Stone Cold

by J. D. Weston

  “Okay,’ said Frank, “so our man is into motor-cross?”

  “Not necessarily, could just be that the bike is used in rough terrain, which means it’s not necessarily a city worker’s bike, but we can’t write any city workers off.”

  “This guy is not a city worker, that was the work of a pro. The man doesn’t sell stocks or insurance or whatever, he sits quiet, until he’s needed.”

  “That’s what we thought, sir,” began Melody, “I had Reg give me a list of owners of that bike in the area-”

  “Hundreds?” asked Frank.

  “Just over one hundred, not too many but enough to find a professional killer difficult.”

  “So?”

  “So, first of all, I tried to find common facts among them, demographics; age range, gender, location, vocation. Nothing jumped out of the screen.”

  “There’s not much to go on,” said Frank.

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “We’re looking for a big stick in a forest, Mills,” said Frank.

  “Epping Forest to be precise,” said Melody.

  “Epping Forest?”

  “Looking for common demographics wasn’t working as I’d hoped, but it did highlight one man. Out of the hundred or so bikes we found that matched the tire marks, and the hundred or so owners, there was only one person who we had no information on. No previous, no job, no idea of age, just a name.”

  “A name?” asked Frank. “That's more than we usually get.”

  “Stone, sir. Harvey Stone.”

  “Any ties to Thomson, Cartwright or Stimson?”

  “Looks to be a sole operator, sir,” said Melody. “The man barely exists. Reg hacked the BMW showroom where the bike was purchased, all of the information was false.”

  “Somebody called him and gave him the job to off Bradley.”

  “Unless we have the number, we’ll have no way of knowing who that might have been. I’ve taken the liberty of putting in a request for information on the number plate registered to the bike from the dealer, and asked for it to be sent you. That way we have legit evidence.”

  “Good work, Mills.”

  On the wall behind his old leather chair was a large pin board with various members of the Thomson family and associates pinned up on it. Frank spun in his chair to face it. Terry Thomson was in the centre. String was tied to a pin and led out from the black and white photo of him getting into a black Mercedes to photos of other known accomplices, including the man that had been found earlier this week, Bradley Thomson, Terry’s son.

  Terry Thomson was a powerful man. He was the type of villain that was hard to put away, he’d have top lawyers and wouldn’t ever get his hands dirty. He’d need to be guilty of something big to take him down. It needed to be either something his lawyers would stumble over and fail to defend or death. Something was coming, something in the air, Frank knew it. Three of the major crime organisations under continuous investigation had all come out of the woodwork; the Thomsons, the Cartwrights and the Stimsons. Bradley Thomson’s death would not be without retaliation. Trouble was brewing, and if Frank played it right, it would be a perfect opportunity to clean up and hand over to a younger, career hungry investigator, like Mills.

  Frank couldn’t just take everyone down, that wasn't how it worked. That would leave large voids that younger less experienced crews would fill, without the finesse of the old school villains and the common respect that comes with years of criminal experience. It would be a bloodbath that Frank could never hand over with a clear conscience. If you removed the spiders from an old house, the flies would party, but you could never have too many spiders, or there would be webs at every doorway. It was a balance, like many of life’s intricacies.

  The trap would need to be perfect, with no plausible means of escape or denial. It would be Frank’s pièce de résistance, the one that would send him on his way with honours.

  Mill’s informant had blabbed about a shipment of diamonds coming in from Europe. They were to be stored in a government vault up north to be examined and then transported to London. Apparently, they were priceless. Frank knew how it worked. If the diamonds reached the black market, they’d be worthless initially, the risk of being caught in possession of them would be too high for anyone in their right minds to touch. There would be a national investigation. Every known villain and associate would be under scrutiny. But, over time, the black market price would rise, and if the right person got hold of them and managed to keep them, and if that individual managed to keep them for long enough, they could filter the diamonds back into the black market at whatever price they wanted.

  If the Stimsons were back on the scene now after being so quiet for so long, the timing wasn’t coincidental. If Adam Stimson was going after the diamonds, Frank would have bet money that the Thomsons wanted them too, and would do whatever it took to make sure that both Cartwright and Stimson were unable to attend the event.

  The one ace up Frank’s sleeve was that he knew that Thomson had twenty-four MP5s. He was only selling half, which meant that he was likely keeping the other half to do the diamond job himself. That’s why he wasn’t fussed about the first twelve being lost, as long as Cartwright’s men were taken down.

  Frank would make sure the gun deal went down without a hitch, then he’d allow Terry to let him into the next part of the plan. Frank would find the twelve Heckler and Koch MP5s and take down Cartwright’s men, which would leave the Thomsons free to do the job up north themselves with the other twelve.

  Terry and his men would then stroll into the job up north, guns blazing only to find no-one there but the law, for which Frank would be credited once more with the remainder of the missing MP5s and either the arrest, or death, of Mr Terence Thomson.

  It was perfect. He’d need to keep Thomson sweet, but that was a small price to pay.

  Frank stood and stared at the black and white image of Terry Thomson. Several other photos surrounded Thomson’s, including his ex-wife, his primary employees and of course his son, Bradley, who was recently killed.

