Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  Lessons In Blood

  Quentin Black

  Copyright © 2018 Quentin Black.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1999600606

  ISBN-13: 978-1-9996006-0-0

  DEDICATION

  To Paige, Connor and Daisy.

  PROLOGUE

  And he answered them, “To you, it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them, it has not been given. For to him who has, more will be given, and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.”

  — Matthew 13:11–12. The passage from which the ‘The Matthew effect of accumulated advantage’ derives from. Sometimes summarised as “the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Aquaflow Plumbing and Heating, in Carnoustie for the investment of time, effort and finance.

  To Holly Mew, Dean Robertson, Jon Knowles , Jay Gardiner, Lee Barret and Joe Nakavulevu for your encouragement and support.

  Andy Screen for the cover design.

  Special Thanks to fellow Royal Marine Jake Olafsen, author of ‘Wearing the Green Beret’.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Any specific terms and phrases have been highlighted in italics and can be found in the glossary.

  1

  She spent a few minutes in that state between unconsciousness and being awake. Finally, her eyelids fought against the light before relaxing open. First, she recognised the sterile clean smell of a hospital. The white interior and the thin, plastic cannula tube emerging from the back of her hand confirmed it.

  Searching her memory for how she came to be here, she found nothing. Her brain had often not co-operated in the past hazes of alcohol and drugs. In those instances, the recollections used to taunt her from the recesses of her mind. This was different—there was nothing at all, and uneasiness coursed through her.

  Pain throbbed in her lower abdomen. Her shaking hands gingerly lifted away the white sheeting. The twelve-inch blood-concealed scar circled her navel like black insulated wire. The searching of her recollection became a frantic racking—Jesus, what did I do to myself this time?

  Her breath began to come in exasperated spurts. After a few moments, the curtains to her left were drawn back to reveal a white surgeon’s uniform wrapped around a smiling middle-aged gentleman. His hair, seemingly confused as to be either grey or white, highlighted his artificially orange-tinted skin; which in turn emphasised pearly white teeth.

  “Easy, Miss. How are you feeling?”

  “Where am I?”

  “You are in Braeson Private Medical Centre. You were found by social workers unconscious in a derelict house in Hackney three days ago. They brought you here, fortunately.” The smile seemed painted on.

  This information calmed her a little; it sounded depressingly likely, and she thought herself fortuitous for where she now lay.

  “Have I been stabbed?” she asked. The likelihood seemed small, but a dark possibility nonetheless.

  “No,” replied the white coat as he picked out a file from an acrylic holder at the end of her bed. “After initial tests were performed, an emergency nephrectomy was performed due to your kidney being irreparably damaged.”

  “A nephrectomy?” Her eyebrows squashed vertical lines between themselves. “That’s impossible. I had a full physical examination by the London Bridge Hospital less than two weeks ago. All the tests came back clear.”

  The coat’s expression now matched her own,

  “London Bridge Hospital?” he said, repeating the name of London’s largest and award-winning private hospital.

  “Yes, my father insisted after I came out of rehab.”

  The man eyed her warily. “Who is your father?”

  “Darren O’Reilly.”

  “Darren O’Reilly? Where have I heard that name before?”

  “He owns Verbatim Cyber securities.”

  “I see,” the man replied looking at the floor with a frown. “Excuse me.”

  He left her alone. During his absence, the question began to turn over in her head—Could I have really damaged a kidney that bad in twelve days?

  Could she have been struck in one of her heroin-induced comas? Her boyfriend was many things, but he’d never been violent towards her. Besides he was high more often than not, and it was she, with money syphoned off her credit cards and cash allowances from her father, that had kept the pair of them in a drug induced state throughout their dalliance.

  The perma-tan returned. She felt threatened without understanding why. His smile had gone. He reached up behind her, and she saw him turn on a valve.

  “Excuse me, what is this? What you doing.”

  In response, she felt his palm press down on her chest. No sooner had she begun to thrash in panic, it seemed like she was laying in an invisible vat of honey. Her eyes felt like they were sinking into their sockets before her vision blurred into black.

  The tall, broad-shouldered Bruce McQuillan sat relaxed but straight-backed in the mahogany tufted chair. His striped shirt ran flat down his still trim physique with the dark trousers finishing with subtly patterned brown lace-up shoes. He had recently let his grey-flecked black hair grow a little longer.

  The soft yellow of various lighting dotted around the room illuminated the dark reds and browns of the interior.

  This was one of London’s most exclusive private men’s clubs. Bruce expected the other patron’s surreptitious glances; he was an outsider, and glad to be so. However, his companion’s presence assuaged any hostility towards him; MP Henry Costner was fully enmeshed within the establishment.

  The Glasgow-born Bruce and the Eton-educated Henry had forged an unlikely alliance in harsh times over a year ago.

  The politician dressed with rebellion to his role in the upper echelons of Parliament, and more out of the pages of GQ. His shirt, intricately chequered white and blue, contrasted with his light blue suit. The forty-year old’s flaxen hair verged on foppish atop of his youthful face.

