by Robson, Roy
‘Guv’, she said, ‘you really do have to find a way to manage your anger. Everyone is getting to you. Miller-Marchant, Sir Basil, Joey Jupiter. I know you’ve been to hell and back the last few weeks but if you don’t calm down you’ll be of no use to anybody.’
‘Don’t talk to me about that dumb bastard Jupiter Ames, for God’s sake.’
‘Ok, if he were any dumber we would have to water him twice a week and prune him once a year, but all I’m saying is stop taking so much to heart.’
H laughed out loud, something he hadn’t done for some time. Seemed like Amisha was continuing her quest to go native, so he joined in the fun.
‘Yeah’, said H, ‘the wheel’s still spinning but the hamster’s fucking dead.’
‘He’s so fucking dense the light bends around him’, continued Amisha.
‘The fucking marbles I had as a kid were sharper than him’ continued H.
They had a few more rounds classic dumb and dumber metaphors before the laughter subsided.
Amisha took a deep breath and steeled herself for the fray. H collected his thoughts, got on the intercom and gave the command.
‘Operation Point Blank is affirmative. Repeat Operation Point Blank is affirmative. Go, go, go.’
At first all was calm as the cars drove quietly to their appointed destinations. No sirens, no screeching, no exceeding the speed limit. Two minutes later the three groups of cars had snaked their way around the one way system and cut off The Island. No one was getting in or out.
H shattered the calm as he leapt out of the car. He was first in. He preferred to control raids from the front. It was the only way he knew. The surveillance of the last few weeks meant he knew the site backwards.
With a select firm of handpicked officers he stampeded past the outer caravans and hit the door of Dragusha’s little palace-on-wheels with all the force he could muster. The door burst open and he found himself inside the caravan with his gun pointing directly at the Albanian’s forehead.
To H’s surprise Dragusha sat at his table and smiled. He was all calm and self-assurance as he played patience with an old deck of cards. Almost as if he was expecting his visitors.
‘Inspector Hawkins. I see you in papers. Pleased to meet.’
H considered his adversary as he sat looking confident, relaxed. He looked him in the eye and the same chill he’d felt that night in Soho went down his spine. H couldn’t wait to get him into custody.
I’m gonna break your fucking world wide open.
‘You famous, Inspector. I also read blog of Joey Jupiter. How can I help?’
H barked orders at his accompanying officers as he looked around the caravan. It was neat, tidy and compact. A copy of today’s Times lay on the table.
‘Cuff the cunt. And turn this fucking shithole upside down.’
‘Nothing here to find, Inspector’ Dragusha said.
42
Kyril Kuznetsov entered the plush foyer of The Savoy, London’s most glamorous hotel, on the north bank of the River Thames. For generations the hotel had attracted the elite of British society, royalty, Lords and Ladies of the realm attending elegant functions, film stars and ‘A’ list celebrities enjoying discreet and sometimes not-so-discreet liaisons. The ideal location for the newer members of the super-rich to rub shoulders with the time-honoured members of the old establishment.
Kuznetsov passed confidently through the foyer and entered the Grand Ballroom. He was impressed, as ever, by the beauty of the vast chandelier that dominated the central space. Its thousands of hand crafted crystals refracted a near magical light across the ballroom, a symbol of opulence and wealth. He felt like he belonged here, in this self-congratulating melee of the great and the good. He arrived at his table and, after shaking hands with the male guests and kissing the hands of the ladies, pulled out a chair for his glamorous blonde wife, adjusted his expensively tailored Saville Row suit and sat down.
As he sat he considered the other guests at his table. There was Sir Peregrine Blunt the High Court judge, peer of the realm Lord Timothy Skyhill and high-powered lawyer Oswald Carruthers QC. All of these were well known to Kuznetsov.
The event was a glitzy charity ball to raise money for the needy and abused children of London. At two thousand pounds a pop the tickets, for Kuznetsov, were less than small change. He had just broken into the Sunday Times Rich list at number 762, his worth estimated at 876 million pounds sterling - a calculation made on the basis of his declared, above-the-radar interests. He smiled at his friend, Lord Skyhill, and exchanged some pleasantries.
Skyhill was a mountain of a man, so fat that even Kuznetsov might have struggled to afford the liposuction. His double chins rested uneasily on his cravat and his multiple stomachs wedged him firmly into his chair. He was also a true pillar of the establishment, who sat on a range of important government committees and was a constant presence on the TV, where his wit, wisdom, charm and eloquence were always in demand. He was the key speaker at today’s event and, after a glass of wine or three and some jovialities around the table, the master of ceremonies called him up to the stage to make his speech.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you our keynote speaker. He has been a member of our charity for over ten years and in that time has been tireless in raising money for several other charities, concentrating on the young and homeless of our great city...please show your appreciation for Lord Timothy Skyhill.’
His Lordship rose like a bull walrus and somehow defied the laws of physics as he shuffled his mass forward. He had become expert in managing his bulk and it bothered him not one jot that his physical inelegance was the centre of attention. He enjoyed the applause as he made his way to the stage.
‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘firstly may I say how pleased and delighted I am that so many of you have seen fit to attend tonight’s event, to raise money and support our much needed charity work. Furthermore ...’
But Kuznetsov had switched off from the sideshow, as the words floated outside his consciousness, like so much flotsam and jetsam washed up on a beach. He had many other issues on his mind, not least of which was the recent trouble in Soho. He had spent an unscrupulous lifetime building his vast financial empire, and had always stayed at more than arms-length from its seamier sides, ensuring that several layers of management existed between him and his street-level interests.
But the massacre inflicted on his underlings by the Albanians had crossed a line that even his organisation had never gone near; not, at least, in the West. It was a level of violence that had alerted the whole world and he needed to get a grip, personally, before the level of police activity and news investigation started to get anywhere near him.
So secretive and cunning had he been in establishing his organisation’s power structures that nobody on earth, except him, understood how information flowed around it. He wanted, needed to understand why the massacre had happened. What was the chain of events that led to it? How had his handpicked senior managers not seen it coming? He wanted information now, direct from the horse’s mouth.
He had one thing in common with Harry Hawkins in that he believed in the chain of command. Except when he didn’t. He clicked his fingers and a henchman emerged from the shadows.
‘Where is Agapov now?’
‘Sir, we have him. He is secured in safe house, just other side of Waterloo Bridge.’
‘Perfect’, said Kuznetsov, ‘we will visit him after the event concludes.’
43
Kuznetsov, accompanied by a phalanx of brawny thugs in evening dress, turned left past the Old Vic theatre and then left again, before pulling to a halt outside a small block of flats no more than a stone’s throw from Waterloo station.
Fired up but firmly in control of his emotions, Kuznetsov looked about him as he exited the car. The night wind howled through the empty concrete streets. One of his stone-faced lieutenants put the key into the lock of a small ground floor flat and opened the door.
‘Vladimir, tell me what the fuck happened? How could you allow this to happen?’
Agapov sprang to attention as the adrenalin rushed through his body and overpowered the sedative. He knew who Kuznetsov was, of course, but had always thought he was too far down the food chain to ever meet him face to face.
And here he was. The numero uno. The top honcho. Taking time out to come and see him on a one-to -one basis in a pokey little flat on the wrong side of the river.
Kuznetsov did not usually concern himself with the day-to-day activities of what he euphemistically referred to as his delivery units. Street violence, a murder here and there he expected - part of the general strategy to ensure his delivery units stayed on top. His financiers set them cash targets and if they didn’t deliver they replaced the local leadership. Agapov knew this and he had always delivered. Until now.
He was aware of the organisation’s penalty for failure. Situations didn’t get more serious than this. He calculated the odds of getting out of the flat alive.
Absolute fucking zero.
He flinched as the quack pulled the last of the bullets embedded in his right calf muscle.
‘Sir,’ the doctor said to Kuznetsov, ‘should I seal wounds now?’
‘No.’
Kuznetsov took a seat.
‘Explain, now. Include all the details of this feud.’
Agapov’s breaths become short and sharp. His eyelids were getting heavy. He wasn’t sure how long he’d spent in hiding before Kuznetsov’s men had picked him up. He’d lost a lot of blood. He felt he couldn’t last much longer.
The top man administered another slap.
‘Talk, Vladimir. Now.’
Agapov came around once more and did his best to recount the details of the last few months. Just a few fist fights over control of a couple of clubs south of the river at first. Then a murder, then another in retribution. The cycle of revenge had got out of control faster than the anger of a spoilt brat who doesn’t get the right toy.
Agapov gave him everything he knew about their enemy, which was actually very little. He knew where they lived; he knew, or thought he knew, what their capabilities were. But he had to confess, he had no idea they were capable of pulling off so devastating an attack.
‘You lost control, my friend,’ said Kuznetsov. ‘Too much arrogance, I think. The organisation does not work well with too much arrogance. And now we have half of the fucking world crawling all over us.’
Agapov’s breathing stopped. This sounded like a death sentence.
‘I take care of business boss?’ said the lead henchman.
‘Not yet. We have two choices. Bring in a small army from the mother country to destroy the opposition, or negotiate a settlement. I prefer to negotiate. Vladimir here may have some use as a sacrificial lamb; these peasants would love to torture him. But bring our men in anyway, in case the negotiations fail.’
Kuznetsov turned to the doctor.
‘Give him a blood transfusion and fix his wounds. Keep him alive. For now.’
44
‘He’s in interview room three guv’, said the desk sergeant.
‘How’s he performing?’, asked H.
‘Keeping schtum. We haven’t had a peep out of him.’
H barrelled into the room, alone at his own insistence and in contravention of all the rules, blustering hard to prevent Dragusha sensing his unease. He was more nervous than he’d ever been going into an interview with a villain. He wasn’t afraid of Dragusha as such - he felt confident that in an old school straightener, one on one, no weapons, he’d be able to handle him. It wasn’t that; it was that he feared what this sort of man might be capable of, and what that would mean for the metropolis if he and his kind really gained a foothold.
