by Michael Kerr
Approaching the factory from vacant scrub land at its rear, Andy waited ten minutes to see if the perimeter of the property was being patrolled. He saw and heard no one, so quickly scaled the fence and ran across to where two lorries were parked next to a loading bay. From there he made his way around the side of the building and came to a set of external, rusted iron stairs with handrails, that led up to a fire door. As he made to climb the steps, he saw ladders bolted to the wall just a few feet away. They led all the way up to the roof. An assault from above would be an added element of surprise. No one ever expected an overhead attack.
Skylights and air ventilation ducts dotted the fifty yard long flat roof. Andy walked softly from skylight to skylight, looking down into the first floor of the building. Many of the rooms were in darkness, but some were lit, and two thirds of the way along he peered down into a large room that was as richly furnished as any Mayfair flat.
Two men were sitting on one of three large leather sofas, watching a rear projection TV with the biggest screen Andy had ever seen. Gorchev and another man were standing at a corner bar, talking.
The skylight was open an inch, but did not give him the angle to shoot at all four men. And he could not open it wider from the outside. The Spiderman-style attack he had envisaged was now a non-starter.
Thirty feet away, he saw another open skylight. He went across to it, walking as if he was treading on rice paper, although the volume of the TV was loud enough to cover any small sound he might make.
The skylight was open to the limit of the threaded adjuster; less than halfway. Andy managed to squeeze through the gap, to hang by his hands for a moment before dropping down onto the carpeted floor below to crouch in the gloom.
He was in a small office. There was a photocopier, and shelving piled high with reams of paper, and not much else. He opened the door an inch and looked out into a dark corridor and could see the line of light escaping the bottom of the door leading into the room were Gorchev was no doubt feeling very safe.
He gripped the butt of the pistol. Jacked a round into the chamber. Showtime, he thought.
Chapter THIRTY-SIX
DS Terry Chaplin had muscled in on the investigation and taken charge of the complicated procedure of retrieving whatever was stored in the hard drive of the computer seized from the flat at Muswell Hill.
Charlie, as everyone called him, had to take it slow and easy. It soon became apparent to him that Tyler was no run-of-the-mill code cruncher. Not an amateur who could only perform simple programming tasks. To crack and retrieve whatever was within the machine proved to be the hardest single task Charlie had yet come up against. The user, Tyler, had put what where called Demons in place: Unobtrusive, hidden software programmes that autonomously operated when any unauthorised activity was employed. Along with security firewalls that guarded data, was a packet designed to delete all files if the correct source code was not employed.
It took Charlie several days to bypass the defences and access the coded information.
Charlie did not share his success with anyone else in the CCS. Instead, he called Gregor Kirov, stopping on his way home to Hornsey to use a public phone.
Charlie was not basically crooked. He had been sucked in to the Russian organisation because of his penchant for nose candy. It had been all too easy to get in debt to his supplier. The subsequent visit to his house by Gregor Kirov and another unnamed hoodlum had resulted in him becoming a bent cop.
Charlie had been sitting watching TV with Lynne, his wife, when the knock came at the door...
“We need to talk to you, Mr. Chaplin,” Kirov said. “It is in respect of the large amount of money you owe us.”
Charlie stepped outside and pulled the door to behind him. “Who are you?” he said “I don’t owe you anything.”
“My name is Kirov...Gregor Kirov. And the man who you purchase your cocaine from works for me. It is time you paid your debts.”
“Are you threatening me?” Charlie said.
“Not yet, Mr. Chaplin. I am here to collect my money, or suggest another way in which you can clear up this matter. You should be aware that we have photographs of you exchanging money for drugs with a known dealer. And also tape recordings of your conversations with him. The alternatives to an amicable arrangement would cost you your job, your pension, and perhaps your liberty.”
