by Karl Holton
Rowe looked around spotting the CCTV looking down at them. Fuck. “Come with me,” he said, walking out the front door.
The two went out to the car park.
Johnnie caught him up and grabbed his arm. “Is Tommy alive? I can’t get hold of him,” he asked rapidly, looking around. “What the fuck happened at the pub?”
Rowe stared at him, biting his lip inside. “Why didn’t you call me? You shouldn’t have just walked into the station like that … you should have let me know.”
“What fucking difference does that make?” Johnnie asked. “Tell me what happened to Tommy.”
“I’ve got no idea … no one has an idea. He’s disappeared and if you want me to help him you’ve gotta help me find him.”
“Who tried to kill him?”
Rowe’s brow twisted as he turned his palms up. “The Horne family; another drug dealing gang; someone who thinks he’s a drug selling tosser; how the fuck should I know?”
“Fuck you, Rowe; you’re gonna help me find Tommy. I’ve done more than enough for you and —”
“Shut up, Johnnie,” he shouted. “You’ve just walked into a police station and asked for me when the drug gang you work for are nearly all dead. You’re about as useful as the balls on a twelve-inch dildo … and just like them you’ve arrived a little late to the party.”
Johnnie shook his head. “I’m out of here.”
Rowe grabbed Johnnie around the throat. “You’re going nowhere … Johnnie Garrett, you’re under arrest.”
Chapter 41
Day 11
Erasmus Street, London
9.10 a.m.
Lomax rapped hard on the door and Raske immediately opened it, before walking back into the flat. He followed the assassin to the kitchen.
Raske had left the men after the attack on the Gibbs gang at the Thatchers Arms. It wasn’t hard to get away unseen when they’d started chasing Tommy before losing him. But he knew they’d tracked him back to the flat as he’d seen one of them outside the building earlier.
Lomax stared at the rifle sitting on the kitchen table again. “How is Tommy Gibbs alive?”
“The bullets didn’t hit him.”
Lomax touched his ear. “The last thing we need right now is an attempt at humour.” He sat down at the table. “You need to convince me that your mistake will not happen again.”
Raske sat facing him. “Tommy moved to the car before we were given the signal to start firing. I no longer had a clear shot at Tommy from where I’d hidden. I thought when I shot that first guy Tommy would come out from behind the car towards him. Instead he got into it and got away.”
“How many rounds did you fire at Tommy when he was in the car?”
“The car must have been armoured enough to stop this weapon. I fired at him and the shots would have killed him … normally.”
Lomax noticed that he didn’t answer the question. He’s lying. “So it was a cock-up?”
Raske pointed at him. “From the beginning.”
“What does that mean?”
“It wasn’t a good place to choose if you wanted to isolate Tommy so a sniper could get to him. You should have asked me before agreeing to it.”
Lomax had no intention of explaining that he had to let Tommy pick the meeting place to avoid any suspicion. “You’re supposed to be the best. I would have thought you might be able to adapt.”
“It’s hard to do that facing blazing sunshine in the open English countryside when you’re carrying an assault rifle. People tend to see you if you need to move around … adapting.”
“I didn’t choose where you fired from – so you’re saying that you made some bad decisions which caused you to fail?”
Raske sighed. “Do you have any idea how bad it can be when a sniper has to move around? It’s not really conducive to what you need me to do.”
Lomax clenched a fist and wrapped his other hand around it. “Do you want to know who killed your partner or not?”
Raske didn’t respond.
“I want to help you but you need to do your fucking job.” Lomax glanced at the Japanese swords and then back at Raske. “It would be bad if I started thinking that you were doing this deliberately … to try and get the information from me somehow.”
Raske stood up and walked over to sink and poured water into a glass, drinking it for a moment. He turned and nodded towards the rifle. “You need to give me an alternative to work with. This is ok if I’m within, say, four hundred metres, but anything further I’m going to need something else.”
Lomax noted that Raske had ignored his implied question. He’s lying. “I thought you might say that.” He stood up and walked to the front door and opened it. The man outside handed him a long rifle bag. Lomax returned and stood it beside the table. “I think you might find that this doesn’t miss the target … at almost any distance.” Lomax allowed his glare to penetrate.
Raske ignored him and opened the case, recognising the large calibre rifle immediately. “Is there a night scope with it?”
“Of course.”
Raske had only shot two bullets at Tommy’s car as he drove away. The excuses for his failure were real but he could see that Lomax had spotted that he’d not succeeded deliberately. “I want the information about Richter’s murderer.”
Lomax smiled at him. “Now Tommy has disappeared we need to wait for him to come back out. But we have Johnnie Garrett now; we know exactly where he is and where he’s going.”
Raske turned to Lomax allowing his eyes to show his desire to get on with it. “Tell me?”
“He’s in Romford police station and he’s going to be taken to Holborn police station.”
Chapter 42
Day 11
Narrow Street, Limehouse, London
10.10 a.m.
Wallace stood in front of Benedict and stopped his march towards the large front door. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who is this guy that we’re going to see?”
