by Jaime Raven
But the truth was Aidan Bray was one of those men who looked pretty cool whatever they wore.
He was tall and trim with a sporty physique honed during regular sessions in the gym. But it was his face more than anything else that had attracted me to him in the first place. It was more interesting than handsome, and there was an openness to it that drew people in.
His eyes were large and green and set slightly too far apart. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled and his light brown hair was flecked with grey even though he was only thirty-three.
As he disappeared into the kitchen I realised yet again how lucky I was, certainly compared to Kate who had lost all faith in men, and was struggling to get her personal life back on track.
I dropped onto the sofa and exhaled a long breath. In front of me on the television a recorded episode of A Place in the Sun was drawing to a close. Aidan was a big fan, partly because he dreamt of moving to Spain one day to be nearer to his parents who’d retired to the Costa Blanca a few years ago.
I picked up the remote and turned to the BBC News Channel. Within thirty seconds they were running the Harry Fuller story and I watched DCS Drummond facing the media outside the Old Bailey.
‘So tell me more about this bloke Roy Slack,’ Aidan said as he re-entered the living room with my coffee. ‘I gather you’re gunning for him next.’
I looked up, surprised. ‘Have they mentioned him by name on the news?’
‘No. But he’s been all over social media this evening and he was trending on Twitter when I last checked.’
The force was always careful not to name people until they were questioned or charged, especially those who had the means and clout to cause a fuss. The mainstream media also tended to be cautious for fear of litigation. But on the Internet it was a different matter and people didn’t care about such things as libel and defamation.
Aidan handed me my coffee and biscuits and settled back into his armchair, waiting for me to answer his question.
He rarely asked me about my work and the characters we pursued because he knew that there was so much I couldn’t tell him. He had only ever demonstrated a vague curiosity anyway, and that could more often than not be satisfied by reading the Evening Standard.
‘Roy Slack can best be described as a tyrant who presides over this country’s biggest criminal enterprise,’ I explained. ‘He’s the closest we have to the old Mafia godfathers.’
Aidan didn’t want a detailed character assessment of the man, just the lurid headlines. So that was what I gave him.
‘Slack’s whole life has been spent as a criminal but would you believe the bastard has never seen the inside of a prison cell?’ I said. ‘He’s got a hand in every illicit pie across Central and South London. That includes drugs, extortion, fraud, prostitution, porn, money laundering – the lot.
‘He’s been the subject of intense investigations by the NCA and before them the Serious Organised Crime Agency. But he’s kept a clean sheet, thanks to witness intimidation, bent coppers and by being more careful than any other villain out there. And he’s still going from strength to strength after more than a decade at the top of his game. We now know that he’s even established strong links with a notorious Mexican cartel that’s flooding the whole of Europe with cocaine and heroin.’
‘He sounds like quite a guy,’ Aidan said. ‘But you’d never guess it from the photos I’ve seen on the web. He looks like a kindly uncle who’s ageing before his time.’
‘Well, over the years a lot of people have learned to their cost that his appearance can be more than a little deceiving. He’s a vicious bastard who surrounds himself with men who are even more vicious, including some nutter known at The Rottweiler.’
‘What about his private life? Does he actually have one?’
‘He lives well,’ I said. ‘But that’s about all we know. He’s got a fancy apartment overlooking the Thames, a big country house in Kent and a luxury villa in Spain – all paid for through legitimate businesses that are fronts for his dodgy activities.’
‘Is it a family-run organisation?’ Aidan asked.
I shook my head. ‘If it was we’re sure he would have retired by now and handed over the reins to a son or daughter. But if you ask me that’s down to poetic justice.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he lost his wife ten years ago in a car crash. They never had children.’
‘That’s tough,’ Aidan said. ‘But even so it’s hard to feel sorry for the guy.’
I didn’t bother carrying on even though I could have revealed a lot more about Roy Slack. I could sense that Aidan had heard enough and, besides, it was only fair that we talked a bit about his day.
He jumped at the chance to tell me that he’d been asked to organise the staff Christmas party this year alongside my mother, who always got involved in her capacity as school secretary.
I feigned interest even though it wasn’t something that I could get excited about. But at least it was a timely reminder that it wasn’t all about me and the work I did. Too often I gave that impression whenever I got wrapped up in a case. I withdrew into myself and thought about little else. And I knew that wasn’t fair on Aidan, even though he never complained.
To be sure Roy Slack and his minions were going to dominate my days for the foreseeable future, along with every other member of the task force.
I told myself that this time I would do my best to keep the investigation separate from my home life. I was determined not to let Aidan suffer in any way.
6
Slack
Danny Carver was a man of many talents. He was proficient in the use of most guns. He could strangle the toughest of men with his bare hands. He knew exactly how to torture someone to get them to cough up. And he could go days without sleep and still be a match for anyone in a street brawl.
But in recent years he had acquired a particular talent that didn’t involve violence – and yet it had proved just as useful to Roy Slack.