Charlie could not come up with the twelve grand he owed. He listened to the offer of a way out, and became another bought and paid for cop on Gorchev’s payroll. Funny, but with time, he was almost comfortable with passing on information that kept the Russians one step ahead of the law. And the envelopes packed with crisp bank notes were an added bonus. His debt had been cancelled. But he could not walk away, ever. They still had evidence of his illicit dealings, and had hinted that Lynne might easily suffer a fatal accident if he did not tow the line. He was now a member of Team Gorchev for the duration, like it or not.
“I’ve got names and addresses of some women that Tyler was in contact with via computer,” Charlie told Kirov. “I think he grooms them as potential lovers or targets to murder. One of them has already been attacked.”
“Very good,” Kirov said, “E-mail the information to: [email protected].”
“I can’t hold this back for long, Kirov,” Charlie said. “There are other officers working on it with me. I’m risking being sussed.”
“Then ensure that this list is not available to anyone else for at least another seventy-two hours.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Good. You shall be well rewarded if this helps us find Tyler.”
Charlie had not felt particularly guilty. Tyler deserved whatever he got. And Kirov never asked him to do anything that would put an officer in danger. That was a line he did not want to cross. Trouble was, he knew that he was in too deep to turn back. He had become one of the lowlifes that he officially spent his days trying to put away.
Gregor poured Sergei and himself another vodka each. They had a couple of things to celebrate. Firstly, they had taken delivery of a shipload of high quality heroin that day. Secondly, it was conceivable that the list of a dozen names supplied to them by the cop in Computer Crime Section might lead them to Tyler. He was on the run from them, Savino’s men, and the police. And all the women he had been in contact with were single and living alone at what appeared to be rural, out of the way locations. It was not inconceivable that he might be hiding out at one of the addresses. Each one would be checked.
Andy opened the door and assumed a shooter’s stance with the left side of his body slightly forward of the right, left knee bent, and his right, shooting hand cupped in his left as he targeted the men on the sofa and squeezed off two shots. The first guy had a crew-cut, and was wearing a white, sleeveless T-shirt to show off bulging biceps. He was snapped sideways as a slug smacked into his temple. The second, thinner, older Russian brought his hand up, as if to ward off the ounce of hot lead that ripped through his palm, drilled his left eye out and took away a portion of the back of his skull.
Gregor managed to reach the Heckler & Koch P7 pistol and pull it clear of the shoulder rig he was wearing under a navy-blue serge jacket, before being hit twice, to be spun back along the bar into Sergei, who pushed his dying second-in-command away from him and ducked down behind the polished mahogany counter.
Andy smiled and put a third bullet into Kirov, who was thrashing about a lot and blowing red, frothy bubbles. The Russian went slack and ceased to move as the slug made a perfectly round hole in his creased forehead.
“Better come out, Gorchev,” Andy said, “before I empty the gun through the bar. I’ll count to three.”
Sergei put his hands up and slowly rose into view. His narrowed eyes showed no fear, but the slack flesh at his throat was quivering, as were his hands.
“Tyler?” he said, not recognising the dark-haired and moustachioed man as being the wanted killer whose photo had been on the front pages of every newspaper, and on telev
ision.
“The one and only,” Andy said. “Come out from behind there, and take your jacket off, nice and slowly.”
Sergei stepped out from behind the bar, slipped his jacket off and let it fall to the floor. Turned 360º to show that he did not have a concealed weapon. He knew the drill.
“Make mine a neat scotch, and get yourself another vodka, you look as if you need one,” Andy said. “And while you do it, tell me why you got in bed with that greaseball, Savino.
“It was not personal,” Sergei said as he went back behind the bar and pressed a shot glass up to an optic attached to a bottle of Glenmorangie.
“It felt personal when your two goons came-a-calling. Did the one I let live tell you that I was going to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“You should have had more respect for my talent, Gorchev. You and people like Savino think you’re untouchable. You need to realise that anyone can be found and hit. There is no such thing as total security.”
“I am sure that we can work this out to our mutual benefit?” Sergei said as he placed the glass of single malt on the counter.
