The Rebel

by Jaime Raven

  That was probably the moment when I fully realised just how unsettled I’d become.

  Before leaving Aidan, I asked him to keep an eye on my mother in school. I then called her on the way to the station and actually felt relieved when she answered.

  She said she was already in her office but admitted to getting very little sleep during the night.

  ‘I’ll keep you updated on what’s going on,’ I said. ‘But please try not to worry. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘It’s not me I’m worried about, Laura. It’s you. I keep thinking about your father and how easy it was for his killer to get to him. I wouldn’t want to live if the same thing happened to you.’

  ‘It won’t and you have to believe that.’

  ‘How can I if you stay on this task force?’

  ‘Stepping back from it is not an option, Mum. You know that.’

  ‘Well then, don’t tell me not to worry.’

  On the tube I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said and I could feel the anxiety building up inside me. By the time I got to the Yard my head was spinning and a cold sweat had settled on my skin.

  Once in the office it soon became apparent that close family members of the other detectives were also freaking out.

  ‘The wife’s shit scared,’ Tony Marsden said to a group gathered around the coffee machine. ‘She was in tears all night and this morning she told me that she wanted me to get re-assigned.’

  ‘Well, my husband reckons we should all stop working until we know who’s behind it.’ This from DI Gloria Stanford, who was one of the newest recruits to the team.

  Even DCS Drummond had a story to tell. His wife was visiting relatives in Scotland when she called him from there to say she’d received the message.

  ‘I tried telling her it was probably a prank but she wouldn’t have it,’ he said. ‘She got quite upset.’

  It was quickly established that the message had been sent to the partners or immediate family members of all the detectives. These included husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, mothers, fathers and a couple of grown-up children.

  Among those who took it really badly was Dave Prentiss’s wife, Karen. Prentiss, who was on his day off, phoned in to say that she became hysterical when she opened the message while breastfeeding their new baby in the hospital.

  It was all very disturbing and no one really knew what to make of it. Drummond told us the Commissioner had been informed and he’d been in contact with the Home Secretary.

  The cyber-crime unit had been working through the night to try to get a handle on who had sent the text.

  ‘They’re also trying to find out how this person or persons could have obtained so many private phone numbers,’ he said. ‘And obviously until they have the answer we’re all under suspicion of leaking them.’

  This was to be expected but it nevertheless came as a shock. I didn’t want to believe that one or more members of the team might be corrupt.

  Kate Chappell asked Drummond if we’d be offered any form of protection, to which he replied, ‘That’s not at all feasible. There are far too many of us and the Met’s already stretched because of the high-level terror threat against our people on the streets.’

  ‘So what do you expect us to do, guv?’ she said.

  Drummond’s voice took on a hard edge. ‘That’s a stupid question, detective. What I expect you all to do is your job, no matter how tough it gets.’

  It was a sobering reminder to all of us that as police officers we could not step back from the firing line. We had no choice but to stand firm regardless of how many death threats came our way.

  But it was different for our loved ones and I felt compelled to remind Drummond of this.

  ‘What about our families, sir?’ I said. ‘Will they get protection?’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, DI Jefferson,’ he said. ‘We still can’t be certain that this isn’t just some nutcase making mischief. So there’s no way the Commissioner will sanction personal protection for so many people.’

  ‘But surely we now have to treat this as a credible threat, sir.’

  He nodded. ‘And we will, but our response has to be measured and carefully considered. We can’t just pluck scores of officers out of the air so that they can act as round-the-clock bodyguards for individuals. That’d be a mega commitment – especially if this drags on for weeks – and we simply don’t have the manpower and resources.’

  He was making a valid point and we all knew it. Protecting people deemed to be at risk was extremely labour intensive and it wasn’t always effective. There had been numerous instances over the years where people had been attacked and even killed despite being under police guard.

  Drummond rounded off the meeting by asking for a list of all possible suspects.

  ‘In response to this latest development we need to question the most likely suspects,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing Roy Slack will be at the top of the list. But include all other villains who will know that it’s only a matter of time before we come after them. And check the database to see if anything like this has happened before. There’ll be more than a few loonies out there who’ve got form for wasting our time by making outrageous threats and demands.’

  If anything the meeting had served only to increase my sense of unease. It was as though a grenade had been lobbed into the room and no one knew what to do with it.

  It hadn’t yet gone off and we were hoping it was a fake. But there was no way we could ignore it, because if it wasn’t a fake then it had the potential to cause an awful lot of damage.

  17

  Rosa

  Rosa stood naked in front of the window, her body flushed from the heat of the shower.

  Her room was four floors up and overlooked a busy street full of shops. She could hear the tuneless chorus of blaring horns and people’s voices.

  It reminded her of Mexico City. It was less chaotic, but just as frenetic.

  London had, for a long time, been on her list of places she wanted to visit. But her first impression was not a favourable one. It was dirtier than she’d expected and the buildings were bland and weary-looking.