  Various members of the organised crime families were pinned to the wall surrounding Terry. Some of them had done deals before, and Frank was known to many of them, although most kept their distance. It was a trust thing. Lots of back scratching took place at various levels of the game.

  Frank reached down to his desk and picked up a photo. He pulled two spare pins from the corner of the board where he kept them waiting, and he pinned the new face to the board.

  His desk phone rang, and the voice on the other end of the line asked, “Mr Carver?”

  “Yes.”

  “You requested information on a number plate and the owner of the vehicle,” the voice stated.

  “Yes.”

  “The information has been collated from the various organisations, the DVLA, HMRC and internal agency databases and will be emailed to you shortly. Before the email is sent, can I ask if there is any further information required or can I close this request on our system?”

  “Nothing further, for now, thank you,” said Frank.

  He opened the inbox on his laptop and waited for the incoming sound to indicate a new email had arrived.

  The incoming email noise sounded, and the title of the email appeared as unread in bold at the top of his inbox. He clicked on the heading, ‘Request 36523 – Carver, F. Background check on Vehicle and Owner.’ The email opened up fully, and a brief message stated that the report was attached to the email as a PDF and the request was being closed. At the bottom of the email was an opportunity for Frank to rate the support he had received. The support was good, but not so good that he had time for that kind of thing.

  He double clicked on the PDF attachment and closed the email as the document opened and filled his screen. He printed the file immediately without reading it and hit the red cross in the corner to close it without saving. He had difficulty reading files on the screen and preferred to print them, lean back in his chair and flick through a physica
l document.

  The small printer on the edge of his desk jumped and clunked into life, and began to crunch, beep and whir until it spat out the report on four pieces of paper. He swivelled the chair to face the picture he had just pinned and began to read. He glanced up periodically to study the man in the photo, as he read more into the man described in the report.

  “So, let’s recap,” said Frank, “we have a dead son of a gangland boss, and some tire tracks that identify a man who doesn’t want to be found.”

  “That’s about it, sir,” said Melody, “for the time being.”

  “So it’s time we found Harvey Stone and understand who he works for.”

  “Gut feeling, sir?”

  “Gut feeling?” replied Frank. “Stimson. He’s the one orchestrating all this. If we can tie Stone to Stimson, then that’ll give us an idea of what’s going to happen next.”

  Frank already knew what was going to happen next; Thomson had told him he was going to destroy the Cartwrights and then the Stimsons. But he couldn’t tell Mills. She would find out in a heartbeat that Frank was involved, his own phone would be monitored and they’d be tracking him. It would be the end of his career.

  Cogs were falling into place.

  11

  Dead Dogs Lie

  John Cartwright paced the floor of his home study. Harvey sat in the chair calmly with his back to him.

  “Who was he?” asked John, “Have you seen him before?”

  “New face,” said Harvey, “he was waiting in his car outside the bar in Green Street.”

  “So you saw him?”

  “From a distance. When Donny and Sergio came out of the bar, he made a move, and I followed.”

  “Can you find him?”

  “Probably.”

  “I want to know who he was and I need confirmation that he works for Thomson,” John turned and began to pace again.

  The door opened, and Donny walked in with Sergio behind, who closed the door and took a seat in the corner. Donny strode up to the desk and sat in the spare chair.

  John waited for them to settle before speaking, “You boys okay?” He turned to Sergio, “Serg? Okay?” Sergio nodded. Harvey saw the cowardly shame on his face as he blatantly refused to acknowledge Harvey. He’d crawled to save himself and left his friend inside; Harvey had found him just sat there crying but didn’t mention it to John. He’d just think Harvey was saying it because he didn’t like him, which was true but it was all pointless.

  Harvey turned to look at Donny who had a bandage across the side of his face and over one eye. He was clearly shaken. His mannerisms and tell-signs showed it. Harvey saw his shaky hand as he accepted a brandy from John. Donny also wouldn’t usually go anywhere near Harvey, he wouldn’t even talk to him unless he wanted something, and Harvey sensed he wanted his brother’s protection after the crash and burn.

  “Right, what the hell happened?” asked John.

  Harvey didn’t reply. Donny and Sergio just looked at the floor.

  “Somebody answer me?”

  “Someone came after us, Dad,” said Donny quietly.

  “I can see that. I just had to send two blokes to pick you both up, and Harvey had to drag you out of the burning car, Donny.”

  “I don’t know who it was, Dad. I didn’t see his face.”

  “What I want to know is, why Harvey didn’t have to drag you out of the car, Sergio?” he turned sharply to his right, and all eyes fell on the gaunt-looking man sitting at the edge of the room.

  “Excuse me?” said Sergio, buying time for an answer.

  “Do not make me repeat myself, Sergio. You know better than to antagonise me.”

  “I was able to pull myself out.”

  “And you left my son in the burning car?”

  “What was I supposed to do? The car was on fire,” Sergio glared at Harvey who absorbed the glare and returned his own. Sergio looked away.

