by OMJ Ryan
There was a long pause before Jones responded. ‘Have you spoken to the Guv about this?’
Bovalino shook his head. ‘I haven’t even told Izzie.’
‘Jesus, Bov,’ said Jones. ‘The Hawkins case was over six months ago. How long have you been feeling like this?’
‘Since the dawn raid we did on the Fizle case, when he pulled that knife.’
‘Fizle? But that was in your first week back.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘Mate, you should have said something sooner.’
‘I wanted to, but I felt stupid,’ said Bovalino. ‘I mean, how would it look? A big guy like me, scared of the action? They’d kick me out of MCU, and I couldn’t bear that.’
‘Well, you’re gonna have to do something. You can’t carry on like this.’
Bovalino nodded. ‘I know, I know.’
‘Look, maybe you shouldn’t come on the raid tonight, hey? I can make an excuse to Walsh and the Guv, say you were sick or something, and you can head back to Manchester. I’ll take care of things from our end.’
Bovalino forced a thin smile. ‘You’re a good mate, Jonesy.’
‘I just want to help, big man.’
‘You already have,’ said Bovalino. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I’m your oppo. I go where you go, no matter how hard it might be.’
‘You really don’t have to, you know.’
‘Yes I do, Jonesy.’ With that, Bovalino pulled his large frame out of the seat and stood. ‘I need a piss.’ He headed for the toilet at the end of the carriage.
Nothing else was said for the remainder of the journey. As the time approach 8.10 p.m., the train pulled into London Euston and came to a stop. Jones and Bovalino waited for the bulk of their fellow passengers to make their exit before they stepped up out of their seats and left the carriage. Jones led the way to the taxi rank situated under the station concourse, where they discovered an enormous queue of people waiting for cabs.
‘This could take a while,’ said Jones.
‘I told you it was too bloody busy down here,’ said Bovalino with a gentle smile.
‘Scotland Yard is close to Embankment. We can always get the tube?’
Bovalino shook his head. ‘No way. I’m not going on that thing. If we were meant to travel underground, God would have given us claws instead of fingers.’
Jones chuckled and checked his watch. It was approaching 8.25 p.m. They were due to meet Walsh at 9.30 p.m. ‘Come on, we can walk it in forty-five minutes, and I can show you the sights on the way.’
Bovalino smiled. ‘I like the sound of that.’
Jones turned and headed back upstairs towards the station exit.
12
Back at Ashton House, Phillips returned to the MCU office from the canteen, carrying a pre-packed sandwich and a cup of tea she’d bought from the vending machine. She cursed herself for missing the hot food that was served until 7.30 p.m. but, as was often the case, she had been so engrossed in her work that she had lost track of time. Spying Entwistle at his desk, she wandered over to see what he was doing.
‘You still, here? It’s gone 8.30,’ she said as she dropped into Bovalino’s seat opposite him.
‘Yeah,’ said Entwistle, stretching his arms out for a moment. ‘I’m working my way through the CCTV footage from Old Trafford to see if Aaron Carpenter was actually where he claimed to be the night his wife was killed.’
‘And?’ Phillips took a bite of her ham and cheese sandwich.
Entwistle turned his laptop screen to face Phillips. ‘He was indeed.’ He pressed return and a video started to play.
Phillips leant forwards to take a closer look as Entwistle narrated. ‘Once we knew his seat number, it was fairly easy to locate the various cameras that cover his route in and out of the ground. This piece of video shows him leaving five minutes before the end. There’s a bunch more that capture him arriving half an hour before the match too, then getting a drink at the bar and buying some food, etc. He was there all night, without a doubt.’
‘And what about the cameras on the tram?’
‘Yep, he’s on them too. We have footage of him getting on the tram at Burton Road heading to Old Trafford before the match, and then getting off again at the other end at 10.30 p.m., just as he claimed he did. Unless he’s got an identical twin or a doppelgänger, he’s not our killer.’
Phillips swallowed the piece of sandwich in her mouth and slurped her hot tea. ‘Well, at least that’s one person we know definitely didn’t kill Victoria Carpenter. Which leads me nicely on to someone who probably did; what have you got on Wong?’
