Gray hung up the phone as two men entered. Both were dressed in designer jeans and could have been twins, though one appeared to be a few years older. They stopped at a display of strawberries and pretended to browse.
‘Can I help you?’ Ken asked.
‘It’s all right,’ the younger one said. ‘Serve this guy first.’
‘I’m not a customer, I’m his business partner,’ Gray lied.
The pair came over to the counter.
‘Then you’ll know about our arrangement,’ the elder one said.
Aiden Hart, Gray guessed, as the young man gave him a once-over.
‘I know this guy from somewhere,’ said the other, whom Gray suspected was Aiden’s younger brother.
‘My name’s Tom Gray. I guess you’ve heard of me.’
Aiden nodded. He had a confident manner, and didn’t seem overwhelmed by his present company. ‘Yeah, we know you. In fact, we all cheered when that bomb went off. Shame you managed to live through it.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Gray said. ‘Ken’s explained your proposition to me.’
He pulled his wallet out and extracted a bundle of twenty-pound notes. He counted some off and handed them over.
‘Glad you’re seeing sense,’ Aiden said as he accepted the money, but Gray held on to it.
‘Here’s my counter offer. That’s five hundred. Take it as a token offering, but I don’t want you coming back here. Ever.’
He let go of the money and Aiden toyed with it for a while before putting it in his pocket.
‘We’re not the bunch of petty criminals you’re used to dealing with, Gray. I know your history, but compared to us you’re just a boy scout.’
While he spoke, his brother slowly eased around his sibling, but Gray had half an eye on him, and when the punch was thrown he was ready for it. He ducked his head to one side and the blow failed to connect, and while little brother remained off balance, he delivered an uppercut which caught him square on the chin. He didn’t have time to see him fall to the floor as his brother joined in.
While the younger Hart was all muscle, Aiden added speed to the equation. His punch connected with the side of Gray’s face and stunned him, but he knew that if he went down the fight would be over. He managed to keep his feet and threw a punch of his own but Hart dodged it easily and body-slammed him onto a table laden with potatoes.
Gray had the wind knocked out of him and was struggling to breathe as blow after blow landed on his rib cage. He managed to swing a leg and connected with Aiden’s crotch, but the strike didn’t halt the onslaught for long. More punches landed, with Aiden switching skilfully between Gray’s head and midriff as he lay almost helpless on the display table. Gray did what he could to protect his body and lashed out whenever possible, but the fight was getting away from him.
Ken had been stunned into inactivity by the sudden attack, and it took him some time to react. He grabbed the pole used for retracting the awning outside his shop and swung it as hard as he could. It hit Aiden on the back of the head and he slumped forward before collapsing to the floor.
Gray struggled upright, his face already badly bruised and swollen.
‘I’m not sure that was a good idea,’ Hatcher said, shaking slightly as adrenaline coursed through his body.
Gray agreed, and dug into Aiden’s pocket to retrieve his money.
‘I think you’d better call the police,’ he said, and Hatcher pulled out his mobile while Gray dealt with the Harts. Sean Hart, according to the ID that Gray found in his wallet, was trying to get to his feet. He got a kick in the ribs for his effort, which quickly changed his mind. The older brother was out cold, and Gray hoped he’d remain that way until the authorities arrived.
After telling Gray that the police and ambulance were on their way, Hatcher began picking up vegetables from the floor.
‘Leave them,’ Gray told him. ‘This is a crime scene now. Plod won’t want you touching anything.’
It was another eight minutes before the patrol car pulled up, closely followed by the paramedics. During that time Gray had cleaned himself up, but blood still seeped from the wound above his eye and his face had puffed up considerably.
While the ambulance crew tended to the Hart brothers, Gray gave one of the officers his account of what had happened. Hatcher also gave a statement and, as instructed by Tom, told the whole truth, including the initial visit by Hart senior.
After the Harts were led away—Sean to a police car in cuffs and his brother on a stretcher—Gray was given an exam by a paramedic. He initially declined the offer of a visit to the hospital, but when told that he’d probably cracked at least two ribs, he knew he had to get them seen to.
First, though, he had to make a phone call.
‘Aw, come on!’
Three minutes into the game and Frank Wallace’s team were already a goal down. He cracked open his third can of lager just as his mobile phone started ringing, tearing him away from the Monday night football. The ringtone told him it was his backup phone, which meant only one caller.
‘Wallace.’
‘What the fuck are my sons doing in your cells?’
Not many people spoke to the Detective Inspector in such a manner—his ex-wife being the first to learn that lesson—but William Hart was the exception.
‘I had no idea they’d been picked up, Bill. What are they supposed to have done?’
‘Aiden said they got jumped by Tom Gray, of all people.’
‘The Tom Gray?’
‘No, his next door neighbour. Of course, the Tom Gray! Christ, Frank, for a top copper, you’re not too fucking smart.’
Wallace let the remark slide. ‘There’s not a lot I can do tonight. If I turn up at the station, questions will be asked. It won’t hurt the boys to spend a night in the custody suite.’
The response almost shattered his eardrum. ‘If I wanted them to spend a night in the cells I wouldn’t be on the phone to a fucking moron right now!’
