by Linda Regan
There was no doubt in Dawes’s mind that Reilly was responsible for what had happened here.
Two dogs jumped out of the RSPCA animal welfare van, and the uniformed dog warden holding their chains handed them over to Reilly. According to Georgia Johnson, a so-called dog expert had declared they weren’t pure-bred pit bulls, so now Reilly had them back. The dog expert, Georgia had told him, was Michael O’Flannery. He was known to the police as Manic Mickey; he had a heroin habit and Reilly was his supplier. Something else the police knew but couldn’t prove. Reilly had got Mickey hooked on smack, then put him on the payroll; Mickey looked out for him, and kept his dangerous dogs legal. There was a tattoo of a knife on the inside of his middle finger, a sign of an associate member the Brotherhood.
Mickey himself had been a breeder of pit bulls, but had gone out of business when the ban came in. He was a qualified vet, which earned him some respect in the animal world, and was acknowledged as an expert on pit bulls. Reilly could afford to be cocky and confident when his dogs were confiscated; Mickey would make sure he got them back. Other pit bull experts around London had been bought by Reilly, too: something else the police knew about, but hadn’t enough proof to expose.
Now the savage dogs were back in Reilly’s care. Both the RSPCA and the police knew ‘care’ was a joke; Reilly mistreated them and often left them hungry. If not much else was happening, the Brotherhood would kick their dogs until their underbellies were torn and bleeding, then let them take their pain, misery and hunger out on each other – all for a bit of a laugh. If a dog lost an ear or an eye, it wasn’t the end of the world; Manic Mickey would patch it up or put it down.
Dawes was angry. Not only had the fat bastard escaped a murder charge; he had his dogs back, and since he was in police custody at the time he also had a perfect alibi for his whereabouts when the girls were being beaten up. Just as well he couldn’t see Reilly’s face from up here, Dawes thought; the toerag would be beaming with pride at having got one over on the police yet again. Well, not for long, if Dawes had anything to do with it.
He watched Reilly prod the dog with a long stick. The dog cowered and snarled, and the RSPCA officer seemed to be issuing a warning. Reilly’s body language was easy to read; he pointed the officer towards his van, obviously telling him where to stuff his advice.
Whatever had passed between them, the animal welfare officer chose to ignore the finger Reilly poked up at him. He climbed quickly into the van alongside his colleague, and the van accelerated out of the estate.
The dog stood obediently beside Reilly until the van had disappeared. Then Reilly drew his boot back and kicked the animal until it lay on its stomach and yelped in agony.
Dawes turned away, sickened.
‘Reilly’s been released,’ he told Hank Peacock. ‘He’s down there, and his dogs have just been brought back. I’d bet serious money that word about these women got to him while he was in custody.’
Peacock looked dubious. ‘But he only had one call, and that was to his solicitor.’
‘There you are then.’ No one that naïve should be in CID Dawes thought.
‘You mean . . . Reilly got a message out through the solicitor?’
Dawes pursed his lips. ‘Bet your life.’
‘Now one’s in hospital unconscious, one’s run away terrified and the other’s out looking for her. And when we find them they’ll be too scared to say a word.’
Give the boy a gold star. ‘You got it.’
‘Do you think the girls know their attackers?’
‘Don’t you?’
Hank nodded slowly. ‘The top dogs run this land, and I’m beginning to think that that’s not us.’
Dawes suddenly felt sorry for the lad. Everyone started out like that, full of faith and ideals. ‘Don’t get disheartened, mate. You’re only a trainee. Think of it this way: there are some big gangs in London, but we’re the biggest. This is just history repeating itself.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘A few years ago, before Reilly took over the patch, the so-called top gang around here was the Buzzards. Jason Young was cock of the walk then. We got Jason eventually, and as for the Buzzards, some are dead – gunshots, stabbings, overdoses, the usual. Young’s out again, but not for long – we’ve got evidence now to put him away again for murder.’ Dawes took a deep breath. ‘And Reilly’s day isn’t far off either, mark my words.’
