by Lee Weeks
‘Did they scrape Eddie Butcher back up okay?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Just about,’ Willis replied. ‘It would have been funny, except it wasn’t.’
‘Oh, believe me, it made us smile, didn’t it, Robbo?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Robbo hid a grin behind a cough.
Pam, at the third desk in the room, peered from around the side of her monitor and scowled at Robbo and Carter in turn.
Carter held up his hands in the air.
‘Apologies, Pam.’
Pam was a civilian who worked mainly on collating data from the Internet and monitoring social media groups for investigations. She and Robbo had worked together for twenty years, since back in the day when Robbo was a serving police officer before he was forced to take retirement and chose to retrain as a crime analyst.
Willis took off her jacket and threw it over the back of the chair then dropped the black peak cap onto the desk.
Carter looked at it in disgust.
‘Where did you get that?’ he asked. ‘I couldn’t work out what you looked like: tired single parent or drug dealer.’
‘Lost property. I was going for a bit of both.’
‘Well, put it in the bin, for Christ’s sake.’
Willis moved it from on top of the desk to underneath it. She intended to keep it.
Carter swung round in his chair, stood and went across to help himself to a coffee from the cafetière on top of the filing cabinet.
Willis opened up the post-mortem report on Eddie Butcher.
She read out loud, ‘No alcohol, no drugs. No food in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten for twelve hours.’ She stood and went across to pin up a photo of Eddie Butcher from the post-mortem. ‘Cause of death – still awaiting results on the organs. He was reverse-hung,’ she said, ‘with his hands tied behind his back by the wrists; then he was suspended. It caused his shoulders to dislocate.’
‘Strappado,’ said Robbo. ‘It’s a recognised form of torture, normally accompanied by electric-shock treatment. The Colombians love it.’
Willis pinned up the photographs of small pairs of wounds around the genitalia of the victim.
‘Two electrode points which caused fifty-eight injury sites of second-degree burns made by a Taser-type machine.’ She added a close-up of Eddie Butcher’s left hand. ‘Nails were pulled, probably using point-edged pliers.’
‘Nasty. So they came prepared?’ Carter said, as he swivelled in his chair and watched her pin up the photos. ‘Very professional. If this was done for fun, then they make a habit of it. If this was for information, pretty sure they would have found out what they needed to know.’
‘That’s if he knew the answers to their questions,’ answered Robbo. ‘For a man who builds houses for a living, he’s died a pretty violent death. He must have pissed off some South American cartel to get his tongue dragged through his neck.’
‘Builds houses using what kind of money?’ asked Carter. ‘Laundered? Stolen? I suppose that’s the question. You can take the man out of the villainous East End, but can you take the East End villain out of the man? This isn’t your average property developer who might get a loan from the bank, this is a man who kick-started his career by stealing from other people.’
Pam stopped her typing to look up over her reading glasses.
‘Just found a photo of Eddie’s corpse on the Internet,’ she said. ‘He was still in the car park when this was taken.’
Carter went across to look at her screen.
‘Yeah, got to be one of the bin men; probably took a selfie, too. A photo was bound to be leaked to the press. It’s been a month since he was murdered. I’m surprised they waited this long,’ said Carter, walking back to his desk. ‘Sign of the times, I’m afraid.’
‘The bin men must see a lot of death,’ said Willis, as she stood back to study the images she’d pinned up so far. ‘Drug overdoses, homeless.’
‘Not usually tortured, with a bullet between the eyes and a tongue pulled through his neck.’ Carter sat upright and took a swig of coffee. He was watching the church on the screen. ‘Okay, here we go, they’re coming out.’
Willis and Robbo came across to look at Carter’s screen together.
‘There’s Laurence Butcher with Sandra now,’ said Robbo. ‘He’s always been a mummy’s boy. Not sure who’s supporting who. Sandra looks like she’s carrying him.’ Robbo squinted at the screen. ‘Those two women at the back, with hats, are Sandra’s sisters. Harold’s ex-wife, Lucinda, is there. Her kids: Harold’s stepkids.’
