by Michael Kerr
Back outside Teal Towers, Ryan let the significance of the meeting with the Russian sink in. Within minutes of Ryan entering the building, Gorchev had known details that could only have been given to him by someone at the Yard. The implications were far-reaching. Among others, the Russian operation was too big and well-connected to be toppled. Even if Gorchev went down, there would be someone in the wings ready to take his place. It was like grass, you could mow it, but it would grow again however much you cut it.
Walking over to where Eddie had parked, he climbed in the car and punched the dashboard with so much force that he thought he might have broken a couple of knuckles.
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
Ryan didn’t need to check on DCI Colin Ellis. He knew that Colin had made a drug bust, that at the time, two years ago, had been one of the biggest interceptions of heroin on record. Nine months later, he and his wife and two sons had been killed in a gas explosion at their home. Ryan now knew that what they had believed to be a tragic accident, was murder. Colin and his family paid with their lives for the cop’s success in stopping drugs with a street value of twenty million from reaching Gorchev’s distributors.
“Where do you want to go now, boss?” Eddie said after watching Ryan massage his now aching hand.
“Lambeth. The Winged Horse. I need a pint and some normality.”
Eddie got the drinks in while Ryan fed the jukebox. They sat at the rear of the room under a large oil painting of Diana Dors wearing nothing but a sultry smile.
“I take it you didn’t get any joy out of Gorchev,” Eddie said after Ryan had supped most of his pint.
Ryan wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. “He admitted to having Katy Baxendale murdered. And one of his thugs as good told me that he’d arranged the gas explosion that killed Colin Ellis and his family.”
“Jesus! What are we going to do?”
“Not a lot. We’ve got nothing on him. But he knew everything about me. Even warned me that my mother was at risk if I caused him any grief. He has a lot of people in his pocket. What we know, he knows. That’s how he keeps one step ahead. Colin Ellis must have kept all details of that drug bust close to his chest, or it would never have gone down.”
“Did he mention Tyler?”
“I did. He didn’t bite.”
“So we just keep up the surveillance and hope something breaks?”
“In the short-term, yeah.”
“And long-term?”
“We get Tyler and Gorchev.”
“How?”
“Keep on the Russians. They might lead us to Tyler.”
“You reckon, now that they know we suspect them?”
“More reason for them to pick Tyler up. They won’t want us to get to him first.”
Ryan got another round in before going to the toilet. He ran cold water over his hand for a few minutes. Flexed it and decided that nothing was broken. Wished he’d hurt it on Gorchev’s chin instead of the car dash. It crossed his mind that he would have to move his mother to a safe house, if and when they got the opportunity to lean hard on the Russian. He was under no illusion. Anyone could be hit by animals like Gorchev and Savino. They made decisions on a daily basis that cost lives or caused hardship to varying degrees. Logic told Ryan that the war on organised crime was like the battle against terrorism; it could not be won. Containing it was the best that could be hoped for. Societies throughout the world were at war, vying for power, wealth and possessions. Good and evil became blurred along the way. It was all in the eye of the beholder. All the force of police and armed forces was in many instances impotent against serial killers, or a suicide bomber who chose to martyr him or herself by blowing-up a bunch of strangers. You could not prevent bad shit from going down if you did not know when or where it was going to happen, or who was going to do it.
While in New York, Ryan had been told by Lt Nick Martinez that, at any given time there were maybe two hundred serial killers operating in North America. At a very conservative estimate at least a thousand citizens were being taken by these psychos every year. Some bodies were discovered, but many victims remained on the books as missing persons, and were never seen or heard of again. It was overwhelming. People were being stalked and killed for the pleasure it gave the perps. And like everything American, it was only a matter of time before Britain was overrun by the phenomenon. Violence was on the increase. There was a new ethic. A growing percentage of people had been mentally liberated, and were turning their fantasies – however bizarre or antisocial – into reality.