Danny had become a computer geek. He wasn’t up there with those cyber criminals who terrify the likes of governments, banks and big corporations. But his newfound skills had helped to develop new revenue streams for the firm through scams involving online fraud, hacking and identity theft. He’d also helped to make it difficult for the Old Bill to eavesdrop on their communications by installing sophisticated defence software in their mobiles and laptops.
It was therefore going to fall on Danny to get the ball rolling.
Slack took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and held it up.
‘This is a copy of the list I just told you about,’ he said. ‘It contains the names and contact details of every detective on the organised crime task force. Next to each individual there’s a home address and the names of the people who are closest to them – wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, children, etcetera. Our mole has also provided me with a separate file containing photographs of most of those on the list. It’s been uploaded as a password-protected page on the web.’
‘So what is it you want me to do, boss?’
‘To start with I want you to send an anonymous text message to every detective so they receive it at the same time. You have to make it impossible for the message to be traced back to us. Can you do that?’
Danny nodded. ‘Piece of cake. So what’ll be in the message?’
Slack handed the sheet of paper to Danny.
‘I’ve written it there under the names. It’s short and to the point and there’s no way it can be misinterpreted.’
Danny read the message and gave a little whistle through his teeth.
‘Well, if this fails to put the fear of God into the bastards then I don’t know what will,’ he said.
Slack’s office was above a pub/restaurant the firm owned in Rotherhithe, a quiet suburb of South East London.
It was used as their base of operations and had round-the-clock security.
There was a meeting room next door and from its rear window you
could see across the Thames to the spectacular skyline of Canary Wharf. One of the high-rise buildings had been home to Slack for the past four years. It was where he stayed when he was in London, which these days was most of the time.
It was just after nine o’clock and usually when he was here this late he would go for a meal downstairs. But tonight he had no appetite – at least for food.
‘Call Mike and let him know I’m ready to go home,’ he said to Danny. ‘And tell him I’ll be making the usual stop along the way.’
Mike Walker was one of his regular drivers. Long gone were the days when Slack drove anywhere himself.
He put on his suit jacket while Danny made the call, and filled his pockets with his phone, wallet and pack of Havana cigars.
‘Mike’s warming up the car,’ Danny said. ‘He says he’ll ring Jasmine to tell her you’re on your way over.’
Slack nodded. ‘That’s terrific. The last job for you tonight is to tell the lads that I want them here for a meeting tomorrow at eleven o’clock. I need to warn them that the shit’s about to hit the fan.’
They headed off in different directions – Danny to his house in Streatham and Slack to the home of his mistress in Vauxhall.
Jasmine Tinder lived in a flat he paid the rent on and it was an arrangement that suited them both. He wasn’t interested in another long-term relationship because he knew that no bird could ever match up to his Julie.
But it didn’t mean that his sex drive had hit the buffers, and so he made sure he got his end away on a regular basis. He was lucky in that the nature of his business meant that horny little muffins were always on tap.
Jasmine was one of several he currently had on the go, and the moment he entered the flat he realised yet again why she was his favourite.
‘I was hoping you’d drop by, babe,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘The thought of you fucking me senseless has had me dripping between the legs for hours.’
She stood before him in nothing but a black bra and panties, a twenty-one-year-old sex siren from Manchester with metallic red hair, tits the size of melons and the face of an angel.
It was all part of an act, of course, a performance designed to get him excited. But it was exactly what he wanted. What he paid her for.
She took his hand and led him into the bedroom and as she started to slowly take off his clothes, his cock rose to the occasion.
Sex with Jasmine was always good, and it was the only time he never used a condom. He didn’t have to because he’d had the snip years ago and he made sure she had regular check-ups at a private STD clinic.
He didn’t try to drag it out because he had a lot on his mind and there was a risk he’d lose his erection. But it was no less enjoyable. He came inside her from behind and she did a pretty good job of faking her own orgasm.
His timing, as it turned out, was perfect because he’d just got his breath back when his mobile rang. He’d placed it on the bedside table, and as he picked it up he told Jasmine to leave the room.
‘It is me, my friend,’ Carlos Cruz said when he answered. ‘Are you able to talk?’
‘Give me a second,’ Slack said as he pushed his back up against the headboard. His heart was still hammering and his face was drenched in sweat.
Cruz was probably calling from one of several homes he owned on the west coast of Mexico. It was from there he ran the infamous Sinaloa cartel, the one that the US government had described as the most powerful drug trafficking organisation in the world.
Cruz himself had approached Slack just over a year ago and offered to supply the firm with cocaine, crystal meth and heroin at a discount. He’d promised to undercut all other suppliers because they were eager to break into all the European markets. So far the guy had been true to his word and they’d both done well out of it.
‘So does this relate to the conversation we had yesterday, Carlos?’ Slack asked.
