by Shaun Hutson
'He's been with Harrison for as long as I can remember. I don't know who the other bloke is.' Riley frowned and took another bite of his Mars bar. His stomach rumbled loudly. It was all he'd eaten since midnight. He'd been sitting in the car with sergeant Alan Larkin for the last eight hours, snatching a couple of hours sleep here and there but, for most of the time, both men had watched Carter's flat.
All over London a similar surveillance operation had been mounted by Riley's men. Six of Harrison's highest ranking employees were being watched.
Riley chewed thoughtfully. Who the hell was the bloke with the case?
He watched as Carter started the engine of the Peugeot, pulling out into the traffic.
Larkin glanced across at his superior and Riley nodded.
The Sierra followed.
'Where to this time?' Carter asked as he drove, glancing in the rear view mirror.
He looked at Mitchell, catching only a momentary glimpse of the Sierra.
'The Elephant and Castle,' Mitchell told him, flipping open the attaché case.
He ran his hand over the Ingram and the Spas, touching them lovingly. A slight smile spread across his face.
In the pursuing Sierra, Riley finished the Mars bar and tossed the wrapper out of the window, his eyes never leaving the Peugeot.
'Don't lose them,' he murmured quietly, his right hand reaching inside his jacket.
He pulled the .38 Smith and Wesson from its holster, spun the cylinder and then replaced it carefully.
The cars drove on.
Fifty
It was as they were crossing Blackfriars Bridge that Carter finally decided they were being followed.
He didn't say anything to Mitchell as he himself hadn't been a hundred percent sure but, the further he'd driven, the more convinced he'd become. The white Sierra had moved rather too quickly through an amber light coming through Holborn, kept its distance almost too methodically. Then, when Carter had deliberately signalled right but turned left, the Sierra had done likewise.
Now as they passed over the bridge, Carter glanced into the rear view mirror once again. No doubt about it.
The Sierra was about two car lengths back, moving steadily.
Beneath the bridge the Thames flowed like a filthy brown tear across the face of the city and Mitchell glanced out, watching a small boat as it chugged through the murky water.
Carter slowed down slightly, his eyes straying to the Sierra once more. There were traffic lights ahead. He was supposed to go straight on. The traffic filtered into three lanes so Carter guided the Peugeot out into the right hand lane and prepared to turn in that direction.
Sure enough, the Sierra did likewise, its driver careful to keep two other vehicles between them.
'What are. you doing?' asked Mitchell, glancing at a sign which proclaimed that the Elephant and Castle was straight ahead.
Carter didn't answer. He merely sat, drumming gently on the wheel, eyes on the Sierra.
'We're supposed to go straight on,' Mitchell said. 'What ...'
'Just shut up, Mitchell,' Carter snapped, jamming the car into gear as the lights changed. He swung it to the right.
The Sierra followed.
'What the hell are you doing?' said Mitchell, sitting forward in his seat.
Carter glanced behind him once more to see that the white car was still on their tail. It was moving closer now, over-taking the Mini in front of it so that there were just two cars between it and its quarry.
'You take us to where we're supposed to be going and you do it now,' snarled the hit man, his hand reaching inside his jacket. He gripped the butt of the Browning, preparing to draw the pistol.
'We're being followed,' the driver said flatly.
Mitchell sat back in his seat, not attempting to look round. 'Who are they?' he wanted to know.
Carter could only shake his head. That particular question was one which had been troubling him ever since he'd noticed the pursuing vehicle. Could it be members of another gang? Members of Sullivans' gang perhaps? The Irishman was no fool, he'd seen other members of the underworld gunned down, he didn't need a degree to figure out the gang bosses were being put to sleep and that, eventually, his name would come out of the hat. Maybe he'd decided to strike first.
Carter shuddered slightly, memories of the chase through Mayfair and Chelsea still strong in his mind.
If not another gang then who?
The law?
