“Metropolitan police,” the man said. “Get in the car, please.”
He put his arm across Megan’s back and guided her to the car – where another man had opened the rear door – and, without putting up any resistance, she sat inside. The men got back into the car and they drove towards Centre Point and Tottenham Court Road. Then just before the junction with Euston Road they pulled into a quiet side street and stopped.
The drive had given Megan time to regain composure and she was now fully alert.
“What do you want?” she asked.
The brown-haired man turned to her. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Elliott Chan, and this is Detective Inspector Nigel Walkden. We are part of the Metropolitan Police Specialist Crime & Operations Unit. Two days ago a known international criminal named Roberto Vialli arrived at Heathrow Airport, and it was our brief to keep an eye on him. See what he’s up to, why he’s here … that sort of thing. Then we see you and your two friends meet for a drink with him, and when you leave he sends a couple of his boys with you. Now I’m guessing you didn’t really want that because you go into the theatre, and not long after you’re running across Shaftesbury Avenue like you’ve seen the Ghost of Christmas Past. You’re obviously trying to get away from them. So what’s going on?”
Megan’s jaw clenched. “Is Mr Vialli wanted for any crimes in this country?”
“No.”
“And am I under suspicion of being involved in anything illegal?”
“No.”
“Then I’m getting out of this car.”
The detective put his arm across the door. “Wait a minute. What’s your name?”
“Megan.”
“Okay, Megan. First things first. We aren’t here to give you any kind of hassle. Vialli isn’t someone you want to mess with, and if you’re on the run from him then you’re going to need all the friends you can get. And we are your friends. No one is accusing you of anything. We only want to help … You do know who Roberto Vialli is?”
“He’s the Mafia.”
“Yes, he’s the Mafia all right. And if you’re going on the run from them it won’t work because they will find you. What you need to do is tell me how you know him. What was discussed and why he sent his goons with you … Do you have something he wants?”
“He’s good,” thought Megan, and felt like crying and telling him all about Naples, about Luigi, Bruno the priest, the Scarpones, and Roberto Vialli’s treachery … but these past few days had changed her, and now she was playing by a new set of rules: be suspicious of everyone, and make sure you’re as cunning as they are.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Give me a ride to Wimbledon and I’ll tell you everything.”
Chapter Twelve
Tigran Sadorian and Angelo Tardelli sat in the back seat of the silver Mercedes, which was driven by Angelo’s trusted colleague and friend Caesar Magri.
Caesar was a big man – 224 pounds of solid muscle sculptured into a six foot four frame – and even though he was only thirty-six years old he was a veteran Mafia enforcer. He had reached this height and size at the age of fifteen, and had been a boy prodigy in the arena of intimidation and violence. He’d been shot four times, stabbed twice, hit with broken bottles – and slashed with a samurai sword, which had taken a piece of his arm and the little finger from his left hand. Yet none of these events had slowed him down and he still favoured close-quarter combat, where he was equally skilled with his hands or with a knife.
Angelo and Tigran had met the day after the Walter Monreal hit, and although it had annoyed Angelo that Walter’s boyfriend had not been present to meet the same fate as his partner it had still been a good night. Almost simultaneously two other Armenians had taken care of Ian Spencer, the architect involved in the Manchester development. The assassins had entered Ian’s London apartment and injected him with an overdose of crack cocaine, which completed the suicide theme.
The two central characters instrumental in the project had been removed, and Angelo Tardelli was ready to take their place. The land was owned by two legitimate companies. They were the ones who would make the money, which was then to be washed and paid to Walter’s hidden offshore accounts … only Walter wasn’t there any more, so who was going to complain if the money never arrived?
The manipulative MP had been too clever for his own good. He had made it virtually impossible to unravel the web of companies and accounts and, also unbeknown to Walter, the financial genius setting it all up was on the Mafia’s payroll … and this was always going to be how it would end. The upfront company shares were equally divided between Walter and the Mafia accountant. They would buy the rest of the shares from the widow Monreal, who would be more than happy to take the cash and live a stress-free life away from the public eye – and if she proved difficult they would simply make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
Everything was falling into place nicely, and only one other obstacle had to be removed. Walter had made it clear to Angelo that he had thrown in with a consortium that was made up of East End gangsters and, in his words, they were well equipped to take care of anybody. Angelo had been doing his homework on the gang, its leaders, and its reputation. The head was a notorious London criminal by the name of George Breckell who, along with his brothers and a group of other cronies from various violent backgrounds, controlled most of North and East London. George was an old school upfront aggressor who had been top dog for over two decades – and, although quite a few had tried, no one had even come close to getting the better of him.
Angelo had contacted George as soon as the MP and the architect’s deaths had been made public. Both were reported as suicides but anyone involved in the Manchester project knew differently, including George. Angelo had explained the Mafia connection and offered a new working relationship and a bright future for all. He’d asked for a get-together to decide how to progress, with the Breckells suggesting a rendezvous at a gentlemen’s club in Hackney. This was on their patch and an ideal location for a trap, a possibility Angelo and Tigran were fully aware of. Nevertheless, they were on their way to the meeting.
