The video was entitled 'What's the magic word sonny?'. Someone on the train took out their smartphone and videoed my exploits once the crowd started singing the eponymous refrain. I should have waited for a one-on-one situation! What was I thinking about conducting my business in front of an audience? Hubris, that's what did it. I mean, what the actual fuck was I going to do about this?
I could try and track down the person who posted it, find some way to persuade them to delete it. Shit idea. The fucking thing had already scored four hundred likes and been shared sixty-five times. Fingers crossed, no-one who knew me would find it before I could sort out some kind of plan.
If a cop or one of the MIT team got onto this I would have to answer a whole shitpile of difficult questions. Clements would identify me for sure, I never made any attempt to hide my face from him. The lorry driver might be dead, but me and Garry definitely abducted and scared the living crap out of him, before this Citizen V murdered him. With enough effort and the right motivation, the forensics guys would likely discover some minute scrap of incriminating evidence to confirm that. Witnesses might have seen me trip Jacobs, particularly when prompted with photos of me: the woman who walked past, for instance. If I didn't have an alibi for the time he was killed...
I scrolled down the comments and my heart stopped. Not metaphorically. It actually stopped, along with my breathing, vision and any sense of perspective. I was fucked. Well and truly shafted!
Fifteen comments down, someone called Moondogvomit666 proclaimed:
'I no this fucker! Hes a copper. Arested me once. Works out of Hackney. Citizin Vagina - a total cunt!'
Replies alternating between 'LOL!' and 'bullshit!' followed on.
There were two saving graces. Moondogvomit666, whoever he was, failed to name me explicitly and, since his post, many more comments followed on. As a result, his revelation was hidden four pages back. It really needed looking for, so this might buy me some time.
Why hadn't I thought of a phone? I made sure the train didn't have any CCTV on board but patently failed to think about the rest of the modern world. It's not as if I'm some kind of technophobic Luddite. I use this technology myself every day. I know my way around a computer and I've got an iPhone for god's sake. Hubris. Fucking hubris, that's what did it.
I needed to think, to get out of the house. I shouted to my wife that I was going out to get a few beers to drink with the game later.
Driving out into the early evening, my mind spun web after web of possibilities. The streets were filled with people oblivious to my predicament and I tried to think how I might escape it.
***
Bobby 'Bubba' Harvey found working for the Corantelli family to be a pretty satisfying experience. Sure, Leo could be a bit of a dick at times but it was easy to ignore his petulance for what it was. In general, they treated him well, paid handsomely and allowed him to enjoy the status and violence that came with his role.
Bubba spent years working as a doorman. He gained Carlo Corantelli's attention one evening while dealing with some particularly unpleasant drunks in a very forceful but controlled manner. The club involved happened to be Carlo's most prestigious and it mattered that such things were handled appropriately. Very soon Bubba graduated to Chief of Security for Leo.
The incident in Cardoza's tarnished his reputation with the old man a little. Leo was ok about it. After all, he ordered Bubba to 'kindly fuck off and leave him alone' that night. To be fair, Bubba was pretty sure if he'd been screwing the girl Leo picked up that evening, he'd like some privacy to do so. Leo also didn't make too much fuss in an attempt to ensure no-one found out exactly what happened in the toilets. Leo wasn't aware, but he'd failed. Everyone in the team looking after him knew about the phone's rectal insertion. In fact, they even coined a new nickname for him as a result - “Ring Ring” - as in, if you need to call him, ring his ring. The drunken game of cards where this nickname arose proved impossible to finish once Barry Kennedy came up with it. Bubba thought he might actually die he laughed so hard.
Bubba didn't usually spend much time on the internet but tonight he wanted to browse for clues. Various bits and pieces caught his attention but, aside from the unclothed women, the most interesting clip was on YouTube. It showed some everyday citizen, vigilante-type guy facing up to a teenager on a train and confiscating their mobile phone. He scrolled through the comments for a few pages and found a very interesting snippet from a brainless muppet called Moondogvomit666. The possible link with Leo's attacker seemed promising. He took a screen grab and printed it off.