It was possible. He slowed down slightly, allowing the Sierra to draw nearer, attempting to see its passengers in the mirror.
He swung the car to the right, and took the next left.
Manoeuvres designed to disorientate the driver of the Sierra. But to no avail. The unmarked police car kept on coming.
More traffic lights.
Carter slowed up again and another car cruised up alongside him, music blaring from inside. The driver was happily inspecting the contents of one nostril on the end of his finger, digging so deep, it seemed to Carter, he was trying to scratch his head from the inside. The man looked across at the driver and nodded a greeting, as if they were long lost friends. Carter ignored him, his attention focussed on the Sierra.
The lights changed and Carter allowed his foot to slip off the clutch.
The car stalled.
Not expecting this particular ruse, the young sergeant driving the Sierra pulled forward too quickly, so that there was barely three feet between the bumpers of the two vehicles.
'Come on, come on,' said Mitchell. 'Get it going.'
Carter unhurriedly put the car in gear, twisted the ignition and pulled away. As he did so he managed to catch a good look at the men in the Sierra.
He recognised DS Riley immediately.
'That's it, Mitchell, the hit's off,' Carter said.
'What?' the other man roared. 'What the hell are you talking about?'
'That's the law following us. Got it? Now forget Sullivan for today.'
'Like hell.'
'If you try to hit him with the Old Bill up our arse then every copper in London is going to be down on us before the smoke's even cleared. I'm telling you, the hit is off.'
'Fuck you,' snapped Mitchell.
'No, fuck you,' Carter shouted angrily.
Ahead of them was a junction, a long stream of traffic
strung across it. Carter braked, bringing the Peugeot to a halt.
The Sierra rolled up close behind.
Carter glanced to his right and left, the jam that was blocking the road seemed to stretch for a long distance.
Unless some benevolent soul decided to let him out, they were going to be sitting there for quite some time.
Mitchell glanced into one of the wing mirrors and he too saw the two men in the white Sierra. One of them had just lit a cigarette.
He watched them for a moment longer, pushed open the door of the Peugeot and stepped out.
'What are you doing?' Carter asked, turning in his seat.
DS Riley also wondered what the passenger was playing at as he swung himself from the other car.
Mitchell walked briskly towards the Sierra, approaching the passenger side.
Riley looked up at him, the cigarette sticking to his bottom lip.
Mitchell's movements were impressively fast.
He shot a hand inside his jacket and pulled the Browning free of its holster, aiming it at Riley who tried to duck.
'No,' bellowed Carter from the Peugeot.
Mitchell fired twice.
The first bullet shattered the side window and caught Riley in the left temple. His head snapped sideways as the heavy grain shell powered into his skull, obliterating the left temporal bone and most of the parietal vault. It looked as if he'd been hit in the side of the head with a red hot hammer. Blood spouted from the wound, spraying the inside of the car and Larkin screamed in revulsion as he was spattered by a mixture of fragmented bone and sticky grey brain matter. Blood continued to spew madly from the remains of Riley's skull and the s
econd bullet, which shattered his lower mandible, blasting it into a dozen pieces, was an unnecessary extra.
Larkin struggled to unfasten his seat belt and get out of the car but his superior's body had fallen across his lap, pinning him in his seat. Blood from Riley's pulverized head soaked into the younger man's trousers and he felt vomit clawing up his throat as he battled to free himself from the confines of the car. The stench of excrement filled his nostrils, both from Riley's collapsed sphincter and from his own, loosened by terror.
He opened his mouth to scream as Mitchell stuck the Browning inside the car and fired.
The barrel of the GP35 flamed and spat its deadly load at Larkin. The bullet hit him squarely between the eyes exploding his nasal bone and staving in a large portion of the frontal bone before erupting from the back of his head. A reeking flux of blood and brain spattered onto the side window behind him, propelled by the speeding bullet.
Mitchell holstered the weapon turned and scurried back to the waiting Peugeot.
