by Jaime Raven
The TV caught her eye again. The Met Commissioner was back and making a statement outside Scotland Yard.
‘After a meeting with the Home Secretary I would like to dispel rumours that we are prepared to close down the operations of the organised crime task force,’ he said. ‘This will not happen despite the threats that have this morning been made public. The task force is now working with the Murder Investigation Team, the Counter Terrorism Command and the National Crime Agency in a bid to find those who are seeking to scare this great police force of ours into submission.’
Rosa crossed the room and switched off the TV. She’d seen enough. She checked her watch and decided that it was time she went back to work. But before getting dressed she had one call to make and the number was among those on the list in front of her.
When a woman answered, she said, ‘Is that Mrs Marion Nash?’
‘Er, yes. Who’s calling?’
‘It’s the BBC here, Mrs Nash,’ Rosa said. ‘As the wife of one of the detectives on the organised crime task force we wondered if you would care to comment on what is happening.’
‘Oh no. I don’t think I should.’
‘But it’s true, isn’t it, that you also received the text message containing the death threat?’
‘Well, er, yes, but …’
‘Has it prevented you from going to work or carrying on as normal?’
‘No it hasn’t. I’m in work now and I’m busy so I really have to go. Sorry. You should call the police press office.’
Marion Nash hung up and Rosa turned off her own phone and removed the battery. She’d found out what she needed to know. The wife of DCI Graham Nash had shown a degree of courage and defiance by going to work in the bookshop she ran in Clapham.
Sadly for her it would prove to be a costly mistake.
26
Slack
Roy Slack was back in his apartment and he was on a high. The opening notes of his swansong were already reverberating across the city. The reaction was off the scale. Shock. Incredulity. Condemnation.
The Old Bill were feeling the pain and it was only day one. It cheered him to think how much more they would have to endure before this was finally over.
He still didn’t know when that would be. But he did know that he’d make sure he got his money’s worth out of Rosa Lopez. He would measure the success of the venture by how many people she killed and how their deaths impacted the Met and everyone who worked within it.
He wanted them to suffer both collectively and individually. He wanted to provoke panic and fear and confusion. He wanted to see desperation in the eyes of senior officers when they addressed the public and gave interviews. He wasn’t going to be satisfied unless the consequences were devastating. And he was sure they would be.
He was watching the news from the comfort of his padded leather armchair, switching between channels while drinking coffee and smoking a cigar.
The cops had let him walk because they’d known that they weren’t going to charge him with anything. How could they? There was no evidence. Nothing at all to connect him to the murder of DI Prentiss or the text messages.
He hadn’t planned on telling them about the cancer just yet, but he’d seen it as the only way of stopping the bitch from wasting his time. And it’d worked. He’d probably still be in the interview room if he hadn’t fessed up.
But he wasn’t sure how he felt about his condition no longer being a secret. Before today he’d only told two people – Terry Malone and Danny Carver. Telling Terry on the night he was shot dead had been hard. It was only weeks after he’d been given the news himself.
Pancreatic cancer.
As soon as the doctor told him he knew that he wouldn’t have long to live. Years before his own mother had been given the same diagnosis and so he’d learned all about it, including the fact that in some cases it can be hereditary.
She might have lived for up to six months if she hadn’t decided to spare herself and everyone around her a lot of agony and distress by taking her own life.
Slack had already made up his own mind to follow her example, and sooner rather than later. But instead of taking an overdose he would use the pistol he kept in the hidden safe along with his trusty knuckleduster and the laptop and phones that he didn’t want the police to get their hands on.
The safe also contained the suicide letter he had already written. It was in an envelope marked Metropolitan Police.
In the note he made it clear that he was responsible for the bloodbath. And he put the blame squarely on the shoulders of the Met for what they’d done to his father, his wife, his son and his grandchild.
He wouldn’t be around to see their reaction, of course. But at least he’d die in the knowledge that the bastards would never forget him.
Or the fact that he’d made them pay a heavy price for what they’d done.
Danny called as soon as the police in Streatham released him. He’d been held for five hours and his flat had been turned upside down.
‘They took a couple of phones and a tablet,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry – they’re not the ones I use. Those are well hidden.’
They compared notes on their respective interviews and agreed the cops were clueless.
‘I told them about my condition,’ Slack said. ‘I asked them not to share the info but it doesn’t mean they won’t.’
‘I don’t think it matters considering where this is all going,’ Danny said.
‘I agree, but I’d like to keep it from the lads as long as possible.’
‘Fair enough, but they’re pretty anxious after all that’s happened. I’ve spread the word that we’ll meet up later. I just need to give ’em a time.’
‘Let’s say seven o’clock at the office,’ Slack said. ‘I’ll have dinner downstairs afterwards.’
‘OK, I’ll arrange it.’
‘And one other thing. I’m gonna want you to send another message to the detectives.’