“How could I ever trust you not to hire another contract killer to try and do what you and your incompetents couldn’t?”
“You would have my word on it, and a million pounds to make amends for my...impetuousness.”
“Your word is worthless. And I have enough money,” Andy said, reaching out with his left hand to pick up the glass and drink the mellow malt in one gulp.
“What do you want from me?” Sergei said.
“Andy gave him a broad grin. “Your life, of course. I didn’t go to all this trouble just to have a drink with you. But I’ll give you more of a chance than you would give me.”
Stooping down beside Kirov’s body, Andy picked up the semiautomatic without taking his eyes off Gorchev. He then placed the weapon within the Russian’s reach and stepped back, away from the bar.
“Drink your vodka, old man, and then, when you’re ready...you know what to do.”
Sergei emptied the glass and stared at the handgun as if it was a rabid dog waiting to bite his hand off.
Andy lowered his arm, to hold his gun loosely, pointing at the floor.
Sergei knew that this was the only chance he would get, and that it was better than no chance at all. He reasoned that he might even get lucky. He would drop behind the bar as he snatched the weapon, and fire half a dozen shots through it, before rolling sideways and out, low to the ground behind Gregor’s corpse, that he could use as cover. He would then empty the rest of the mag into Tyler.
Andy’s reactions were lightning quick. As Gorchev’s hand flicked out like a snake’s tongue, he brought the gun up and fired three times in quick succession. The moments that followed were as good as it got. Through the wisp of blue smoke from the end of the silencer, he saw cherry-red florets blossom on the mortally wounded Russian’s light-blue shirtfront. And the initial expression of surprise on the man’s face was priceless.
Sergei was thrown back against the waist-high shelf behind him. The ice bucket was knocked over, and cubes tumbled noisily to the floor in a glittering avalanche. He felt a severe cramping pain; knew that he was already in the process of dying, and experienced a fear that he had never before been able to conceive. He tried to breathe. Heard a wet, gurgling sound. Tyler was staring at him with the expression of a boy standing in front of a cage at the zoo, wide-eyed and amazed at the sight of an exotic animal he had never seen before. And then something seemed to swell and burst in Sergie’s chest, and he felt himself being sucked into cold, black pit.
Andy chuckled as the Russian toppled forward and caught his chin on the edge of the counter, before slipping down out of sight behind it. It made him think of a Punch and Judy show. It would be fun if the cop, Ryan, popped up as the policeman puppet and chanted,’ That’s the way to do it’.
After satisfying himself that Gorchev was now an ex-member of the human race, he poured himself another two fingers of malt. It was sooo smooth. He checked the shelves and found an unopened bottle of the same brand. No point leaving empty-handed. He and Faith would have a little party when they got home.
Leaving by the fire exit door at the end of the corridor, Andy quickly made his way back to where Faith was waiting.
“Here,” he said, handing her the bottle of malt. “Something to celebrate with.”
Faith took the bottle as she leaned over to kiss him on the mouth. She said nothing. She knew that he had just murdered someone, but did not want to hear any details. A part of her had the ability to deny the truth of who he was and what he did.
Back inside the factory, someone stirred.
Valentino woke up dry-mouthed and needing to pee. He eased his still plaster-encased leg over the side of the single bed, pushed himself up and went out into the corridor to be hit by the smell of cordite. He almost fell as he lurched towards the open door of the main living area. Stopping, he took in the gory tableau of death, before going over to the bar to pick the gun up off the counter. It had to have been Tyler. But the hitman was not so clever. He had not thought to search every room, to ensure that no one else was in the building.
Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
Eddie got the call. It was a woman. She sounded very nervous; her voice was hitching. He heard her swallow hard.
“Andy asked me to tell you that he’s taken care of Gorchev for you. You’ll find him at SG Products on the Knapkill industrial estate at Woking.”
