Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  Getting Bellini brought to book had been his sole target. It was the only thing that mattered, at first. But that hadn’t lasted too long and as he got closer to the centre of his empire, he became gradually seduced, by the power, by the free vent to his aggression that he was for the first time afforded. And by the drugs. Although he tried to hide it from Nate and the others in the gang, it was an open secret that Tommy was now a serious smack head. No-one seemed to mind too much and he had never let it interfere with business; he was always there when he was wanted and did what he was told to. But the drug habit crept up on him insidiously and by this time, he was using nearly as much as Don Bellini. Thank God for his copper’s salary; Bellini was a tight bastard to work for, a bit like the Queen, and Tommy could never have afforded it without that regular income, even with the plethora of free samples he regularly got from Bellini's distributors. In the firm, he was with his mates and he felt a camaraderie that, he imagined, must have been a lot like it was in the Great War, in the trenches of the Somme or of Ypres. In fact, he thought, it was almost like he was fighting a war. Perhaps that was it. It was a war that he’d always been fighting, and now he had found for the first time which side he really wanted to be on. He felt close to Bellini, despite all of his only too apparent problems, and to the others as well, even Doyle. There was an honesty about Frank Doyle that he felt he had never seen in anyone else, ever. Tommy had started down his rocky road, at about the time Micky Johnston had got shot. He told Ashworth of the ‘rumours’ that Johnston had fleeced Bellini, and that Doyle had shot him by way of retribution. But that’s all they were, he said, just rumours. He told Ashworth that Bellini wouldn’t open up to him. He was far too cagey to trust him. But things were beginning to run deeper. His reports studiously avoided any mention of his own part in acts of violence and, of course, there had never been any record of his negotiations with Kurtis Robinson. But it had really been when he and Nate had laid to rest the bodies of Asif and Salim Malek in the concrete foundations of the South Essex Construction building plot near Dagenham, now enshrined forever safely below their fifteen thousand square feet factory unit of a mausoleum, that Tommy finally had to accept that he had crossed the line. He had no regrets, he wasn’t sorry, not in the least. He didn’t even mind having to do the clearing up. Not too much. It gave him a sense of purpose to his life – one that the Police had never quite reached. In some ways he even admired the creature that Bellini had transformed into. He lived for the moment, he was above all laws even those he which he himself had created. Tommy didn’t know where it would all end. He was on a roller coaster and he was determined to make it to the end of the ride, wherever that was. He studiously avoided thinking about the ultimate consequences of any of his actions.

  Ashworth continued her harangue, “What’s happening, Tommy? You’re not telling me anything and the word that I’m getting from my contacts is scaring me.” She ran her hand seductively, carelessly through her short blonde hair, as if she was unaware of how attractive men found it. She was not. “I’m getting told that Bellini’s becoming increasingly unstable, ‘a fucking madman’ we’re the actual words used.” The profanity seemed strangely out of place on the beautiful scarlet slash of her lips. Perhaps it even became a little sanitized. “More than one person has said that he’s on some sort of killing spree. I’ve even been told that he’s killed a prostitute and you’re name came up in the conversation too. That’s serious stuff, Tommy. A serious accusation to be made against a police officer, whatever the source. We can’t just wash over it. I need the truth from you and I need it now. The whole truth. Nothing but. Tell me. What do you know about it?”

  “Where are the bodies, Ma’am? If half of what you’re hearing is true, south London would be knee deep in the corpses of villains and whores. I’ve heard the rumours too and that’s all they are. Rumours. It’s what these people feed on. Has anyone broken their parole? Missed their court hearing? Nothing out of the ordinary, I bet. You know how it is. Men like Bellini live on their reputations. It’s how they get the respect they need to keep the lid on their operations and I’ve got to do the same if I’m ever going to nail him. I knocked off a whore last night. It was me that did for Micky the Fish. It’s all bullshit but it’s what they want to hear. It makes me sound a big man. You know the sort of thing. I need to create a reputation if we’re ever going to get this to work and finally nail him.”