An hour later, he stood in the alley behind Cardoza's with a very nervous Myles Gilmore quivering in front of him.
“Is this the guy who attacked Mr Corantelli?”
The print of the video was grainy, indistinct, but Myles knew right away it was his customer. The moral dilemma facing him was one he desperately hoped he'd never need to face. If he said yes, the guy might end up being killed in some heinous fashion. That, in turn, might end up with him getting into trouble for helping the criminals in their task. If he said no and, subsequently, Corantelli found out he'd been lying, Myles himself might end up as worm food.
'Err, I, err..'
Bubba put a rather hefty paw on Gilmore's shoulder. “Don't make me force you to make up your mind, son. Is it him?”
“Yes,” whispered Myles.
“Thanks. See you later and, remember, I was never here, right?”
Myles nodded. As Bubba walked away down the alley, Myles rushed over to a bin and threw up.
***
Leo Corantelli looked at the screen on his phone as it lit up and the ringtone bleeped out. The tune was irritating and the number displayed unrecognised as a stored contact. This was not so surprising given it was a new mobile. Considering where it had been lodged, he couldn't bear to keep using the old one - despite it being perfectly serviceable after its adventures in his lower digestive tract. He decided to take the call. With any luck it would be in regard to the bastard responsible for his proctological assault. At the very least it would bring a halt to that infuriating jingle.
“Hello?”
“Leo, it's Bubba. I think I found the guy you're looking for.”
“He better hope not!” replied Leo bitterly.
“You're not going to believe this - I'm pretty sure he's a cop!”
Leo almost crushed his new phone in anger and outrage.
“A fucking cop? You're shitting me right?”
Leo failed to notice the ironic and slightly inappropriate colloquialism and Bubba felt it best not to mention how funny he found it. Ring ring.
“Nope, I shit you not. He's based right here in the city and I know exactly where to find him,” Bubba said with a certain air of pride in a job well done...and a smirk for a joke well concealed.
“OK, get over here, now!”
“On my way, boss.”
Leo cancelled the call, popped the phone back in his pocket. He looked down at his desk, various bits of paper adorning it. All of this mundane admin could wait until the much more pressing matter of the cop was expedited. The past few weeks had been very difficult to bear. The hunt for his attacker proved to be trickier than he thought it would be, but now he realised why.
A cop. He could hardly believe it. Sure, he'd been on the receiving end of some rough treatment from the cops in his time, but always in relation to some investigation or arrest. To be assaulted in public like that was humiliating enough, but by an off-duty cop? That was just salt in the wound. Saying that, he almost admired the guy; to have the cojones to attack someone like him either took huge bravery or huge stupidity. The only other option would be that this was the one cop in the city who didn't know who Leo was. However, this fucker of a cop would soon become very well acquainted with Leo Corantelli - it just wouldn't be in any way he'd find gratifying. Bravery, stupidity or ignorance; it didn't really matter to Leo which option drove the cop's thinking. All that mattered was making sure he regretted ever
acting upon those thoughts.
Leo pulled out the drawer of his desk, reached for the old phone. He'd only listened to the message once but the smarmy, self-satisfied tone, the insulting words, burned into his memory. He put it in a pocket separate from the new one, walked over to the safe, spun the combination and opened the door. Taking out his gun, ensuring it was loaded, he tucked it into the waistband of his trousers in the small of his back. He also picked up the flick knife; automatically opening then closing it again. It went into a custom-made holster attached to his calf, concealed under his trouser leg.
Making his way to the front door, Leo donned a heavy overcoat, wrapped a scarf around his neck and stepped out onto the wide, gravel driveway that swept up to his impressive abode. The chill air nipped at the top of his ears and the tip of his nose. There was a change in the seasons afoot. He pulled on his gloves as Bubba coasted into the driveway, gravel crunching under the tyres of the BMW. His Chief of Security got out without killing the engine and opened the back door for him. Leo settled into the leather upholstery and thought dark thoughts of revenge.
