"Never mind who he is. Do you have the money?" asked the cocaine-carrying Nigerian to Mister Track Bags, who scoffed and sneered at the question and exchanged a look with each of his fellow Somali friends.
"Of course, man," retorted Mister Track Bags, raising his blue bag.
The four Somali men suddenly pulled their weapons and started firing, rapidly. They darted around the chamber, like springboks, as they blasted bullets into the chalk walls.
The Mac 10 machine pistol sounded like an electric drill as it spat out bullets. The Glocks sounded like loud bursts of air. Each one released a flash of light in the darkness of the cavern.
Michael was illuminated by the gunfire. He pressed tight against the pillar, gritting his teeth, frightened as hell. He lowered himself down to the ground, rubbing his right shoulder to his right eye, peeling off the black electrical tape that covered it. Widening his eye with fright, he wished he had left it on as he witnessed the onslaught that took place around him.
The two gangs were killing each other.
Screams of pain, adrenaline and fear combined were released by all as bullets raced this way and that, embedding into the chalky walls and piercing and puncturing skin and splitting bone.
One Somali fired his gun whilst diving for the sports bag that was packed with cocaine, but he was soon riddled with bullets, forcing him off his feet and backwards over the stone bench.
Jack and Sinatra exchanged a look, frowning at one another.
"Is that drilling going on?" Jack asked.
"I think it's coming from underground, you know," replied Sinatra, muting the television and standing, listening to the faint sound of an echoed popcorn-sounding drum that rumbled underneath the house.
"Has somebody got fireworks?"
"It ain't November yet, man?" Sinatra pointed out as he exited the room and grabbed his flashlight from the side. He set foot outside to the path.
"Wait! Sinatra, I'm scared." Jack suddenly fled after him.
It was darkening outside as Sinatra strode to the plant-covered cavern entrance. "I'm gonna 'ave a look, man," he said to Jack, against the background of short claps of thunder which escaped from within the hole.
"Let me get my coat. It's getting cold. Wait there." Jack turned back into the house.
Sinatra's light beamed along the way as he hot-footed it down the steps into the depths of the cavern. The noise became clearer and more identifiable as gunfire with every step he took. He swallowed, amazed at the sheer sight. A bizarre curiosity ran through him. He blinked every time a shot was fired. A lot of shots were being fired. He heard a muffled yelling, whistling and echoing through the tunnels. It reminded him of when he was younger, much younger, and back in Angola. It both terrified and excited him.
BANG! BANG!
The noise was deafening. Blood spattered the white, uneven chalk walls. Bodies were strewn about the place, twitching. They jerked and oozed blood. Jaws hung loose and limbs dangled like worn out toys. The dead were amongst the dying.
BANG!
A gunshot sounded off and started a three second silence until it ended with the sound of the bullet casing pinging on the ground with a metallic noise.
A shuffling and a groan sounded out.
Michael squinted with his one free eye, searching through the gunsmoke, chalk dust and cocaine particles, which drifted in the air. They caught the light of the orange roadwork lamps. He quaked with fear as he looked at the contorted mass of bloody bodies around him. He caught sight of a silent figure, lurking in the tunnel beyond the entrance.
It was Sinatra. He signaled Michael to be quiet by placing a forefinger to his lips as he crept into the cave, not knowing the sight that would soon shock him.
Michael slowly stood, relaxing just slightly at the sight of a known face, but was still wary of him.
Sinatra was horrified by the dead bodies strewn around the cavern, but was also somewhat in awe of the sight of guns and drugs as he passed Michael. He turned and stood in a darkened arch of another chamber, taking in more of the view of the dead.
"Gangsta. This is gangsta."
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Michael blinked with each gunshot as Sinatra was blasted three times in the chest, sending him back and down into the darkness.
The last bullet shell spun in the air, twisting round and around, reflecting the light in its brass casing. It landed with a ping at Michael's feet and his eyes diverted and fixed upon it. The eyes rolled upwards to meet another pair.
A pair that belonged to the Nigerian who'd first aided Sinatra.