William Hart could be a cultured conversationalist, but when angered, his East End roots began to show.
‘Tell me what they’re supposed to have done,’ Wallace said, trying to defuse the situation.
Hart calmed down slightly, but the rage was still obvious in his voice as he gave Aiden’s account of what had happened earlier in the evening.
The DI knew Bill’s son wouldn’t be telling the whole truth. If there was one thing he knew about Tom Gray, it was the man’s animosity towards the criminal element. Having said that, he thought it unlikely that Gray would launch an unprovoked attack on two men who were, by Aiden’s account, simply shopping for apples.
‘So what was he really doing there?’ he asked, knowing he risked angering Hart once more. ‘If Gray had kicked this off, he’d be the one in the cell, not Aiden.’
‘He was doing a collection,’ Hart admitted.
That made a lot more sense.
‘I can’t go down to the station,’ Wallace reiterated, ‘but I’ll go and have a word with Gray and see if I can get him to drop the charges.’
‘You’d better,’ Hart said. ‘Try St. Michael’s hospital. He was still there when Aiden was discharged.’
The phone went dead and Wallace hit a button on his remote to record the football game while he was out. After a quick wash and toothbrush he locked his flat and climbed into his car, a six-year-old Ford. With the money Hart was paying him to keep the family out of prison, he could easily have afforded something better, but stupidity like that got you noticed. Instead, the money was squirrelled away for his retirement in a sunny climate; meanwhile, he lived on his police salary.
Gray was just finishing up his statement when Wallace arrived at the hospital. It was just after nine when the detective flashed his badge at the A & E receptionist, who directed him to Gray’s cubicle. A row of beds lined one wall of the unit, each separated by plastic curtains, and Wallace found Gray in the second from the end.
A uniformed officer was nursing a ven
ding machine coffee. Wallace introduced himself to both of them.
‘Fetch us a coffee, son.’
The policeman knew it wasn’t a request and disappeared down the hall.
‘National Crime Agency?’ Gray asked, when they were alone. ‘Why would you be interested in a punch-up?’
Wallace took a seat next to the bed. ‘The people you had a ruckus with are currently the subjects of a sensitive investigation, and your little exchange couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time.’
Gray felt the bruising around his right eye. ‘I’m sorry if this was inconvenient for you, but it wasn’t exactly something I had planned when I woke up this morning.’
‘I quite understand, but if you proceed with your complaint, it could put us back eighteen months.’
‘You want me to drop the charges?’ Gray asked, astounded. He pointed to his face. ‘Am I supposed to pretend this didn’t happen?’
‘If you press charges, we’d have to prosecute with the evidence we have, and that’s not enough to guarantee a conviction. If you do as I ask, we’ll get them eventually, and your testimony will prove extremely helpful when the time comes.’
The idea didn’t sit well with Gray, but he appreciated the detective’s stance. He’d seen enough news reports to know that taking down criminal gangs could take years, and he couldn’t afford to let his personal feelings hamper their investigation. However, one thing troubled him.
‘Okay, let’s say I drop the charges,’ he said. ‘What guarantee do I have that they won’t come back to the shop tomorrow?’
‘Trust me, I know how these people operate. To them, crime is a business, but they only prey on the weak and vulnerable. When someone stands up to them, they back off rather than draw attention to themselves.’
Gray wasn’t convinced. From what he knew of Britain’s criminal gangs—admittedly not much, and that mostly gleaned from movies—they earned their reputations through intimidation and violence. He thought it highly unlikely that they’d allow someone to stand up to them, a concern he shared with Wallace.
‘These guys are smarter than your average thug,’ the detective said. ‘They grew up around some of the toughest gangs in London, and over the years they’ve seen them dismantled as the leaders were sent down, one by one. William Hart, the father, has avoided many of their mistakes. He runs a legitimate business which brings in a decent amount, but the majority of the family’s wealth comes from, shall we say, other means. That’s rather hard to prove in court as most victims are unwilling to testify against them, but we’re slowly building our case.
‘In the meantime, their one weakness is publicity; they do their best to stay under the police radar. Hart’s a pragmatist, and he knows when to walk away from a fight. From what we’ve seen, he’s not the type to push a bad position as he knows what the unwanted attention will do to his little empire.’
Gray was partly assuaged, but made a note to have one of his guys keep an eye on the shop for a few weeks. He certainly had plenty of manpower available, and it would feed one of them for another month at least. After all, he couldn’t think of a better way to spend the diminishing salary funds his company possessed.
‘Okay, I’ll let it go. I can’t speak for Ken Hatcher, though. He might want to pursue this, and it’s his shop in the firing line.’
‘Then I’d appreciate it if you could have a word with him. It would be better coming from you.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Thanks. If you could do it soon, it should convince them that we’ve got nothing to go on. The longer they’re in custody, the more suspicious it will appear when we let them go.’
Gray nodded just as the officer returned with Wallace’s coffee. The detective took a sip, and his face suggested it wasn’t the best he’d ever tasted.