  But maybe that was because this was an insalubrious area and she would have to cross the River Thames to sample London’s real delights.

  This morning the city was draped in billowy clouds but at least it wasn’t raining.

  The time was just after eleven o’clock. She’d slept late partly because of the jet lag, but mostly because she’d sat up until the early hours preparing for her mission.

  There was a lot to do in a short space of time. But she was used to working quickly. More often than not she was expected to carry out hits with barely twenty-four hours’ notice.

  She had gone through the list that Roy Slack had given her and checked the website containing the photographs of most of the targets. She’d then used the iPad to search for the individuals online.

  There wasn’t much information on the detectives, who, for obvious reasons, preferred to keep a low profile, but most of the relatives and partners on the list had a presence on Facebook, Twitter and various other social media sites. This enabled Rosa to compile a wealth of useful facts and figures.

  She’d then run all the addresses through Google Earth and transferred some of the images of their homes to the phone she’d been given.

  At 4am she’d gone through the names again, cross-referencing them against all the other information.

  The names of the detectives were typed in a bold, black font and their ranks were included. The boss was a DCS George Drummond. Underneath his name was his wife’s name.

  Below him there were several DCIs, and then some DIs, DSs and DCs.

  Rosa had circled six names with her pen – Graham Nash, George Drummond, Phil Warren, Laura Jefferson, Dave Prentiss and Gloria Stanford. She’d chosen them for several reasons – they were all based south of the river, they all had husbands, wives or partners who were named, and they all lived in a
house and not a flat, which made them more vulnerable.

  Before crawling into bed, Rosa had selected her first victim.

  She’d also come to the conclusion that with so many victims to choose from this assignment was going to be pretty straightforward.

  She started the day as she always did, with two cups of strong black coffee. Then she dressed in a light-grey tank top and jeans.

  She’d worked out a plan for the day ahead. First she would go and get something to eat because she’d missed breakfast in the hotel’s small dining room.

  Then she’d visit a few stores to buy some things, including clothes, because the few she’d brought with her were for warmer climes.

  She would purchase everything using the debit and credit cards that identified her as Maria Rodriquez, which was one of the false names she operated under.

  Then she’d go to the garage behind the pub and take the motorbike for a spin. She planned to visit several locations, including the home of her first victim so she’d know exactly where to go later. Then she’d return to the hotel to do some more research before getting ready and going to work.

  She wanted the first hit to go smoothly in order to impress the client, who was clearly paying Carlos Cruz a significant amount of money over and above the half million she was going to get.

  Since the meeting in the pub she hadn’t given much thought to Roy Slack, although he did strike her as someone who was past his prime.

  She knew how powerful and ruthless he was from the many online news stories. But she’d sensed in his eyes an expression at odds with a demeanour that reeked of malevolence.

  She had seen the same look in the eyes of a few ageing cartel bosses when they were suddenly confronted with the grim truth that they were mortal after all.

  She had no idea what was behind Slack’s decision to embark on a killing spree that in her opinion would achieve very little other than creating a pile of blood-soaked corpses.

  It was the kind of thing they did in Mexico, usually as an act of revenge against rivals or groups of people who spoke out against them.

  So perhaps it was revenge that was motivating Roy Slack. The truth was she would probably never know. But as long as she got paid for her services she really didn’t care.

  18

  Laura

  It was 3pm and Kate Chappell and I were on our way to Roy Slack’s business HQ in Rotherhithe. A team of uniformed officers were in a van behind us. We knew that Slack was there because he’d been under surveillance since this morning.

  We were armed with a warrant to search the premises and seize his phone and any computers. We’d also obtained warrants to search his flat and the homes and offices of other villains who we reckoned might be responsible for the death threats.

  It’d be the second time in a week that the police had descended on Slack’s place, and for that reason I wasn’t optimistic about finding any incriminating evidence.

  But Drummond had told us that it would be enough at this stage just to get a sense of whether he knew something.

  ‘And use it as an excuse to mark his card,’ Drummond had said. ‘Tell him that his days are numbered and he’ll soon be following Harry Fuller into the dock at the Old Bailey. In other words do your best to unnerve him.’

  We were dropping in unannounced, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be expecting us. It was quite possible that he’d already been tipped off that we were coming and was therefore prepared.

  It was a horrible thought that there might be a rat on the team, but it had to be a distinct possibility given that all our private phone numbers had been leaked.

  The Southside Arms was sandwiched between two apartment buildings close to the riverfront in Rotherhithe. It boasted two bars and a large restaurant.

  There were three floors above it and Roy Slack’s office was on the top floor. Access was either through the pub or through a door to the side that had a video intercom and a security camera.

  As we came to a stop in front of the building I was the first onto the pavement followed by six uniforms and Kate.

  ‘I’ll take the side door,’ I told her. ‘You go through the pub.’

  I was about to give instructions to the uniforms when the side door opened and a man stepped out onto the pavement. He raised a hand towards me, palm facing out.

