by DC Brockwell
With Alan on his back, spluttering, Lennox pummelled Alan’s face with the metal cylinder. Beattie’s husband’s face was smashed, his left eye red from a brain haemorrhage. He was still alive, coughing and talking gibberish.
The second and third assaults smashed his face more, contorting it, but it was the fourth that killed him, splitting his skull down the middle.
Lennox took a step backwards, trying to regain his breathing, and then looked over at Beattie, whose colour was returning to normal.
His mobile phone rang in his jeans and taking it out he looked at the caller: Rothstein. “Fuck! It’s your dad,” Lennox said, putting his finger to his lips, telling Beattie to be quiet. She was too busy studying her dead husband. “Yeah?” Lennox asked once he’d answered the call.
“Lenny, I need you to do me a favour. They’ve had to bring the pickup forwards.”
Lennox looked down at Alan’s smashed head. “To when?”
“Tonight. I know it’s short notice, but there’s nothing they can do.”
Lennox’s head was spinning; what the fuck was he going to do? He’d killed Beattie’s husband, and he couldn’t leave her here to deal with the mess. “That’s not possible, my boys can’t make that; it’s too short noti–”
“I’ve already sorted three of my own associates to go and give you a hand. It’s tonight, or wait until next month, Lenny. Can you make it by midnight?”
He put the fire extinguisher down and looked at his watch: 21:43. Fuck! “I’ll try to make it, but the bunker’s takings will have to wait.”
“No problem, we’ll do a double pickup tomorrow. Thanks, Lenny.”
Lennox hung up and dropped the phone back in his pocket, swearing under his breath, then he knelt down and looked at Beattie, who seemed to be in shock. She had tears rolling down her cheeks. “Bea,” he said gently, “we need to deal with this before I go, baby. I won’t leave you to deal with this alone, but I really need to get going. I’ve got something to do for your dad.”
Nothing. She was just staring down at her husband’s bloody corpse.
Knowing he had to do something, Lennox moved behind Alan, picked him up from under his armpits, and dragged him backwards out of the office and into the corridor.
“Wait! What are you doing?”
He continued dragging the body as Beattie trailed after him, asking him what he was doing over and over again. “We’ve got to get rid of the body, Bea,” he said, tugging Alan along. “We’ll use the furnace. It’s perfect.”
Outside the furnace room, Lennox dropped the body and opened the door, stooping down and dragging it inside until he was right in front of the huge oven. “Give me a hand, will you? He’s heavier than he looks.”
Nothing. She was still in shock, which wasn’t surprising.
Although he managed to hoist Alan up and into the furnace, Lennox did it with difficulty. He was a physically fit guy, but lifting the deadweight of bodies was hard work. Finally he managed to push Alan in, then he closed the door, breathless again.
Lennox stood back and sighed. This was not how he’d seen his evening going. He was only supposed to come to the farm to collect the takings.
“Bea, I’m so sorry,” he said, to a catatonic Beattie. “I would stay with you – help you get through this – but I’ve really got to go. I’m sorry!”
She didn’t reply.
Not wanting to go, Lennox turned and walked up to the button on his way out. Pressing it, he heard the flames eat her husband. He turned as he reached the door to find Beattie stood there, watching the flames…
“That him!” Jankovics was looking through the binoculars Nasreen was holding up for her.
Nasreen looked for herself. This van was bigger than the one from earlier, taller and longer. The driver – Conrad Gebhardt – looked short and squat, from what she could tell from his silhouette. He was probably about the same height as her, maybe a bit taller, but a lot more heavily built. She would have to be careful; he looked like he could be a handful.
As she watched, as far as she could tell, people were getting out of the van. It looked like multiple people, but by the way Gebhardt herded them and threatened them, they didn’t seem to be part of his group. Terrence had told her that the Bavarian Brotherhood were into people trafficking, so maybe these were victims? From the look of their silhouettes, they were all women, and small women at that. They cowed when they passed him.
