Her lungs felt fit to burst.
Suddenly her hunter stopped. The clatter of running behind her faded away.
Instead a voice called out.
“Julia...Julia – for goodness sake...stop!”
She could never mistake that voice. She turned and stared at the figure bent double, gasping for breath. The sight of him filled her first with disbelief, then fear and finally disgust.
“You monster. You disgusting monster.”
“Not a kind way to welcome old friends.”
“Friends! What’re you doing here? The police are looking for you.”
“We need to talk.”
CHAPTER 52
JULIA DIDN’T get to the hospital. She sat in the Mudlarks pub by the arches of London Bridge, having a drink with a man she despised. As she stared into his repugnant face, it dawned on her he didn’t frighten her any more. Sickened her, repulsed her – made her blood boil – for sure. But no longer frightened her.
Stay calm, her inner voice counselled.
“What is it you want?”
“I want to trade – or rather countertrade. Oh, I can hide away, live quietly somewhere under an assumed name. With money, it’s not hard to disappear. Maybe I don’t want to.”
“What’s this to do with me?”
“I need a middleman, and once more I find you best placed to help. Tell your Chief Inspector – yes I know all about him – I’ll talk to him. Alone. Name names. He needs help stopping a vicious war on the streets of London. I’ll hand him the Dragon Masters of the biggest Triads operating here.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Questions, always questions. Why don’t you let the Chief Inspector decide.”
Julia tapped the table three times. She slipped her phone from her bag, and dialled Pitcher’s number. Without looking at the man sitting across the table, she said, “Warwick Mantel’s in London. He wants to cut a deal.”
Silence at the other end. First time he’s ever been lost for words, she couldn’t help thinking.
“He’s here with me now.”
“Where?”
“Mudlarks. He wants to speak to you, but you have to come alone.”
“He’s not getting an amnesty from me.”
“He has information.”
“It’s not the way I work.”
“Your call.”
Silence again. Then to Julia’s surprise, he agreed to come.
While they waited, Mantel couldn’t stop talking, droning on and on, like in a confessional.
“I’ve always been an alchemist, you see,” he began. “Turning the basest of metal into precious commodities. It’s true, Hemmings didn’t work out so well. Did you never wonder why they were called the Golden Boys? With them I struck gold. We started the boom to end all booms.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“They were just the beginning. My golden chances kept flowing. Putting Adam Lee into First State – pure genius. Good risks came to me at Peak, and the slightly shadier...”
“Slightly shadier? They were gangsters.” Julia realised that like all narcissists the only audience he needed was himself. The longer he crowed on, the more convinced she became he was insane.
The Mudlarks doors swung open and Pitcher entered. He walked straight to the table.
“I should arrest you here and now,” he choked the words, his face thundering.
“Sit down, Chief Inspector. Strictly speaking, I haven’t committed any crime on your patch. Not one you could easily pin on me. Arrest me by all means, but as your colleagues in the Far East discovered, you’ll be forced to release me again – a nuisance for us both.”
“I’ll sit when I feel like sitting,” Pitcher pulled a chair across, placed his right foot astride, and towered over Mantel. “What d’you want?”
“An amnesty from the crimes various international jurisdictions might try to pin on me. And an escape route. Money I have.”
Pitcher turned to Julia. “Drink?”
“Err...” she hesitated. “Why not?”
He returned from the bar with a pint for himself and glass for Julia. This time he sat, took a sip of his beer, then said, “That would include London?”
Mantel waved his hand carelessly as if swatting a gnat. “Try to think less like a policeman and more like a businessman. Like a trader. Deals are what keep the world turning. There’s so much we could do to help each other.”
Pitcher’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Corruption doesn’t get far in the Met.”
“Come, come Chief Inspector. Meeting me half-way might be the most important journey you ever make.”
Pitcher pulled deep on his glass.