The bloodied sweatshirt had gone to forensics, and Georgia and Stephanie were back in Georgia’s office, grabbing a late lunch and reading Jason Young’s prison reports. A large cardboard Starbucks cup stood on Georgia’s shiny desk; a chocolate bar broken into little pieces lay on a serviette, and a paper plate served to catch any drips from her cappuccino.
She forced herself to ignore the tomato pips spilling out of Stephanie’s sandwich on to the warm, newly faxed papers. Stephanie must have read her thoughts; she flicked a couple of pips off the papers on to the floor. Georgia said nothing, aware that the irritation was two-way; her neatness irritated Stephanie as much as Stephanie’s mess exasperated her. But over the past five years they had bonded, and helped each other out of many a scrape. Be glad it’s only a sandwich, she chided herself. Last time they had lunched together in Georgia’s office, Stephanie had brought saveloy, chips and a gherkin. The smell had clung for days, impervious to air freshener.
All the same, Stephanie was the only member of the squad whose company Georgia ever sought out; she liked and trusted her, even though they were chalk and cheese.
Stephanie usually made the morning meetings by the skin of her teeth, face devoid of make-up, hair uncombed. Mornings were bound to be fraught for a single mum; and, as Steph had explained, given the long hours they worked when they had a case like this one, giving her kids breakfast before school in the morning might be the only time she saw them all day.
Georgia would probably have felt the same, if she’d been lucky enough to have kids. She had freedom instead, she told herself. She could be in the office as early as she chose, usually long before the morning meeting. Stephanie, on the other hand, sat there holding a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on top in one hand and a pen in the other to make catch-up notes; but Georgia never doubted that her brain was fully engaged and she’d taken everything in. Stephanie was as sharp as a butcher’s knife, and her memory could challenge an elephant’s. What Georgia admired most about her was her openness and honesty. Her reputation for never refusing sex went before her; rumour had that she had slept with half of the Met. But she stayed friends with all her conquests, and could be relied on to call in a favour when it was needed. She seemed to know someone in every department, whereas Georgia never let any man get close to her. Stephanie often tried to persuade her to go for a night of lust; good for the stress count, she assured her with a warm, infectious laugh.
When Stephanie lifted her head from the prison report, she looked as if she had stepped out of a sauna. Steam from her mug of scalding black coffee had dampened her face, her nose shone, and strands of her fine, marmalade-streaked hair stuck to her rosy cheeks.
‘Interesting,’ she said, pulling a stray hair out of her mouth.
‘What does it say?’
‘He was sent to Wandsworth, but others in his gang served their sentences in Rochester. He was victimized in Wandsworth, but never fought back.’
‘That’s surprising, given his history of violence.’ Georgia popped a square of chocolate in her mouth.
‘Maybe that’s why he killed Haley Gulati – he’d bottled up the violence all that time.’ She read aloud from the report. ‘He became withdrawn and depressed toward the end of his sentence. He was befriended by his probation officer, who is now helping him pursue a career in dancing. By his release he had secured a scholarship with a leading stage school in central London.’
Georgia sipped from the paper cup and wiped a trace of froth from her mouth with the serviette. ‘My bet is he played the system. He intended to kill Haley G
ulati all along, and used the stage school application as a way of getting an early release.’
Stephanie screwed up the paper sandwich bag into a ball and wiped her hands on her jeans.
‘What bothers me,’ Georgia said, ‘is that our new friend DI Dawes doesn’t think it’s likely that Young stabbed Haley. He feels sure he would have shot her.’ She paused before adding, ‘And Dawes is supposed to be the expert on South London gangs.’
‘We’ve got Jason Young’s DNA all over the victim, and in her blood on the wall of the Gulatis’ flat,’ Stephanie pointed out. ‘And he’s got strong motive. That’s enough for me, expert or not.’ She aimed the screwed-up sandwich bag at the waste bin, threw it and missed. ‘Forensics on the blood on the sweatshirt is just icing on the cake. Just as well – it’s going to be another twenty-four hours at least.’
‘Shame you haven’t got a friend in forensics,’ Georgia teased her.
‘I’ll keep looking,’ Stephanie laughed. ‘You know, if we found the murder weapon it would help. Reilly’s Brotherhood all use similar blades; if the one that killed Gulati is different . . .’
