by Jaime Raven
I paused there to gauge his reaction. But there wasn’t one. His expression didn’t change.
‘That sounds pretty innocuous,’ he said. ‘What the fuck has it got to do with me?’
‘The message goes on to say that if we refuse to step back then we’ll be killed,’ I said.
He gave a little whistle. ‘I can see why you’re in a flap. But I still don’t know what it has to do with me.’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ I said. ‘You more than anyone has a good reason to want to see the task force disbanded and the investigation into your activities halted or at least disrupted.’
His eyes tightened. ‘And do you really think I’m stupid enough to make things worse for myself by killing coppers?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Give me some credit, love. I’ve got nothing to do with any anonymous threats so you’re wasting your time and mine.’
‘Then you won’t mind if we check your phones and computers, both here and at your flat.’
He shrugged and pointed to a mobile phone lying on the desk.
‘There’s my phone,’ he said. ‘It’s unregistered but I’ve had it a couple of weeks and in that time I’ve not sent a single text. And the laptop’s over there on the cabinet. I use it to stay across my businesses. You can take it with you but I want it back once you’ve checked it.’
‘Is that your only phone?’ I asked.
‘It is. I don’t make many calls. And that’s my only laptop.’
‘So there are no others at your flat?’
‘Go see for yourself. I’ll call security and tell them to let you in. And please tell your people not to make a mess like they did last time.’
I felt a flash of anger. The guy was playing us. He had no doubt taken steps to ensure that we wouldn’t find anything on the phone and computer that could be used against him.
‘So let’s be clear, Mr Slack,’ I said. ‘You’re saying you know nothing about these death threats?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. There are plenty of people out there who are shit scared of you and might be tempted to make threats. But I’m not one of them.’
‘Well, you can rest assured that you’re not the only one we’re talking to.’
He gave a derisive snort. ‘But I suppose I’m the prime suspect.’
I allowed the corners of my mouth to lift in a smile.
‘Of course you are,’ I said. ‘And with good reason. You know we’ve turned our attention on you so your days as London’s Mr Big are numbered.’
He laughed then and I felt my hackles rise.
‘Listen to me,’ he snarled. ‘You no-good cunts have been trying to stitch me up for years. You’ve caused me no end of grief and for that reason I don’t give a monkey’s if some nutjob is threatening to kill a bunch of you. As far as I’m concerned you’re all scum and if the threats are carried out then I’ll be cracking open the champers.’
It was all I could do not to throw myself across the desk and dig my fingers into his eyes. But somehow I managed to repress the rage that rose up inside me. I forced myself to keep a neutral face, but I couldn’t stop my body from shaking or my heart from pounding against my rib cage.
Slack continued to stare at me unflinchingly, and I stared right back.
The silence stretched between us for about ten seconds. And then a sneer rose on his face and he said, ‘I’m not going to say anymore so you can bring those clowns in now and search the place. When you’re finished I want you to fuck off and take note of the fact that I won’t be so accommodating if you show up again.’
I didn’t say anything because I didn’t trust myself not to go too far. What Slack had said was vile and unwarranted, but he hadn’t committed a crime.
So we went through the motions, searching not just his office but also the other rooms on the top floor. And while we did that the smug bastard and his gold-toothed henchman went downstairs to the pub to have a late lunch and a drink.
When we left there we took Slack’s phone and laptop with us, but I knew there’d be nothing on them of interest to us.
‘So what do you think?’ Kate said as we got back in the car.
‘I think that man is a sorry excuse for a human being,’ I answered. ‘And I think there’s a good chance he’s behind this. But I don’t know how the hell we’ll be able to prove it.’
19
Rosa
It was just after 6pm and Rosa was ready to go to work. But, as she was about to leave the hotel room, a news item on the television caught her eye.
CNN were reporting on the murder of a journalist back home in Sinaloa.
‘Award-winning reporter Antonia Castillo was shot dead in the street as he got out of his car,’ the anchor was saying. ‘Mr Castillo was famed for his coverage of drug cartel activities. He’s the ninth reporter to have been murdered in Mexico this year alone.’
Rosa couldn’t help but smile. Castillo had been pissing off Carlos Cruz for some time and his death had been on the cards. If she hadn’t been five and a half thousand miles away in London she might well have been the one assigned to get rid of him.
She wasn’t complaining, though. This was a dream job. An all-expenses paid trip to a European capital. The chance to stock up on designer clothes at some of the world’s most famous stores. And then there were the targets who were going to be sitting ducks, plus the huge fee, of course.
The money from this job would take her savings to over three million dollars. That was enough to retire on. But she wouldn’t be doing that anytime soon because killing made her feel good and gave meaning to her life. She enjoyed the thrill of it, the power, the sense of absolute control. She couldn’t imagine lying on a beach every day or doing some crappy job just to alleviate the boredom.
CNN moved onto another story so she switched off the TV and checked herself in the mirror.