‘Saying what?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’
Slack hung up and called Mike. He told him to come and pick him up at six thrity. That gave him plenty of time to shower and change.
He finished his coffee and left what remained of his cigar in the ashtray. He was heading for the bathroom when a text came through on his phone. It was from Rosa, and it caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand to attention.
Number two taken care of in Clapham. News will break soon.
27
Laura
Emotions were running high in the office. Everyone was tired and tearful, and each person was dealing with the shock in his or her own way.
It wasn’t as though we could withdraw into ourselves and grieve for one of our own. We had to stay on top of things, stay focused, do our jobs … even though we were reeling from Dave Prentiss’s murder.
Kate Chappell was among those who were struggling to cope. When I went into the toilets I found her staring at herself in the mirror, her eyes beaten red from crying.
‘I don’t know how they can expect us to carry on as normal,’ she said. ‘Dave’s been murdered, for Christ’s sake. Anyone of us could be next.’
‘The alternative is to give in to the maniac who’s behind it,’ I said, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘And we can’t let that happen.’
She took a tissue from her jacket pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
‘But this is not like anything we’ve faced before, Laura. Dave wasn’t picked at random like when a terrorist attacks a uniform in the street. He was deliberately targeted. The killer knew his name, where he lived, when he’d be home.’
We looked at each other in the mirror.
‘So what do you think we should do?’ I asked.
She sucked on her bottom lip. ‘I think the task force operations should be suspended while this is investigated by other divisions. And if they won’t go for that upstairs then we should be given the option of stepping away from it. It’s not fair to make u
s carry on like this. I can’t be the only person who’s scared to leave this building and go home.’
She wasn’t. I knew that. Several other detectives had told me that they too were nervous about going home. One had already called his wife to tell her to pick up their two sons from school and go straight to his parents’ house.
Kate drew a sharp breath and threw her tissue in the bin.
‘I’m sick and tired of bad things happening,’ she said. ‘And I can’t help thinking that my life would have been so much better, and far less dramatic, if I’d never joined the police.’
I cocked my head to one side and frowned.
‘Do you really mean that?’
She turned towards me and her features tightened.
‘Damn right I do. I married late because I was so busy doing this job that I forgot to have a social life. And when I did finally get hitched it was to a copper who turned out to be a cheating bastard. If he hadn’t died in an accident I swear I would have killed him myself.’
She started sobbing again so I put my arms around her and gave her a hug.
I managed not to cry along with her, but it required a large amount of willpower. Inside I was just as fearful and confused, although I hadn’t got to the stage where I was wishing I’d never joined the force. If anything I felt an even stronger sense of responsibility, not only to my colleagues, but also to the public. We were the last line of defence and we couldn’t back away from any challenge or threat, no matter how severe. But would I still feel the same way if the killings continued? That was a question I wasn’t able to answer.
Aidan rang to say he was at home and that my mother was with him.
‘She’s still scared, Laura,’ he said. ‘So I’ve told her to stay here tonight.’
I swallowed hard. Pinched the bridge of my nose. Didn’t know what to say to ease his fears.
‘We’ve been watching the news,’ he said. ‘They’re saying the killer’s still out there.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘But the investigation has only just begun. We’re hoping—’
He cut me off. ‘Look, be straight with me, hon. Do you have any idea who’s doing this?’
‘We have a bunch of suspects,’ I said.
‘So that’s a no then.’
‘I didn’t say that, Aidan.’
‘You didn’t have to. What about that man Slack, the gangster?’
‘He was arrested and I questioned him myself,’ I said.
‘Then why have I just heard on the news that he’s been released without charge, along with others?’
‘We know he didn’t kill Dave Prentiss because he’s under surveillance. But although it’s possible he paid someone to do it we can’t charge him unless we can prove it, and right now we can’t. Plus, we haven’t uncovered any link between him and the text messages.’
He gave an exasperated sigh and his tone became less combative.
‘I don’t want it to sound like I’m having a go at you, Laura,’ he said. ‘But try to put yourself in our position. It was bad enough when we received the message. But now we know that this nutter has every intention of carrying out his threat.’
‘I’m in the same position as you and mum,’ I said. ‘So I do know how you feel. And if I could just make it all go away by waving a magic wand I would. But it’s going to take time. And, just so you know, there are discussions taking place at the highest level about protection for everyone concerned.’
He left it a couple of beats before responding, and I heard my mother in the background asking him when I’d be coming home.
‘Tell her I hope to be home in a few hours,’ I said. ‘I’m desperately in need of a shower and some sleep.’
‘Well, whatever time you get here I’ll be up,’ he said. ‘And please take care of yourself.’
When I came off the phone I had to resist a sudden urge to drop everything and rush straight home. I wanted to be with Aidan and my mum. They were the two most important people in my life and they were at risk from a deranged killer or killers.
What if one of them was going to be the next target? Or both of them for that matter? How would I ever forgive myself, knowing that I hadn’t done more to protect them?
