by Karl Holton
Johnnie shook his head. I’m not telling you what Tommy told me. “You’re mad. Why would I do that? If Tommy’s running why wouldn’t I run with him? Why wouldn’t I take SJ and the baby with me?”
Rowe ignored him. “He needs to come in and speak to us and tell us what’s going on,” he said, scratching his head. “You need to tell us what you know.”
Johnnie sat back and stared at the DCI. I don’t trust coppers and I really don’t trust you. “I think I’ll speak to the guys here at Holborn. I’ll make a deal with them.”
Rowe glared at him.
The van sped along Theobalds Road up to the junction with Bedford Row on the left running south before stopping at the lights.
“Was what I did all so bad?” Johnnie asked.
“Are you joking?” Rowe snapped. “You sold drugs to people who overdosed and died. You ruined lives, you fucking animal.”
“I gave people some really good times. You could level that same claim to any rock band that has ever had a fan commit suicide while listening to their music.”
Rowe felt the van jolt, before turning into Lamb’s Conduit Street before crossing the street to stop outside Holborn Police Station. “That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”
Johnnie pinched the arch between his eyes appearing to silently think. Which one of us will the baby look like? He smiled at Rowe as the doors to the back of the van were being unlocked. “Humans enjoy bad consequences; the prospect of peril means we feel alive. Without it, life is on permanent pause; it’s just blackness.”
A police officer pulled the doors wide open and the two men stepped outside. Rowe stared at the drug dealer shaking his head.
Johnnie yawned as he stretched his limbs at the back of the van. He was facing the setting sun, which was streaming towards him down along Red Lion Street. The large calibre bullet hit him in the soft palate at the top of his mouth and exploded on impact.
Chapter 47
Day 11
Holborn Police Station, London
1.24 p.m.
Benedict ran down the steps at the front of the station and out into the street, running straight to the back of the van. Two armed officers were crouched near the entrance of the station shouting at members of the public to get down on the ground. Rowe had already crawled away to the front of the van.
Wallace had stopped on the steps and hidden behind the wall of the building. “Benedict, what are you doing? Get back here.”
The two armed officers were joined by four others, who swarmed out onto the street. Two officers with rifles ran down to the junction with Theobalds Road and stood on the corner. Once they checked around the corners they jumped out and stopped the traffic.
Paulsen and Scott ran out of the station, down the stairs and jumped behind cars parked further up the street.
Benedict stood up and looked at Johnnie. He was lying inside the van, the impact had thrown him back into the vehicle. The bullet direction was obvious.
“Benedict, get fucking down,” Wallace screamed.
He looked at her and winked. “I’ll call you.” He turned and sprinted, straight across Theobalds Road and down Red Lion Street.
Fuck, not again, she thought. Behind her another group of armed officers flooded out of the station.
“Paulsen, stay with Rowe and keep everyone away from the body,” she shouted, as she moved towards Theobalds Road. “Scott, with me.”
They were running after Benedict but he was already about forty metres ahead of them as they hit Red Lion Street. They could hear sirens screeching and officers following behind them.
Scott panted loudly. “Where’s he fucking going, boss?”
Wallace tried to catch a breath. “To the shooter.”
“How does he know where he is?”
Wallace turned to Scott, also struggling for breath. “Just fucking run and ask questions later.”
Benedict kept pace ahead of them; they noticed him looking up at the rooftops, checking them. Then he’d look left and right down the roads crossing Red Lion Street. He then seemed to speed up and after a few seconds stop as he got to High Holborn. He walked out into the busy street, stopping the traffic. Drivers started honking horns and swearing at him as stood there with his hands up. He was looking at the large glass-fronted building in front of him; University of the Arts, London (UAL).
Wallace and Scott reached him about ten seconds later. They stood a few metres behind him. Scott started showing his police ID and shouting at the drivers in the traffic, who stopped yelling expletives. The drivers further away continued, maintaining the street din.
The UAL building had people running out of it and the distinct but faint sound of a fire alarm could be heard clearly. The students were carrying various different art portfolio cases including long cylindrical portfolio cases. Every one of these could hold a rifle, thought Benedict.
Wallace turned to Scott. “Let them know we’re here. Tell them we need armed officers here. Now.”
Benedict looked at her. “Do you have a gun, Wallace?”
“I’ve learned my lesson around you,” she said, pulling the pistol out from inside her flak jacket. “Of course I’ve got a bloody gun.”
“Good, would you mind coming with me and shooting anyone who points one at me?” he said, not waiting for an answer and running through the huge glass doors.
She followed him into the building, shouting at the students to exit as they entered. Benedict was scanning everyone he could see.
A security guard in a high visibility jacket stepped towards them. “I’m afraid you must leave the —”
Wallace glared at him and raised her police ID. “We’re police. We need all the CCTV kept safe. This is a false fire alarm … tell the fire brigade not to enter the building.”
The guard nodded at her.
Wallace saw the man’s face change as he noticed the gun in her hand. “Is the lift turned off during a fire alarm?”
“Yes,” he said.