“Bubba.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Take me to this cocksucker, right now!”
No further encouragement was required. Bubba accelerated out of the driveway and onto the street. Leo's hunt was almost complete.
22. Identity Crisis
Dwayne Clements sat in his chair in the interview room looking pretty sorry for himself. His head rested on the backs of his hands on the table-top and an untouched, styrofoam cup of tea beside him had gone cold.
The cops picked him up in the early hours of the morning. A review of the CCTV footage at the shopping centre showed him and Lamar Stokes leaving on the motorbike. It was fair to say Lamar and Dwayne were not really intellectually cut out for a life of crime. Not only had they been filmed but Lamar used his own bike, and failed to cover the registration plate. A very small amount of elementary police work led the MIT straight to them.
They'd both been dragged in and spent the last four hours stewing in cells. Lamar, uncooperative, surly, determined to hold out and give the pigs nothing. Dwayne, on the other hand, bricking it. All the bravado and swagger he'd shown his crew on the estate drained out of him in the cell. He'd not even bothered to ditch the gun; the cops found it under his mattress after the most cursory of searches. His mother collapsed in shock when she saw it. He felt really bad about that. She was a good woman, tried her best to raise him well in very difficult conditions. He knew there was no way out of this. He was going down for a long, long time.
Dwayne couldn't help but feel hard done by. Why him? Why had the sick bastard decided to pick on him for spitting out his gum in the toilet? Thousands of people did that every day; was this fucker out there stopping all of them by pulling out their fucking teeth? At the time, it felt good to vent his anger via the gun but that victory seemed pretty hollow now. Jail beckoned and, when he got there, he could look forward having his skinny, little, black butt relentlessly invaded. Acting tough was one thing - being tough was quite another. He let out a slight sob as a solitary tear dropped onto the floor below the table.
Stark watched through the one-way glass, sipping coffee and thinking how an already unusual case had just become even more peculiar.
Dwayne Clements was accused of murdering a middle-aged plumber called Tony Stout. According to witnesses and camera footage, Dwayne and his pal Lamar Stokes, cornered Stout in the toilets of a shopping centre, shooting him four times. Forensics reported eight shots in total but it appeared Dwayne could do with some time on the practice range. The sergeant sent to pick them up recognised Clements' name from the briefing and contacted Stark to let him know he was about to be arrested. The DCI authorised Stark to do the interviews; even though no-one knew yet whether or not the shooting had a direct link to the Citizen V case.
The team who picked them up described Stokes as being rude, aggressive, defiant, whereas Clements acted quiet and nervous; bordering on timid. It made sense to go to Clements first, then deal with Stokes afterwards.
“Katz?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Has the duty solicitor turned up yet?”
“I think I saw her a minute ago, sir.”
“Right, in that case, let's get in there and have a wee word with Mr Clements.”
Stark thought Dwayne looked awful. The sunken cheeks and scars, added to his dishevelled clothing and bloodshot eyes, made him look like a fifty year old wino rather than an eighteen year old boy.
The duty solicitor was an old stager called Eleanor Gamble. Stark admired and respected her. Unlike the usual cynical cows or rookie numpties poor sods like Dwayne could normally expect to be allocated, she still cared about doing a good job; trying to acknowledge the smallest ounce of decency buried deep within the most despicable of clients. This did not make her a soft touch though. She had a fantastic way of preventing her clients from swamping cases with oceans of bullshit. By the same token, the cops were not allowed free rein to do as they pleased in pursuit of their version of the truth.
“Hi, Eleanor. How are you today?” asked Stark.
“I'm ok, thanks, DI Stark. Nice to see you again, and you, DC Katz.”
His partner nodded and smiled rather thinly. For some unknown reason, Katz did not appear to be all that enamoured with Eleanor Gamble. Stark thought Katz could do with a spell in charm school.
Stark pressed the tape machine to start recording the interview. Such an arcane and clunky thing to be using, but considered more secure and less easy to doctor than the digital alternatives.
He reeled off the usual introductions, caveats and scene setting required for the record, then addressed Dwayne directly.