Entwistle grinned. ‘Now, there is someone a lot more interesting.’ He picked up a Manila folder from his desk and handed it to Phillips.
She placed her remaining food on the desk and began leafing through the pages.
‘According to immigration records, Jimmy Wong is a Chinese national born in Hong Kong, who entered the UK via London Heathrow almost two years ago. Initially his work visa was attached to the Golden Flower restaurant in Chinatown, London, where he worked for six months as a waiter – or at least, that’s what his paperwork said he did.’
‘A likely story,’ said Phillips.
Entwistle nodded. ‘Then, about eighteen months ago, he left London and moved to Manchester, working for the Belmont Casino chain as part of their security team. Belmont is owned and operated by the Red Dragon Trading Company, a subsidiary of Gold Star Trading in Hong Kong.’
‘And what do they do?’
‘Obviously, since the Brits handed Hong Kong back to China, we no longer share data with the Royal Hong Kong Police, but a quick Google search tells me they’re into all sorts of ventures: shipping and mining in mainland China, as well as owning a number of casinos and hotels in Macau.’
‘So how many casinos do they have over here?’
‘Three in Manchester – one near Chinatown, another on Portland Street and a third in Spinningfields.’
‘And do we know which one Wong worked for?’
‘Sorry, Guv, no.’
Phillips checked her watch; 8.45 p.m. ‘Jones and Bov should be arriving at Scotland Yard soon.’
‘What are the chances of finding Wong, do you think?’
Phillips let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Slim, I’d say. If he did kill Carpenter then I think, it’s more than likely he’s gone to ground. But it’s always worth a look. You never know, we might get lucky for once.’ She passed the Manila folder back.
‘If it’s ok with you then, Guv, I think I might head home?’ said Entwistle.
Phillips dropped the remaining sandwich in the bin next to Bovalino’s desk and stood up. ‘Good idea,’ she said, and patted his shoulder. ‘There’s nothing more we can do tonight. It’s up to Jones, Bov and the CGU now.’
13
DI Ben Walsh walked briskly across the main reception of Scotland Yard, a wide grin across his friendly face. Of medium height, he had the appearance of a man who had once worked out regularly, but had since added weight to his midriff.
‘Jonesy!’ he said, and offered his hand. ‘It’s been too long, mate.’
Jones smiled and accepted the firm handshake. ‘It has Walsh, it has.’
DI Walsh turned his attention to Bovalino now, and once more offered his hand. ‘You must be Bov?’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Bovalino said, applying a firm grip.
‘So, you’re looking for that scumbag Jimmy Wong?’
‘We are indeed,’ said Jones.
‘I’d thought we’d seen the last of him when he moved up north,’ said Walsh as he ushered them in the direction of the lift. ‘The team is in the briefing room upstairs. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the guys.’
A few minutes later, they found themselves walking down a long corridor that had windows on either side and offered views into the offices of the Metropolitan Police.
‘The place must have changed a bit since you were last here, Jonesy?’ asked Walsh.
&
nbsp; Jones’s eyes remained fixed on the offices to his left as they continued walking. ‘I hardly recognise it.’
‘How long have you been in Manchester now?’
‘Too bloody long,’ joked Bovalino, which caused Walsh’s grin to return.
‘Well, Rebecca’s coming up fifteen,’ said Jones,
Walsh recoiled slightly. ‘No way! Little Becky?’
‘Yeah, I know, and she was three when we moved up, so it must be twelve years now.’
‘Jesus. Time flies, hey?’
Jones blew his lips and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Doesn’t it just.’
A moment later, they approached what appeared to be a large briefing room. The door was open, and Jones could hear the familiar sound of a team waiting for a briefing; a mixture of laughter and fierce banter.
Walsh led the way into the room.
‘Right, you lot,’ said Walsh, in a loud, confident voice, ‘let me introduce you to DS Jones and DC Bovalino.’
Jones smiled and nodded along with Bovalino as all eyes turned on them.