‘Yeah, well, we’ll just have to wait for that. Any luck with the trace on Young’s mobile?’
Stephanie balanced her coffee on the papers and dug in her vast shoulder bag for her phone. ‘I haven’t got a friend in forensics, but I have got one in TIU, luckily for you,’ she said with a cheeky smile.
Georgia looked doubtfully at the precarious coffee cup. She moved it off the papers on to the desk, then, catching Georgia’s eye, she slid it on to a used brown envelope. ‘You wait till you’ve got kids,’ she grinned, rubbing at the coffee ring on the desk and making it worse.
Georgia grinned back. Stephanie had everything, she thought, except a top for her pen and a button on her jacket. And she wasn’t to know that having a child wasn’t an option for Georgia. She smoothed her hands over her perfectly gelled hair, checking that the clip was secure, and fought the urge to un-stick the loose strand that now clung to the top of Stephanie’s mouth as she waited for someone to answer her call.
‘Will you be able to cope with an affair with Dawes?’ she teased her.
‘You bet! He’s got sensitive hands.’
‘How did you work that out?’
Someone picked up the phone so Stephanie didn’t answer. A few seconds went by, then Stephanie raised her head. ‘They’ve got a trace. He’s somewhere around the shopping centre at the Elephant and Castle. They don’t know the exact location, but they think he’s in a vehicle, on the move.’
‘Get Hank Peacock to ring Oyster, and say a prayer he’s using one,’ Georgia told her, tossing her coffee cup in the bin. ‘He could be on his way back to the estate. That means someone has tipped him off about Chantelle. Alert all patrol cars to keep a lookout. We’ve circulated a description, haven’t we?’
‘Done.’ Stephanie aimed her empty coffee cup at the waste bin. It missed. Georgia stooped to pick it up. ‘It’s probably Sally Young. Or does he have any other known associates on that estate?’
Casualty was busy and Sally was anxious. She hated hospitals, had spent far too many days and nights in them. She wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for those bastard dogs, she thought angrily. A few cuts she could deal with, but not a disease from those flea-bitten creatures.
It was time someone stood up to those yobs that thought they ran the estate. She decided she would tell the police everything she knew; she could even tell them who shot that young cop. After this morning Yo-Yo Reilly’s mob deserved all they got. She’d let the police know what really went on down the Aviary, and when she did maybe they’d stay away from her Jason. That boy was going to get the chance he deserved.
She walked outside for a fag, and the first people she saw hanging about were Dwayne Ripley and Michael Delahaye. She took out her phone and pretended to dial a number, then spoke into the phone as if someone had answered.
When she clicked off Dwayne and Michael walked up to her. Dwayne spat on the ground next to her. ‘Your face looks rough,’ he said. ‘Walk into a door, did you, Sals?’
‘My Jason is coming back to sort you lot,’ she said, determined not to show she was scared. ‘We ain’t afraid of your bullying. I’m having a tetanus cos of your dogs attacking me, and if you don’t pay me for what you broke on my stall this morning, I’m going to the Feds to make this official.’
‘Christ, I’m so scared. I think I’ve pissed me pants, innit.’ That was Delahaye.
Sals sniffed loudly. ‘I’ve got friends where I got me stall, and they all witnessed what you done. You’d better pay my breakages or I’ll go to the law.’
Dwayne looked at Michael. ‘Better get her money then,’ he said.
Michael nodded. ‘Yeah, better get her paid up, innit.’
‘Just put notes through me door, and extra for the pain,’ she told him. ‘I’ll say nothing this time, but try it again and I’ll go to the Feds and get you all locked up.’
‘You’ll get paid,’ Dwayne said flatly.
She nodded, dropped her Silk Cut and ground it under her sensible flat walking shoes, then limped back into the hospital.
