The Rebel

by Jaime Raven

  And it contained a threat that was every bit as sinister as the first one we’d all received.

  46

  Slack

  As soon as he woke up, he started to curse the cancer that was going to shorten his life.

  The symptoms were getting worse, and last night had been the most difficult so far. The nausea, the gut pain, the ache in his head that even the pills couldn’t drive away. The doctors had warned him to expect this and had told him how bad it would get.

  He’d been fine before going to bed and had spent a pleasant evening by himself drinking Scotch while flicking between the news channels.

  As soon as the story broke about the shootings in Balham he’d known it was the work of Rosa Lopez. He had to wait an anxious couple of hours before he received a text from her confirming that she hadn’t been arrested and apologising for missing the target. She’d ended the message with the words: It won’t happen again. And for some reason he believed her.

  He felt she’d already made up for her mistake by bringing down two uniforms and the partner of detective Laura Jefferson, the smart-arsed cow who had interviewed him. It was a shame she wasn’t dead but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be within a few days.

  Before going to bed, Slack had sent Danny another text that he wanted forwarded to all the detectives on the organised crime task force. They’d have received it by now, and he knew it would prompt them to come and see him again.

  They’d want to ask a whole bunch of new questions, including why he had never told them that he was Terry Malone’s father. He knew they were now aware of it because he’d been tipped off last night by his mole on the inside.

  But it wasn’t a huge deal. He was only surprised it had taken them so long to find it out.

  No doubt it would strengthen their conviction that he was behind the threats and killings, and that he’d had a hand in the disappearance of firearms officer Hugh Wallis.

  But so what? Without any evidence they were fucked. The Met, his long-time nemesis, was virtually paralysed by despair and frustration. Every copper across every rank would be feeling the pain. And that was exactly the position he’d hoped they’d be in when he’d put his plan together. He’d wanted to hurt them, punish them, deliver a blow that would enable him to claim when the end came that he’d beaten the bastards.

  After all, it was all he had to live for now. In the coming weeks and months the cancer would take from him everything that he still found pleasurable. He’d have to stop drinking Scotch and having sex. He’d find it harder to keep food down and just leaving the apartment was going to become an ordeal.

  Was it any wonder then that he felt so bitter? And not just with the Old Bill. He’d been dealt a shitty hand. He was still only fifty-seven, for fuck’s sake. Until fairly recently he’d been enjoying the trappings of his success. All-night sessions at his clubs, drug-fuelled orgies in fancy hotel suites, long days at the races, blowout meals at London’s most expensive restaurants.

  Now he had neither the stamina nor the inclination to even try to have fun.

  So that was why this meant so much to him. And why he was loving every minute of it.

  Another appearance on the TV by the Met’s top dog brought a smile to his face. Commissioner John Saunders was trying to convince the public that his band of Keystone Cops hadn’t lost control of the situation.

  Addressing reporters outside Scotland Yard, he said, ‘We believe that the woman who’s committing these murders is being paid to do so by someone else. It’s part of a heinous plot to destabilise law enforcement in the capital. But it won’t work. Every one of my officers and support staff will stand firm, and we will reject all demands that come from the perpetrators. Meanwhile, I’m confident that we’ll soon be closing in on this woman and those who are involved with her.’

  They ran the CCTV footage again that showed Rosa on the motorbike. But at no time was her face visible.

  There was no mention of the latest text message that had been sent to the detectives. Maybe that was because the Commissioner hadn’t seen it yet. Or perhaps they were intending to keep quiet about it. The thought made him chuckle.

  On the table in front of him was the phone he used to communicate with Danny. He picked it up and called him.

  ‘Time to send the new message on to the media,’ he said.

  ‘Will do, boss,’ Danny replied. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better than I did last night. But I won’t be doing much today so you look after things and call me if there are any problems.’

  They talked briefly about events in Balham and he told Danny not to be concerned, that Rosa was still on top of things and the Old Bill had no idea who or where she was.

  ‘But brace yourself for another visit from them,’ Slack said. ‘What Rosa does next will trigger a wave of arrests the like of which this city has never seen.’

  Slack ended the call, but before switching off the phone he re-read his latest message and it thrilled him to think that it would cause even more panic within the Met.

  I made it clear that the killings won’t stop until you and your colleagues resign from the task force. But your superiors say it won’t happen because it’ll set a dangerous precedent. So I’m going to do something that will make them reconsider their position.

  His lawyer called at eleven o’clock to say that the police wanted to question him again.

  ‘They want you to go to the nick,’ Darren Peacock added.

  ‘Are they arresting me?’ Slack asked.

  ‘No. It’ll be voluntary.’

  ‘In that case tell them to get stuffed. If they want to harass me they can come here and do it. I’m not feeling well.’

  Peacock called back thirty minutes later to say the coppers would be arriving at midday.

  ‘Don’t let them in until I get there,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’

  Before getting dressed, Slack gathered up the phones he used exclusively for making contact with Rosa and Danny and put them back in the safe that was hidden behind wall tiles in the kitchen.