“Come down from your high horse, and I can hand you two of the most troublesome Dragon Masters operating on your patch. You’re smart enough to know Triad crime in London is dominated by one particularly dangerous Overlord. Eluded you for years hasn’t he? At a guess, I’d say you’ve no idea who he is.”
Pitcher’s face didn’t flicker.
“You’re asking a very high price,” he said.
“Not really. Think of your satisfaction in coming face to face with your nemesis and putting this brutal war lord behind bars. The hours you’ve spent studying his vicious work. Torture. Mutilations. Death by a thousand cuts. Limbs and features slashed to ribbons, or like Halamanning, bled to death – slow and vengeful.”
“Why don’t you just tell me now?”
“Where would be the fun in that? There has to be some effort on your part. You know this empire is under threat from new Chinese organisations, with modern skills and ambitions. Fortunately for me, they both need the services of a reliable banker.”
“That’s what you are, is it?” Pitcher’s lips curled in revulsion.
“They planned a war. You know that too. Adam Lee was dispatched to secure an arms deal for the older empire. The deal was made, paid for and delivered.”
“Not quite a done deal. The arms were never collected.”
“Quite possibly. Chinese walls. Triads work in silos. One side never knows who he’s dealing with. That frees us to arrange many deals for all sides.”
Julia curled her lip in disgust. “Middleman you call yourself, like that frees you from guilt. Your hands are stained with the same blood as those who wield the machete.”
“Perhaps, my dear. But let’s not digress. Events in Hong Kong, the new aggression by the police there, have made the societies think again. They want a temporary cessation. On Sunday, when London’s quiet, they plan a summit, to discuss a truce. I’m their peace broker. The heads of the two Triads will be there, ripe for your picking.”
“Armed?”
“They trust me. I arrange the security. Only I won’t. The thugs I’ve lined up will be stood down. When our Triad friends talk, both sides leave their guns and machetes at the door. Even so, they don’t need weapons. Their muscle can rip heads off with their bare hands.”
“Where’s this meeting?”
“My secret,” he crossed his lips with an index finger. “Like all information, it’s available for trade. You have to decide what it’s worth. Imagine the police time and money it would save to clean up these streets. Like every other deal, it all comes down to a cost/benefit analysis. Do the sums, Chief Inspector.”
“The other side of the balance sheet?” Pitcher leaned across the table.
“Look at it from my position. If I tell you they will kill me. I’ll take you there on Sunday – before the meeting. You stake out an ambush. But first you hand me my amnesty and an escape ticket. From there I disappear.”
Pitcher didn’t flinch. “What time on Sunday?”
“Meet me here at half past one. You come too Julia, I’d like some witnesses.”
Pitcher stared hard at Mantel for several minutes. He stood suddenly, gave a sharp nod of his head and walked out the pub.
CHAPTER 53
1.30pm Sunday September 5
THE STREETS were qui
et but wet as Julia made her way to the rendezvous. Heavy torrents of rain washed away the hot sticky hours of the previous night when she had tossed and turned, wondering what would happen the following day. Would Pitcher make his arrests and finally expose the identity of the Dragon Masters? What would be the butcher’s bill?
She cursed the downfall as her soaking intensified all along Borough High Street. Cars thundered by, spraying rain jets high from the gutters.
Typical, she thought, when she saw Pitcher emerge, bone-dry, from under the arches of London Bridge and walk towards the Mudlarks.
He waited for her in the porch.
“Don’t worry about the rain. Works in our favour,” he said, reaching for the door.
“Any idea who’ll be there today, if they come?” Julia said, walking in.
“You know better than to ask me that.”
Julia’s jaw dropped when she saw Ziggy waiting inside, dressed in leathers, holding a motorcycle helmet. The bar was quiet, apart from a few diehard regulars providing a low-heat hum.
“No sign of Mantel yet,” Ziggy said checking his watch.
“Do you think He Len is involved?” Julia said.
“Maybe, but he’s still new on the scene,” Ziggy checked his watch again. “Mantel should be here.”