  “How are you, Bruce? How are you dealing with the bureaucracy of your new official role?” asked the younger man.

  “A necessary evil. An evil nonetheless.”

  “You miss being under the radar?”

  Bruce’s past involvement in UK security would never be formally acknowledged. The activities of the clandestine unit known to a select few as ‘The Chameleon Project’ were far too sensitive. However, to provide his unit more top cover, the two men had agreed that a more official role within the British Security services had been appropriate. Through various petitioning and leveraging, the Scot received the role and title of ‘Chief Liaison Officer between MI5 and MI6’.

  “It had its advantages,” said Bruce taking a sip of his black coffee. “What do you need Henry?”

  Henry inclined his head as he regarded Bruce. “I am a little offended by your assumption—correct though it is—that this isn’t merely a social meeting.”

  “If it were a social meeting you’d have invited me to an establishment that permits the presence of women.”

  Henry flushed a little. “Ah, I see.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Do you know of a Darren O’Reilly?”

  “Owner of Verbatim Cyber securities Darren O’Reilly?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Created cybersecurity systems seemingly years ahead of their time. They have been taken up by Government contractors and commercial businesses alike. Personal wealth well past the half a billion pound mark. Gives generously to charity.”

  Bruce saw Henry resist the urge to look around furtively; the Scot had told him off for doing so in past meetings.

  The politician began. “Darren O’Reill
y, is also a substantial donor to various players in government. It was his financial contributions to the last election campaign that kept the Prime Minister in power. The man has many powerful friends.”

  “Go on.”

  “His daughter Jessie was found dead in a drugs den in South-East London. Overdosed on a drug named fentanyl.”

  Bruce had been aware of the girl’s death and of how O’Reilly had used his influence to keep the circumstances out of the press.

  He also knew that in recent months there had been a significant rise in the consumption of fentanyl. The synthetic opioid analgesic gave off an effect similar to morphine, only it had fifty to a hundred times the potency.

  “Then Mr O’Reilly has my condolences.”

  “He had a private autopsy done Bruce,” replied Henry sipping his scotch, “she was a day removed from having an apparently perfectly healthy kidney subtracted.”

  “So we’re not talking about some kind of macabre tearing out of the kidney. You’re talking about a nephrectomy?”

  “Yes.”

  Bruce nodded, “What did the police say?”

  “They determined Ubaid Almasi, an Egyptian national, with a proclivity for raping, killing and then mutilating young girls, to be responsible. An addict, he was found dead in his flat in Luton. Heroin overdose—laying in the bath for a week. He had detailed the murders, including Jessie O’Reilly’s, in a diary.”

  Bruce rubbed his chin. “This apparent savage kept a detailed diary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was it found?”

  “Under his mattress.”

  Bruce paused for a second. “Police ruled out any foul play?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did the police come to track Almasi to the murders? DNA, witnesses, CCTV?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “OK, and Mr O’Reilly doesn’t accept that Almasi was her killer.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you’ve brought me here to ask me to look into it on his behalf.”

  Henry sighed. “She was a young girl Bruce, and he’s a grieving father.”

  Bruce liked Henry on the whole but still—he’s forever the politician.

  “A grieving father who is also one of the richest men on the isles, is he not?”

  The political advisor looked at the black-operations chief for a few moments before shrugging. “Well, yes. O’Reilly came to me with his concerns. He’d prefer to continue with a ‘less traditional’ route of justice.”

  “I see,” Bruce stared. “Meaning he wanted the real culprits to pay with their lives and not a lengthy custodial sentence, and you told him you knew just who to come to?”

  Henry gave him a rueful look. “Bruce, I haven’t mentioned you by name.”

  The Scotsman finished his coffee. “Where does he want to meet me?”

  “How do you know he wants to meet you?”

  “He’s a businessman.”

  The Etonian blinked a couple of times. “He says he’s happy to meet you at his home. You know it doesn’t have to be you who meets him, given your new ‘legitimate’ status so to speak.”

  Bruce thought of the men and women within The Project who could handle this. And then he thought of his quasi-protégé before dismissing him; despite his promise, Connor Reed still had rough edges—a ferociously smashing hammer not yet fashioned into a razor-sharp, efficiently wielded blade. No, he’d look into this personally. Besides, his favoured agent had enough on his plate for now, especially tonight.

  “I’ll meet him. Midday tomorrow.”

  2

  Waseem Khan sat in the back of his Jaguar XJ, his ring-adorned fingers tapping on his knee. The stillness of the night amplified his growing impatience. He shifted his bulk amid the leather interior, the fabric of his grey shalwar kemeez crinkling. Waseem, now forty-three, had possessed a physique of a fine cricketer almost a decade ago.

  However, the influx of money and notoriety had stripped away the desire for hard physical exertion and temperance of diet. Women, respect and fear, were bought now.