The Nigerian man winced with pain and was bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to his thigh and left side. He looked at Michael. "You're coming with me," he said to Michael, limping forward and pressing the black electrical tape down over his right eye to fix it in place again. He turned and staggered to the Adidas track bag, unzipped it and saw bundles of fifty and twenty pound notes. Hundreds of thousands of pounds in tight bundles, secured with red elastic bands. The type a postman would use. He grabbed the bag, slung it over one shoulder, then scooped up Michael's beige canvas bag. He glanced to the darkness where Sinatra lay dead.
"Fuck. Stoopid. Arrow boy," he said to himself, limping round, having done a full circle. He struggled to reach for the bag of cocaine. Some of the kilo bags had split from the gunfire, but he managed to take six bags that he placed into his own. He moaned with pain.
Michael seized the opportunity. He sensed he wasn't being watched so closely and lowered himself to pick up the bullet shell by the ends between his finger and thumb, not actually touching the rounded outer casing at all. Despite his wrists being bound, he removed his chewing gum and stuck it to the pillar. He then stuck the bullet shell to the gum, just as the Nigerian straightened and turned to him.
"Time to go."
"Where are you taking me?" asked Michael, as he was shoved by the man into the cavern and toward the steps. His head turned as he walked. His eyes weren't taped up securely enough. He could see Jack, standing still as a rock, trembling with absolute fear, in a darkened corner by the steps.
"Move," barked the Nigerian, prodding him up the rocky stairwell and out of sight.
Having listened to Jack, Edward closed his eyes. He reopened and sighed, looking around at the dead Nigerians and Somali men who littered the cave. He saw Sinatra being cradled by Jack and then a sparkle of brass caught his eye in the orange glisten of a roadwork light. A single bullet casing, fixed to the pillar with gum. Edward frowned. He covered his mouth as to not to breathe on it and pulled an evidence bag from his fleece pocket, gently easing the gum off the rock with the bag so it fell into it, along with the bullet shell. His eyes then fixed upon a Beretta handgun on the ground near him.
Jason looked ahead as his father approached the vehicle and opened the boot.
Mr Ahmed was almost falling asleep in the backseat. He turned around with a jolt to see Edward rummage in the back of the boot.
Jason exited the car and joined his father.
Edward had a peculiar wooden box with wires and a clamp of some sort. It was the size of a shoebox, but a little taller. He had already prised the bullet shell from the gum and was coating it with some kind of carbon powder, clamping it into the middle of the box. He reached deeper into the boot for two car batteries that were joined together. He attached them to the box via a set of wires. It was like he was about to jump-start the box in a weird kind of way.
"Stand back," he said to Jason, who did so, just as Edward clamped the metal pincer to the battery.
BANG! A short, sudden burst of a thousand or so volts was sent to the bullet shell casing.
"What the bloody hell!" cried Mr Ahmed.
Edward blew the shell and formed a satisfied look.
"I think Mike just helped us out," Edward murmured.
"How - how d'you mean?" asked Jason, exhaling his warm breath into the cold night air.
"There was a shoot-out in a cave underground. Ssh - don't say anything
. I'll tell you more later. The boy I just found said Mikey was taken away by a Nigerian bloke. I'll get a fingerprint off this shell and it'll lead us to him, I'm sure of it," Edward said with pure conviction.
"I thought you couldn't get prints off bullet casings," frowned Jason.
"Not usually, but this way you can. A forensic chap called Dr John Bond found a way. Thought I'd try it myself, and he was right. You can. Even years after the bullet was fired," Edward continued as he located a print and took it off the casing, backing it on a plain white postcard. "Take a picture of that on your phone, would you please?"
"Bloody heck. Are you a real life spy?" asked Mr Ahmed, no longer feeling scared, but somewhat excited to be in Edward's presence.
"Not anymore," Edward replied, looking at Mr Ahmed.
"I feel honoured to be in your presence, sir," Mr Ahmed said humbly.
"Don't be," Edward responded, concentrating on the image of the print as Jason took a clear, decent picture of it.
"I apologise for my rudeness earlier," Mr Ahmed continued.