  It was true that there had been no bodies. No missing persons reports either. But then again, these were not the sort of people that were missed. And if they were, they would unlikely to be reported to the police. Besides, Tommy himself had covered their tracks, done the spadework, and done it very competently.

  “I know how it works as well as you” she agreed but was hardly pacified. “But what about the Maleks? Strange how they go A.W.O.L. and Bellini just steps in and takes over their manor.”

  “That’s old ground, boss. You’ve had my report. It was all hearsay, anything we could get against Bellini would be circumstantial. It’d be laughed out of court, not the Crown Prosecution Service would let it get as far as court. You know as much as I do. What we need is to be able to collar him for something we’ve got hard evidence for. Incontrovertible proof.”

  “And you don’t seem to have anything that fits the bill. Not a thing. My sources also seem to imply that you’re closer to Bellini than you’re letting on. Why the hell are you playing it down? It’s what we’ve wanted, what we’ve been trying to achieve. You’ve got nothing to hide, have you, Tommy? Tell me you’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Tommy regretted that he had not been able to persuade Ashworth to identify her informants before he went in. If he ever found out who those slimy little bastards are, they wouldn’t know what had hit them.

  “Of course I’ve got nothing to hide. And I’m playing nothing down to you – but I play it up to other people, like I said. It takes time to get in tight with a firm like this one. Look at Frankie Doyle, for instance. He’s as close to Bellini as anyone but he’s been with the family for years. It’s like I say, boss. You’ve got to talk big. If you tell everyone you’re a big man often enough, sooner or later some of them are going to believe you and then you’re involved. These people aren’t Einsteins, they live by their reputation. They come from the street. They haven’t got degrees in criminal psychology.” His comment was pointed, but she didn’t rise to his bait.

  “I don’t feel that you’re being open with me any more, Tommy. There are too many stories floating around that are too different to yours. It’s been over ten months now and what have you got to show for it. Jack shit, that’s what. Almost makes me wonder if you’re still on the right side, Tommy. We can’t go on. Not like this.”

  He couldn’t let her get away with insinuations like that, especially as they were so close to the truth. He went on the attack. “What do you mean, too many stories? Do you put more bloody faith in your informants than in me? Thank you very bloody much. And you think I’ve gone native? With respect, Ma’am, that’s a fucking joke. It doesn’t happen in the real world. It sounds like you’ve been watching too many re-runs of the Sweeney. This is London, not U.K. Gold, and I’m a trained bloody professional. I resent accusations like this – totally unfounded – being made against me. And I can’t believe you’d take them seriously. I know it’s taken a while but you can’t expect to get close to someone as big as Bellini overnight. It’s a miracle that I’ve got this far so quickly. You should be thanking me, not hauling me over the coals. Not accusing me of something that’s so far fetched that it’s totally bloody ridiculous.” His voice had been rising as his agitation grew and it took an effort to calm himself and he paused before starting again, more slowly this time. “I put my life on the line every day with these people. Seven days a week. Just meeting you is dangerous. What if someone walks past and recognizes us? What if someone borrows my mobile and checks your number? These are hard men. What the hell do you think they’d do to me if they even got a whiff
that I was Old Bill? I’d be posted back to New Scotland Yard, piece by piece. And they wouldn’t use a fucking stamp either.” He laughed, as best he could. It was a vague half laugh, the sort that you give to the offensive or absurd. There was no real conviction about it. Deep down he knew that one day, his time would come, that he would be called to account. By either his superiors in the police force or by Bellini himself. He didn’t know which was worse. Neither was an attractive prospect and he felt that he was in too deeply with both sides to even try and break free from either. The only thing he was sure of was that when he went down, as he knew he surely must, he intended to go down fighting.