  He watched his two hulking bodyguards with approval—they advertised his status. Standing on a white carpet of snow, they cut menacing silhouettes in the dim glow of the deserted industrial estate. Rashid Kumar and Varun Singh were feared within the Asian community in Birmingham and the city’s underworld.

  Both stood a few inches over six feet with their black leather jackets straining to accommodate their steroid ramped physiques. Rashid, in particular, induced dread; an eighteen-stone, black-bearded, dark-eyed gangster with a fondness for machetes. His victims were walking advertisements of his handiwork.

  Waseem felt safe despite awaiting the arrival of two business associates he had yet to meet in the flesh. His abhorrence for direct interactions with outsiders in his illegal businesses had meant that the two men had previously dealt with his son Imran.

  The partnership had been a successful one with a steady supply of quality ecstasy, MDMA and weed coming his way for eleven months now.

  Imran had gotten himself locked up after being caught in a drug deal that he had no business being directly involved in.

  Nevertheless, the two men—one white and one black—had made it known to Waseem that not only did they wish for the relationship to continue, but they wanted to increase the trade.

  The lights of a midnight-blue, latest model Audi TT Quattro, illuminated the area. The beams dimmed before hitting the Jaguar. The two guards stiffened.

  The Audi came into the bowling alley’s carpark closing the distance. It slowed to a glide before halting. After a few moments two men alighted. Waseem’s eyes snapped to the one who had been driving; around the same height and build as his men; this black man’s physicality seemed to have an effect on the bodybuilders’ postures.

  The crime lord sensed their unease even from within his car.

  Waseem knew the driver’s name to be Louis Allen — the leader of The Southwark Union Gang. The SUG stood as an amalgamation of several Peckham gangs under Allen’s leadership. The UK underground had been suitably impressed with the feat. Although Waseem knew some to be disconcerted at the gang’s power.

  Allen wore a dark blue puffer jacket with black pants stretching over a pair of bulky legs before concertinaing at the trainers. Two or three days of hair growth covered his strong jaw, with his hair not being much longer.

  Waseem turned his attention to his companion, a northerner by the name of Connor Reed with short sandy hair, with a face of symmetrical features. The thin dark green, leather jacket revealed a broad chest encased in a black t-shirt.

  He observed Rashid and Varun speaking to the pair. Then they began to gesticulate while the newcomers remained still and staring. When his curiosity overcame him, Waseem got out of the Jaguar and walked over.

  “What’s the problem gentlemen?” he asked, directing his question towards Rashid.

  “They are refusing to be searched.”

  “Gentlemen?”

  Louis answered with a voice riveted with south-east London street. “I’ll open my jacket, so you can check for burners an’ blades, but you buzzin’ if you think anyone is putting their hands on me.”

  “But ya see why a man in my position would prefer it if you were searched given what we are here to discuss?”

  The faintly coarse but well-clipped voice of Connor answered. “Of course we do. If you insist, then you insist, but then we’ll have to insist on searching all three of you in turn. It’s entirely up to you?”

  Waseem allowed his Birmingham accent to become stronger; he found it disarmed people. “I fink we can dispense with that. There’s naaa need ter get upset.”

  “This white man would be nothing without this gorilla,” sneered Rashid in Punjabi, while looking at Connor, who looked back with his blue eyes seemingly full of wry amusement.

  “Calm yourself,” replied Waseem in the same tongue, before addressing his prospective business partners. “Ter business
gentlemen.”

  “We gotta a case. In it is some Malcoms, white lady, and broccoli,” said Louis.

  “Alright?”

  “You’re going to take it and sell it.”

  The gang boss glanced at his henchmen before answering. “I didn’t bring any testing equipment. I am not paying for a product before I know it’s value.”

  Louis answered. “We didn’t ask for money Mr Khan—at least not yet. After the feedback you’ll receive from your fiends, astro-travellers and psychonauts, you’ll ask for more. That’s when we’ll discuss payment for this and further packages.”

  There was silence before he answered. “What’s ter stop me from taken this an’ never dealing with you again?”

  Connor raised his jaw a little. “Then you will have lost a supply of the best product you’ll ever come across. You are too shrewd a businessman to let that happen. That’s why we have given you first refusal and not to your friends down at the snooker club.”

  Waseem pursed his lips at the Yorkshireman’s reference to his main rivals for the city’s drug trade. One of Birmingham’s biggest snooker clubs formed their base of operations.

  “OK, it is a deal —where is the case?”

  Connor walked back to the Audi before opening the boot and returning with the case. He set it beside his foot.

  “Now Mr Khan. We were going to give you this case for free,” said Connor, “but that was before your man there said something along the lines of, ‘that white bastard wouldn’t be anything without that gorilla here’—there or thereabouts—and I am sure a man of honour such as yourself can see that I can’t allow that to pass. So he and I are going to fight. If he wins, then you’ll never have to pay for this case. Understand?”

  There was tension laced silence.

  Waseem’s mind whirled trying to look for any deception—any downside. He’d never known a white to understand Punjabi to that extent. Rashid dwarfed this man by four stone easily; no way he would lose.