Angelo and Caesar were laughing and joking, speaking in Italian, with a total disregard for Tigran. This didn’t bother the Armenian. He was a man of few words, and had his own thoughts to consider as the cars made their way through the streets of Shoreditch – which was now a mixture of trendy converted warehouses set among the seedy back alleys of Victorian vice, and which was still well frequented by ladies of the night.
It was a miserable grey day. The early morning mist had been followed by sheets of fine rain that fell without a break, and through the rapid chatter of the Italians Tigran listened to the repetitive swish of the windscreen wipers. He tried to stop images of his youth flashing across his mind. Once he had been young, but he had never been a child. His life had been a constant struggle against adversity, and he had always lived with the threat of death never far away. The Armenian people had been through many massacres and if anyone had a right to want revenge on the world, it was them … and Tigran Sadorian wanted revenge.
He was suddenly aware that the Italians had ceased their jabbering, and that the car had stopped. Angelo gave him a slap on the back. “Are you ready, my friend?”
Tigran grunted, and they stepped on to the cracked pavement and pressed the doorbell of the club. Rain was trickling from the yellow awning over the brown hardwood door and falling in several little waterfalls, so there was no way to avoid it. Tigran watched the thin lines of water as they danced in front of his eyes and thought,
“Why would anyone choose to have the door to a club painted in monkey-shit brown? It would be far better if it was a bright colour: far more welcoming.” He shook his head and said, “Some people have no idea how to run a business.”
Angelo turned to him and quizzically asked, “What?”
Tigran smiled. “Nothing.”
Then the door opened and they were waved in by a thin, shifty-looking guy in a crumpled sui
t. They walked past a reception desk, then down three steps and into the club area. Tigran Sadorian walked alongside Caesar Magri, and they looked a terrifying pair. They were followed closely by Angelo and the other eight Armenians.
It was an open-plan room with a bar on the left and a stage on the right. The stage had a silver pole in the centre which ran from floor to ceiling and a solitary chair at the side. At the edge of the stage was an opening covered by a beaded curtain, which led the way to two small rooms used for private dances.
The rest of the area was a dance floor which normally housed a selection of seats scattered randomly around, but for today’s meeting these seats had been moved apart. A space had been made in the centre, and the tables and chairs faced each other across this no-man’s-land. The chairs at the far side were full of the East End’s most wanted … thirty-two serious-looking gangsters with arms folded: an array of villainy meant to unnerve any foe – but Angelo and Caesar had been in this situation many times, from Miami to Milan, and it didn’t faze them in the slightest.
The man sitting most forward of the East End group motioned for Angelo to sit. The Italian picked the widest chair available to cram his stocky frame into, while Caesar and the Armenians remained standing.
“I’m George Breckell and these are my brothers, Gary and Stan,” said the gangster, in a voice that sounded like gravel being turned in a concrete mixer. “The rest of these boys, like us, all have interests in this part of London. Now you mugs are stepping on our toes – and if you want a fucking war, you’ve got it.”
Angelo smiled benignly. “Yes, George, we are prepared for war.”
Several of the men around the East End group put their hands inside their jackets and felt the handles of their guns. Jack the badger Sullivan put his finger on the trigger of the shotgun by his side and Harry ‘Chopper’ Hastings gripped the shaft of the axe on his lap.
Angelo raised his left hand in a sign of peace. “Let me continue. We don’t want a slice of London, but we do want all of the Manchester development. The politician lied to you. He never owned anything. All the contracts are in our name, and it just so happens that Walter Monreal’s position at the department of business development will be offered to another fine English gentleman … who just so happens to be a good friend of mine. So everything proceeds as before, but you are no longer part of the deal.”
The way his face was beaming with rage George Breckell looked like he’d fallen asleep under a sunlamp. “Is this what you’ve come to fucking tell us? Is this your idea of fucking working together? You fucking ignorant Eyetie.”
Angelo smiled benignly, “George, we will work together … just not on this deal. London is a big place. You must have enemies …?” And he waited for a reply.
Eventually George responded. “There’re plenty of ’em. So what? We all have friends, and we all have fucking enemies. That’s how it fucking goes.”
“Well, George,” said Angelo. “We would like to help you dispose of those enemies, and live a life that only contains friends. We can work together to take over the whole of London – and even beyond – carving it up equally as we go.”
“Why us?” asked Gary Breckell.
“Because we can’t do it alone, and neither could you, but together – and with your local knowledge – we can destroy anyone who stands in our way.”
“But I’ll ask again,” said Gary. “Why us?”
“We’ve done our homework,” said Angelo. “Your part of London is well controlled, and you have a reputation. We feel your organisation is the one that we would like to work with.”
“And what if we say fucking no?” said George.
Angelo hunched up his shoulders. “I hope that doesn’t happen and you can see, as I do, the fantastic opportunities ahead.”