The family were thanking mourners outside the church as people passed them one by one. Della Butcher took her place at the end of the line of family members. She turned her head from the rain that was driving sideways, and the net across her face lifted in the wind.
‘Are any of Della Butcher’s family there?’ asked Willis.
‘No,’ answered Carter. ‘We’ll get a detailed list when Intel has had time to look at all this footage.’
‘His widow looks different from what I expected,’ said Willis. ‘I thought she’d be more of a footballer’s wife type, but she’s dressed a lot more discreetly than his mother Sandra with her fur-trimmed coat and diamonds. Plus, she looks young.’ Willis looked at her notes. ‘Eddie Butcher was what, fifty-two?’
‘She’s thirty-eight,’ answered Carter. ‘She married Eddie in 2004.’ Willis glanced across to see if Carter was reading the information, but he wasn’t.
They watched the coffin being loaded inside the hearse. It was now wrapped in a Union flag, to hide the damage done by the reversing wheels of the carriage.
‘I thought the immediate mourners are supposed to leave together, in the same car,’ said Willis. ‘Della’s gone in the one with Harold’s ex-wife. Is that significant?’
‘Yeah,’ said Carter, ‘that’s what she is to them now, an ex-wife, back of the queue.’
Robbo glanced across at Pam. ‘What’s their itinerary?’
‘From here, they’re going for a private burial in Chingford Cemetery. They have a plot near the Krays. Then they’re staying in the area for a wake in a country estate on the edge of Epping Forest. It’s a place called Giddewell Park.’
‘It’s a pretty low-key affair,’ said Willis. ‘Only the immediate relatives and close friends are invited. The family are staying the night there.’
Robbo looked at Carter. ‘Are you going out there?’
Carter shook his head. ‘I have no intention of driving out there. Plus, we’ve spent enough taxpayers’ money on policing the funeral. I don’t care if someone wants to shoot the lot of them.’
‘I think that’s interesting,’ said Willis. She had walked back across to the photos of Eddie Butcher’s injuries. ‘Someone killed him first then pulled the tongue through afterwards. It was as if they were slightly uncomfortable with killing him like that, so they dispatched him with a bullet.’
‘They might have run out of time,’ said Robbo as he walked across to join her.
‘But they definitely wanted us to know this had to do with the cartels. Cartels on British soil. Or British cartels?’
Chapter 4
Tony was still shaking with rage. The television screen was frozen on the anguished face of his mother Sandra cradling his brother’s corpse. Tony hadn’t moved from the spot for thirty minutes, then he heard the sound of the main gates opening. He took long slow breaths as he forced himself calm. He turned the television off and walked out to greet the people he was expecting. Two men got out of the car. One was Marco, a tall, blond mix of Dutch and Colombian: big-boned and sallow-skinned, with a man-bun and low-slung pinstriped trousers, a big-buckled designer belt and a black, open-chested shirt. The other was a Spaniard and shorter, dressed in a dark-blue business suit and tie; he was carrying a briefcase. Tony was watching from the hallway, his bare feet on the mosaic sundial.
‘Señor Francisco, thank you so much for coming.’
‘Not at all, Mr Butcher. It is my pleasure,’ the S
paniard answered Tony while staring at Tony’s bare feet and his scratched legs.
‘Marco?’ Tony said, by way of greeting the tall, ashen-haired man whose body proportions were all wrong, massive shovel-like hands, and a neck that was too spindly-looking to support such a big head. He had been working for Tony for the last six months. He was fast becoming indispensable: a feeder for Tony’s ambitions. No job was too dirty or too outrageous. No limits or boundaries that they couldn’t cross over together.
‘Drink, Señor Francisco?’ Tony asked.
‘We’ll go into my study,’ Tony said to Marco, who nodded his understanding.
‘Just some water, please.’
They walked towards the trophy room but turned left and entered an office, which was made to be as close to the Don’s office from the Godfather films as possible. Some of the props had been obtained straight from the set. Besides Tony’s oversized desk, set at an angle in the corner opposite the door, there was another, smaller desk, a drinks trolley, cabinets and bookcases, a leather sofa and two armchairs. The second door in the Don’s office, behind Tony’s desk, led down to the basement of the villa.