It didn’t take long. They patched her up, gave her two stitches over her eye and a large dressing to cover them, then injected her with anti-tetanus. She had to admit she felt a bit better, but that was more to do with what had happened outside than with the injection. She could take a couple of days off now they were paying for the breakages. It was cold out in the wind, so it would be nice to watch some daytime telly and keep warm. In a day or two she’d buy new stock and get back to the market. She wouldn’t in a million years have let Jason know what had gone on; he’d have come back and given that Dwayne Ripley what for, and that would hardly help him rebuild his life. But she’d sorted it herself now.
The police car was waiting for her when she came out. She was grateful; she had to admit she wasn’t as young as she used to be, and her legs were feeling a bit wobbly. She told the driver she was going to give the police a statement about Jason, but first, she said, she had to go back and get the clothes he had worn last night, so she could bring them to the station. She actually had no intention of getting those clothes; she’d dump them later, and bring some other clothes of his, then there would be no way he could be implicated in Haley’s murder.
With luck those lowlifes would have left the money in her door when she got back. She’d go to the station and make her statement, tell about them as well as Jason, then once the Feds picked up Ripley, Delahaye and the whole bloody lot of them and threw them all in jail, she could buy her stock and live in peace.
The police car pulled into the estate. Sally asked them to wait by the entrance; it wouldn’t do her any good to be seen in a Feds’ car. Haley Gulati had lost her life through talking to the Feds. Sally needed to be more careful.
Jason stepped off the bus and walked stealthily around the perimeter of the Aviary estate. No point going to look for Alysha, he reckoned; she was a smart kid, too smart to hide around the estate, the Brotherhood knew all the Youngers’ hiding places. Besides, as Luanne had warned, there were Fed cars everywhere. He had to be quick, do the business he’d come to do, then see Chantelle.
He walked toward the Romney where the gun would be waiting for him. Luanne wouldn’t let him down, he was sure of that.
He turned quickly into the small slip road which joined the two roads, one on to the Aviary, the other on to the Romney. As he crossed into Romney territory he stopped in his tracks. Coming toward him were Dwayne the Boot and Michael the Mince. Dwayne held a pit bull terrier on the end of a thick leather and gilt lead. He kicked the dog in the balls when he saw Young, making it snarl. Jason was terrified of dogs, but he had kept his fear under wraps since he was a kid. Right now fear was the last thing on his mind; he was too busy working out what to do next. He reckoned he might be able to take the dog out with his knife, but the odds weren’t in his favour. He needed the gun and it was now only just yards away.
He had a bottle in his leg pocket. He could knock the neck off it in a second, and there’d be eyes and skin on the ground in another. But there were two of them as well as the dog. Another few minutes and the gun and the poppers would be in his hands, then the job would take seconds. But at the moment he was in a no-win situation. If he took them on they’d let the dog loose and he’d be savaged.
At that moment he was so angry he couldn’t have cared less about dancing, or even living. What he did care about was that they didn’t get away with what they had done to Chantelle and Luanne and Alysha. He knew he had to play for time.
‘I ain’t on your territory,’ he said flatly as they approached. ‘This is Romney territory. I live here. I ain’t trespassing. So let me pass, OK?’
Boot looked at Mince and they both pretended to laugh. Boot scratched his arse. ‘This is your postcode now is it?’ Boot said, kicking the dog again. The dog snarled and lifted its lips, revealing froth and sharp teeth.
A few years ago Jason would have lost it, but prison had taught him a thing or two. Being neither black nor white, he’d been picked on by both sides, and he’d learned to choose his battles carefully. If he went down here, his chance to even out what they’d done to the girls would disappear forever. The gun was only minutes from his grasp; once he had it he would blow their brains to hell. He kept his cool, and played a smart game.
‘I don’t run nothing no more,’ he said evenly. ‘And I don’t run nowhere, neither. I ain’t on your territory. You let me be.’
Boot and Mince stared at him. Neither said a word.
‘I ain’t spoiling for a fight,’ he carried on. ‘If you see me on your soil, that’s when I’ll put my hands up. Till then back off. Let me go see me gran.’
‘I hear she’s not too well, innit?’ Mince said. He looked at Boot and they both laughed.
‘Well, ain’t that a shame?’ Boot kicked the dog in the balls for a third time, and it tried to leap at Jason. He jumped back and Mince burst out laughing again.