'Move,' he snapped.
Carter turned in his seat, affording himself a rapid glance over his shoulder at the two dead policemen. The Sierra's windscreen looked as if it had been draped with a crimson curtain.
'I said move,' Mitchell repeated angrily.
Carter put the car in gear and drove forward towards the stream of traffic. A car blocking his path hastily reversed, the driver having seen what had happened to the occupants of the Sierra and anxious not to share their fate. He skidded backwards, ramming into the front of the vehicle behind him.
Carter put his foot down and managed to buffet his way through the narrow gap, slamming on the brakes as a taxi came roaring at him from the other direction. The squeal of tyres mingled with the sound of blaring hooters as Carter twisted the wheel and sent the Peugeot hurtling into the traffic, away from the bullet-blasted bodies in the white car.
He swung left, then right, anxious to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of the shooting. The whole area' would be swarming with coppers soon. He just hoped that Riley hadn't managed to call any back-up before Mitchell blew his head off. When no sirens sounded and no marked cars came screeching after them, the driver relaxed slightly. He turned into a narrow street at the rear of some shops and stepped hard on the brake, almost causing Mitchell to fall from the back seat.
Carter turned, his face scarlet with rage.
'What the fuck are you doing shooting coppers?' he roared. 'Once the Old Bill find out what happened they'll close up London tighter than a fish's arse. They'll watch every move. You can't kill Sullivan now.'
'All the more reason to hurry,' Mitchell insisted.
Carter shook his head.
'You want to kill him, you drive the fucking car yourself,' he said, pushing the drivers' door open and clambering out.
'Where are you going?' shouted the hit man.
Carter kept on walking, hands dug deep into his pockets.
'Come back,' Mitchell bellowed.
The driver didn't turn. He reached the end of the street and disappeared around a comer.
Mitchell waited a moment, his breath coming in angry grunts, then walked around to the other side of the car, slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
Fifty-One
Carter didn't know how long he'd wandered the streets of London. He'd glanced at his watch only once since leaving Mitchell that morning. Now it was mid-afternoon and Carter sat in the office of the Mayfair casino sipping a drink, glancing around the room at the other men who stood there watching and listening.
Detective Inspector Peter Thorpe had arrived less than twenty minutes ago. The policeman looked angry and flustered and his mood was reflected in his voice as he spoke.
Harrison remained on the other side of his desk as if using the piece of furniture as some kind of barrier between himself and the DI.
Joe Duggan slouched in one corner of the room puffing away at a roll-up.
Billy Stripes sat on a chair close to Carter, occasionally touching the three scars which decorated his face like fleshy tattoos.
Damien Drake pulled at the lobe of his ear, his eyes fixed on the tableau before him.
'This killing has got to stop now, Harrison,' Thorpe said angrily. 'What gives you the right to slaughter every other bloody gang boss in the city? I told you I wouldn't be able to protect you if you started anything like this.'
'It wasn't me who started it,' Harrison reminded him. 'It was me who nearly got killed when that restaurant was bombed, my men who were getting blown away. Someone else started it. I'm finishing it.' He took a sip of his drink. 'Besides, I don't see any coppers beating my door down to arrest me. How can you prove I've got anything to do with it?'
'There's only you and Sullivan left alive,' Thorpe told him.
'Then talk to Sullivan.'
'I don't need to talk to Sullivan,' Thorpe said. 'I'm talking to you and I'm telling you, call that mad bastard off, whoever he is.'
Harrison was on his feet in seconds, one powerful hand grabbing at Thorpe, gripping the policeman's collar.
'I've told you before, Thorpe,' he snarled. 'Don't tell me what to do.' The gang boss pushed the DI away and Thorpe was lucky not to overbalance. He opened his mouth to say something but Harrison continued, 'You tried your way and it didn't work. My way seems to be working very nicely.'