‘These gangsters don’t follow any rules at all H’, Confident John had told him a few days before, halfway through their second day on the scotch All they care about is getting hold of money, getting control any way they can and going mental, really mental, if anyone fucks with one of their own. “An eye-for-an-eye” don’t come into it mate. They’ll chop your bollocks off and feed them to you. Then they’ll go out and do the same to your brother, or your son, or anyone else they can find. These are the worst nutters I’ve ever seen. I am absolutely fucked if I know what you’re going to do with them.’
‘Alright, silly bollocks’, H began with gusto, ‘let’s not fuck about.’
Dragusha raised his head from where it had been resting on his forearms and looked H in the eye; his own were cold and blank as a shark’s. He said nothing, communicated nothing but mute indifference.
‘Well I know who you are son. I know who you are and I know what you’ve been up to.’
Nothing. And then nothing. And then more nothing. This guy was giving him nothing squared.
On and on it went. H gave it all he had, from all angles, for an hour. He understood, finally, that he would get nowhere with this, and changed tack.
‘What do you know about Tara Ruddock? Why were you reading about her?’
At last Dragusha stirred. His demeanour changed; he swivelled and shimmied in his chair; he was transformed, from dead-eyed shark to leering wolf.
‘You mean this posh pussy? Very nice, very nice indeed. Where I come from we know what to do with pussy like this. She too good for this Russian scum.’
‘What are you talking about? What Russian scum? Tell me now, or sitting in this nick will be the least of your fucking problems.’
‘This Agapov’ said Dragusha, spitting onto the floor, ‘she his whore. She was his whore - scum is in his Russian hell now. Too bad she dead, I would show her good time. I give her good Albanian sausage.’
H went blank, and lost a few seconds; when he came to he found himself behind Dragusha’s chair, with the Albanian’s head in a lock and going hard at his windpipe, running now on pure, instinctive, vengeful hate, when the door burst open. The desk Sergeant, backed up by a posse of London’s finest, immobilized his arms and shouted into his ear ‘H! H! he’s not worth it. Let him go, H!’
45
H drove back to Scotland Yard way past the speed limit. His head was spinning. He needed to get into the surveillance stuff they had on the Russians as soon as possible.
What is this Dragusha fucker on about? He’s got to be winding me up. How could Tara possibly have known, let alone been involved with, a piece of shit like Agapov?
These thoughts were scrambling around the inside of H’s head like lobotomised rats chasing their tails in a laboratory. None of it made any sense. Tara and Agapov lived their lives in different social circles, different parts of town, different worlds. Didn’t they? What was this Albanian up to?
Amisha met him in the car park. She was shocked at how dishevelled, how disordered he looked. He had a look in his eye she hadn’t seen in him before. Pushed to describe it, she might have said he was ‘manically confused’ or somesuch; she was concerned that he might be on the verge of dissociating again.
How can he go on like this? Sooner or later he’s got to snap. Snap completely, in a way that would mean we might never get him back.
‘What’s happening guv? I…’
But the big man was not in listening mode. He swarmed past her, breathless and unsteady, with ‘Upstairs Ames, now! Incident room. Get me everything we’ve got on the Russian firm - CCTV, photos, phone records, the fucking lot. All of it. Get it all set out. Now!’
‘What are we looking for guv?’
But H still wasn’t listening. He headed for the lift, jaw working, eyes glazed over, fizzing like a Catherine Wheel, like a man possessed… but with what? He burst out of the lift at speed, Amisha struggling to keep up with him. She had seen this before, of course, but it never ceased to surp
rise her.
How can a lump like this move so fast?
She was beginning even to think in the argot she’d learned from him and his Bermondsey cronies, she reflected. Was she becoming more like them, more like H himself? Was she crossing a line? Had she crossed it already, by covering for him so doggedly while he was out on the piss? She was beginning to understand him better now, beginning even to feel his pain.
How much pressure can one make take? How does he manage to deal with it all?
She snapped out of here mini-reverie as they reached the incident room: ‘What do you want to start with then guv?’
‘CCTV. From the beginning.’
The surveillance unit monitoring the comings and goings in Peter Street, Berwick Street and Wardour Street had been up and running now for weeks. That meant a lot of footage to wade through. But it was no good telling H that. He was clearly on a mission that he would not be diverted from, and with which he required no assistance.
He got himself a coffee from the machine and settled down into the chair in front of the monitor.
‘Alright Ames, I can deal with this. Get yourself home now, if you like.’
She knew better than to argue with him in this mood. Whatever this mood was.
46
Alone now, the big man surveyed the list of files Amisha had set up for him and clicked on the first. Like the others he was to watch that evening, and through the long night, it showed what seemed like an infinity of murky images of people walking in and out of doors and getting in and out of cars.
He recognized some of the men, mostly gone now from this world. Dispatched to their ‘Russian Hell’ by the man whose windpipe he’d tried to crush earlier. They got in and out, and came and went, with their molls. Their endless strings of molls, their property. Poor girls. Coming and going. Going and coming.