by Jaime Raven
‘So what happens now?’ he’d asked them.
‘We wait,’ one of them had replied.
‘What for?’
‘The man who wants to ask you some questions.’
He was sure that whoever they were waiting for was going to do more than just ask questions.
He sat up straight, shoulders pushed back, tried not to let them see how scared he was. But he couldn’t stop his body from shaking or droplets of sweat from sprouting on his forehead.
He’d never been in a situation like this before and it was a real eye-opener. He now knew what it had been like for all those unlucky pricks he’d brought to places like this to be tortured and murdered.
He’d laughed at those who had pissed and shit themselves. And he had mocked those who had begged him to let them go.
He was determined not to be so pathetic and weak. He’d rather die than disgrace himself like that.
The place stank of petrol and various other unpleasant odours. It was cramped compared with other workshops he’d been in and it was packed to the rafters with repair equipment, including tool chests, battery chargers, car creepers and transmission jacks.
Most of the London gangs owned at least a couple of garages and he wondered who this one belonged to. Was it one of the slags who had phoned him? Jack Smythe or Willy Norman perhaps. They were both convinced that he was responsible for the cop killings and they were both headcases. So maybe it was one of those guys who was about to turn up in the hope of persuading him to pull off his shooter. If it was one of them then it was unlikely he would walk away from this.
‘Here we go,’ one of the blokes said.
Slack heard a car pull up outside and his heart did a drum roll.
He lifted his head and clenched his jaw as he stared at the doorway. Two of the men went outside and he heard voices. A few moments later they came back in and they were standing either side of a man who wasn’t wearing a balaclava.
Slack recognised him at once and the breath lurched out of his chest.
‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he gasped. ‘The last person I expected to see coming in here was a copper.’
Slack saw it as a bad sign, the fact that DS Tony Marsden hadn’t bothered to conceal his identity behind a balaclava like the others.
It could mean only one thing – that he would ensure that nobody but him and his hooded companions would ever know what happened here.
Slack recalled what the short-arsed plod had said as he’d left the apartment after grilling him.
‘I’ll be seeing you again, Roy. And when I do I’ll make sure I wipe that fucking smile off your ugly face.’
Marsden walked slowly towards him, his eyes pinpricks of rage, while the others spread themselves out around the workshop. Slack assumed they were lower rank coppers and felt either too guilty or too scared to show their faces.
‘So I take it that this is not an official follow-up interview,’ Slack said, his voice laced with sarcasm.
‘Doing things by the book has got us nowhere,’ Marsden replied. ‘So we’ve decided that the only way to stop this murder binge of yours is to go down the unofficial route.’
The first punch caught Slack off guard. Marsden’s fist crashed against his chin, snapping his head backwards and sending his bottom teeth into his tongue. The blow also drove the air from his lungs, and his vision blurred with pain.
Through the tears he watched as the detective took off his suit jacket and threw it onto a nearby bench. He then pulled up his shirtsleeves and flexed his biceps.
Slack straightened himself in the chair and spat blood from his mouth onto the floor.
Then he let out a bark of laughter and said, ‘Is that the best you’ve got, you poison fucking dwarf? I know girls who can hit harder than that.’
Marsden snorted, a phlegmy, back-of-the-throat, sound.
‘I told you that I’d wipe that smile off your face, Slack, and I will. And I’m also gonna make you tell me who’s doing your dirty work for you.’
Slack shook his head. ‘So you think you can beat a confession out of me? Well, forget it. I won’t confess to something I haven’t done.’
‘You can deny it until you’re blue in the face,’ Marsden said. ‘But everything points to you. Only someone who’s on death’s doorstep or has a fucking death wish would take on every copper in this city. And you’re the only person I know who has a big enough motive.’
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Slack said, his voice glacial cold. ‘You think I want revenge because of what you arseholes did to my wife, my son, my father and my unborn grandchild. Well, I won’t deny that I’d like to see you all rot in hell. But you’ve got the wrong man. That’s why you don’t have any proof. Because there isn’t any.’
Marsden turned to his three companions. ‘Hear that, lads? The stupid cunt doesn’t realise that it’s gone way beyond the point where we need proof. He still thinks he can hide behind the law.’
‘Then let’s get on with it, Tony,’ one of them replied from beneath his balaclava. ‘Get the bastard to spill his guts and then we can have some fun.’
Marsden turned back to Slack. His face was contorted, hateful, and his brow started collecting moisture.
‘What we’re about to do will have the blessing of every police officer in the country,’ he said through gritted teeth.
Slack forced a sardonic grin. ‘Do you seriously believe they’ll want a moron like you taking on the role of judge, jury and executioner?’
Marsden slammed his open palm against Slack’s right cheek, then followed through with a hard punch to the gut.
Slack pitched forward with a loud shriek. The pain was such that it felt like his insides were suddenly on fire.
The detective then grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back.
As he spoke, a line of saliva stretched between his lips. ‘You seem to think that you’re still the big time gangster who everyone is afraid of. Well I’ve got news for you, Slack. You’re just a disease-ridden old crock who nobody gives a fuck about.’