“You think it’s video games and TV, Eddie?” Ryan said to his sergeant, voicing his thoughts.
“In what context?” Eddie said.
“Escalating violence.”
“Even the shrinks are divided on that one, boss. Personally, I think that a lot of video games and shit made for TV and the movies is catering to impressionable youngsters and a great many adults who are borderline nutters. I blame the makers of the stuff, and the authorities that allow it to be licensed. It’s irresponsible to let fruitcakes like Tarantino churn out Reservoir dogs, Pulp Fiction and stuff. Some are only one step away from Snuff movies.”
“You advocate censorship?”
“We are censors, boss. It’s our job to enforce whatever laws are in effect. We suppress any conduct that is deemed unacceptable by whoever decides what is or is not right or wrong. We govern how people live. Make them tow the line, pay their taxes and be part of a structured team game. If they foul-up they get benched.”
“You sound almost as cynical as me.”
“But not with what our unit does, boss. The crimes we investigate are clear-cut. Unlawful acts such as rape and murder never has and never will be acceptable. But I don’t agree with a lot of legislated shit. Slavery was legal not so long ago. And I read an account in the Black Museum of how one twelve-year-old-girl was hanged for stealing a bloody cabbage. The law has always been fallible; still is. A lot of what is illegal today could be legal tomorrow.”
“Nothing’s perfect, Eddie. And with all its faults, what we’ve got is better than lawlessness.”
“Yeah, I realise that. But it still sucks.”
“Don’t say that if you get a promotion board.”
“I don’t need or want promotion, boss. I’m set up financially, and enjoy what I do now. The day I wake up and don’t want to do it anymore, I’ll walk.”
“And do what?”
“Go and live somewhere like Costa Rica. Spend my days fishing and beach combing. Maybe buy a bar. Just chill out.”
“And take that nurse with you, huh?”
“That was over before it got started. Natalie might have been a teenager on viagra’s dream bird, but I couldn’t stay the pace for one night. My spirit was willing, but my flesh was far too weak.”
Ryan grinned. “You mean―”
“She wanted it any which way she could get it, all the time. I couldn’t keep up, literally. She could screw her way through the barracks at Aldershot, and still not have had enough.”
“You know how to pick ‘em, Eddie.”
“No, boss. Trouble is, I don’t.”
At seven-forty on Saturday evening, Andy checked himself out in the mirrored wall of the small bedroom he had converted into a gym. He looked good, smelled good, and was up for his dinner date with Gemma. He was wearing a powder-blue crew neck T-shirt, a pair of tight-fitting Levi’s, and soft leather loafers: no socks or underwear.
Since murdering the journalist, Andy had reassessed his position. A little voice was nagging at him, telling him to go under deep cover. When he had picked up the balance of his fee, he had felt a strong sense of impending danger. The feeling had not gone away. It was time to cut and run. Not just move to another location in the London area, but leave the country for a year or so, or perhaps permanently.
He had new and very expensive pieces of equipment, including an ID 4000 series security identification pass maker, complete with a magnetic strip burner,
and software that aided him to access particularly secure facilities. After hacking into DVLA at Swansea, and various other departments, he had created the documentation necessary to become yet another person. He had even produced a passport that he knew was as good as the real thing. The fictitious John Kelly was now established as having a life that could stand up to intensive scrutiny, with a history implanted in all areas that any interested party might check. Andy could be anyone he wanted to be. In this age of the computer, it was smart users like him that could write innovative software programmes, hack into other machines and manipulate information, who held ultimate control. Had Andy wished, he could have made a fortune by stealing and selling information, without having to leave his keyboard. Industrial espionage via cyberspace was itself a growth industry.
Still ten minutes to go. Andy went to his machine and hacked in to New Scotland Yard’s system, sailing through the firewalls put in place to prevent unauthorised access. He entered the telephone exchange and connected with the Serious Crimes Unit.