Tony closed the door behind them and poured some water from a decanter and passed it to Francisco. Beads of sweat had begun to appear on Francisco’s top lip and forehead.
‘How can I help, Mr Butcher?’ Francisco asked, sipping on the water and looking uneasy. ‘This is about your brother’s estate, I believe.’
Tony went behind his desk and sat down.
‘I have to be honest with you, Señor Francisco.’ Tony pointed to a seat and Francisco reluctantly accepted. Marco stayed where he was, standing between Francisco and the door. ‘I have asked you here for two reasons. One is my brother’s will and the other is a more delicate matter.’ Tony rested his forearms on the desk and breathed deeply as he smiled at Francisco.
‘You work for the Mendez cartel, don’t you?’
Francisco shook his head. Shocked, flustered, he turned to look for help Marco’s way. Marco smirked.
‘I don’t know that name, I’m sorry. I am a lawyer.’
‘You are also a bookkeeper for the Mendez cartel, here in Spain.’
‘There must be some mistake.’ He grinned nervously, looking for assistance again, but getting none.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Tony. ‘We pay into accounts at the banks here. Accounts ending in 563, 908 and 300. We pay in, you launder for the Mendez cartel, is that right?’
‘Absolutely not. I am a legitimate member of the legal profession. I have all sorts of clients. I cannot be sure what you’re asking me.’
‘I’m asking you where my money has gone for the latest shipment. We paid it in. Isn’t that so, Marco?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Now, it has disappeared and we are in deep trouble, through no fault of our own.’ Tony sat back and watched Francisco’s panic level rise.
‘Señor Butcher, I cannot help you with this.’ Francisco’s eyes were looking for a way out of the room that didn’t involve getting past Marco. ‘I would like to go now.’
Tony lifted his hands from the desk, palms open.
‘No, no. Please sit back down.’ Marco laid a hand on Francisco’s shoulder. ‘I apologise, unreservedly. My mistake.’ Tony smiled. ‘No hard feelings. Lo siento, señor, I was only joking, hombre.’ He laughed and Marco chuckled. Francisco tried to join them but nothing came out of his mouth. He took a sip of water and sat nervously.
‘I didn’t bring you here for that. Your firm has been dealing with my brother Eddie’s will?’
‘Yes, he left me with that honour, and please accept my sincere condolences for your loss. Your brother was a great man.’
‘He was an idiot.’
Marco giggled.
‘Sorry. Pardon, Mr Butcher.’
‘He was not right in the head when he made his will. I want you to look into my brother’s estate again; I have drawn up a new will. I will make sure everything’s fair and you’ll get a million euros for your trouble. I want you to sign over every asset he has to me.’
‘A new will?’
‘Correct. He made a new will, who knew?’ Tony picked up a bunch of papers from the top of his desk and fluttered them in the air. ‘I just need you to sign it off.’
‘With all due respect, Señor Butcher, that is not something I can do. There are procedures to follow. The will we made for Eddie is a legal document.’
‘And we are going to make another legal document right here.’
‘I cannot do that.’
‘Okay, all right, I understand your reluctance.’ Tony stood, smiled. ‘Marco, we will show Señor Francisco out and, at the same time, show him what we found to help him understand how important this is to me. It is just a small thing I think we should bring to his attention.’
‘This way,’ Marco said as he waited for Francisco to get to his feet and then he ushered him forwards, towards the door behind Tony’s desk. Tony led the way down a narrow passageway and to a flight of stairs and down into the garage beneath the house. As they walked through the forecourt, Francisco tried to make conversation: ‘You have many cars, Señor Butcher?’
Tony didn’t reply as he speeded up, weaving through the covered luxury cars, until he stopped at the back of the garage, at the control room.
He nodded to Marco who unlocked the door and stood back to show Francisco what was inside. A small girl was sitting on the floor, tied by her neck to a gas cylinder.
Francisco lunged forward with a scream of anguish.