“And if it does happen?” George persisted.
Angelo stood up. “Then you will have another enemy. One like you have never seen before.”
“We’ve seen it all before,” said George, and glanced at the beaded curtains by the stage. He was about to nod his head, but before the muscles could move one of the Armenians had lifted a Uzi fanpop semi-automatic and was firing through the curtains. Broken beads flew like shrapnel and the body of a man, still holding an M14 rifle, tumbled to the floor.
The Breckell brothers leapt to their feet and went for their guns. Angelo dropped on one knee and shot George Breckell four times: twice in the chest, once in the shoulder, and once in the face. Caesar had shot Gary before he could even get his gun out, and two of the Armenians had both opened fire on Stan Breckell with their Uzis, spinning him around like a crazed puppet desperately trying to free itself from entangled strings.
This had all happened in seconds and now the smoke was rising and the East End gangland fraternity were staring at a row of guns, none of them sure what to do next.
Harry Hastings was a nutter. He’d spent three-quarters of his entire life in prison, and had only been released two weeks earlier after completing eight years of a twelve-year sentence for manslaughter. Unbelievably, he’d been cleared by the parole board as being completely rehabilitated with a new-found sense of restraint.
Chopper didn’t think twice. With raised axe, and screaming like a Viking warrior, he ran at Angelo. He was quickly only seven feet away, and his axe was coming down, when Tigran stepped in between them and stuck his hunting knife into Harry’s heart. The axe fell to the floor and Tigran twisted the knife. There was no need to do that: Harry was already dead. Now it was only the knife that was holding him up, and in one movement Tigran withdrew the blade and pushed the dead man away. Harry Hastings fell backward like a toppled tree, straight and true, and his head smashed into the floor with a loud bang. The sickening noise of his head splitting apart rooted the gangsters where they sat, and one by one they pulled their hands away from their jackets.
Angelo looked at Tigran. “Thanks for that, but I could have just shot him.”
Tigran shrugged, as if to say, “But that had more impact,” and he was right. They had emphatically made their point. With the Breckells lying dead there were no natural leaders left, and Angelo reiterated why they were here.
“You all understand what has happened. The development in question is now out of bounds. I imagine it was the Breckells’ idea anyway, and I can’t see any of you being that concerned with something happening in Manchester. In any case you will have your hands full hanging on to your existing territories when other gangs learn that your bosses are dead. You concentrate on that and forget we were ever here.
“You will dispose of these bodies quickly. The death certificates will say, ‘Accident … it happened at a construction site … a section of scaffolding fell on them’. That is what you will tell the police, or anyone else who asks. If anyone speaks our name we will hear about it, and we will find you, and from that moment on nothing or no one will be able to save you.”
Angelo turned his back on the seated men. They were no threat now, and he walked out towards the reception desk. Then he realised Tigran wasn’t at his side. He looked around and saw him appear from a side door. Angelo held out his arms and shrugged, which is Italian for, “Where were you?”
“Just looking around,” said Tigran.
Angelo noticed that Tigran was holding a briefcase, and made a mental note to question him later. But for now he just shook his head at Caesar … and then they and the Armenians climbed back into their limos and sped away to their respective safe houses to once again disappear, exactly as Zico Scarpone had planned it.
Chapter Thirteen
Detective Chief Inspector Elliott Chan had dropped Megan off in Wimbledon opposite the coffee shop where she was to meet Chrissie and Brenda, and as soon as the car stopped her spirits were lifted when she saw their faces at the cafe window.
During the journey she’d talked incessantly, seeming to be telling a lot but actually not disclosing too much. The detective had grown on her and did seem a genuine guy, but what could the police do
to help them? This was the Mafia they were dealing with, and once they put a contract out on your life you are beyond protection.
She told him they had some information regarding one of the families, but didn’t mention it was stored on a USB stick that was now in a safety deposit box at Victoria station. There were enough people trying to get their hands on that damn thing, and she didn’t want to add to the list. The USB was like the ring in Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings: it changed everyone who came across it. Even Luigi and Roberto – people they had trusted – had turned into scheming deceivers who were quite happy to put the girls’ lives at risk as long as they got what they wanted.
She told the inspector that there had been an attempt on their lives, and that both the Scarpones and Viallis seemed to want them dead. He had offered to take them into protective custody if they would give evidence against the man with the scar, but that didn’t seem a good deal. There was no way they could make a conviction stick, and even if they did the Mafia would have a hundred men with scars ready to take his place.
She didn’t mention Luigi or their gullible forays into blackmail, only that they knew something about one of the families – something they wished they could simply erase and it would all be forgotten. They were trapped in a snakepit and couldn’t see any way out.
The detective recognised she was just a normal girl caught up in a nightmare. He seemed to want to help – but Megan knew his plan would probably be to entice Vialli out into the open, using the girls as bait. He wanted a conviction, and attempted murder would be a good one … or actual murder better still.
See Naples and Die Page 10