Marsden then hawked and spat a dollop of phlegm into Slack’s face.
Slack’s spine grew rigid, and he took in a deep breath through his nostrils. He tried to gather strength from the voice in his head, which kept repeating the mantra: When you have nothing to lose, death no longer holds any fear.
But he wasn’t ready to die just yet. And when the time came he wanted it to be on his terms. These renegade cops were going to fuck up his plan, spoil the grand finale.
If he died here then Rosa Lopez would go home, her job unfinished, and his suicide letter would probably never be discovered. And even if he did confess now he was sure there’d be a cover-up and he wouldn’t be given the credit he deserved.
‘I want the answers to three questions,’ Marsden said. ‘Who is the woman carrying out the killings on your behalf, and where can we find her? And what have you done with the firearms officer who shot Terry Malone?’
Slack swallowed hard, his face hot with pain. He was breathing heavily now, panting, and his body was a mass of tightening knots.
There was no way out of this. He could see that they were going to kill him for two reasons. The first was because they knew what he’d done and they hated him for it. And the second was because they couldn’t afford to let him go. They had crossed a line themselves and if it got out they’d end up in prison.
‘You should make it bloody easy on yourself and answer the questions,’ Marsden said.
‘I can’t tell you something I don’t know,’ Slack told him. ‘And beating me up won’t change that.’
Marsden whacked him again. A back-hander this time across the left side of his head.
‘Where’s the woman, Slack?’ he demanded. ‘And what happened to officer Wallis? You might as well tell us now because you will eventually. I guarantee it.’
‘Do yourself a favour and let me go,’ Slack said. ‘If it ends now I won’t say anything to anyone. You have my word.’
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Marsden shook his head. ‘You’re in no position to make deals, you scummy piece of low-life. Take a look around you. See all those tools hanging from the walls? I’m sure you know from experience that most of them can be used to cause a lot of pain. Well, if you don’t tell us what we want to know you’ll soon find out what it feels like to have your teeth pulled out with pliers and your knees crushed with a hammer.’
For a fleeting moment, Slack was tempted to tell them everything, but he resisted. There was no point because they were going to hurt him no matter what he said or didn’t say.
This was their chance to get revenge for what had happened to their colleagues and the Commissioner. Their chance to show him that no villain was a match for the mighty Met.
And yet there was an irony here that would be lost on them. He was sure of that. It wouldn’t occur to them that their actions would only serve to justify what he had done to them.
It showed that they represented an institution that was rotten to the core, peopled by an army of bent coppers who were prepared to break the laws they were meant to uphold whenever it suited them. And this scrawny little shit of a detective who was trying to act tough was a prime example of those who deserved to suffer a whole lot of pain and humiliation.
‘Tell you what, detective,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you get one of those hammers down from the wall and shove it up your arse? Or better still get one of those idiots in their stupid masks to get a set of pliers and cut off your limp, little cock?’
Marsden let rip then. He drove two more punches into Slack’s face and one into his stomach. As Slack yelped in pain, the detective stepped back. But there was no respite because one of Marsden’s accomplices then struck from behind, slamming his knuckles into the back of Slack’s neck.
None of the blows was hard enough to knock him out, which meant he had to endure excruciating pain and the feeling that his head was flying off into orbit.
Blood filled his mouth and he could feel the flesh around his eyes swelling up.
Marsden started shouting at him. ‘There’s worse to come if you don’t speak up you cunt. The pain I’ll inflict will make the cancer seem like a mild irritation.’
Slack managed to lift his chin off his chest and stare up into Marsden’s angry face. He had nothing but contempt for the detective and he thought it a great pity that the guy hadn’t been at the top of Rosa’s list. It was more than likely now that she wouldn’t get around to killing him.
‘You made a big mistake bringing me here, copper,’ he said, and each word propelled a spot of blood from his mouth. ‘It won’t stop the killings and it’s bound to backfire on you big time.’
That earned him another slap around the face. He squeezed his eyes shut and compressed his lips against the pain. His head swam and all he wanted to do was pass out.
He heard Marsden bark an order, but he couldn’t make out the words. He kept his eyes closed and focused on controlling his breathing, which had become shallow and ragged.
Then something hard was pressed against his chest and his eyes flew open.
‘It’s time to get serious,’ Marsden said. ‘I’ll start with the little finger on the right hand and work my way up.’
Slack stared at the object that was being waved in front of his face. It was a large adjustable wrench. He’d used one just like it himself once to snap off the fingers of a villain who had given him problems.
The fear was thick inside him now and he tried to speak, but his throat was paralysed.
‘Let’s untie his hands,’ the detective said. ‘I want him to see what I’m …’
His voice suddenly dried up mid-flow and his body stiffened.
‘Oh, Christ,’ he said, and only then did Slack realise why he was so alarmed.
Familiar sounds were coming from outside. Tyres screeching to a halt. Car doors slamming shut. Raised voices announcing the arrival of the police.
