VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2)

by Seumas Gallacher

  A hard-nosed product of the Scottish police system, then a Detective Chief Inspector, Mullen had been involved with ISP in Hong Kong in the take-down of a major drug peddling gang. He accepted a partnership with the company after retirement from his post as Head of the Anti Serious Crime Squad/Anti Triad activities in the colony before the handover to Mainland China. He still had extensive contacts with most of the senior policemen around the globe, especially in London where for several years he led a successful clean up of gangster activity in the East End.

  Donnie picked up the line on the second ring.

  “Malky here. We need yer silky smooth-talking skills with yer mates at the Met, Donnie.”

  “As ever at your service,” he joked. “What’s up?”

  As his Irish partner began to recount the day’s events, any levity disappeared. “Jules wants ye to plug into yer network and get as much info as possible. The Met guys get tight-lipped wi’ stuff like this.”

  “Yeah. I used to be the same. A need-to-know basis always worked best. I’ll fly to London tonight. I might be able to arrange a drink with my mates later. If not, early tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, big fella. Catch ye soon.”

  ***

  Donnie booked a late afternoon flight out of Germany, and placed a call to an old colleague, Assistant Commissioner Alan Rennie. Mullen and Rennie had graduated from the police college in Dundee before heading south to London, a much-travelled path for aspiring Scottish detectives three decades earlier. Their friendship had grown along with their reputations as no-nonsense cops back in the old days.

  “I’ll be glad to have you put your hand in your pocket later, Donnie,” joked Rennie. He gave his direct line number to only a handful of associates, and was delighted to hear Mullen’s voice. He listened as his former buddy explained what he needed. Of course he would try to help.

  “The Nag’s Head in Piccadilly as usual? Say nine o’clock?” suggested Rennie.

  “Done. Until later, big man.”

  The Assistant Commissioner thought for a moment before buzzing through to his number two.

  “John, I need an executive summary in about an hour or so. Bullet points only, on the situation in Soho, the gear we’ve been tracking for a couple of months? Right. Thanks.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Police station interview rooms are not designed for comfort. The Head of Serious Crimes left the ISP team waiting for over half an hour, sitting on cramped plastic chairs, before arriving with the local detective chief, DCI Bob Granger.

  Manning directed Granger to handle the tape recording machine. The interview was official business.

  “Any reason why your people should be singled out for a hit like this, Major Townsend?” he opened, the cold formality unmistakable.

  Townsend spoke slowly, a signal to May-Ling and Jack to be careful in what they said.

  “For the record, I’m Mister Townsend. Major is a military designation and I’m here in my civil capacity,” Jules replied. “The target must’ve been somebody or something else. There’s easier ways to take us down than the lottery of a grenade in a packed restaurant. We made our booking only an hour ahead of time. It would’ve taken very forward-minded planning to track us to an eating-house in open daylight. If someone wanted to nail us, shooting would be more effective.”

  “He’s right,” said Jack. “The bomb was intended to send a far bigger message to somebody else, to cause as much damage as possible. They didn’t give a damn who got taken out. You might want to check if any of the other customers rate particular status or importance. My guess is they were nothing but regular punters having lunch.”

  “How about you, Mrs Calder? Do you know the people who run the place? Or reasons for the attack?” asked Manning.

  Something stirred at the back of May-Ling’s mind, but her answer was a shake of the head.

  “Nothing I can connect with.”

  “I think you should also rule out terrorists,” said Jules.

  “Oh?”

  “Hitting a small restaurant in London for political mileage doesn’t make sense, not when you can name tons of more sensitive areas for terrorist publicity.”

  “So where does that leave us, Mister Townsend?” The half sneer query hung in the air.

  “Where that leaves us,” replied Jules, in an even, soft voice, “is wanting to understand what you guys have on turf wars in Soho.”

  Manning wasn’t quick enough in covering his stiffening body reaction, however slight.

  “Turf wars? None as far as we’re aware.”