Walsh continued, ‘These guys have come all the way from Manchester to see us this evening—’
‘Did thar bring theee whippet?’ shouted one of the team in a mock northern accent before Walsh could finish, drawing guffaws from the rest of the team.
‘Very funny, Sergeant Parker,’ said Walsh. ‘As I mentioned to you all in the briefing this afternoon, they’ve come down from Manchester looking for Jimmy Wong, a guy we all know very well from his time as a gang enforcer in Chinatown.’
‘Check the sewers,’ someone else shouted from the back of the room, but Jones couldn’t see who.
For the next few minutes, Walsh formally introduced each member of the Clubs and Gangs Unit as well as the Tactical Firearms Unit, headed up by Sergeant Farmer. Jones tried his best, but struggled to keep up with all the names and who did what. In the end, he comforted himself with the fact it didn’t really matter, because he and Bovalino would essentially be passengers on the raid. This was Met Police territory, and CGU would take the lead.
Walsh soon began the full debrief of the plan for the evening. They would strike at midnight. The operation would involve the firearms team, who would go in first, followed by CGU and then Jones and Bovalino. There would also be three uniformed teams in three locations on the perimeter of the Golden Flower, ready to arrest anyone who tried to make a run for it.
As Walsh delivered the specific details of each team member’s responsibilities for the raid, the room remained respectfully silent. These boys know what they’re doing, thought Jones as he watched on.
When the briefing was complete, Walsh signalled for Jones and Bovalino to follow him back out onto the corridor. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. ‘Look guys, I’m more than happy for you to come along tonight, but I think it’s best you watch from the sidelines. The people Wong hangs around with are nasty bastards, and not afraid to use extreme force when cornered. If Wong’s in there, we’ll find him and he’s all yours, but you should leave the rest of them to us, ok?’
Jones glanced at Bovalino, who closed his eyes for a split second. He could tell his partner was relieved to be out of the firing line. ‘That’s fine by us, Walsh,’ he said, patting the DI on his shoulder.
Walsh checked his watch, then clasped his hands together. ‘Excellent. We’ve got about forty-five minutes before we move out, so let’s grab a brew and you can tell me all about “how grim it is, up north.”’
The Golden Flower restaurant was positioned on the corner of Gerrard and Macclesfield in Soho’s Chinatown. Thankfully, the entrance to the target location and first floor flat was located to the side of the building, meaning the TFU and CGU could avoid a noisy entry through the now-closed restaurant on the ground floor. The uniformed officers took up their positions along the perimeter.
As Jones and Bovalino exited the unmarked squad car, the TFU’s Sergeant Farmer reiterated Walsh’s instructions from earlier. ‘So, my boys will go in first, then Walsh’s lot, then you guys. We’re fully expecting weapons of some sort inside, so keep your wits about you and make sure your stab vests are secure. Got it?’
Jones and Bovalino both nodded.
The strong aromas of Chinese food lingered in the air. ‘I could murder a crispy duck right now, couldn’t you?’ said Walsh, flashing his trademark grin.
‘I’m more of a chow mein man myself,’ said Bovalino, with a nervous chortle.
‘Right, then,’ added Walsh, as he secured the straps on his own stab vest. ‘Let’s see if we can find Wong for you, shall we?’
A couple of minutes later, with the TFU – each carrying the ubiquitous M5 machine gun – in place, Walsh gave the order to go in. The officer at the front thrust his hand-held battering ram into the top hinge, and the dilapidated door gave way with one hit.
Shouts of ‘Armed police!’ filled the space as the team rushed in and straight up the staircase. Walsh was next in, followed by his team, then Jones and Bovalino brought up the rear.
From above came the shouts of the firearms officers, and the unmistakable sound of furniture being displaced.
‘Put the weapons down!’ Sergeant Farmer shouted just as Jones reached the entrance to the cigarette-smoke filled flat.
The scene that greeted him was surreal: armed police on one side of the room, weapons trained on three Chinese targets that stood on the opposite side of the room, each holding an unsheathed machete. A Mah-jong board, and its pieces, lay scattered at their feet. The targets eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and adrenaline.