  Then he made himself another cup of coffee and waited for the Old Bill to turn up.

  They arrived at the same time as the lawyer and there were two of them. The detective who did all the talking was a cocky sod named Marsden. The other was a thin woman with short hair named Gloria Stanford. Slack recognised the names from the list he’d given to Rosa.

  ‘I understand from your lawyer that you’re not feeling too good,’ Marsden said when he was seated in the living room.

  Slack stared at him, his eyes unflinching and fierce. The cop reminded him of a stumpy little pimp he’d beaten to death two years ago for trying to fleece him. For that reason he took an instant dislike to the guy.

  ‘If you want to know why it’s because I’ve got cancer,’ he said. ‘So I’d be grateful if you don’t waste too much of my time.’

  Marsden nodded. ‘I’m aware of your condition, Roy. I was—’

  ‘Only my friends call me Roy,’ Slack cut in. ‘And since you’re not my friend you can show me some fucking respect and call me Mr Slack. Or even sir.’

  The detective’s jaw tightened and bulged, and Slack wound him up still further by grinning broadly.

  ‘I’m glad you think this is funny because I don’t,’ Marsden snapped. ‘Three more people were shot last evening and one of them, a police officer, is dead.’

  Slack shrugged. ‘So I heard. But don’t tell me that you think it was me in that sexy leather outfit riding the motorbike?’

  ‘We’re not stupid,’ Marsden said. ‘We know that your grimy hands are all over this, despite your denials.’

  ‘Is that right? Then I take it you’re here because you’ve come up with the evidence to charge me.’

  Marsden gritted his teeth. ‘We will eventually. Make no mistake about that.’

  ‘Well, you need to get a move on,’ Slack said. ‘I’ll be dead and buried in a matter of months.’

  The detective looked
as though he was going to lose his temper. His eyes flared and his bottom lip trembled.

  His colleague put a hand on his arm and murmured something in his ear.

  The lawyer took this as his cue to intervene, and said, ‘I’d like to remind you officers that my client is allowing himself to be interviewed voluntarily even though it’s the fourth time in just over a week that you’ve questioned him. So unless you get on with it I’m going to advise him to ask you to leave.’

  Marsden sat there fuming while Detective Stanford began the interview. The first question was: ‘Why didn’t you inform us that Terry Malone was your son?’

  Slack feigned surprise. ‘How did you find out about that?’

  ‘That’s not important. You should have told us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s relevant. You’re a suspect in the disappearance of the police officer who shot him.’

  ‘And I’ve already told you that I know nothing about that.’

  ‘We don’t believe you,’ Marsden piped up, his tone aggressive. ‘You were Malone’s dad. It’s bleeding obvious that you decided to get revenge.’

  ‘Revenge is a mug’s game, and I’m not a mug,’ Slack said. ‘But if you reckon I’ve lied to you then feel free to produce the evidence.’

  For the two detectives it was all downhill from then on. They pressed him again about the text messages sent to members of the task force and their families. And about the murders of Dave Prentiss and Marion Nash, and the shootings in Balham.

  ‘And I’ll repeat what I told you before,’ he said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘We know you blame us for the deaths of your wife and father,’ Marsden said. ‘And you told someone at your son’s funeral that his death was the last straw. That’s given rise to speculation that you’ve decided to wage war against the Met, your aim being to cause a lot of harm before you bow out.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s total bollocks. I’ll admit I hate coppers with a vengeance, just like other people hate blacks and Muslims and gays. But that doesn’t mean I’d pay someone to go out and kill a bunch of them.’

  ‘It’s also an outrageous allegation to make,’ Peacock said. ‘Especially since you don’t have a single piece of evidence to back it up.’

  And that was why Slack was able to sit there feeling so supremely confident. It didn’t matter what the stupid cunts believed or suspected. Without proof they couldn’t touch him and they knew it.

  It took them another half an hour to accept that they weren’t going to get anything out of him. They asked him a range of questions relating to his business interests and his private life. To some of them his answer was a firm: no comment.

  He could have called a halt sooner, but he liked to see them struggling. They were desperate to get him to incriminate himself in some way, but that was never going to happen.

  In the end they left frustrated and dispirited, and Marsden’s parting words were: ‘I’ll be seeing you again, Roy. And when I do I’ll make sure I wipe that fucking smile off your ugly face.’

  47

  Laura

  The morning dragged after Kate left. I spent most of the time at Aidan’s bedside and I spoke to him even when I knew he was asleep.

  My mind was in turmoil, and my heart was in overdrive because I was drinking so much coffee.

  The latest text message to arrive on our phones had given me something else to think about, other than Aidan and the fact that I’d miscarried even though I hadn’t known I was pregnant.

  … I’m going to do something that will make them reconsider their position.

  It sounded so ominous. What the hell did it mean? What was going to happen? And could it really be any worse than what had happened already?