‘No, not my daughter!’
Chapter 5
‘Eddie was found dumped in a car park in Old Street,’ Robbo said, ‘at five in the morning on November the 6th. He’d been dead for between two and three hours. He was last seen by his brother Harold at ten the morning before. In his statement he says they had breakfast together in the Baramba Café on Shoreditch High Street. After that, at ten minutes past ten, they separated. We know he didn’t drive anywhere because his hire car was still in the car park.’
Robbo stood in front of the timeline.
‘How did Harold seem when you interviewed him?’ Robbo asked Willis.
‘Tired, hard-faced, a man used to flicking a switch. He said Eddie left him to go and see a client.’
‘Even if you’re late building someone’s extension, you don’t expect to get tortured and executed,’ said Robbo.
‘I suppose we have to remember what kind of clientele he builds them for,’ Carter said. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘He builds villas for Mafia bosses, drug barons, wealthy villains.’
‘And, for huge money,’ added Pam, ‘although, according to his tax returns in the last two years, he’s not earning the money he was.’ She continued scrolling through data on her screen.
‘What, millions instead of billions?’ Robbo asked as he took his bag of Haribo sweets away from Willis, whose hand was wedged inside it. Willis and Robbo shared an addiction to sugar.
‘Eight years ago his property company was worth three million, but it registered a loss last year. I’ve got a list of all the projects he’s been working on,’ said Pam. ‘Not one of these villas is worth less than five million quid. And that’s a cheapy. The outlay on them must be massive and, from the look of his books, he doesn’t get a deposit,’ added Pam. ‘This is all done on trust. It’s easy to go wrong.’
‘It’s also easy to hide a lot of expenses,’ said Robbo. ‘These are going to be people who turn up to buy a house with cash in suitcases.’
‘We took a statement from his general manager, Billy Manson, two weeks ago,’ said Willis. ‘He said that business was as good as it had ever been, just that getting money from rich people was tricky sometimes and that they had always to pay for materials up front. Sometimes there was a lean period.’
‘That’s a lesson on how to become rich,’ said Robbo. ‘Hang on to every penny.’ He slid his chair along the length of his desk to reach his cup of coffee. ‘Or, alterna
tively, steal diamonds and then buy a business building villas for other people who steal diamonds, sell drugs, traffic people, et cetera, et cetera.’
‘Presumably,’ said Pam, ‘Eddie’s supplying legitimate products to fit out these villas, and they come from legit companies with bookkeepers and accountants to answer to. And, when you’re putting in such high specs I guess it’s possible to lose a lot of money very quickly. I mean a few solid platinum baths go missing and you’re down a few hundred thousand.’
‘Does Manson check out?’ asked Carter, addressing Willis while keeping one eye on his screen.
‘There is nothing on him,’ answered Willis. ‘He’s worked for Paradise Villas for the last fifteen years, since it started. He seems to have got on well with Eddie. There’s nothing written down to the contrary. He seemed really upset about Eddie’s death. It was hard to get him to compose himself.’
‘Eddie had made more visits to the UK in the last two months than he’d made in the previous two years. Did Manson have an answer for that?’
Willis shook her head. ‘He said it could have been something to do with the family; it wasn’t to do with work. Work was going well.’
A figure passed by the window overlooking the corridor outside Robbo’s office and Chief Inspector Bowie walked in. He was not usually immaculate, but today his suit had been carefully chosen. Today he knew he would be under scrutiny. Carter was the SIO but he had the look on his face of a man beginning to feel the pressure. He would be the one to face the press. He had allowed the funeral of a notorious gangster to go ahead. The press were after some answers and he agreed to be interviewed on the evening news and explain what happened at the funeral.
‘You better prepare me a statement to give to the hyenas,’ he said. ‘Did we get what we wanted?’ he asked as Willis offered him a seat. He declined it. He was looking at Carter for an answer.
‘It’s too early to have a full list of people of interest yet, sir,’ answered Carter. ‘But I am confident it will all have been worth it, despite the scuffles at the end.’
‘What was the reason for all that?’