The Rebel

by Jaime Raven

  He’d raised his brow at me and the hint of a smile had played at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Well, what do you know?’ he’d said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘I wondered if and when you lot would get around to me. But it’s only fair to warn you that I won’t be so easy to take down as those others you’ve collared.’

  And he’d been right. But we’d got there in the end through an immense amount of effort and some good luck. Everyone had put in a ton of extra hours to ensure that we had a watertight case against the man.

  ‘Here comes the moment of truth.’

  The voice belonged to the woman who was sitting directly behind me and it snapped me back to the present.

  I turned my attention to the judge who had finished checking his notes and was ready to speak. The court bailiff asked everyone to be quiet, which prompted about half a dozen people to loudly clear their throats.

  The judge, who was in his early seventies, remained completely unfazed. He simply paused until a deafening silence descended on the courtroom.

  Then he read out his statement in a voice that was slow and measured.

  ‘I want to take this opportunity to commend those police officers who were responsible for bringing this case to trial,’ he said. ‘Organised crime is a shameful scar on this great city – indeed on the whole country. Men like the defendant have always acted with impunity, flaunting the law as they built their vast criminal empires. It’s true to say that the situation has progressed from a serious problem into a large-scale crisis.

  ‘That was why I was so pleased when Scotland Yard set up a special task force eighteen months ago to deal with it. And, as we learned during this trial, their successes so far have been nothing short of spectacular.

  ‘Harry Fuller is the latest gangster whose reign has thankfully been brought to an ignominious end. And I’m sure he won’t be the last thanks to the efforts of the task force.’

  The judge paused to acknowledge my boss, Detective Chief Superintendent George Drummond, who was sitting in the well of the court with the prosecution team.

  ‘I would like to put on record my thanks to all of those officers involved,’ he said. ‘And I want them to know that they have the support of every law-abiding person in this country. We appreciate that this work they’re doing places them in considerable danger, and we can only hope and pray that no harm comes to them in the course of their investigations.’

  The judge then turned to Harry Fuller and said, ‘I’ve already warned you to expect a custodial sentence, Mr Fuller. It’s clear that your crimes are such that I can show no mercy. For far too long you’ve acted as though you are above the law. But nobody is above the law, no matter how much power they wield or money they have.’

  The judge paused again, twice as long this time, and then he told Fuller that he was going to spend at least thirty years in prison.

  ‘Fucking brilliant,’ I blurted out and everyone heard me, including Fuller, who shot me a look that told me he was as shocked as I was.

  I curled a smile for his benefit, and he reacted by closing his eyes and blowing out his cheeks.

  It was a far better result than any of us could have hoped for, and I was delighted because another vile gangster had been snared. But for the task force there would be no resting on its laurels.

  Fuller was a terrific catch, but he wasn’t in the same league as the villain who was going to be our next target.

  After the sentencing came the inevitable media scrum outside the court.

  Reporters, photographers and TV crews had turned out in force to get reactions from all the main players, including DCS Drummond.

  The gaffer was surrounded the moment he appeared on the pavement. This was something I’d anticipated, which was why I’d hurried out of the building ahead of him.

  I was now standing just far enough away to hear him read out a pre-prepared statement, but in a position where I couldn’t be filmed or photographed.

  ‘On behalf of Scotland Yard and the task force team, I’d like to say how pleased we are that the judge has seen fit to impose on Harry Fuller such a lengthy period of incarceration,’ he said. ‘We believe it to be wholly appropriate given the nature of the crimes the man has committed over a number of years.’

  Unlike me, Drummond relished being in the spotlight. He always came across as supremely cool and self-assured. The fact that he looked like a film star dressed up as a copper no doubt helped to boost his confidence.

  He was a fit-looking forty-eight year old, with chiselled features and dark, wavy hair. At six foot four he towered over his immediate colleagues and I’d never seen him dressed in anything other than a smart two-piece suit or uniform.

  His statement was short and sweet, and when he was finished the first question came from a BBC reporter who asked, ‘The judge drew particular attention to the task force that’s under your command, detective chief superintendent. Can you just remind us exactly what your remit is?’

  Drummond pursed his lips and nodded. ‘The organised crime task force was set up to deliver a decisive blow to the hardened criminals who’ve infiltrated every area of society in London. We’ve been assigned a team of twenty dedicated detectives and thirty support staff, and we work in tandem with the National Crime Agency and Scotland Yard’s specialist divisions.’

  As Drummond continued he had to squint against the harsh light from a sun that sat low in the sky. It may have been bright, but there was no warmth in it. I could feel the cold December air through my overcoat and jumper.

  It made me shiver, and I suddenly realised how much I was looking forward to the team get-together in the Rose and Crown. A few gin and tonics would soon warm me up.

  Drummond had organised the do to celebrate the outcome of this latest case and it was due to kick off in a couple of hours, at five o’clock. But I was sure that my colleagues would start arriving earlier since the pub was only a short walk from the office at Scotland Yard.