Benedict watched students coming down the stairs and turning towards the back of the building. He looked at the guard. “Does the building have fire exits at the back?”
“Yes, of course. All the exits will be wide open,” replied the guard.
He looked at Wallace and pointed at the people leaving the building. “Looking at this he’s probably gone, but we need to get upstairs and check.”
She nodded and they raced up the stairwell past the thinning crowds coming down. It took them about three minutes given the number of people to get to the top of the building. Benedict walked up the final steps to get to the door to the roof.
“Shouldn’t I open that?” Wallace asked.
Benedict touched the safety door handle. “Why?”
“I’m the one carrying the gun.”
Benedict shook his head; then opened the door. The cooler air rushed into the area as he stepped outside, followed by Wallace pointing the gun beyond him. She checked the roof as Benedict looked around.
Wallace relaxed. There was no one up here. “Do you see anything?”
Benedict reached up and pulled himself up onto the top of the roof and walked over to the part overlooking High Holborn. Wallace put the gun into her holster and followed him. Below they could see the traffic building up in all directions, horns and sirens blaring. Police officers had covered the area and could be seen pouring out of vans that were parked at the scene below.
Wallace looked at him. He seemed to be getting angry. “What is it?”
He felt his eyes scanning along Red Lion Street all the way to the scene at Holborn Police Station, which he could see clearly. “We have an issue, Wallace … well we have a few to be precise,” he said. “This guy has now got a totally different weapon; and he can use this from a very long way and he’s very good at it.”
Wallace sucked in a breath.
Benedict rubbed a hand over his head. “But probably more of an issue is that he’s killing everyone involved in this and he knows ex
actly how to get to them. The plan to bring Johnnie here was only agreed a few hours ago and only a few people knew it. Somehow … he found out and had enough time to prepare this. It’s not a perfect plan, but given the time he had it’s very close.”
“It’s someone inside the force … someone must be feeding them info.”
He looked at her. “It’s the only conclusion … we need to keep this between us and only involve those we can trust.”
Wallace had been considering the people getting shot as they’d run up the stairs. “Tommy Gibbs must be next.”
He nodded. “If we don’t get to Tommy before him, we’ll never connect all of this with certainty.”
“Do you think Johnnie knew something?”
Benedict snorted out a light laugh. “I don’t think people like this take a risk. If they thought Johnnie was a possible issue they would ensure he didn’t become one.”
Wallace grabbed his arm. “Is Hanson a drug dealer who somehow has immunity?”
Benedict looked at her. “You’ve wanted to ask me something like that since we walked out of his house earlier. I’d prefer it if you just ask me what’s on your mind straight away. We’ll get on much better if you do that,” he said, turning back to the scene below. “You also may not think twice about shooting that gun of yours to save me.”
She smiled. “So what’s the answer?”
“No, he’s not a drug dealer … but he’s complicated and I don’t yet know everything that’s going on around him. How immune he is … I cannot answer. I’ve only seen him arrange things that everyone has agreed are justified in the circumstances.”
“I assume by everyone you mean MI5?”
He nodded. “That’s too simple I think. Government, MI5, MI6, CIA, NSA … he’s involved with all of them.”
Wallace turned away as she started to hear armed officers coming onto the roof behind them. “They all knew you in the house … are you working with him?”
Benedict stared at her and raised his eyebrows. “Yes. He’s got a project that he wants me to work on. I don’t have all the details yet but it’s big and —”
“It could be connected to all of this,” said Wallace, seeing his face show concern as he nodded. “Whatever you do, don’t mention the danger again; if you do I’ll kick you in the nuts. Someone arrived on this roof prepared and wearing a flak jacket; carrying a gun? Someone didn’t.”
He laughed loudly. After a few moments she joined in.
Behind them an armed officer shouted up to them and she reassured him that all was fine.
She turned back to Benedict. “How do you know it’s the same guy and he has a new weapon?”
Benedict pointed to the small gutter on the edge of the roof behind him. “Because he’s left us that.”
Wallace looked down and she caught the glint of the sun hitting something. She moved her head and spotted the gold colour. “That’s a —”
“Shell casing for a .50 calibre bullet … and it’s been left here standing on its end.”
Chapter 48
Day 11
Arch Street, Greenwich, Connecticut, USA
2.24 p.m. GMT (9.24 a.m. Local)
Urna pushed the moisturiser into every part of his face, massaging the white cream all over. He pushed and pressed until he felt the deep cooling across his skin. The delivery of E45 cream from the UK would last him another few months.
He was still tired from the journey back from Moldova, but he was starting to relax. After the private jet had arrived at Westchester County Airport late yesterday evening he’d opened the car window on the way home. The smell of the ocean filled the car on the way back to his house. He felt the tension vanishing with each salty breath.
On the screen in front of him an email notification popped up, but he ignored it. He reached for the phone and dialled the number he’d recalled, keeping it on speaker. His sophisticated communication system disguised the call identification and blocked any chance of recording.
“Mr Ferguson?” said Urna.
“Urna? Good to hear from you. I was hoping you would call today.”