"Are you able to email it to someone?" Edward asked Jason.
"Course," Jason confirmed.
"Let me give Geoff a call. He's on a late shift."
Behind the wheel, in the jeep, Edward retrieved his mobile phone and spoke to Geoff, informing him that he had a fingerprint to check immediately against the police database for an identity and any known associated addresses.
As Geoff already knew the situation and the natural urgency surrounding it, he obliged without question or hesitation, receiving the emailed fingerprint from the projectile casing and scanning it into the database for any known offender.
Olafemi Kuku. Twenty-two years old. Nigerian born. Lived in Thamesmead, South East London. A persistent offender since he arrived in the United Kingdom at the age of eleven. Despite previous known addresses and aliases, it was the Thamesmead address which Edward took particular note of and together, with his son Jason, he drove to that address.
The Nigerian man known as Olafemi sat in the back of a minicab, driven by a Nigerian man in his forties. Next to Olafemi was Michael, complete with his tied wrists and taped eyes. Olafemi Kuku was indeed the very man who, previously, was involved in a bloodthirsty gunfight deep underground in Jack Cade's Cavern.
"OK to walk?" asked the driver, looking up into his rear view mirror at Olafemi.
"Yes. Two minutes. OK?" replied Olafemi.
"OK," said the driver and with that, Olafemi opened the door, wincing as he limped to a money transfer store a few feet from where the car was parked.
The face of a fifty-five-year-old Nigerian man peered out of the window of the money transfer store and nodded to acknowledge Olafemi who was standing outside. The man unlocked the door and let Olafemi inside the darkened shop.
"Olafemi. What is so urgent? What is the emergency?"
"I need a passport," Olafemi commanded, wincing.
"A pail? Come back in two days," snapped the man, annoyed. A pail was Nigerian slang for passport.
"I need it tonight. I know you can do it. I have money. Lots of money. Do it for me. I need to leave tonight," said Olafemi.
"Just a passport? How will you leave the country? Do you have transportation? Where is your private jet?" chuckled the man, already moving to a back office. He opened a cupboard filled with British passports.
"No planes. A boat maybe."
"A boat? I can sort you out a ship. How old are you now?" quizzed the man, looking through a number of passports. He flipped the back page and eyed up several photographs that depicted African men.
"Twenty-two."
"Twenty-two? How about thirty-seven? This one?" said the man, showing Olafemi a passport picture of a Ghanaian man in his late thirties who looked similar to Olafemi.
"Perfect," Olafemi agreed, nodding his head, giving approval to the ready-made passport.
"All right then, Mr Mynah Lampitey?"
"Lampitey? You are giving me a name from Ghana! What is wrong with you?" snapped Olafemi.
"No, what is wrong with you? Take it or leave it."
Olafemi snatched the passport from the man, scowling at him. "How much?"
"A thousand pounds."
"No problem." Olafemi pulled a bundle of cash, which must have been twenty thousand pounds at least. The top note was bloodstained as he fingered the money to count.
"This will do fine," said the man, taking the whole bundle from a weak Olafemi.
"There is much more than a thousand pounds there!"
"Inflation. Go home. Wait for my call. I will get someone to take you to a boat."
"Thank you."
"Just stay out of trouble when you get back to the UK again, do you understand me, Olafemi?" ordered the man, sincere and stern as he looked Olafemi up and down.
"I understand, Uncle," replied Olafemi, respectfully. He turned and left the store.
Detectives Cole, Crowe and Blake drove through the night on a dual carriage way, heading towards Plumstead High Street.
"McDonald's tonight?" suggested Crowe, cheerily.
"Not tonight, mate," replied Cole.
Blake's attention was drawn elsewhere as she stared out of the back passenger side window and across the carriageway to a row of shops, silent, closed and deserted. Except for the sight of Olafemi who clambered into a minicab that quickly pulled away. She turned her head back in a double-take and fixed on the lone white passenger who was in the back with Olafemi.
"I swear I just saw Jacob," she exclaimed to the other detectives.
"Jacob? Oh, Ramsay?"
"Yes."