‘Mr Gray isn’t going to be taking the matter any further,’ Wallace told the duty officer. ‘Let the station know, will you?’
He didn’t wait for a response. His coffee consigned to a shelf, Wallace walked out, leaving Gray to explain his decision.
William Hart answered the phone on the first ring.
‘Well?’
‘Gray has agreed to drop the charges,’ Wallace said. ‘The boys will be out within the hour.’
‘Good. I’ll speak to you soon—’
‘Bill,’ Wallace interrupted, ‘I think you should let this one go.’
As the seconds ticked by, he knew Hart was building up to another eruption, and he had to defuse it before the man went off half-cocked. Despite what he’d told Gray, Wallace knew that Hart’s first thought would be to bury the people who’d defied him, and he couldn’t allow that to happen, for both their sakes.
It had been many years since he’d first done Hart the simple favour of finding the address of his estranged uncle. The sob story in the pub had been convincing, and Wallace had agreed to try to locate him. It had taken a few seconds on the Police National Computer system to find the house in Exeter, and his reward had been five hundred pounds in a plain envelope.
As a fledgling detective constable, the money had been a welcome bonus, but once Hart showed him a video of the handover he knew he’d been set up. For a few days he’d considered going to his superiors and owning up to the indiscretion, but when Hart’s uncle was killed in an apparent hit-and-run later that week, the realisation dawned that he hadn’t helped with a simple family reconciliation. He’d set up Hart’s uncle for a hit, something Hart was all too happy to spell out.
The deal Hart offered was simple: start providing information that kept the family out of trouble, and he would receive a healthy stipend. Try to back out, and the video would be shown at any subsequent trial.
With no way out, Wallace had done everything within his power to get transferred to the now-defunct Serious and Organised Crime Agency so that he would have first-hand knowledge of any intelligence gathered on the Hart family. Being inexorably tied to them, his fate rested with theirs, and so he fed Hart information that kept them all out of prison. When a wiretap was placed on Hart family phones, Wallace warned them to talk about the legitimate business only and use untraceable mobiles for their other dealings. When a raid was planned, he tipped them off to ensure nothing incriminating was found. Now and again he would advise them to have a little cocaine lying around, though just enough to be classed as for personal use. The Harts dabbled in the drug market but kept their distance from the product and worked merely as financiers, investing their money for a two hundred per cent turnaround. They would find the people to finance, and Wallace would warn them if their new partner were on any radar.
So far, he’d managed to keep them out of any serious trouble, but as time went on, Hart seemed more and more convinced that he was untouchable. This meant more brazen acts, such as the crippling of the Singh boy the previous year. He’d used hired muscle from the north for that job but bragged openly that it was his own work.
The collections used to be done by cheap hired muscle, who made a few quid per client, but in recent months Hart had started sending his own sons to do the job. Wallace had warned against it, but as was happening with increasing frequency, Hart had ignored the advice.
Now his boys had a fresh allegation of extortion on their files, and Wallace knew that Gray was at the top of Hart’s to-do list.
‘What do you mean let it go?’
‘I mean forget about Gray and forget about the shop. Chalk it up to experience and move on. You know his history, and if you push this, it could get very messy.’
‘Of course it’s going to get messy! They’ll be finding bits of him for years!’
‘Bill, think about this. You’re angry, I understand that, but you’re already too close to Gray to get away with this. They’ll look at his allegation and it will point to you and the boys.’
Silence took over again, though Wallace could hear deep breathing on the other end of the line.
‘Okay,’ Hart eventually said. ‘I won’t lay a hand on him, and
I’ll steer clear of the shop.’
William Hart put the phone down and launched into a tirade capable of turning a nun to stone. He needed Wallace, that was a given, but the man was increasingly forcing decisions on him, and that went against every principle. To be told which dealers you could work with was one thing, but to have him dictate the people he could hit was something completely different.
His business had been built on fear, his reputation as merciless cementing his place among the most notorious gangsters in the country, and the moment he let someone slap his sons around and get away with it, his power would be gone overnight. Word would spread, and people would start refusing to pay protection money. Then other crews would start trying to steal his business, and . . .
It didn’t bear thinking about.
He’d promised Wallace he wouldn’t hit Gray or the shop, and he would stick to that.
However, accidents happened every day, especially if he threw in a financial incentive.
‘Oh my God! What the hell happened to you?’
It was just after ten in the evening when Gray arrived home, and his plan of not worrying Vick was unravelling quickly.
‘I told you, it was a scuffle with a couple of yobs.’
‘Tom, you look like you’ve been hit by a bus! This was more than a little pushing and shoving.’
‘It looks worse than it is,’ he lied, thankful for the Tramadol he’d been given.
He winced when Vick wrapped her arm around his chest and led him into the living room, where he gingerly took a seat on the sofa.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she said, and Gray stuck to his story of two local hard cases who wanted to cause a little trouble.
‘I politely asked them to leave the shop and one of them swung for me. What was I supposed to do?’
Vick was sceptical and voiced further concerns about reprisals against her uncle, but Gray assured her that his attackers were being dealt with by the police and wouldn’t be troubling Ken again.
4. Gray Retribution Page 5