As if on cue, the next person through the door was the very man. He walked ramrod straight with an arrogant swagger.
“Drink gentlemen?” the cockney landlord shouted from the bar. “For you, whatever you want is on the house.”
“Not today Jason,” Pitcher replied, turning to Mantel. “Shall we get going?”
“Relax. We’re less than ten minutes away. I take it you’ve wheels?”
Pitcher nodded.
“I’ve gone to a lot of trouble on your behalf,” Mantel brushed a fleck of fluff off Pitcher’s shoulder. Then he held out his hand, “Now your half of the bargain.”
Pitcher pulled a brown envelope from his inside raincoat pocket.
Julia watched a slow malevolent grin spread over Mantel’s face as he slit it open and unravelled a piece of type-written paper and a printout.
“My flights and our agreement. Very good.”
“Now your half of the bargain,” Pitcher swallowed.
“The meeting’s at 2.30pm. Post code SE1 2BF.”
“The print works in China Wharf?”
“Just so. First State is the tenant. How that information would have helped you, if you’d scratched deep enough. Only you never did. There are doors at the side and rear. I suggest you get going and get your men into place. It’s all yours.”
“Who’ll be there?”
“Besides yourselves? I don’t think you’ll be disappointed Chief Inspector. You’ve waited a long time to meet your nemesis.”
“How can we trust you?” Julia asked.
“More questions, my dear, and as ever, entirely the wrong ones. It’s not you that needs to trust me. But me that needs to trust you.”
He turned to Pitcher. “Fuck this up Chief Inspector and I’m a dead man.”
With that he turned and left.
JULIA WATCHED him go, then followed Pitcher, out of the pub, under the bridge and across to London Bridge station. Ziggy at her side. The rain lashed down. They bypassed the new interchange, diving down a side street, into a disused railway siding. Four unmarked police cars waited, along with ten police vans with blacked out windows. Three helicopters whirred overhead.
Ziggy peeled off. “I’ll see you there,” he said pulling on his helmet, and walking towards the motorcycle parked close to the vans.
Pitcher got into the front of the first car. Julia slipped in behind.
“China Wharf,” he said to the driver. The car eased down a series of side roads. Julia couldn’t see much out the windows, as the torrent continued. The three, unmarked black police cars followed behind, but she couldn’t see Ziggy.
A little more than five minutes later, the car pulled up on a piece of derelict scrubland near the sewage works by Bermondsey Wall. Julia could see the old print works where Pitcher had found the weapons stash. The helicopters shadowed them. The other cars kept their distance. No sign of Ziggy.
Julia’s hands felt clammy. She sensed Pitcher swallowing hard over and again. He’s not as calm as he looks, she thought. He cleared his throat repeatedly, then stretched to open the door. He got out.
Julia followed, her bowels pitching. Dear God, what if we’re walking into a trap. If Pitcher has gambled wrong, these trained murderers won’t hesitate to kill.
Ziggy appeared at her side. She smiled at him, as she watched some dozen men, dressed in jeans, black jumpers and stab vests, bounce from the back of the police vans and creep, bent double, down a dilapidated river path running along the side of the sewerage works. She spotted PC Day among them. They were followed by another team of six – this time in slightly different body armour, carrying semi-automatic weapons.
Bullet-proof, she thought. Other police were setting up roadblocks in the distance.
They filed into the abandoned print works from a side door. No one was there. Julia remembered her last visit. The wide open ground floor, abandoned presses at the rear. They crept up to the mezzanine floor of the old warehouse, and crouched waiting. They could see all the way down, but were concealed. Julia glanced out a side window and saw more police file into place down the side of the building – crack armed sharpshooters among them.
It all looks so slick. But what if Mantel has betrayed us?
She looked across at Pitcher. His face was unreadable.
Will today be the day you have wished for so long? Will today be the day you capture the man who has haunted you?