Benedict scratched the hair on his chin. “How long have you got?”
“So you know him?”
“You could say that.”
Wallace raised her hand as if about to place her hand on his chest and he reversed away from her. She realised what she had just done and dropped her hand. “Stop being a cock. Tell me something before we go into this house because it’s clearly important,” she stated. “At least tell me why someone Dawson says is important to national security might have an idea about what’s going on.”
“He’s the guy who owned the art that was stolen,” Benedict offered, seeing that Wallace wasn’t convinced.
“Why would he know anything about this ‘someone’ involved with these drug gangs in Essex?”
“Wallace, let’s just go inside, ask some questions and see what answers we get. I promise you; with this guy … I’m still learning.” He walked past her and rang the bell.
Paddy opened the door and stood there; his huge bulk filling the entrance. “Alright, Benedict.” He looked beyond him and saw Wallace. She’s nice. He never said she was nice. “Hi, I’m Paddy,” he said, holding out a huge hand.
Wallace felt his giant fist engulfing her hand but his handshake was sensitive. She stepped back, her neck making a noise as she looked up. She tried to hide the shock of seeing someone this size. “Detective Inspector Wallace, from the Flying Squad we’re here to —”
Benedict walked into the house. “Where’s Ray?”
Paddy hadn’t taken his eyes off Wallace and still had her hand in his palm. “He’s upstairs with Pip in his office.”
Benedict started up the stairs.
Wallace walked around Paddy and followed Benedict. She noticed that Benedict didn’t need to ask which door to go through. He immediately went into the office.
Paddy followed them, telling himself to ‘stop looking at her arse’.
“Hello Benedict,” said Pip.
Benedict nodded towards her. “P
ip.” He looked at Hanson who was sat down at his desk. “Ray, this is DI Wallace from the Flying Squad.”
Wallace was right behind him. She sensed her antenna was up, stepping forward and holding out her hand. “Hello Mr Hanson, thank you for meeting us.” They shook hands.
Benedict sat down in one of the available chairs.
Wallace turned to Pip. “You must be Miss Prendergast. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. I attended a seminar that you led on electronic theft a few years ago. You’re a bit of a hero of mine.”
Pip blushed. “Please call me Pip … I hope it wasn’t too boring.”
Wallace laughed. “Not at all, I was particularly interested in your ideas about —” She stopped as Benedict coughed loudly and she noticed his face.
“We need to get on DI Wallace,” Benedict said, turning to Hanson. “Ray, we need to ask some questions. Wallace is leading the investigation into the theft of your art.”
Hanson leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers within each other in his lap. “Please go ahead, DI Wallace, ask whatever you want … and you can call me Ray.”
Wallace looked at Benedict and then back at Hanson. “We’re going to need everything about the pieces that have been stolen including information about where they have been in the last five years and how they travelled to London.”
“Goes without saying … I’ll have everything we have sent to you and if you can think of anything that’s not included then just ask and we’ll see if we can find it for you. All three paintings have been in my house in Dubai for the last five years, but we’ll make sure you have all of that.”
Wallace nodded. “You lived in Dubai?”
Hanson flashed a smile at Benedict. “I’ve lived in lots of places.”
“I understand the three pieces are valuable,” Wallace asked.
“Yes, in personal and art terms, I suppose they were valuable.”
“What about in money terms?” she asked.
Hanson shrugged. “I don’t really think about them in those terms DI Wallace.”
“That’s only because you have the luxury of having enough of it to say that,” she said. “Why don’t you give me your best guess?”
Hanson looked at Pip, who had covered her mouth with her hand. He smiled. “The smaller ones are worth around four, maybe five million each. The other one, frankly, who knows …” He held up his palms. “Fifty or sixty million.”
Wallace put her hands behind her back and tried to breathe normally. “What level of insurance did you have on them?”
Hanson felt his spine stretch as he sat back in his chair. “They were not insured.”
Everyone in the room jumped at the words. Benedict and Pip watched each other pull similar faces as they asked the same question inside their heads.
Benedict leaned forward. “Ray … your kidding?”
“No, not at all.”
Pip moved closer to him. “Ray, you must have had these insured to move them here.”
“I didn’t,” he said, turning to Wallace. “I take it that this removes the theory that I might have had the motive to do this.”
Wallace felt her eyes squint. “It might remove the insurance claim motive … but nothing removes every motive. How do I not know that these weren’t stolen pieces in the first place?”
Hanson coughed and closed his eyes briefly. “It’s perfectly ok DI Wallace. You need to consider all the possibilities … and one of them is that I might have had a hand in it. But I assure you, the paperwork I send you will show that these were not stolen and I owned them legally.”
Pip sat down in the chair beside her. “But Ray you must have paid a fortune for them. How are you going to —”
“Replace them?” said Hanson, finishing the sentence and letting out a laugh. “That’s one of my definitions of art, Pip. Art can be copied by many but replaced by no one. I don’t believe art is a simple mimesis or imitation,” he said, looking at Benedict.
Benedict felt his lips curve. So I’m not the only person who has issues with Plato, he thought. “So if you cannot replace it … why insure it.”