“Dwayne, why did you shoot Tony Stout dead in that toilet?”
Eleanor Gamble raised her eyebrows at the bluntness. Stark was not one to waste time with niceties.
The boy just shrugged and looked at the table.
'So, you're not denying it then?'
Again the shrug.
“Dwayne, you need to speak, son. This is a tape recorder and shrugging won't be enough if it gets played back at a later date. Did you shoot and kill Tony Stout?”
“Yeah, if that's the geezer's name, I shot him,” came the rather quiet reply.
“Do you mind telling me why, son?”
“He's the motherfucker that pulled my teeth out. He fucking asked for it, man. Ok!” This time he shouted the reply.
Stark, Katz and Gamble were taken aback by this sudden, forceful revelation.
“Sorry, Dwayne, you're saying Tony Stout was the guy who assaulted you?”
“Yeah, man! He's the fucker and I sorted him - good and proper like!” Dwayne was beginning to enjoy venting his ire.
“Right, interview suspended at 11.30am. We'll continue this in a wee while. Is that ok with you, Eleanor?”
“Yes, I have another client to sit in with, so I'm not going anywhere else anyway.”
Katz and Stark convened in the hallway.
“What do you think?” Stark asked.
“Not sure, sir. Sounds a bit implausible. I spoke to Tony Stout's boss and he said the guy was married with two small kids, wouldn't say boo to a goose. They were all devastated and couldn't understand why anyone would want to kill him,” Katz replied.
Stark needed to stop looking so intently into her eyes. He was becoming ever so slightly aroused and that would not do at all.
“Yeah, but who knows what kind of person this Citizen V is. They seem to have some sort of moral compass or social conscience thing going on. Maybe they would seem perfectly normal to the folks around them?”
“That's a good point, sir, I suppose. It's just, I don't know...in my head, I don't have a plumber as the person writing those notes and doing those violent things all over the city.”
The two of them paused to think and digest what was going on.
“I need you to do a bit of digging on this Tony Stout guy. See if we can pu
t him somewhere other than the scenes. If it was impossible for him to have done any of them, I think we need to talk to Dwayne again and see if we can get a bit more out of him.”
“Ok, sir. I'm on it. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Stark watched her go off up the corridor and through a set of double doors. His eyes never left her arse the whole time.
***
Lara Katz's parents were Bosnian immigrants; refugees from the civil war that tore Yugoslavia apart in the early 1990's. They brought nothing with them other than the clothes they wore, their daughter and some bitter memories. Her father, an eminent professor of history, was eternally grateful that the academic world of London embraced him when he needed them most. Within a few years they were living in relative comfort again, although always restless, talking of when they would return to their old home.
Lara had been a toddler when she arrived in the UK and remembered nothing of the land of her birth. Raised and schooled in London, she was bilingual, which accounted for the hint of an accent when speaking in English. A few family members lived in Sarajevo and she'd visited a couple of times since her late teens. Three months ago her parents finally found the resolve and the money to go back. Without siblings, she was alone in the big smoke. However, it didn't bother her much, she'd always been independent and resourceful.
Police work suited Lara. She was tenacious, inquisitive and intelligent, as well as fearless; mentally and physically. The manner in which her parents were forced to flee their homeland definitely helped draw her to a job involving upholding law and order. Justice seen to be done.
Lara was one of a few rising stars identified by the Met for fast-tracking into senior positions. Her appointment to work with Adam Stark in MIT was part of this training process; designed to see her ready to sit the exams and become a Detective Inspector within two years. As a woman, and a very attractive woman to boot, she needed to battle all manner of prejudice and assumptions about the process. Most young cops accepted it as part of the way things were and knew no different. However, a lot of the older guys - and they were almost always guys - had a distinct chip on their shoulder about it. She developed a thick skin and selective hearing, just got on with it. Her morose persona was part of this coping mechanism. She decided early on in her career, if she was too sunny or chatty, it might just reinforce the misogyny of the cretins who indulged in such behaviour.
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