'Knocking over your rivals is one thing but when it comes to him blowing away my men, that's a different matter,' Thorpe countered.
Harrison merely shrugged.
'I told you to keep them off my back,' he said.
'And I told you I couldn't protect you if you started a gang war. It wasn't me who sent men to cover the members of your firm. I've got the commissioner breathing down my neck for a result on this. I'm telling you, Harrison, if your hit man doesn't lay off, you'll go down.' The policeman turned to look at the other men in the room. 'All of you.'
'Well if we do, you'll come with us,' Harrison assured him.
Carter got to his feet and glared at Harrison.
'He's right, Frank. Mitchell's a fucking nutter,' he announced. 'Everyone knows you don't shoot at the law.'
Harrison turned slowly and looked at the younger man.
'If you don't like it, Ray, then get out,' he said quietly.
The two men locked stares in silence until Billy Stripes spoke.
'I agree with him, Frank. Mitchell should have known better than to kill a copper. We're not going to be able to breathe after this. The slightest move and the law will be on us like a ton of hot horse-shit.'
Harrison regarded the two men impassively for a moment and then raised his eyebrows, as if that simple gesture were his only acknowledgement of their grievance. He tapped gently on the desk top.
'So, are you trying to tell me I made a mistake?' he said irritably. 'Are you trying to tell me I should have let those other fuckers walk all over me? Take over my manor?' He shook his head reproachfully. 'I always credited you two with a bit more guts.'
'It's got nothing to do with guts, Frank,' snapped Carter.' Mitchell's a maniac.'
'And I told you that as soon as he'd taken care of things, we'd take care of him, didn't I? Look, he's got to come here to get his money, right? Well, he won't be leaving with it.'
Harrison smiled and looked across at Joe Duggan who tapped the butt of his pistol and nodded. 'Like I said, when the business is finished so is Mitchell.'
There was a knock on the door.
Harrison shouted for whoever was outside to enter.
McAuslan stuck his head round the door.
'Someone to see you, Frank,' he said, but before Harrison could speak the visitor had pushed past McAuslan into the room.
David Mitchell strode towards Harrison's desk, the attaché case held in one hand, a large plastic bag in the other.
He seemed oblivious of the presence of the other men in the room. The hit man merely looked directly at Harrison and put down his attaché case.
; He took hold of the plastic bag and upended it.
'It's over,' said Mitchell, stepping back.
The severed head of Derek Sullivan rolled out of the bag coming to rest on the bloodied stump, the eyes still open, fixing Harrison in an unblinking stare.
Mitchell glanced at the head and then back at Harrison.
'You owe me some money.'
Fifty-Two
She thought it must be a wrong number.
Tina had picked up the phone but heard nothing at the other end. She assumed that the caller had realized they'd reached the wrong number and hung up. She replaced the receiver and returned to her bedroom where she continued packing. It was a careful, cautious process but, so far, she'd managed to secrete most of her wardrobe in the attic of the flats. The couple who lived in the apartment opposite her were in Greece for a month's holiday so there were no prying eyes to watch her on her journeys up and down the ladder to the dusty attic, dragging her suitcases with her.
The phone rang again.
Tina crossed the room and lifted the receiver.
'Hello,' she said.
Silence.
She repeated herself.
Still there was only silence at the other end.
She muttered something under her breath and put the phone down once more.
It rang within seconds and she snatched it up, not speaking this time, just listening.
At the other end she heard the unmistakeable sound of low, muted breathing.
'If this is a dirty phone call then you might as well start breathing more heavily than that,' she said. 'And by the way, this phone is attached to an answering machine so everything you say will be recorded ...'
The line went dead.
Tina smiled to herself, satisfied with her small victory.
The phone rang yet again almost as soon as she replaced the receiver.
She snatched it up angrily.
'Now listen you bastard,' she began but the words trailed off as she turned towards the door, the receiver still gripped in her fist.
The handle of the front door was being turned slowly.