industrial estate that Bronchi was strongly suspected of. It had been a
security guard visiting one of the units on the estate who’d also witnessed the
killing. He’d been interviewed by the team of detectives investigating the
murder but had then disappeared. Brookes had been at the Yard on a conference
at the time and the investigation had been led by one of his detective chief
inspectors. He sat thinking,
So, Bronchi had clearly been careless and there
had been two witnesses. But he had then hunted down both of them and eliminated
the threat; he clearly needed to be brought down and Brookes determined that he
would be the man who’d do that.

He carried on questioning Robins as
to what more Amanda had told him. He established that she’d seen a silver
Mercedes at the scene. The next day on the way home from uni she’d seen a
similar car cruising the road in which her lodgings were. The car had passed as
she and her friend Sarah were climbing the steps to the front door. As it drove
slowly past she’d seen the front seat passenger watching them. This had made
her even more frightened but she didn’t know what to do. When Robins had
learned of her death he’d gone into denial, hoping that it would just all go
away. Brookes made a note to find out which of his detectives had interviewed
Robins; whoever it had been he was in for a roasting for not probing deeply
enough.

Having got all he could from the man
Brookes drove home thoughtfully. Remembering at the last minute he had nothing
to eat in the house, he turned the car round and went to his favourite chippy
and bought hake and chips for his supper.

That evening Brookes again sat in his
favourite armchair nursing a whiskey glass. But this time it was half full; or
half empty according to one’s point of view. His dilemma of the previous
evening had been solved, or certainly appeared to have been. This is where his
instincts came in useful; being able to trust them saved an awful lot of
checking up to make sure.

He now knew that Amanda Page had not
committed suicide; she had been murdered and in a horrible fashion. His mind
had struggled for a while to explain the apparently elaborate attempts to
disguise the murder by typing the ‘suicide’ note on her computer. But drug
dealers were a law unto themselves and trying to work out their thinking
processes was like trying to win the lotto. It could simply be that they hadn’t
thought how obvious the connection would be.

Brookes was now determined to bring
the killer to justice. ‘By hook or by crook’, as the saying went. Brookes was
not above bending the law just a little if necessary, although he was loathe to
actually break it. The line he would never cross was inventing or planting
evidence. If the evidence was there however, he was not always too fussed as to
how it was collected.

Bronchi was now firmly in his sights.
Brookes had read somewhere that over a million people each year die from
heroin. A percentage of those deaths were down to Bronchi. Brookes couldn’t
catch all the dealers but he was damned sure he could catch Bronchi. He would
speak to the DAC tomorrow and accept his offer that he head up a dedicated
team.

Having
made the decision he downed the whiskey in his glass and went to bed. He didn’t
bother to shower, he would do that in the morning. In fact tomorrow he might
have two showers. He had a date tomorrow evening and there was the distinct
possibility that he might get lucky.