It came through as an internal call. Dag Hubbard picked up.
“DC Hubbard.”
“Is Ryan there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Andy Tyler. Put me through to him now, Detective, or I’ll hang up.”
Dag put his hand over the receiver and called out to Ryan. “I think I’ve got Tyler on the line, boss. He wants to speak to you. The call is internal.”
Ryan came over and took the phone from Dag.
“What do you want now, Tyler?” he said.
“Nothing especially. I had a few minutes to kill. Ha! I didn’t mean that literally. Thought I’d browse through your system, and have a word with you before I pulled out and logged off. I see you haven’t got any nearer to finding me yet. Maybe you should consider a career change. As a Detective, you aren’t too clever at detecting anything.”
“It’s what we don’t put on computer that you would find interesting, Tyler.”
“Such as?”
“That we know you did Katy Baxendale for Gorchev, and a lot more that I’ll tell you about when we lift you.”
“Dream on, Ryan.”
Ryan could hear a trace of uncertainty in Tyler’s voice. That they had tied him to the recent killing that was supposed to have looked like an accident, had shaken his composure. “Do me a favour, Tyler, don’t phone again,” he said. “If you’re feeling lonely, use a chat room and talk to some other sad bastards who haven’t got a life.” He hung up.
“The call originated in our own fucking system, boss,” Dag said. “You want computer section to try and trace it back to source?”
“Yeah, Dag, but I won’t hold my breath. He either used an Internet cafe‚ or knows that we won’t be able to locate him.”
Andy was livid. Ryan’s offhand and insulting manner was intolerable. And how had the cop worked out that he had anything to do with the bitch in West Ealing? Or that Gorchev had been involved? He couldn’t fathom it. There was a leak somewhere. But Gorchev would not be in bed with the police. Just how much did Ryan know?
The call had been worthwhile, though, in that it gave him more incentive to get the hell out of the country. He would follow his money to Grand Cayman, buy property in George Town, and be a respectable businessman. He could always fly to Miami when the need to rape or kill became too much to deny. And he would no longer undertake contracts. It was time to adapt and move on, after he took care of outstanding business of a personal nature that he needed to attend to. He still had a list. People had to pay. He would never be able to relax while they were alive. His mother was a priority. Betraying her own son could not go unpunished. And there was Harold Palmer and Emily Simmons. That would just leave the two Serious Crimes Unit cops; Brannigan and Ryan. They would be the easiest, in that they would not expect it. They considered themselves as hunters, not the hunted. He decided that Ray Savino was all paid up. Alive, the man could fester and be consumed by hatred, unable to find Andy Tyler to avenge his daughter’s death. He would go to his grave riddled with guilt, knowing that it had been his own actions that bought Gina a bullet in the head.
It was exactly one minute past eight when he knocked on Gemma’s door. He held a single red rose in one hand, and a bottle of very expensive wine in the other.
The Skoda pulled up outside on the road at one a.m. Georgio and Valentino got out and walked up the right-hand side the shrub-lined drive to the house. It was in darkness. They knew that Tyler had not left by car. The signal from the transponder fitted to the Toyota verified that.
“Remember, Valentino, we are here to take him alive. Uncle Sergei will be very unhappy if he dies.”
“I understand, Georgio,” Valentino whispered. “If he does not come quietly, then I will shoot him in the kneecap.”
They made their way around the side of the house and forced entry through a ground floor window at the rear, that opened onto a hallway. They knew from checking the records of the company that owned the building that the only tenant who could be Tyler was a guy named Carlson, and that he lived on the first floor in flat number 3.
Georgio knelt down on the carpet and deftly picked the lock. Valentino stood back, his silenced SIG Sauer pointed at chest height. Fuck Sergei. If this professional killer appeared, and was armed, then he would not risk his or Georgio’s lives. The man would die on the spot.
The door opened four inches before being stopped by a flimsy security chain. Using a small pair of bolt cutters, Georgio snipped through it, entered, and drew his own gun.