“I need for you to tell me―” The line purred. She had rung off. Eddie phoned Ryan. Told him what the anonymous woman had said.
“Arrange for local CID to check it out, Eddie,” Ryan said. “Impress on them that this is part of an ongoing case. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”
“You want me to swing by your place and pick you up, boss?”
“Er, no, Eddie. Be in the car park.”
Eddie pocketed his phone and grinned. He wasn’t stupid. He put numbers together. Came up with the answer that his DI and DCI were getting it on. They kept their distance at work, but the body language and eye contact spoke volumes. They were both on standby, and he knew they would be together at one or the other’s place.
Ryan told Julie what Eddie had said.
“I’ll make my own way there,” Julie said, “once it has been confirmed that it wasn’t just a crank call. Give me a bell if it checks out.”
Ryan parked, transferred to the passenger seat of Eddie’s car and made calls as they sped southwest to Woking.
They got the word before they arrived that the information had been kosher. The surveillance on Teal Towers had not stopped the Russian getting past them and moving out of the city.
When they reached the industrial estate, two patrol cars blocked the fog-bound road leading to SG Products. Ryan had the window wound down and was holding his ID out as a uniform approached them.
The factory yard looked like a police convention. Racks of blue and white lights flashed on the roofs of over a dozen cars, and there were as many unmarked vehicles, including a large black modified transit, outside of which stood a team of ARU officers wearing Kevlar and bristling with weaponry.
Ryan and Eddie were led up to the first floor, and were suitably impressed by the accommodation, that was as plush as many a first-class hotel’s.
“I’m Detective Superintendent Ron Mercer,” a stocky man with a Hercule Poirot moustache and large ears that stuck out like open car doors said. “You Ryan?”
“Yeah, guv’” Ryan said. “We got a call from a woman who said that Tyler had topped Gorchev.”
“There are four vics in here,” Ron said, entering a large room that was redolent of both gunshot explosive and blood. “Put these on,” he added, pulling a couple of pairs of plastic overshoes out of a deep coat pocket. “Forensics haven’t arrived yet.”
Ryan and Eddie took in the scene. There were two bodies on a blood-spattered sofa, and two more on the floor, next to a corner bar.
“Looks like he just walked in and blew them away,” Eddie said.
Ryan nodded. Tyler was cool, calculating, and not without plenty of bottle. He had demonstrated total confidence, had somehow known Gorchev’s whereabouts, and broken into the gangster’s new hideout, obviously unconcerned that the Russian would be protected by armed guards.
“I gave Drugs a bell,” Ron Mercer said. “There are three trucks in loading bays downstairs packed to the roofs with what one of my boys guarantees is almost pure, uncut heroin. Looks as if we got one hell of a result tonight.”
“Was there anyone else in the factory?” Ryan said.
“Yeah, a night-watchman. I think we woke him up. He’s acting dumb. Says he’s never heard of Gorchev; that he just does his job and minds his own business.”
“Where is he now?” Ryan said.
“Downstairs, drinking coffee and demanding to make a phone call. You want to quiz him?”
“Yeah, later. Let him sweat for a while.”
When the Crime Scene Investigators arrived, followed by a pathologist and his team, Ryan and Eddie went down to where the night-watchman was being held in a small office next to enormous roll-up metal doors, that were now wide open.
Before entering, Ryan stuck a cigarette between his lips and fired it up with his Zippo. Withdrew his Browning, removed the clip and checked that there wasn’t a round in the chamber.
He stormed into the room and fixed the skinny man behind the desk with a withering glare of his flinty eyes. Loomed over him, using his height to full effect.
“Give us five minutes with this...gentleman,” Ryan said to the two PCs in attendance. When the uniforms had left and closed the door behind them, he walked to the window and pulled a cord to close the nicotine-yellow Venetian blinds. The object was to appear intimidating, and judging by the rise and fall of the man’s Adam’s apple, it was working just fine. “What’s your name?” Ryan said.