  Jack and Jules recognised the lie immediately.

  Right. Good job we took the shrapnel bits. We’re gonna get no help here. Closed shop.

  “Unless there’s a private feud or the owners of the Peking Garden owe somebody a ton of money,” said Jules, “you’ve got some sort of war on your hands. Our friend Chandra is collateral damage, as we all would’ve been.”

  Manning didn’t respond for a moment or two. “Yes,” he murmured.

  “Where’s his body now?” asked Jules.

  “He’s over at the West End morgue. His body’s technically classified evidence. We’ll get him cleaned up as soon as possible, but it might take a while. Do you want him released back to you if there’s no family in London?”

  A rhetorical question. Jules nodded. “If you’ve nothing else to detain us, Mister Manning, we’ve got a business to run?”

  “Sure, you can go, but keep yourselves available. We may need to talk to you again.”

  Without further words, DCI Granger held the door ajar as the three interviewees left the room.

  They walked back several minutes to reach the ISP premises. No-one spoke on the way. Jack picked up on the look on the ex-Major’s face, indicating a brain already sifting through the sequence of the afternoon’s events. Their day was only beginning now.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Nag’s Head isn’t a coppers’ pub, making it a good meeting place for Donnie and his old mate. Off-record conversations are more easily denied without prying eyes or ears.

  Alan Rennie was on time. Donnie waved from his seat in the corner. A couple of beers and two whiskies waited on the table.

  “Hi. How’s ISP doing?”

  “Going well, but good to catch up with you.”

  “So, your lads were involved in the Peking Garden thing today. What do you need from me?” The Assistant Commissioner always got to the point.

  “We’re all grown-ups here, and I know your lads are ordered to keep tight-lipped,” replied Donnie. “I understand not to try cutting across your investigations, but a good friend of ours died today saving everybody else’s asses.” The men clinked glasses and downed the whiskies in one shot.

  Rennie nodded. “Bravest thing in a long time. Regardless, we can’t have loose cannon vigilante stuff going on, even presuming we know who’s involved, which at this stage isn’t a certainty.” He picked up his beer chaser and sipped.

  “Granted. You’re not certain, but this is a turf thing, right?”

  “It’s pointing that way, whispers here and there, but the Chinese curtain is impossible to penetrate. The anti-Triad unit can’t plant anybody inside. They’d be too obvious, probably end up dead in days. Plus the hit today doesn’t fit the pattern of Chinese on Chinese. Soho and the UK triad stuff is well demarcated, better organised than other places in Europe.”

  “Do you think maybe non-Chinese rubbing up against Chinatown?”

  “We only guess so, nothing concrete.” Rennie signalled for refills.

  “Who owns the Peking Garden? Is it an exchange centre?”

  “A legitimately registered company owns the deeds with no direct handle on who pulls the strings.”

  Donnie waited for the barman to place the new round in front of them before talking again. “Who’s most likely trying to muscle in?”

  Rennie grimaced. “Logic says we’ve got serious business conflict. Prostitution. Drugs. Money laundering. The normal cash fl
ow stuff. Right now, all bets are open, but the signs indicate Eastern Europeans.”

  “Russians?”

  “The Russians’ hunting ground doesn’t usually come this far west. We’re getting more and more vibes about the old East German syndicates. Perhaps some Turkish or Albanian partners as well, nothing certain.”

  Donnie took a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the table. “Right. I get the drift. Kinda under the radar screen thus far, huh?”

  “If I’d more, I’d tell you, but we’re still sniffing.”

  The Assistant Commissioner sat back and drew heavily on his beer. Donnie acknowledged Alan had no further information to share and changed tack. “Our old chum Paul Manning turned up with the SCO 19 squad. Friendly as ever with Jules.”

  “Yes. He’s only doing what he’s paid for, Donnie. It’s his bailiwick and so long as he’s getting on with his job, I’ve no quarrel with him. But just between you and me, I’ll keep an eye open. Okay?”