  “Don't look at Harvey, Sergio, he hasn't told me anything. Do I look stupid, Sergio?”

  “No, John.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “No, John.”

  “Well don’t lie to me then, I can see the guilt written all over your face. We’re supposed to be a family, we’re supposed to look out for each other. If we can’t do that, we’ll be wiped out, and it’ll be game over for all of us. That goes for all of you,” he looked around the room, “There’s too much distrust in this family, it breeds like a virus, and I want it stopped.”

  “There’s a bigger picture here, and you all need to know what it is,” continued John, closing the conversation and opening a new one, a fresh start. It wasn’t often he bore a grudge and was able to switch between angry and personable in a moment, which made him extremely volatile.

  “It was us that took out Bradley Thomson.” Donny was the only one who looked shocked at the news. Sergio looked sheepish. Harvey remained impassive.

  “He had it coming anyway, gobby little prick,” said John to Donny. “But now, Terry Thomson has put a tag on Donny. So, Donny, you are going to go away, go on holiday or something.” He paused to sink his brandy and passed his empty glass to Sergio, who stood to pour him another. He continued his pacing, it helped him focus, “In less than one week’s time, we are buying twelve Heckler and Koch MP-5 machine guns off the Thomsons. Harvey, you’re handling that.”

  “What?” exclaimed Donny.

  “But,” John continued, raising his voice to stop Donny’s outburst, he eyed him with a look of warning, “they don't know that it was us that offed Bradley.” He took his drink off Sergio, who skulked back to his chair on the edge of the room, “They think it was Stimsons to try and start a war between us so they can go an do the job up north without us interfering .”

  “What job up north?”

  John Cartwright smiled, “I hoped you would ask that. We are robbing a little-known vault up in sunny Manchester in two weeks’ time, where they happen to store a load of very sparkling and very expensive diamonds.”

  “Diamonds? Why?”

  “And,” John continued, reinforcing the warning look at Donny, “where there just happens to be a delivery of very special specimens coming in from Europe. The diamonds will be stored there overnight before being moved down to Hatten Gardens. Are you going to continue interrupting me with dopey questions, Son, or can I continue?” John’s patience was running thin.

  “I,” John started again, “just happen to know that Terry Thomson is also planning on robbing the very same diamonds, but, he doesn’t know that we are. See? He thinks it’s our mutual friend Adam Stimson, who by the way is probably right now sitting in a nice little bar in St Tropez with a hotty on each knee, and up to his eyeballs in sniff, totally unaware that any of this is going on.”

  “So I’m supposed to just disappear and miss out on all the action?” asked Donny, unable to keep his mouth shut.

  “I had the boys put a random body in your car, so not only are you supposed to disappear, Son, but while you’re gone, we,” John gestured at Harvey, Sergio and himself, “will be attending your funeral.” John sank his drink again.

  “You what?”

  “It’ll be a sombre affair, don't worry, we’ll all be extremely upset.”

  “So that’s it, I’m dead am I?”

  “It was nice knowing you, Son,” finished John with a wry grin.

  Harvey smiled a rare but beautiful smile. He’d been tasked with finding the man, but hunting the man that was trying to kill Donny was certainly not at the top of his list. Harvey had more pressing issues to think about.

  12

  Falling Apart

  Frank Carver’s office door opened, and Melody Mills popped her head into the room, a sign that she was too busy for a full-on chat but had some important information for Frank.

  “Sir?”

  Frank turned from the board.

  “Mills, what have you got for me?”

  “There’s been a report of a car accident involving a person of inte
rest, sir.”

  “It’s all happening, isn’t it. Go on, Mills,” said Frank. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back further in his reclining office chair.

  “Donny Cartwright, sir. Black Mercedes sedan, found upturned in a country lane in Essex, burned beyond recognition. The number plate was thrown from the wreck and found nearby, that’s how it was identified.”

  “Thank you, Melody, that’s very helpful.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “What was the name of the road, Melody?”

  Melody consulted her report on the top of the large pile of papers she was carrying. “Epping New Road, sir, in a place called Loughton.”

  “And Donny?”

  “No survivors found, sir. One body severely charred. I’ll update you once DNA has been run.”

  “Good work, Mills,”

  “There’s one more thing, sir.” Said Melody.

  “Go on,”

  “Stone.”

  Frank looked up again with interest but said nothing.

  “Reg had the motorbike’s plate number tagged for sightings or incidents, if the plate is ever called through for a check, Reg would know as soon as the operator hit the search button.”

  “Okay, and…?”

  “Speed camera got him a few miles from the accident.”

  “Thank you, Melody, that’ll be all.”

  Frank spun back to face the board, he was smiling broadly. He looked up at Harvey, who stared back resolute. Frank stood to adjust his board once more, collected a black marker from his desk and put a cross through Donny’s photo to match Bradley Thomson’s.

  “Stimson, you clever bastard,” he laughed to himself. “Check, your move, Cartwright.”

  Lenny and Rob were sat in the office, in the comfy reddish couches, when Terry Thomson walked in, “Where’s the nonce?”

  “In his room, boss. I think he’s saying goodbye to his testicles.”