Andy was dozing and in a place somewhere on the cusp of consciousness, dreaming, but aware that he was not fully asleep. The last few hours had been a revelation. He had found Gemma to be a breath of fresh air in his life. She had attentively hung on to his every word, and had a wonderful sense of humour. She took his mind off everything. She was someone he had met in his new persona as Toby Carlson, in circumstances that were natural and unrelated to his life of seeking out potential victims. This could be a real relationship. She was young, beautiful, and sexy as hell. There was a spark between them; a mutual attraction. Her body language told him that.
A sudden creak brought him fully awake. It was the bedroom door opening.
Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
She was certainly not the best cook in the world, but could rustle-up a variety of simple meals when pressed. She decided to have something almost ready to put in front of Toby when he arrived. While he opened the wine, she would serve it up.
She had invited him on the spur of the moment. It was her nature to be impulsive, and sometimes got her into situations that she regretted. Asking him round for a meal had seemed a neat thing to do at the time. When he had helped her out and broken into her car, she had been taken by his laid-back personality and easy humour. She had also thought he was almost very good-looking, in a slightly dangerous way. He was tall, muscular, and had a great butt. She could tell he worked out. Just watching him at the car had made her tingle.
Gemma cut almost three-quarters of a pound of sirloin steak into thin strips, put it in a large glass bowl and added some light soy sauce, two peeled and finely chopped garlic cloves, half a teaspoonful of ground ginger, a sprinkle of dry sherry, and tossed it all before leaving the mixture to marinate for fifteen minutes.
Chopping spring onions, Gemma paused and poured some of the sherry into a glass and drank half of it. Three months had elapsed since she had dumped Alec. She didn’t miss him, but was pissed-off with climbing into an empty bed every night. She was only twenty-six, and had a healthy libido that had got used to being catered to. Since Alec, she had only been bedded once, and that had been a disaster. The guy, Sam, had been someone who she had worked with previously, and met up with at a pub, in the company of friends known to both of them.
She stirred the beef and put a wok on a low light. Added oil. Checked the rice that was cooking. This was all about timing. If Toby was a little late, then he would be eating warm not hot food. If he was very late,
she would throw it in the microwave and hope for the best. Like she told everybody, she was no Nigella Lawson.
She smiled to herself. Sam had been very pleasant. Trouble was, he was no good in the bed stakes. His foreplay had consisted of a quick feel of her tits, before sticking it in her and coming almost immediately with a strangled grunt. He didn’t even stay for a second helping, just dressed and rushed out, saying he was sorry, but he should have told her he was engaged. Her loss was some other woman’s bigger loss, if his performance, or lack of it, was anything to go by.
Christ, she felt randy. If Toby wasn’t gay, then she knew where the evening would lead.
Only twenty minutes to go. Gemma emptied the contents of the bowl into the wok and began to stir it over a high heat for about three minutes, before adding some of the spring onions, black bean sauce, out of a jar, and stock. She brought it to the boil and then reduced the heat and left it to simmer.
All she had to do was get dressed. Simple: a skimpy blouse and a short skirt. Less was more. She liked to relax, be comfortable, and not try to complicate life. Her makeup was minimal, and her honey-blonde hair was brushed through and left to cascade onto her shoulders. The only jewellery she wore was a gold bracelet that had belonged to her late grandmother. She had a wardrobe full of business suits and other work stuff, but did not wear any of it on her own time.
When the knock came at the door, she was all but ready to serve up her beef in black bean sauce with wild rice and a salad garnish.
“Come in, Toby,” she said. “I hope you’re hungry. I’m about to put it on the table, ready or not.”
“Smells good,” he said, holding out the cellophane-wrapped rose. “I better open this wine. It won’t have much time to breathe, but I’m no expert, and if you’re not it won’t matter.”
Within five minutes they were tucking in.