“Precisely,” said Hanson. The men nodded at each other.
“Mr Hanson, this doesn’t get away from the fact that a lack of insurance is odd,” Wallace said. “Why wouldn’t you protect your assets?”
Hanson looked up at her. “Protection isn’t the same as insurance, DI Wallace. I spend a huge amount of money protecting things that are important to me.”
Wallace licked her lips. “Well you’ve already said these pieces were important to you so why didn’t your protection work with these paintings?”
Hanson looked at Benedict. “I really like her … she’s tenacious. I’m sure you really are quite extraordinary to work alongside, DI Wallace.”
Pip stood up. “You’re right, Benedict … she’s very good.”
Wallace looked around the room, finishing at Benedict who was scratching his head and smiling. “Mr Hanson, with all due respect, don’t patronise me and answer my question.”
“Sorry, DI Wallace. The answer is sadly incredibly dull,” he said.
“Which is,” said Wallace.
“Sometimes things don’t work.”
Chapter 43
Day 11
Ibis Hotel, Bath Road, Heathrow, London
11.10 a.m.
Tommy lay on the bed and looked at his wife, Sarah; his dream from the previous night still in his mind. It all revolved around the threats made by Lomax in the restaurant.
After the attack, he’d gone back to the house to get Sarah. They collected all the cash they could, grabbed new phones and jumped into a different car and sped away from their dream home. Sarah screaming as they pulled out of the entrance and drove on the country roads around Brentwood.
Sarah couldn’t deal with the silence in the hotel room; she’d insisted on watching the Sky News report on what had happened at the pub through the night. Each time it was replayed there was a twisting in his stomach. He imagined them saying ‘breaking news’ and saying other family members had been attacked. All he could imagine was the horror of discovery and what it would make him feel.
Sarah was sat at the end of the bed facing the TV. She turned to him. “We can’t go on like this, Tommy.”
“I know,” he said.
“Do you want to do a runner?” she asked. “I thought we were gonna leave the country.”
“You should go. Just get on a plane and get outta here. But I’ve gotta stay.”
Sarah put her face in her hands and pushed her hair back with her fingers. “That’s bullshit, Tommy. We’ve both gotta go. All the guys are dead. Charlie, Rick, Stan, Paul; every fucking one of them, Tommy. They’re all dead.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell me what we’re gonna do,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to die, Tommy.” She fell off the end of the bed onto the floor, head in hands and crying.
He jumped up from the bed, joined her on the floor and grabbed her, holding her head against his chest, stroking her hair as she sobbed in terror.
“We can get out of this if you go and I know you’re safe,” he said. “But if I run and don’t help … everyone else will be at risk.”
She pulled away and looked into his eyes. “I can’t leave without you.”
He put her head in his hands. “Just go. You’ve got plenty of cash.”
“What will you do?”
Tommy stood up and went to the window. “I’ll call the police and speak to them. Get them to give us some assurances … for information.”
“What information?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about that. Leave that to me,” Tommy said. “Did you write down that police number from that Sky News report?”
Sarah remained on the floor, turning towards him. “Are you sure about this?”
He looked at her and sensed that he shouldn’t lie. “This is the only option where we might have a chance of making sure that th
e whole family is not at risk.”
She wiped her eyes and pointed to a small notepad on the table on her side of the bed. “It’s on that, Tommy.”
Chapter 44
Day 11
Holborn Police Station, London
12.10 p.m.
Wallace curled a piece of hair around her finger as she read the front page of the file that Benedict had just put in front of her. It had the final summary report about the murder of Tommy Gibbs’s brother and Johnnie Garrett’s father. They were shot multiple times in a gangland-style murder in Essex fifteen years ago. The photos in the file were poor quality and grainy affairs showing the ravaged bodies with multiple wounds. Benedict pointed to the bottom of the front page and walked away. It was the report conclusion:
‘Anecdotal evidence suggests that the gang led by Billy Horne is responsible for this crime, but there are no witness statements. Given there is insufficient credible corroborative evidence the recommendation is to not take the case forward to the CPS – Signed: DCI Philip Lunn.’
Benedict had sat down at the other end of the table.
Paulsen was standing and talking to Scott and the other members of Wallace’s Flying Squad team. The topic of conversation was Tommy Gibbs and where he might be hiding.
Grant walked into the room with an older man whom everyone recognised. He was Dr Jonathan Shafir, head of the Forensic Investigation Specialist Crime Unit; this part of the forensic services dealt with murders and robberies. He and Benedict knew each other very well but they hadn’t seen each other for some time.
Shafir noticed Benedict, smiled and walked across to him holding out a hand. “Hello, Benedict, very glad to see you.”
The corner of Benedict’s mouth went upwards. “Doctor.” The two men laughed like they were sharing an old joke. Shafir had processed Benedict forensically at the hospital after he’d been attacked by the ‘Rotherhithe Artist’ three years ago. Shafir had seen the agony Benedict had endured as the doctors worked on him after he’d had the skin on his chest removed.