  “You’re a good bastard, Alan, cheers,” said his pal, motioning for another round. The rest of the evening eased into a mild drinking session as the former colleagues relaxed over old cop stories.

  CHAPTER 6

  The family likeness was hard to miss. Chandra’s younger brother, Guna Rana, some six inches shorter, with cheekbones a bit more defined, had served twelve years of service in the same Gurkha brigade, during which he led an equally distinguished career with two citations of combat bravery under fire. When the second tour of duty finished, he returned to look after his hill farm in Nepal with his wife and four sons.

  The funeral service for Chandra followed a dignified low-key Hindu ritual. Along with Jack, Malky, and Jules, several other former comrades-in-arms had flown to Kathmandu to pay their respects. The British Ambassador in Nepal carried messages from the Head of the Armed Forces as well as a signed letter of condolence from her Britannic Majesty the Queen, none of which could bring back a courageous hero.

  Words were inappropriate in seeking to fill the void death brings, and these men had seen plenty of that in the past.

  Guna asked the ISP team to share dinner with his family. Chandra himself hadn’t married; always half-joking his bride was the British Army.

  “I don’t need to tell you how we feel about your brother,” said Jules. “Whatever ISP can do, it’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” replied Guna. “He found the wrong place at the wrong time. Karma. Many other times and places it could’ve happened. We accept this. Your kindness is appreciated, but we’ve no need for money. This farm pays its way for us. However, there’s one request I will make.”

  “What? As I said, whatever we can do.”

  Guna was quiet for a moment, looking to frame his words properly.

  “Jules, around this village area are plenty of hardworking families like ours. The similarities run deep, many of the men who returned as I did, fighting soldiers in the same unit. We’re all related in one way or another. We Nepalese lay great store in fate. We believe in a balance for everything. A reckoning will come one day, sooner or later.”

  Jules nodded.

  “I don’t expect you’ll let this pass without some hand in its ending,” continued Guna, “and it looks to me as if a lot of players might be involved in this. You would pay me an honour to allow myself and a few of my Gurkha brothers here to come to join you when needed.”

  Jack and Malky looked across at their chief, and their eyes showed agreement.

  “Guna,” said Jules, “I give you my word if we get involved, you and your men will be alongside.”

  For the first time since their arrival, a half-smile danced across the face of the ex-soldier.

  The contract was sealed with handshakes. No paper. No document. Just the commitment of men of their word.

  ***

  No two grenade types are exactly the same. There are differences in design, shape, weight, triggering mechanisms, component material, explosive load and timers. A global industry creates hundreds of variants of such weapons, some under strict world warfare convention limitations, and many classified as illegal.

  The SAS at its Stirling Barracks base at Credenhill in Herefordshire houses records of most of both kinds. The keeper of the files on these, and about everything else the SAS ever encountered, is a one-man division called Mac. Through usage, his family name almost disappeared among even his close friends, including Major Julian Townsend. Early in his career, Mac had lost his left arm in a cleanup operation in Burma. His desire to stay with the SAS was sated by becoming its librarian and intelligence record keeper.

  The pieces of shrapnel removed from the body of Chandra Rana lay on the plain campaign table top in Mac’s workroom. A yellow pad filled with his notes as he downloaded information from his computer. His filing cabinets indexed and cross-indexed in a system he’d devised years earlier, enabling connectivity on seemingly unrelated scraps and facts.

  The initial list of possible sources for the weapon ran to a couple of dozen names, but through the morning reduced to three.

  He swilled his coffee, and gave a satisfied grunt. Two points of elimination and he had the answers his friend Jules required. He dialled the number for ISP.

  Jules picked up his direct line on the first ring.

  “I think I’ve nailed it down, Jules. The manufacturing source and a few more links to likely final destinations.”

  “I thought it wouldn’t take you long. What’ve you found?”