Slack felt a wave of relief flood through him.
‘Looks like your mates have arrived in the nick of time,’ he said, and managed a weak smile even though it hurt like hell.
59
Laura
The news that Roy Slack had been kidnapped was shocking enough. But I experienced an icy shiver when we received a tip from an anonymous caller claiming that detective Tony Marsden was the kidnapper.
The first call alerting us to the abduction came from Slack’s driver, Mike Walker. He rang the three nines after their car was ambushed in Rotherhithe, close to Slack’s headquarters.
Walker claimed that two men had jumped from the back of a van and attacked him before snatching Slack and making off.
Soon after that the second call came from someone who refused to give their name but said that Marsden and several other police officers had carried out the kidnapping.
Naturally all hell broke loose. Drummond tried to call Marsden but his mobile was switched off. He was among a bunch of officers who had worked through the night and had gone home to get some sleep. But when Drummond called his wife, she said he’d been out since this morning and she’d assumed he was at the office.
After that efforts were made to determine his whereabouts, and it didn’t take long. The GPS tracking on his car pinpointed its location in Peckham, just a couple of miles from Rotherhithe.
The assumption was made that if his car was there then so was he. Within minutes a rapid response team was deployed and Drummond hurried out of the office to go there himself. In his wake he left a team aghast at the extraordinary turn of events.
We all hoped that it wasn’t true, that Marsden hadn’t gone rogue. But I had a bad feeling that he might well have done. I recalled what he had said to me the morning after Marion Nash was murdered in her bookshop.
‘My money’s on Roy Slack … If it was up to me I’d do what the scumbag obviously did to that firearms officer, Hugh Wallis. Just lift him off the street and make him disappear.’
I agonised for a few minutes over whether to tell Drummond, but decided to keep it to myself out of a sense of misplaced loyalty.
I then discovered that he’d also made his feelings known to a few of the other detectives, including Janet Dean.
‘After the news came in about the Commissioner he really flipped,’ she said. ‘He started ranting about how Slack was making us look like a bunch of amateurs and that he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’
‘So do you reckon he’s actually gone and done it?’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose we’ll know soon enough.’
We were still waiting for an update from Peckham, which was expected at any time. I decided to stick around even though Drummond hadn’t said I could return to work.
I sat at my desk, unsure what to do next. The office was suddenly much quieter. It was as though a heavy cloud had descended, stifling discussion and dampening the enthusiasm of every member of the team.
But they carried on working. Some were on their phones chasing down leads, while others were searching online for clues and information.
This latest development would complicate matters no end. It would ensure that Roy Slack remained firmly in the frame, but for the wrong reasons. And if he had been harmed in any way it might even garner him some sympathy from the public. It was a ghastly thought and it provoked an uneasy turn in the pit of my stomach.
I couldn’t see it as anything other than a serious setback because it would make the powers-that-be even less inclined to pursue him.
A ferocious anger rose up inside me and my internal dialogue got stuck on: ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
I turned on the desk PC and pulled up Slack’s file. Saw that nothing had been added to it during the past twenty-four hours except a note of the interview that Kate and Marsden had conducted with him, and the fact that surveillance on him had been discontinued. It was all very disappointing.
I then ran through the files on the other main suspects, primarily Slack’s top team and other London gang leaders. There was nothing to excit
e me on any of them, and no links to the murders or the threatening messages that had been sent to us.
But one short note caught my attention and related to Slack’s top enforcer, Danny Carver, otherwise known as The Rottweiler.
A member of the tech team had examined his phone and laptop and concluded that there was nothing incriminating on either. However, he’d thought it worth mentioning that in his opinion Carver was a bit of a computer wizard.
‘This observation is based on the sophisticated software on his laptop and phone, and the high-tech nature of the various applications that have been installed,’ he wrote. ‘It suggests that Mr Carver has much more than a basic understanding of computers and would therefore know how to send emails and text messages that can’t be traced.’
The technician added that both the laptop and phone were still in our possession and would be subjected to more tests.
There was a note below this from Drummond saying that he wanted Carver to be questioned again, but it seemed that this hadn’t yet been actioned. In view of what had been happening, and the widespread hysteria, it didn’t surprise me that it wasn’t considered a priority.
And yet perhaps it should have been. Danny Carver was Slack’s right-hand man, after all. The pair was roughly the same age and had known each other for years.
Carver was a former mercenary with a fearsome reputation as a man of violence. It was hard to believe that he wasn’t involved in his boss’s revenge mission.
I read through the transcript of the interview he’d had with detectives. He’d denied all knowledge of the text messages and the murders, and nothing had been found at his home in Streatham.
It struck me that formally interviewing him again wouldn’t get us any further. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t remain a prime suspect along with Slack himself. And if so then there had to be a way to find out what he really knew. A way to prove that The Rottweiler was lying through his fucking canine teeth.
But right now I couldn’t see a way – not unless we followed Tony Marsden’s example and broke all the rules in the book.