Through missing panes she could hear the powerful rhythm of the Thames crashing against stone river defences, as it breathed in the City’s filth and dispelled it into a distant sea. The rain lashed on.
They waited. And waited and waited. An hour ticked slowly, painfully by. There was no sign of anyone – especially Mantel.
“He’s tricked us,” Julia whispered to Ziggy. “No one’s coming.”
“Be patient,” he replied in a low voice. He looked across at Pitcher who nodded.
What do they know? Julia thought.
Then they started to arrive. From their elevated position, they watched a fleet of small boats pull up. One by one, Chinese men got out and dashed up the Night Rider waterman’s stairs, dodging the downpour. Some wore waxed hats against the rain, while others covered their faces with scarves. A couple slipped on the treacherous steps, made more dangerous by the deluge. Intent only on avoiding a drenching, no one bothered to look around. So they kept coming, and slowly the warehouse below filled up. From her crouched position, Julia counted 40.
Two groups of men stood each side of a circle in the massive void in front of the delinquent presses. He Len at the head of one of the groups.
The two Triads, men bound by mutual hatred, who would tear each other’s hearts out in the blink of an eye, stared across the circle. Faces taut and ugly.
These guys are more terrified of each other than the police, Julia thought.
They seemed to be waiting for someone important to arrive. If He Len is one Dragon Master, where is the other.
Still no sign of Mantel. She recognised another figure among the semi-circle opposite He Len, but couldn’t place him at that moment. She thought back to the dinner at the Chinese Embassy. There had been so many faces.
Finally Mantel entered at the side of a small Chinese man, dressed in a silk imperial surcoat, embroidered with the outspread wings of a rising Phoenix.
At last the senior Dragon Master, Julia thought.
This new figure took up his place at the head of the circle, Mantel beside him. He stood with his back to them, so they couldn’t see his face. The smell of sweet orchids wafted gently against the acrid damp of dereliction.
The figure in the dramatic Phoenix silk began to speak, and seemed to be delivering a long slow sermon. When he s
topped He Len addressed the gathering. Then others joined in – all babbling over each other in Chinese.
“What’re they talking about?” Julia mouthed to Ziggy. He placed a finger on his lips to silence her.
He Len had the floor again. His voice crescendoed – gesticulating wildly with flailing arms. His sudden movements spooked a pigeon which flew down from the roof, then soared up again, wings flapping wildly – towards the mezzanine floor. He Len stopped mid-sentence, turning his head sharply upwards. Others followed the bird’s noisy trajectory.
Christ we’ve had it, Julia thought – and she was not alone.
Their covert operation exposed, Pitcher could wait no longer.
“Now,” he shouted into a microphone in his lapel.
Police burst through doors on all sides, and the teams above chased down. Sirens whirred deafeningly from all directions. The three police helicopters whooped threateningly overhead.
Pitcher leapt down the stairs, followed by Ziggy – with Julia at the tail of officers. They spanned out on the ground floor – Pitcher stopping dead in the centre of the two half-circles, now ringed by armed officers. Julia came up behind him and stared at the Dragon Master cloaked in the Phoenix silk. She blinked several times to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
Jesus Christ, it can’t be?
But it was. This senior Dragon Master, who had terrorised London for decades, masterminding murder, torture and violence, was none other than an elderly Chinese gentleman, badly disfigured by an ugly scar on his face.
“Chief Inspector, how nice to see you,” Wo Chang spoke as if greeting his favourite customer at his restaurant, the Golden Pagoda.
“Wo Chang. After all these years,” Pitcher spoke softly.
He must be shaken to the core, Julia thought, yet all she detected was the slightest ripple of the muscle of his jaw. His body was braced like steel.
Julia looked at Mantel and saw he wore a yellow orchid. Friendship and new beginnings.
“You betrayed us,” He Len screamed, lunging at the elderly restaurateur, his hand tightening around his throat, pushing at his neck with a force fit to snap it.
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