  As if on cue one of those colleagues suddenly appeared on the scene and when she saw me she came right over.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Kate Chappell said. ‘I thought you were on a day off.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ I said. ‘The look on Fuller’s face when he was told he was going down for thirty years was priceless.’

  ‘I bet it was. I’m only sorry I missed it. I had a job over in Bermondsey that took longer than expected.’

  Kate and I got on well, even though we didn’t have much in common. She was nine years older than me at forty-two and at least two stones heavier. Her hair was short and lifeless and about as hard to control as her weight.

  She often joked that I was too pretty to be a copper and that it wasn’t fair that I could eat like a horse and still be a size ten.

  But I had a sneaking suspicion that she resented the fact that I outranked her. And if she did I wouldn’t have blamed her because she was a better detective than most of those I’d worked with.

  ‘Did you drive or come here by tube?’ she asked me.

  ‘Tube,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a pool car that’s parked around the corner. I can give you a lift to the pub, assuming you’re coming along for the booze up.’

  ‘Of course I am, which reminds me I ought to call Aidan to tell him what’s happened.’

  Kate gestured towards Drummond. ‘I suspect your boyfriend already knows by now. Even before the governor’s finished telling the world how great we are I reckon that everyone with a TV, radio or smartphone will know about the fate of that ghastly gobshite Harry Fuller.’

  The DCS was now being asked to reveal details about the crime syndicate which the task force would set its sights on next, and Kate and I listened with interest.

  ‘I won’t be drawn into naming names,’ Drummond said. ‘But I believe it’s an open secret that our aim now is to bring to justice this country’s most feared and revered organised criminal. He knows who he is and I�
��m sure he knows that we’re coming for him.’

  2

  Slack

  It was the first time Roy Slack had heard himself described as the most feared and revered crime boss in the country, and it made him smile.

  He knew it to be true, of course, just like he’d known for some time that the Old Bill were going to come after him with everything they had.

  But he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. In fact he intended to ensure that it was a move they would come to regret.

  He turned his attention away from the huge flat-screen TV on his office wall and said to Danny Carver, ‘Thirty frigging years. The poor sod might as well top himself because he won’t ever be coming out.’

  Danny was his most trusted enforcer, a fifty-five-year-old former mercenary whose nickname in the underworld was The Rottweiler. He was a thickset individual with a boxer’s physique and a well-deserved reputation as a violent psychopath, qualities that made him perfect for the job he did.

  ‘My money was on a fifteen stretch, boss,’ he said. ‘But we should have guessed the bastards would use the poor bugger to send a message to us.’

  Slack nodded. Danny was right. This was a crude example of the police and the judicial system working together to show they meant business.

  ‘The wankers are mistaken if they think it’ll have me shitting in my pants,’ Slack said. ‘Harry Fuller was a fairly easy target, but I won’t be.’

  The two men, who were alone in the office, turned their attention back to the TV screen.

  Sky News were reporting live from outside the Old Bailey and DCS George Drummond was still responding to questions. He was a smooth-looking bastard who clearly had an inflated opinion of himself.

  Slack had met the man on two occasions and he knew their paths would cross again.

  ‘Seems to me that what that bloke is saying amounts to a declaration of all-out war,’ Danny said.

  Slack leaned back in his padded leather chair and swung his shoes up onto the desk.

  ‘That’s exactly what it is, Danny,’ he said. ‘And if it’s a war they want, then it’s a war they’re gonna get.’

  He’d known what was coming ever since the Home Office announced a major new offensive against organised crime in London. It was essentially a political move over widespread concern that the problem had got out of hand.

  There had been an epidemic of gun and knife crime in the capital, and during the past three years no less than thirty people had been murdered during gang turf wars.

  The press had also been making a big thing of the fact that the annual cost of organised crime on the London economy was now running at billions of pounds.

  The task force that was put together was well resourced and had managed to rack up some early successes, Harry Fuller being the biggest scalp so far.

  Before him there was Paul Mason, who’d run the East London mob for five years. And before Mason there were the Romanian brothers – Stefan and Anton Severin – who were known as the kings of crack cocaine north of the Thames.

  Slack didn’t shed a tear for any of them. They were rivals, after all, and he’d been mopping up some of their business. But the downfall of such heavyweight villains was a sure sign that this time he couldn’t afford to be complacent.

  The task force presented a credible threat to his illicit empire, which was spread across all of South London, as well as the lucrative West End.

  But clinging on to what he’d built up over many years wasn’t the real driving force behind what he was planning.

  And neither was fear of ending up behind bars like Harry Fuller and the others.

  What Slack intended to do was motivated by something far more profound and much closer to his heart.

  Revenge.

  Slack hadn’t yet told anyone what he planned to do but that was about to change because he was going to confide in Danny Carver. He needed Danny to help him put the wheels in motion.