  “Course I’m not saying that you’ve gone native.” Ashworth back tracked once she knew that Tommy wouldn’t be bullied. “I’m just asking you to see how it looks from my perspective. I’m accountable too, you know that. I have to report to Goodwin and the powers that be upstairs. You’re going to have to realize that something’s got to give and you haven’t come up with the goods in the best part of a year. I’m pulling you out, Tommy. Right now. I haven’t got any alternative. The way things are developing, it’s just going to get more and more dangerous for you with less and less chance of getting anything in return. You’re coming back with me now.” Ashworth meant it as more of a threat than anything else, she wanted to see how he’d react. He didn’t disappoint her. Tommy’s face, naturally pale, blanched. Against it, devoid as it was of its last vestiges of any colour, his hair seemed to glow like fire. Ashworth desperately wanted to tell him to die it – black, brown, blond if it could be done. Anything. It broke her concentration and she had to almost physically restrain herself from saying it, as she did every time they met.

  “No. Absolutely no way” he spluttered, half choking on the words as he vomited them forth. “You can’t do that. We’re in too deep. Both of us. If you pull me out now we’ve wasted the best part of a year and Bellini’s still no nearer to being nicked. I’m making real progress, I’m starting to get closer to him, he’s starting to open up to me now. I think he’s just beginning to trust me. It’s what we’ve all been waiting for. Once we’ve got that, we’ll get something tangible, something that his brief can’t knock over in half an hour in The Bailey. And then we’re away. You know I can do it, boss. What would the Chief Super say? It was his baby to begin with. He’ll have egg all over his face with the brass. His budget will get cut and that means our budget, too. Who do you think he going to blame for that?”

  She knew that he had a point but what really worried Ashworth was that in pulling Tommy out she’d have to lay all her fears about him on the line to Goodwin. Could she justify them? Was there actually a possibility that he really gone native? They were big allegations; ones that she could not make on supposition and gut feelings alone. In reality, she had nothing to substantiate them with, apart from Tommy’s lack of success and a few casual comments from narks. And how reliable were lowlifes like them, she thought? Yet there remained a doubt, nagging at her, tearing her in two directions at the same time. She felt that she was between a Scylla and Charybdis and was worried that they were going to crash together with enough violence to put the golden girl in a traffic warden’s uniform.

  “OK” she conceded. “You’ve got a week. Just one week. No more. If there’s nothing to show, you’re coming home. Have you got your report?” This would give her time to work on Chief Superintendent Goodwin and try to convince him that they were flogging a dead horse. She had to make him understand that Tommy had not been the right man to get in tight with Bellini. She knew that she would have her work cut out. Tommy was Goodwin’s blue eyed boy. It was him who got him posted to the squad in the first place and he had been his choice for this job, not hers. Ashworth wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had told her they were related.

  Tommy breathed a palpable sigh as he pulled the report from the inside of his bomber jacket and handed it over to her. He felt sure that Ashworth must have seen his relief but he no longer really cared. He didn’t want to come out, to go back to the routine hum drum of police work, he knew that now. His certainty came at the very moment she told him that he was being withdrawn. He wasn’t even sure that he could come out. Not now. It wasn’t just that he was worried that the real extent of his involvement in the nefarious affairs of Bellini’s mob would come to light. He could almost certainly explain that away – anyone talking would be bound to try and implicate the copper once it became public knowledge that that was who he was. That wouldn’t get much credence and there’s very little in the way of forensic evidence that can be extracted through fifteen feet of concrete. It was more than that, he liked it too well in the heart of the organization. They were his brothers, kindred spirits. If nothing else, he too had bought himself a little time. He knew that he would have to try and come up with a plan. Perhaps he could let them have something on Doyle, that shouldn’t be too hard to engineer. He could be sacrificed to the greater good. It would be a shame but it’s a dog eat dog world, he thought. Maybe that’s what he liked most about it.