Her hair was gathered up and pinned at the back and over it she’d put on a woollen hat pulled down over her ears. Under her leather jacket she was wearing the navy polo sweater and black jeans she’d bought earlier, along with a new pair of dark trainers.
Satisfied with her appearance, she left the room, went downstairs, and exited the hotel.
The air outside was raw and she was glad to see that the street was heaving with traffic and pedestrians. She’d decided to strike at the tail end of the rush hour. She wanted to make it as hard as possible for the cops to spot her going to and from her victim’s house.
She knew that extreme caution was necessary in a city with over half a million surveillance cameras. She’d spotted plenty of them while checking out the various locations today and she’d try to avoid them where possible.
She walked briskly to the pub, which was only a couple of hundred yards from the hotel. She let herself into the garage at the rear and got to work.
The first thing she did was remove her coat and slip into the two-piece motorcycle suit. Then she picked up the pistol she’d chosen for the first hit and put it inside the jacket. Finally, she picked up the helmet and rolled the bike outside, locking the door behind her.
She wheeled the bike out onto the road and got on it. Before placing the helmet on her head she made a call using one of the burner phones that Slack had given to her. She’d put the number in earlier so that she wouldn’t have to memorise it.
It rang three times before being answered.
‘Hello.’
It was a woman’s voice and Rosa assumed it must be the victim’s wife.
‘Is Detective Inspector Prentiss there?’ she asked. ‘It’s the office here.’
‘He is but I’ll have to get him,’ the woman said. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’
Rosa abruptly ended the call, turned off the phone and dropped it on the ground where she smashed it beneath her trainer.
Then she put on the helmet and fired up the bike.
It was a relief to know that DI Dave Prentiss was at home. He would be her first victim and hopefully he’d be dead within t
he hour. That would give Rosa plenty of time to make a night of it in London’s famous West End.
With luck she might even get herself laid.
Dave Prentiss lived in a quiet street in Battersea, less than a mile from the hotel in Vauxhall.
He had just become a father, information gleaned from his wife’s most recent social media posts. Rosa therefore stopped on the way to the house to buy a bunch of flowers.
She’d also decided that if it was the wife who answered the door then she’d be the one to die. After all, the brief was to kill the detectives or the family members and loved ones whose names were on the list she’d been given.
She’d seen photos of both husband and wife so she wasn’t going to make a mistake.
Navigating her way through the heaving South London traffic was easy now that she had the hang of riding on the left side of the road. The number of motorcyclists surprised her, but it worked in her favour. She could move around the city without drawing attention to herself and that was going to be important in the days ahead.
She left the bike two streets away from the house where she knew there were no CCTV cameras. She removed the helmet but left the hat on as she moved towards the house carrying the bunch of flowers, lowering her head whenever she passed another pedestrian.
It was a terraced house and the small front garden was enclosed by hedges on either side, which was perfect. As she approached it she was pleased to see that the street was empty.
There were lights on inside the house and a car on the driveway.
Rosa’s body was rigid, her jaw clenched, as she walked up to the front door.
She filled her lungs with air and held the flowers in front of her face. With the other hand she pulled the gun from inside her jacket. Then she rang the bell.
She heard movement inside after only a couple of seconds, and suddenly the door was pulled open.
Dave Prentiss appeared and she saw his smiling face through the flowers. As soon as he started to speak she squeezed the trigger. The bullet popped as it exited through the silencer and ploughed into his chest.
He fell backwards into the hallway, blood spurting from the wound like an industrial sprinkler.
Rosa lowered the flowers, took aim, and fired two more shots into the cop’s face.
Job done, she slipped the gun back into the jacket and turned away from her blood-drenched victim.
As she headed back down the driveway she heard a baby start to cry somewhere in the house. But it didn’t cause her to break her stride as she calmly walked away from the house.
She dropped the flowers into a trash can at the end of the street.
PART TWO
20
Laura
I was in the office when the call came through at just after seven thirty. I’d decided to work late so that I could be around when the techies finished going through Roy Slack’s phone and laptop.
It was Drummond who took the call and he came straight out of his office and summoned everyone together. There were seven of us – four detectives and three support staff – and we gathered around him with a shared sense of anticipation.
From the look on the boss’s face it seemed obvious that he had some bad news to impart. His skin was the colour of sour milk and his bottom lip appeared to be trembling.
He stood with his head slightly forward, shoulders curved, and rubbed a palm across his forehead. When he spoke his voice was shaking and I could tell that he was fighting to calm it.
‘Something terrible has just happened,’ he said, and then paused for a couple of seconds before continuing. ‘Dave Prentiss has been shot and I’m afraid … I’m afraid he’s dead.’
I felt my heart crumble in my chest and a cold flush went over my skin. I heard someone gasp and someone else swore.
‘It occurred at his home in Battersea,’ Drummond went on. ‘The killer struck when Dave opened his front door.’
My throat tightened with shock, and the question I wanted to ask wouldn’t come out. I started shaking my head, finding it hard to grasp what Drummond had said.