"You've got him on the brain, especially since the boss mentioned he had gone missing this eve-" Crowe's voice trailed off and he glanced at Blake on the backseat.
"Where'd you see him?" asked Cole.
"Back of a car. Couple of black guys inside," she replied.
"Dammit. Can't turn around," replied Crowe.
"We'll have to go up there, mate," Cole said
Blake sighed and glanced round out of the back window to a totally deserted street. There was no sign of anyone or anything, and especially no cars.
Edward drove toward Abbeywood, passing through Plumstead.
Jason looked at his father, tense behind the wheel, staring and thinking.
Mr Ahmed was asleep in the backseat. His seatbelt prevented him from sliding across, but he still looked uncomfortable nonetheless.
Michael was shoved into a hallway of a dark, dingy flat with brown décor on an estate in Thamesmead.
Olafemi left a blood-smeared handprint on the wall as he barged past Michael and frantically staggered into a room. In his distress and discomfort, he slung a sports bag onto an unmade double bed, opened a chest of drawers and pulled out several boxes of brand new Calvin Klein underpants, tossing them into the bag. He closed the drawer and opened another, finding a pair of new Levi jeans. A crisp white shirt hung on a wire hanger in polythene from the door handle. He packed each into the bag.
He stuffed four bundles of elastic-band-wrapped cash from the Adidas track bag he had collected from within the cave into his own bag under the clothes, along with the six kilos of wrapped cocaine. He laid them on the top and painfully exited the room.
A scared Michael turned as he heard the man step near to him and dropped the sports bag on the floor and pass into another room.
"What are you going to do with me? If you're going, please, just go, but please, leave me here. Please, I've not seen your face."
"Shut up," replied Olafemi from the other room.
A cell phone rang and Michael's ears pricked up and his head turned toward the direction of the telephone ring.
"Yes, I have money! Come up. The door is open. Come up," Olafemi said, impatiently before hanging up the call. He gulped down a glass of water and washed his bloodstained hands in the kitchen sink.
An overweight, tired Nigerian man, in his late forties, exited a dark Vauxhall car and glanced up at the flats in the
Thamesmead estate. It really was a concrete jungle with a maze of meandering walkways that formed eerie, jagged shadows. He sighed and heaved his bulk towards a stairwell.
Michael shivered in the hallway and swallowed, swaying slightly with fear and tiredness combined. His head twitched to the door as it opened and the bulky Nigerian man entered.
His eyes locked onto Michael, hands bound and eyes taped, bag draped over his neck. He frowned and walked past him, peering into the kitchen, his eyes diverting immediately to a pool of blood on the floor.
Olafemi rested against the kitchen sink. The blood was escaping from his leg at a rapid rate. He slowly looked around to meet the eyes of the other man, looking him up and down from the doorway with disgust.
"We are going here." The overweight man handed a folded strip of notepaper to Olafemi.
"OK." Olafemi placed the paper on the side by the kettle and winced with pain.
"I have eshin waiting to take a passenger. Where is the money?" the man said in a thick Nigerian accent, then announced he had a car outside.
"There is kishi in the bag outside. Take the akata I have in the hall. He is going to come with me," said Olafemi. In Nigerian slang kishi meant money and akata was white man.
"I was told one passenger only. Fashi," said the man. Fashi was a Nigerian slang term for forget it.
"I will be out in a minute! Just take the white man!"
The man in the doorway looked at Olafemi, turned and stepped back into the hall to where Michael was. He looked at the small sports bag and picked it up, noticing the cocaine that was laid on the top. The overweight Nigerian held the sports bag on one hand and grabbed Michael's arm with the other, then led him to his car. He opened the rear passenger door and shoved Michael inside. As he heaved his own bulk into the car, he looked at the cocaine in the bag again. He turned to Michael and wondered if he should go with the money and drugs and leave Michael behind or if it would benefit him to take him. He looked up at the flats, sighed, impatiently tapping the wheel like a drum with his big, thick forefingers. He started the engine, formed a devilish smirk, pulled the car away out of the estate just as another vehicle's headlights flared up and entered.
My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Page 28