  In the café behind them, Doyle the watcher drained the remnants of his cup of tea and poured himself another from the little aluminium pot that sat still on the moulded plastic tray he had left on the table in front of him. He sat a couple of rows back from the window to avoid any casual observance and had arrived at a discreet distance behind Tommy. He looked tied and unwashed, because he was. In fact he had spent the night outside Tommy’s flat, his good eye trained unblinkingly at the front door. That morning he had followed him back to Cumberland Avenue. Tommy was carrying a small package. A pay off, perhaps? Why? Doyle had no idea. Someone else could work that out. Not that it really mattered to him. Tommy was now history. He had shown his true colours. Doyle had recognized Charlotte Ashworth instantly, she had neither the face nor body that, once seen, could easily be forgotten. It was clear to Doyle. Tommy what not the personable, straight as die, friend to all that the world took him to be. He was a police informant, a grass. He had to be. True, he hadn’t seen Ashworth actually pass him any money. She probably wanted to check out whatever was in that envelope he gave her first. Tight bitch. Or maybe he was taking payment in kind. Doyle thought for a moment. He wouldn’t act now. First, now he had the unquestionable proof of his own eyes, he would go to see Don Bellini and take instructions from him.

  Chapter Nine

  “Why didn’t you come to me sooner, Francis? I don’t like secrets. You know that.” As he spoke, he ran his fingers sensuously across the oak panelling of his ornate desk. He liked the feel of the grain, the way it was smooth and inviting, leading drawing him ever onwards and yet resisting him at the same time. He liked the way that it felt simultaneously alive and yet dead. Outside the Mount of Venus, it was still dark, in fact at 5 a.m. it would be an hour and a half, maybe two, before day would really begin to break. To Doyle, Bellini seemed relatively calm at the news. When he had called him the night before, he hadn’t become enraged, and demanded to see Doyle then and there and, as far as he knew, Tommy still remained part of this breathing world. Doyle hadn’t slept much that night. At the moment, an interview with Bellini was the last thing he felt like; history had taught him that a messenger bearing bad news was always likely to be the first one shot. Maybe literally. But Doyle was surprised. Bellini appeared to reacting well to the news, surprising as it was.

  “I had to be sure, boss. I followed him after he met with Ashworth but he came back here. I couldn’t say anything with him outside. He could just walk in at anytime. You need time to consider your position, to decide the best way to play it. You don’t just want to jump in and blow his head off, do you?”

  “Don’t I?” Bellini paused. “No. You’re right, of course, Francis. I don’t care about Charlotte Ashworth. She’s a hard faced bitch, we all know that, and clever with it. That’s a dangerous combination in a woman but Tommy can’t have given her much. OK say he knows where a few bodies are buried but I’ve got alibis that Rumpole of the Bailey couldn’t shak
e.” He was right, even now, even when deep into his rages, even in the carnage of the debauched violence to which he sometimes suddenly descended, he knew how to cover his tracks and he did it like the expert he was. He was still a professional. A lot of powerful men owed him a lot of ‘favours’ that he could call in, he held a lot of dirt on a lot of dignitaries, secreted away for safe keeping, that would finish them if it ever saw the light of day. There was no shortage of lawyers and government officials at various levels, who could be called on at short notice. He even had a cabinet minister, but he was saving him for something special. The photos of him and the rent boy were too good to give up lightly, they’d taken some getting. Once in a while Bellini would take them out of his safe and examine them in minute detail as he had done a hundred times before. Just for the simple joy that holding such power over one of the most influential men in the land gave him. The irony was that the photos were all set up, the poor bastard was doped out of his brain. He didn’t know what was going on, he hadn’t even been able to get it up, not that that mattered. The poor bugger wasn’t even bent for God’s sake. That’s what appealed to Bellini most of all. He’s probably the only one in the cabinet who wasn’t.

  “Even if it came down to it,” he continued, “what jury would take the word of a lowlife little shit like Tommy. A grass. A bloody copper’s nark. I wouldn’t have put him down for that. Not in a million years. I thought that I could trust him, but he deceived me, Francis. Maybe I’m losing my touch.”