  I wondered if the leather-clad assassin was poised to commit another despicable act. Perhaps Roy Slack had instructed her to step up her game. Or maybe she wasn’t the only one whose strings he was pulling.

  It was an appalling thought that there might be more than one contract killer out there, but the Commissioner himself cast doubt on that when a reporter put it to him during one of several appearances on camera.

  ‘We certainly hope that isn’t the case, but of course we can’t rule it out,’ John Saunders said. ‘However, the evidence does seem to suggest otherwise. I’ve just received a forensics report on the bullets used in the murders of DI Dave Prentiss, Marion Nash and Warren Christie, the officer shot in Balham High Road yesterday evening. It confirms that they all came from the same weapon. And they’re also a match for the bullet that wounded Mr Aidan Bray in his home.’

  The story dominated the airwaves. It was as though there was nothing else happening in the world.

  There was so much for broadcasters to get their teeth into. The human-interest angles. The implications for law and order across the country. The fact that it was proving so easy for someone to cause so much chaos and confusion. And the continued speculation as to who it might be.

  Politicians were lining up to condemn the killings. Most insisted that the Met must not close down the task force operations. But there was one who called for them to be suspended temporarily in view of how much blood had already been shed.

  I had not seen this kind of hysteria since London was last targeted by terrorists. Then the coverage was focused entirely on the victims, the carnage, the ISIS suicide bombers who were known to have been responsible.

  But this was different. These weren’t random attacks. Police officers and their loved ones were being targeted. And the killer was a mysterious woman who, according to witnesses, was more like a model than a murderer. So in many ways it was a far more interesting story.

  For the news media it was manna from heaven: a story that just kept on giving. But for the rest of us it was a ghastly nightmare that showed no sign of ending any time soon.

  Aidan was awake when his parents arrived earlier than expected at 1pm. He was able to talk, which came as such a relief to them and to me.

  They had lots of questions and I answered them as best I could. But describing what had happened back at the house – and keeping schtum about the miscarriage – was a real challenge and I kept choking on my words.

  And it was just as bad when I ran through what the doctor had told me about the damage to Aidan’s shoulder, including the fact that he might never regain full use of his arm.

  Aidan held it together better than I did, and pointed out that at least he wasn’t dead, which made me smile.

  After he fell asleep we retreated to the waiting room where I switched on the TV and his parents saw for themselves what was going on.

  His mother, Veronica, was beside herself.

  ‘How the bloody hell has she managed to get away?’ she said, referring to the assassin on the motorcycle. ‘All those cameras. And the witnesses. It’s ridiculous.’

  And it was, of course. But for me the real question was where was the bitch now? And what was she planning to do next?

  48

  Rosa

  It was 2pm when she arrived at her destination – the towering Sky Reach Hotel on London’s Cromwell Road, close to the Natural History Museum.

  She was carrying the black briefcase that Roy Slack had left in the garage behind the pub. It contained the component parts of the sniper rifle that could be assembled in thirty seconds.

  She’d spotted the hotel while checking out the home of her next target. As soon as she’d realised that the line of fire was perfect she’d gone ahead and booked a room, insisting it be East facing and on or above the fifteenth floor of the twenty-two storey building.

  She used a fake credit card to check in and the name on it was Maria Santos.

  The receptionist was a young man with ginger hair whose eyes lingered on her face for longer than was necessary, before his gaze dropped to her cleavage.

  She was wearing a V-neck T-shirt under a new black raincoat, and a blonde wig that was one of two she carried with her when she travelled.

>   She’d already located the security cameras on her first visit to the hotel so she was careful not to look at them.

  ‘You’re in room 712,’ the receptionist said. ‘As requested it’s on the fifteenth floor. I do hope you enjoy your stay, Miss Santos. If there’s anything you need then don’t hesitate to call us.’

  All she really needed was some luck. Tonight’s mission could only be carried out if the target arrived back at his house, as was expected. Her window of opportunity would last for only seconds. But that wasn’t so unusual, especially with high-profile targets who were deemed to be at risk and therefore had a personal security detail who ushered them in and out of places.

  The room was larger than she’d expected and much smarter than the one she was staying in over in Vauxhall.

  She closed and locked the door behind her, placed the briefcase on the bed, and went straight to the window.

  It offered a fabulous view of London, and it took her just a few seconds to locate Appleton Mews and the house with the blue door. According to Slack’s source inside Scotland Yard it was where the target lived with his wife and two teenage daughters.

  It had a small balcony and an attached garage. There was a street light close to it and she knew that it would work to her advantage if, as expected, she was still waiting here when it got dark in a couple of hours.

  The mews was about five hundred metres away, well within the range of the rifle Slack had provided. Through the telescopic lens it would look almost close enough to touch.

  Rosa was an expert marksman, having acquired her sniper skills over many years. She’d killed eleven people back in Mexico using a rifle from a distance, including two politicians and three senior police officers. And she was proud of the fact that she had never missed a shot.

  The window opened only about six inches, presumably to stop guests from jumping out, but it was plenty wide enough for the barrel of the gun.