‘Indeed it does, my friend. You have helped me, and so now I am prepared to help you. But this is still a business arrangement and the sum of money you have offered needs to be increased from two million dollars to three million. And that is non-negotiable. For that price the trigger will stay with you for up to two weeks. If you want to extend the contract it will cost more.’
Slack didn’t balk at the figure. In fact he’d been prepared to pay a lot more. After all this was a job that required expertise and experience, and since the world’s most experienced killers for hire were in Mexico it seemed like a sensible move.
‘Your price is acceptable,’ Slack said. ‘But don’t let me down, Carlos. If your operative doesn’t live up to my expectations then it could be very damaging to our relationship.’
‘Have no fear, my friend,’ Carlos said. ‘I have chosen well. The person I’m sending has been working exclusively for the cartel for about eight years, and in that time has carried out over fifty hits on our behalf.’
‘That’s mightily impressive,’ Slack said.
‘I’m glad you think so. You’ll need to make all the arrangements at your end including accommodation, transport and weapons.’
‘I’ll sort it. So how soon can your man be here?’
‘Late tomorrow should be possible.’
‘Then I’ll have him picked up at the airport.’
‘That’s great, but there’s one thing you need to be aware of.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The person whose services you are acquiring is a woman, not a man. She’s the best in the business and goes by the name of Rosa Lopez, but the Mexican media have labelled her La Asesina, which in English means The Slayer.’
7
Rosa
Acapulco used to be one of Mexico’s most popular tourist destinations, with its spectacular beaches and bustling nightlife.
Its heyday was in the 50s and 60s when it epitomised tropical glamour and became a playground for the rich and famous.
But over the last decade or so the glitter had turned to blood and it had become one of the most violent towns on the planet.
Rosa Lopez reflected on this as she prepared to leave her hotel room overlooking the bay.
She’d first come here twenty-two years ago when she was just six. It was the last vacation she ever had with her parents before they were slaughtered in their sleep.
The memories hadn’t faded, and she still remembered how busy the beaches were then and how rare it was to see police officers on the streets. These days the beaches were often empty and the tourist areas were patrolled by heavily armed cops and soldiers.
But heightened levels of security had failed to stop the drug cartels from fighting each other for control of the smuggling routes along the Guerrero coast.
And it was this conflict that had brought Rosa back to the Pacific town.
She had arrived earlier by plane from Mexico City, and after checking in she’d had time for a short nap and a hot eucalyptus bubble bath.
Now she was ready to go to work. But before leaving the room she checked herself in the full-length mirror and nodded approvingly.
She was dressed to kill and that was deliberate because after the job was done she planned to visit one of the town’s famous nightclubs.
She was wearing her tightest designer jeans, faded and low-slung on the hips, and a V-neck T-shirt that revealed most of her ample cleavage.
Her lipstick was garishly red and her hair hung loose about her shoulders.
Her aim, as always, was to stand out from the crowd, which required a degree of effort in venues that were loud and dark and filled with pussy.
Killing always made her juices flow and she had no intention of spending the night alone. She’d discovered long ago that the best way to wind down and relax was to have sex with a beautiful stranger.
‘Time to hit the town,’ she said to herself, as she draped a little red purse over her shoulder.
A few minutes later she was walking through the hotel’s luxurious reception area to the sound of Going Loco Down in Acap
ulco by the Four Tops. It made her smile because it had been her father’s favourite song and he’d played it constantly at their home in Culiacan. It was one of the reasons he’d been so keen to visit the place.
As previously arranged there was a car waiting for her in front of the hotel, the driver standing next to it, waiting to open the door for her. He was tall and dark-skinned, and wearing a black shirt over jeans. He introduced himself as Miguel.
The only thing she knew about him was that, like her, he worked for the Sinaloa cartel. Carlos Cruz, their boss, had given her his number and she’d called him from the hotel.
His face broke into a wide grin as she approached.
‘I have heard many things about you, Miss Lopez,’ he said in Spanish as his eyes gave her the once-over. ‘And I can see that the tales of your beauty were not exaggerated.’
She got this a lot from the men she encountered and it used to drive her crazy. Now she just ignored it.
‘There’s no time for small talk,’ she said sharply. ‘Just get me to where we’re going.’
His smile vanished and he quickly opened the rear door for her to climb inside.
As soon as they were on the move, she said, ‘So tell me what I need to know.’
She already knew that there were two targets and they were top lieutenants in the Los Zetas cartel, which had been at war with the Sinaloa cartel for some time.
Carlos wanted them taken out because a month ago they had given the order for a local politician and his entire family to be murdered. The man, his wife and their two teenage daughters had had their throats cut and were then beheaded. Video footage of it happening had been then posted on the Internet.
‘The pair have been under surveillance throughout the day,’ Miguel said. ‘They are now at a restaurant on Avenue Escencia. The place is busy and the two are sitting next to a window with a view of the ocean.’
Rosa had seen photographs of the two men and had committed their faces to memory. They were both in their early thirties and were known as a pair of brutal enforcers whose speciality was torture.