  “I can pin down three illegal factories on this particular grenade architecture. Only one used the specific metal and plastic composition mix in these pieces you sent me. This batch came from Poland, from a tiny factory originally run by some old bad-assed East German armaments suppliers, no longer in business, shut down over fifteen years ago. It was invisible as far as government oversight goes, but used by their own military just the same. Lots of middlemen raking off backhanders I shouldn’t wonder. Records show production for a limited period only, roughly seven months, therefore not much came off the manufacturing line.”

  “You’re a genius, Mac. How about the links you mentioned?”

  “Yes, the links. Some of these devices turned up in the Balkans during the ethnic cleansing, used by both sides. Somebody fed them into the conflict at will, probably milking a fortune in the process.”

  “Go on,” prompted Jules. “You’re going to give me the name of that somebody, right?”

  “There were two outfits, Jules, both run by gangsters, but one of them was killed in a tit for tat gang killing about eight years back.”

  “So who’s left?”

  “You ever heard of Jozef Kaplani?”

  “It’s ringing bells. Help me out.”

  “Born in Albania in 1956, his father a big name local criminal. The dad went missing in the late eighties, never found, believed murdered by competition, an occupational hazard in the region, even nowadays. We believe Jozef stepped up and moved out across Eastern Europe. He’s only ever served a couple of small prison terms for minor offences, never nailed for big stuff, but he’s thought to be the lever man for most of the organised crime coming into Western Europe from that neck of the woods.”

  “Location at present?”

  “The last we can figure, he owned a bunch of legitimate companies in Poland a few years back, and we think he ran the biggest supply of weaponry into the Balkans. He’s the likeliest source of your grenade in London. He moves cleverly, Jules. Nothing ever gets pinned directly on him. He uses multiple layers to get his instructions out. He’s got operations throughout Poland and other parts of Europe, with several places he owns and sleeps in.”

  “Sounds a cautious man. Probably trying to avoid ending up like his father.”

  “Correct. His main residence along with his bodyguards is a place up in the hills near Wieliczka, about fifty kilometres south of Krakow. He keeps a complicated household, with as many as four or five female companions around on a regular basis. A bit of a ladies’ man by all accounts. Ne
ver been married.”

  “Interesting. So he’s near Slovakia, the Ukraine and the Czech Republic if my geography serves me well?”

  “Right. It gives him springboards into these countries. His powerbase would be strong along the borders. The reason we’re familiar with the region, as you might suspect, is the ease of infiltration into the Balkans. Our own boys have been quietly in and out several times over the years. I’ll send you a detailed map showing his property and the coordinates.”

  “That’s excellent work as usual, Mac,” replied Jules. “Dinner’s on me when you get down to London. Thanks.”

  As Jules cradled the phone, Jack saw the firming of the lips and a slight furrowing of his brow. This would lead to trouble for somebody.

  CHAPTER 7

  In Jack’s eyes, May-Ling had lost none of her allure. At a touch over five feet eight, her Eurasian origins were a stunning mix. She had grown into an incredible soul partner as well as a life mate. Jack watched her from the bed as she moved around the room. Her post bath freshness shone from her skin as she reached for her night slip.

  “I don’t think you’ll need that for a while,” he said, smiling to his wife.

  “Oh, really?” she flirted, drawing back the top sheet. “My, my, Mister Calder, I see you’ve already got ideas other than reading before you sleep.”

  Like her husband, she was as much in love with her partner now as when they’d first married. She’d considered this six foot two product of the Glasgow dockyards as a welcome catch for any woman, and still found his fair hair and sparkling blue eyes greatly attractive, and no less the mild Scottish burr in his accent.

  She reached out and he pulled her toward him. She pressed back his shoulders with her fingernails and slid her body on to his. Of all the ways in which they had learned to pleasure each other, they both favoured having her as the lead on top. They started as so often before, with a tacit command from May-Ling to let her drive the action. This never failed to arouse Jack. He still hadn’t figured out why as a commando he was always in charge, but here as lovers in the bedroom his wife led everything.