But we were all faced with the same dilemma – and none of us knew how to respond to it.
Drummond called us together for another update. Frustration lent an edge to his voice as he announced that all the faces we’d brought in for questioning had either been released or would be soon.
‘We’ve got sweet fuck all,’ he said. ‘We’re still sifting through phone records and computers but I’m not optimistic.’
He told us the National Crime Agency was concentrating on foreign crime gangs who were operating in London – the Russian Mafia, the Mexican cartel that had links to Slack’s mob, and the Eastern European outfits.
‘Meanwhile we’ll continue to focus on the home-grown firms,’ he said. ‘Another list of names is about to be circulated so let’s get cracking on it.’
He went on to say that a new shift pattern was being drawn up so that we could take turns to catch up on lost sleep.
He then returned to the subject of protection and said he’d put in a request for armed officers to accompany detectives during the day.
‘Those of you who are authorised to carry weapons will hopefully be able to arm yourselves with a handgun,’ he said.
That included me. I had attended the firearms course as part of a ten-month secondment to the Met’s Specialist Protection Command. My job there was to be a close protection officer for visiting dignitaries and politicians. But I’d never felt comfortable in the role and had thankfully never had to pull the trigger on my Glock pistol.
So it actually came as a huge relief when they offered me a position with the task force and I was able to move straight over.
I was still pondering the unappealing idea of carrying a gun again when Drummond’s mobile rang and he stopped speaking to answer it. As he listened he gestured for the rest of us to be quiet by raising his hand.
And so we watched as his face ran through a gauntlet of emotions, from vague curiosity to shock to total disbelief. Then he turned his back on us to respond to whatever he’d been told.
It was obvious to us all by then that something had happened. Something that the boss hadn’t expected. He finally ended the call and turned to face us again, and a hard lump formed in my throat as he struggled to regain his composure. Before he spoke his eyes swept the room and for some reason settled on DCI Nash.
Then, in a voice that was strangely shaky, he said, ‘Can you come into my office for a moment, Nash?’ To the rest of us, he added, ‘Stay where you are. I need to brief you on a development.’
Graham Nash wore a deep frown as he stood up and followed the gaffer into his office, closing the door behind him. Seconds later a horrible cry came from inside the room and my heart leapt.
28
Rosa
She had four hours to kill before meeting up with Alice at the Vichy Lounge. Time then to make preparations for the next hit before getting ready.
She was really looking forward to her night out. The dancing. The sex. The uncomplicated intimacy. It was the perfect way to come down from what was in effect the ultimate high.
Every killing affected her like a drug. The racing heartbeat. The soaring metabolism. The rising blood pressure. The surge of adrenalin.
Afterwards she always felt the need to relax and recharge her batteries. And there was no better way to do that than by letting her hair down and having a good time.
It usually included a fair amount of alcohol – her favourite drinks being tequila cocktails and champagne. But this assignment wasn’t over so she had to keep a clear head.
She was now sitting in front of the iPad, waiting for it to power up, while nibbling on a pre-packaged ham sandwich.
She was delighted with the way things were going. Two hits in two days and she hadn’t encountered a single problem.
>
Marion Nash had been an easy target. Just as easy as Dave Prentiss had been. Rosa’s mind carried her back through the sequence of events. Everything had gone according to plan.
When she’d left the hotel room it had been almost dark outside. On the way to pick up the bike from the garage she’d popped into a charity shop where she’d paid a few pounds for a man’s heavy black overcoat. It was two sizes too big but perfect for what she’d wanted it for. She’d sat on it during the short ride to Clapham.
The tiny independent bookshop run by Mrs Nash was right on the High Street. Rosa had parked the bike in a quiet street nearby that was not covered by any CCTV cameras. There she’d slipped the coat over her leather suit, put the helmet in one of the saddlebags, and replaced it with her own baseball cap.
The evening was cold and damp and everyone she passed had been in a hurry to get where they were going. No one paid any attention to the figure in the long coat and cap who could have been a man or a woman.
She’d stood watching the shop for the best part of twenty minutes from a doorway across the street. Through the window she’d been able to see Mrs Nash, and it was clear that the woman was working alone.
Only one customer entered the shop during that time: a young man in a raincoat who only spent a few minutes in there before leaving without buying a book.
Seconds after he’d gone Rosa had made her move. Head down, overcoat collar pulled up, she’d crossed the road between the slow-moving traffic.
A bell had rung as she’d entered the shop. Mrs Nash, a tall, middle-aged woman with dyed blonde hair, had been standing behind the counter.
Rosa had lifted her head just far enough to scan the interior and spot the single surveillance camera on the far wall. Having located its position she avoided looking at it as she moved between head-high bookshelves towards the counter.
‘Hello there,’ Mrs Nash had said, as she approached. ‘Can I be of assistance?’
Rosa had smiled at her while at the same time drawing the silenced pistol from inside the coat. She’d then pulled the trigger twice before the woman even had time to react.