  ‘There’s no need to go storming inside like a fucking army,’ he said. ‘There are people in there enjoying their lunch.’

  He was at once familiar to me from the many photos I’d seen. His name was Danny Carver, but in the underworld he was known as The Rottweiler.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Laura Jefferson from the organised crime task force and I’m here to speak to Roy Slack,’ I said. ‘I also have a warrant to search his office.’

  He smiled then, flashing a couple of gold teeth that made him look like a pirate.

  ‘Well, you’re in luck, my love,’ he said. ‘He’s upstairs, and he’ll be happy to answer your questions, whatever they’re about.’

  It was not the reaction I’d expected, but I didn’t let that faze me.

  As I stepped towards him I was struck by how big and ugly he was. He had a barrel-chest beneath a black T-shirt and thick arms adorned with tattoos. His dark hair was short and spiky and his broken nose was pressed flat against the rest of his face.

  ‘Were you expecting us?’ I asked when I stood facing him.

  ‘How could we have possibly known you were coming?’ he said, grinning. ‘You didn’t have the good manners to tell us.’

  I turned to look at Kate and she rolled her eyes. It was all too obvious that they’d been forewarned, and that concerned me.

  I instructed two uniforms to wait outside and question anyone who left the building, then told Carver to take us upstairs to his boss.

  It felt like an anti-climax. I’d been bracing myself for a loud, hostile reception, but instead we were being treated like welcome guests. That in itself was a bad omen. Either Slack had nothing to hide or he’d hidden it where he knew we would never find it.

  ‘So what goes on up here?’ I said as we mounted the stairs.

  Carver, who was ahead of me, spoke without turning.

  ‘This is the hub of Mr Slack’s business empire,’ he said. ‘From here he oversees the running of his restaurants, pubs, clubs and property portfolio.’

  ‘So what about all the other stuff he’s involved in?’ I asked.

  He stopped walking and turned to face me, a frown gathering on his brow.

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ he said. ‘What other stuff are you talking about?’

  Jesus, I thought. This creep knows how to play it cool.

  ‘I’m talking about the businesses that bring in the real money – like the drugs and prostitution and smuggling and so forth.’

  His lips stretched into another mirthless grin.

  ‘Nice try, my love. But you lot really need to accept that you’ve been barking up the wrong tree for years. My boss is a legitimate businessman. He’s not a gangster. If he was I’m sure that even half-wits like you would have been able to prove it by now.’

  Our eyes locked briefly and I could see he wanted me to respond. But when I didn’t he shrugged his shoulders and carried on up the stairs.

  I stared at his back and told myself that when Roy Slack was eventually taken down I’d do all I could to make sure that this cocky bastard was right there alongside him.

  On the top floor there was a carpeted corridor with two open doors on either side.

  We followed Carver past a small kitchen and then a room containing a long conference table.

  The walls were painted a soft grey and there were a few hanging prints of old London.

  There was no sign of life until we got to the last room on the right. Slack’s office. He was sitting behind a large mahogany desk wearing a white open-neck shirt that was too tight across his chest and stomach.

  Carver stood to one side and waved me into the room. Kate followed, but I gestu
red for the uniforms to wait outside in the corridor. Then I whipped out my ID and showed it to Slack.

  ‘DI Laura Jefferson,’ I said. ‘I’m here with DS Kate Chappell.’

  ‘And let me guess,’ he said. ‘You’re with the organised crime task force.’

  I nodded. ‘We are.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t waste any time did you? Fresh from putting poor Harry Fuller away you’ve decided to get back to harassing me.’

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions, Mr Slack,’ I said. ‘And for your information we have a warrant to search this office and seize your phones and computers.’

  His eyebrows knitted together.

  ‘This sounds serious,’ he said. ‘Should I call my lawyer?’

  ‘That’s up to you. But if you choose to we’ll have to conduct the interview at the Yard.’

  He shrugged. ‘In that case I’ll listen to what you have to say and then decide.’ He indicated the two chairs in front of the desk. ‘You’d better sit down then. Would you like Danny to get you something to drink? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said for both of us.

  Once seated, I took out my notebook and flipped it open. While doing so I studied the man behind the desk who seemed to be more relaxed than he should have been.

  Every one of his fifty-seven years was etched in his face. His complexion was unhealthy and sallow, and red veins laced the whites of his eyes.

  He looked unwell to me, but even so there was a quiet, brooding intensity about him that told me he was still a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘So fire away, detective inspector,’ he said. ‘What’s brought you people back here so soon after the last visit? If it’s to ask me again where that firearms officer is, well, my answer’s the same: I haven’t the foggiest idea.’

  I decided to get straight to the point and said, ‘This has nothing to do with Officer Wallis. It’s about an anonymous text message that’s been sent to all the detectives on the task force, along with members of our families.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is. The sender says he wants the task force to be disbanded and calls on the detectives to step back from it.’