  Now that the Fuller trial had ended they’d be coming after him with all guns blazing.

  There’d be raids on his businesses and the homes of his employees and associates. Surveillance would be stepped up, all his financial affairs would be probed like never before, and the bastards would cause as much disruption as possible to his operations.

  They’d push and squeeze and threaten in their desperate search for something to use against him. And if they weren’t successful then he wouldn’t put it past them to fit him up.

  They were probably expecting him to batten down the hatches before pissing off to his villa on the Costa del Sol. So they were going to get a big fucking shock when he retaliated by launching a pre-emptive strike.

  ‘The slags won’t know what’s hit them, babe,’ he said to the framed photo on his desk. ‘Mine is going to be the loudest swansong this city has ever heard.’

  His late wife’s smiling face stared back at him and brought a lump to his throat. Even after all this time he still found it hard to accept that Julie was gone.

  The photo was taken on their honeymoon in Capri twenty-three years ago. They were standing together with the sea in the background and he had his arm around her shoulders.

  She’d been at her most gorgeous then – blonde and tanned and slim, with a face that had squeezed his heart the moment he’d laid eyes on it.

  Back then he hadn’t been so bad looking himself. His hair had been thick and black and there’d been no fat on his frame or lines on his face.

  Now, at the age of fifty-seven, his hair was grey and wispy and he had a gut the size of a rugby ball. Years of hard living were evident in the creases on his forehead and neck, and in the dark pouches beneath his eyes.

  ‘You need to speak up, boss. I didn’t catch what you just said.’

  Danny’s voice snapped him out of himself and he wrenched his attention away from the photo.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I was miles away and mumbling to myself.’

  Danny was sitting on the sofa below the window that offered up a view of the rooftops of Rotherhithe. He leaned forward and picked up the TV remote from the coffee table in front of him. He used it to mute the sound of the Sky News reporter who was summing up what had happened at the Old Bailey.

  ‘This is serious shit, boss,’ he said. ‘So I think it’s time you told me how the fuck you intend to respond.’

  Slack clamped his lips together and nodded. ‘You’re right, Danny old son. But what I’m going to say is just between you and me, at least to start with. I don’t want the other lads to freak out before the fun even begins.’

  3

  Laura

  The media circus outside the court ended as quickly as it had begun. After giving his interview, DCS Drummond was whisked away in a car driven by someone from the Crown Prosecution Service.

  Harry’s Fuller’s lawyer then made a brief statement announcing that they’d be appealing both the conviction and sentence, but he refused to answer any questions.

  Kate and I were both on a high as we walked to her car. It was a terrific feeling knowing that we’d helped to end the career of another vicious mobster.

  At times like this I realised why I loved being a copper. But it wasn’t just the exhilarating sense of achievement. It was also another result in honour of my dear departed dad.

  I knew he would have been proud of me, and it was such an awful shame that he couldn’t tell me how much.

  He was still alive back when I followed in his footsteps and joined the force twelve years ago. He’d risen to the rank of detective chief inspector in Lewisham CID, and he’d always been my inspiration.

  ‘Policing is a noble profession, sweetheart,’ he told me when I announced my intention to enrol on leaving university. ‘But as you and your mother know only too well it’ll take over your life. So you need to be one hundred per cent certain that it’s what you want to do.’

  ‘It is,’ I said.

  ‘In that case you’ll have my full support. But promise me one thing, Laura. You’ll
always be true to the oath you’ll take at the outset. If at any time you feel you can’t, then pack it in and go work in a shop or a factory.’

  He made a point of telling me that, because my first six months on the job coincided with a relentless wave of negative publicity for the police.

  Corruption within the Met was being exposed on an almost weekly basis, and a lot of new recruits like myself became disillusioned.

  But for me the scandals served only to strengthen my commitment and my resolve to be a good, honest copper like my father.

  It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been aware that the Met in particular was infested with officers who were on the take. While at university a report was published that claimed there’d been a sharp increase in the number of officers dealing in drugs and abusing their power for ‘sexual gratification’.

  I’d since discovered myself that the force did indeed have its share of bad apples, but most officers walked a straight line and were a credit to the profession.

  Of course, being above board and serving with distinction did not make it less likely that you’d come to harm in the line of duty. My father found that out the night he opened his front door to a man who shot him three times in the chest.

  Seven years on – with the killer still out there somewhere – the memory moves me to tears and gives rise to a blast of anger.

  It’s only about two miles from the Old Bailey to New Scotland Yard. But the traffic was murderous so it was slow going in Kate’s pool car.

  She took us via the Victoria Embankment and there was gridlock for much of the way.

  We were passing under Waterloo Bridge when my mobile rang. It was Aidan.

  ‘I gather congratulations are in order,’ he said. ‘I just heard it on the news. You must be pleased.’

  ‘I’m over the moon,’ I said. ‘We all are, which is why we’re going to the pub for a celebration drink.’