Surely it must be a mistake, I told myself. Dave can’t be dead. I saw him yesterday, gave him a card and congratulated him on the birth of his baby.
Behind me one of the female support staff gave an anguished cry and burst into tears. Drummond looked at her and the lines between his eyes deepened.
I cleared my throat and found my voice.
‘What else do you know, guv?’ I said.
He hunched his shoulders. ‘Not much at this stage except that his wife and child were at the house when it happened but they’re unharmed. And there’s no sign of the perp. I’m going straight there now.’
‘I’d like to come with you,’ I blurted out.
He nodded. ‘Fine. The rest of you start bashing the phones. Inform your colleagues before they hear it on the news and get them all in. Also, liaise with Wandsworth nick. They’ve assigned a DCI Resnick to the case. He’s already at the scene.’
Drummond signalled for me to get ready, then went back into his office to get his coat. But for several seconds I couldn’t move. It felt like a large stone was crushing my chest.
Someone placed a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Are you OK, Laura?’
I turned. It was Janet Dean and her face had lost all its colour.
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘This is so bad.’
‘I know. It’s awful.’
I breathed in deep through my nostrils and tried to compose myself.
‘I have a horrible feeling that this is just the start,’ I said. ‘And that it wasn’t an empty threat after all.’
Janet stared at me and I noticed that her lips had gone white around the edges.
‘Let’s just hope and pray that you’re wrong, Laura,’ she said. ‘Because if you’re not then God only knows how we’re going to stop it from happening again.’
I sat in the back of the patrol car with Drummond as we raced towards Battersea. The siren wailed and the traffic parted to let us through.
Drummond’s phone was stuck to his ear so we didn’t get a chance to talk. He had conversations with various people, including the Commissioner and the commanding officer at Wandsworth, on whose patch the killing had taken place.
The murder of any police officer always sparks a wave of disquiet. But what had happened to Dave Prentiss was going to have massive implications for the Met and indeed for the country.
It sounded like he was the victim of a cold-blooded assassination, and gut instinct was telling me that it was committed by, or on behalf of, the person who sent us the death threat.
I didn’t believe that it was a coincidence, and I gathered from what Drummond was telling everyone that he didn’t either.
I had never seen him so rattled, but that was understandable. Prentiss was one of twenty detectives under his command and we’d all received the same text message warning us to stop working for the task force.
I feared now that it was indeed just the start … that there would be more murders if we didn’t yield to the demand.
And that our close friends and family members would be among the victims.
The street was filled with police cars, and their flashing lights were reflected in the windows of the small terraced houses.
I’d never been to Prentiss’s house before and when we pulled up outside it my first thought was how nice it was. But then the sight of all the uniforms on the driveway hit me like a cattle prod and robbed me of air. As I stepped out of the car onto the pavement I felt an icy chill in my stomach.
Drummond came and stood beside me and asked me if I was all right.
‘Not really, guv,’ I said. ‘But I’m glad I’m here. I need to see this.’
He was about to say something else when a tall man in a white forensic suit appeared and introduced himself as DCI Bob Resnick. He looked about fifty and had dark, wavy hair.
‘I was told that you were coming, sir,’ he said to Drummond. ‘I unde
rstand that Dave Prentiss was on your task force.’
‘That’s right,’ Drummond said. ‘So what have you got?’
He told us what we already knew, that Prentiss had been shot dead when he opened his front door to someone.
‘His wife was upstairs with her new baby when the doorbell rang,’ he said. ‘She said her husband went to answer it. She didn’t even know he’d been murdered until she came downstairs a couple of minutes later to see why he wasn’t responding to her calls. She found him in the hallway.’
‘Did she not hear the shots?’ Drummond asked.
‘She says there weren’t any, which leads me to believe that the killer used a gun with a silencer. And that suggests it was the work of a pro.’
‘How many shots were fired?’ I asked.
‘Three. A bullet in the chest and two in the face. So be warned – he’s not a pretty sight.’
As he spoke I could feel the horror closing in around me and bile rose in my throat.
In my mind’s eye I saw Prentiss as he’d been the day before. The proud father, all smiles as he showed me a picture of his baby. Little Josh. The boy would now grow up never knowing his father who was shot on the day he was brought home from hospital.
I just couldn’t fathom the mentality behind such a vicious, mindless act. It was an appalling tragedy that was going to have an impact on so many lives.
Resnick was now telling us that Karen Prentiss and her baby were in the neighbour’s house and naturally she was in a terrible state.
Around us the air buzzed and crackled with radio chatter. Officers were whispering to each other, their faces stiff with shock.
‘We’ll need to liaise closely on this one,’ Resnick said. ‘It’s possible, or perhaps even likely, that DI Prentiss was targeted because he was on your task force. Have you any idea who might have done it or paid someone to do it?’
After a brief hesitation, Drummond said, ‘There’s something you need to know and I fear it’s related to this.’
‘Really?’
So Drummond told him about the threat and even showed him the message on his own phone.