It was Walsh’s turn to shout now. ‘Put your weapons down and get on the floor!’
None of the men flinched.
‘I won’t tell you again,’ said Walsh. ‘Put your weapons down and get on the fucking floor, now!’
Jones stared at the faces of the three targets, but did not recognise any of them as being Wong. ‘He’s not here,’ he shouted across to Walsh, who nodded.
Farmer took a step forwards and pointed his rifle towards the floor several times. ‘Get down,’ he repeated with each movement of his weapon. This finally drew a response from the targets, who conversed briefly in Chinese, then, as one, nodded. Slowly they dropped their machetes and got down on their knees.
‘Flat down,’ said Farmer, again using his weapon to make his point.
One by one, each of the men complied and lay down with their faces turned to one side against the filthy carpeted floor. As soon as they were in the desired position, Farmer’s men moved in and secured their hands behind their backs with plastic cuffs.
Walsh moved in above the men now. ‘Where’s Jimmy Wong?’ he said in a loud voice.
The men remained silent.
‘Jimmy Wong, where is he?’ Walsh repeated.
Once again, the men said nothing.
‘This is classic Triad bullshit,’ said Walsh as he turned to Jones, ‘pretending they don’t speak English.’
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Jones.
‘Take them in,’ Walsh said, and turned to Sergeant Parker. ‘Caution them for harbouring a fugitive and get them back to the nick. Let’s see what an interpreter can get out of them.’
Parker nodded and, along with other members of the CGU, yanked the three men to their feet and began reading them their rights.
14
Jones sat alongside Bovalino in the observation suite, staring at the large flat-screen monitor on the wall, which showed the feed from Interview Room Four. He checked his watch; it was just after 5.30 a.m. He yawned as he took a sip of cold coffee from the plastic cup in front of him. The raid had gone like clockwork, and they’d returned to Scotland Yard at 1 a.m. Each of the three men arrested had then been processed and placed in custody within forty-five minutes of their arrival, ready to be interviewed by 2 a.m. However, it had taken an age to find a Cantonese-speaking interpreter, who had turned up fifteen minutes ago. With him now in place next to the man named Tian Qing in Interview
Room Four, Walsh entered and took a seat, then placed a folder on the desk between them. He explained the use of the DIR – digital interview recorder – as well as the fact that the discussion was being filmed by a small camera fixed to the wall behind his head, which information the interpreter passed on to Qing. The formalities out of the way, Walsh got to work.
‘Where is Jimmy Wong?’ he asked.
The interpreter relayed the question to Qing, who shrugged his shoulders and spoke briefly.
‘He doesn’t know a Jimmy Wong,’ said the interpreter.
Walsh pulled a blown-up black-and-white image of Wong’s passport photo from the folder and passed it across the table. ‘This is Jimmy Wong. Ask him when he last saw this man.’
The interpreter did as requested, but got the same response: Qing did not know of anyone called Jimmy Wong.
‘Bullshit,’ said Walsh. ‘They’re both Triads and they’ve both spent time at the address where we arrested him.’
The interpreter relayed these facts to Qing, who denied both points. He insisted he was just a waiter and an innocent man, trying to earn a living so he could send money home to his family in Hong Kong.
Walsh grabbed Qing’s hand and pulled it across table, then yanked up his shirt sleeve to expose the man’s intricately tattooed wrist.
‘Ask him where he got this, then?’ said Walsh, ‘Looks like Triad ink to me.’
Qing pulled back his arm and scowled at Walsh as he spoke.
‘It is his daughter’s name,’ the interpreter said a few moments later. ‘He has it there to remind him of why he lives apart from his family: to make a better life for them.’
Walsh pulled another image from the folder and passed it across the table. ‘Looks an awful lot like this tattoo, which belongs to a Triad enforcer named Cheng, currently doing fifteen years in Wormwood Scrubs for attempted murder.’
‘He says all Chinese symbols look the same to you,’ said the interpreter.