Urna sat back. “When do you think everything will arrive?”
“The delivery should be in Mogadishu in five days,” Ferguson said. “The ship is en route with the goods.”
“Everything is complete?”
Ferguson laughed. “It’s all there. We had to work hard to source it all but we’ve managed to complete all your requirements. We’ll send you a list in a few hours with the Bill of Lading.”
“I’ll need a full analysis of it,” Urna said. “The details must be broken down into each individual component within the agreed sections; small arms, light weapons, ammunition and explosives.”
“It’ll be on the spreadsheet I send you,” Ferguson said. “The Bills of Lading will have the agreed product … farming machine parts.”
“We’ll be checking it dockside before it gets loaded into the trucks. This could take some time to complete.”
“Understood,” Ferguson said. “I assume you have the money ready in your banks to complete the transactions.”
Urna smiled. “The money will be there. Send me the paperwork and once I’ve gone through it we’ll speak again.”
The call terminated.
Urna looked at the screen, pushed the mouse to the email and clicked it open. It was a forwarded message from one of the secure servers collecting emails from their various companies around the world. It had arrived from the bankers of the company they ran in Hong Kong.
‘Dear Customer,
We are aware that an attempt has been made to break into the systems of the bank. We have taken all the necessary steps to stop and discover the details of the attempt and report these to the authorities. We are satisfied that this event is isolated and has not resulted in a monetary loss to any client.’
Urna sensed the residue of cream on his hands, which he rubbed together as he considered the email.
The phone rang and the caller ID came on his screen: LMX UK. He pressed the speaker button on the phone. The system confirmed he was calling from a secure line.
Urna nodded at the face staring at him on his PC screen. “Lomax.”
“Urna, how was your journey back to the US?”
Urna shook his head. I hate small-talk, he thought. “Good.”
“I thought I would call you with an update, given our conversation in Moldova; maybe you could pass this on to Jasper.”
“Go ahead.”
“The product from the Gibbs gang is secure. The information you gave us about Johnnie Gibbs from the police informant worked perfectly.”
“Raske dealt with Johnnie as discussed?” Urna asked.
“Even better than we expected,” said Lomax. “With the new weapon we’ve given him, very little should be out of range.”
Urna smiled. “Good.”
“Is the informant still secret … they might be very useful to me here on the ground,” Lomax asked.
“I will ask Jasper,” Urna said. “But I think he’s expecting the contact to come up with Tommy Gibbs now, so until that’s done he may not want to add anything else.”
“Ok,” said Lomax. “We need to discuss the artwork we’ve sourced in Paris. It’s had an informal check from the person we normally use and it’s been confirmed. On this basis … we’ve agreed to buy it.”
“Is the seller negotiating?”
“Not at all,” Lomax said. “He wants forty million euro and for that we can take possession and hand it to Moraru in Paris in the morning. It should seal the deal.”
“There’s nothing else available in Paris that we could ‘acquire’?” Urna asked.
Lomax had expected that Urna would ask if they could steal something in Paris and had discussed this with BasHaut. “Bas doesn’t think so; not of this quality at such short notice. If we have to give it to Moraru in the morning this seems our best option.”
“Do we know everything about the thief?” Urna asked, tou
ching his face.
Lomax grinned. “Yes, we can find him.”
Urna knew he would put in some ‘insurance’ of his own making; probably by bribing the bank manager at the bank where he sent the money. “Ok, get me the details and we’ll transfer the money.”
“Good, we’ll get it all arranged,” Lomax said. “Now Johnnie has been killed, Tommy will want to go to the police and the informants will do the job.”
“Exactly,” Urna said. “Tell Raske he gets nothing until he’s killed Tommy. I want him focused on squashing this cockroach as soon as he’s out in the open. Don’t let him know that killing Hanson and his team will be his revenge.”
Chapter 49
Day 11
Holborn Police Station, London
4.05 p.m.
Watkins paced around the meeting room table with his hands behind his back. “That’s all that Johnnie said to you in the van?”
Rowe turned up the hand he had sitting on the table. “That’s all he said to me. He wanted to come and meet the team here at Holborn and he wouldn’t discuss what he knew with me.”
“But he came into Romford … to you?” asked Watkins.
“I’ve told you … he was a grass that I’d cultivated over the last few years. That’s why he came to me.” Rowe looked at the faces around the room. “He seemed to think that he could help Tommy.”
Benedict was staring at him, his eyes burrowing into him.
Wallace touched a hair that had fallen across her face. “Where had he been?”
“No idea … he never told me.”
“Your informant did a runner for a few days after you took him out of custody in Hampstead and then he suddenly turns around and walks into Romford … to you,” Watkins stated, shaking his head. “Then he says he’ll only speak to us?”
Rowe shrugged his shoulders.
Watkins walked up behind Rowe and pointed over his shoulder to Doctor Grant, who was sitting in silence across the table. Watkins brought his mouth down to Rowe’s ear. “Johnnie is lying on Doctor Grant’s table with no head having told us nothing.”