Glancing at the clock, Nasreen saw it was 23:38. The adrenaline was kicking in, a feeling she lived for. It was how she felt before a kickboxing match, the feeling of dread and excitement in the pit of her stomach, the feeling of anticipation, of not knowing what was to come. She both loved it and hated it in equal measure.
“Be careful,” Jankovics said, to Nasreen’s surprise.
Nasreen looked over at the Hungarian. “I thought you hoped he kills me.”
“I got big mouth. You not so bad, he a bastard!”
Nasreen took a deep breath, trying to keep her fear in check. “You don’t need to worry about me, Zuzanna; I’ve got lots of tricks up my sleeves.” She reached behind her for her bag, put it on her lap, and pulled out the pistol. “And if my tricks don’t work, I’ve got this as backup.” Leaning forwards in her seat, she reached behind her and put the Remington RM380 in the top of her jeans, right in the small of her back, before covering it with her jumper.
She got out of the car and walked around to the boot, which she opened, taking out some rope. She had a serrated pocketknife in her bag, which would work wonders cutting it. After closing the boot, she went back to her side, opened her door and reached for her bag. After stuffing the rope inside, she was ready.
She took another deep breath, then said, “And you, you stay here.”
Jankovics held her hands up as far as the cable ties allowed. “I go nowhere.”
Nasreen closed the door, said a small prayer to Allah, and felt behind her for the pistol as she walked towards the warehouse. At the bushes, which still gave her a modicum of cover, she crouched and navigated between two horizontal fence posts. Once out on the pavement on her side of the road, she crouched again, and with speed and agility, crossed the road before sneakily making her way to the front of the van. Conrad had reversed in, so that the rear doors were closest to the warehouse metal shutter.
There was a man talking, not yelling.
Nasreen heard a woman yelp.
She reached behind her for the Remington and pulled it out, switching the safety off so she’d be ready for action. With only six rounds per clip she was limited on firepower, but she didn’t anticipate using them anyway. If she fired even one she’d have to make a run for it – the police would be on her in no time. She needed to obtain information from Gebhardt, and that could take time, time she wouldn’t have if she fired her weapon.
She gripped the gun with both hands, and as she turned to try to see down the side of the van, a shadow appeared. Before she consciously knew what had happened, she’d kicked the shadow in the balls, grabbed his head, and smashed it into the passenger’s door. The shadow fell in a heap on the floor.
Looking down at the face, Nasreen saw it wasn’t Gebhardt. She hadn’t been aware there was another man present; it was lucky her reflexes were so quick.
“What the fuck was that?”
Hearing Gebhardt coming her way, Nasreen backed up and turned so that she was covered by the front of the car, her pistol poised.
“God damn it, Jimmy,” she heard Gebhardt say, mere inches from her.
Seizing her opportunity, she shot out from the cover of the van and faced Gebhardt, her gun aimed at his chest. “Well, well, Conrad Gebhardt, I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you…”
55
Day 39
Sunday, 18th February
“Following target on foot,” Steven said into his microphone.
He’d driven at a safe distance behind Garvey for a little over two hours, and the last place he expected to pull into was a mar
ina. Garvey wasn’t aware of his presence; he felt confident he hadn’t been made. But why here? Why this marina?
In the distance, he could see Garvey walking along a dock, past lots of fishing vessels of varying sizes. The expensive recreational boats were along a different dock. On any normal day he would love coming to a marina, having a walk with his family and admiring the exclusive yachts, boats, and occasional cruise liner, but tonight was different. He had no idea what Garvey was doing here, and it made him nervous.
He watched as Garvey met and shook hands with an older white man wearing yellow fishing overalls, long, thick boots, and a beanie hat. The mystery older man had white hair and an impressive white beard. He looked like a fisherman, or more accurately, a fishing boat captain, which was what Steven guessed he was.
Through his binoculars, he saw Garvey step into some similar-looking yellow overalls and black boots. As the two men engaged in conversation, Steven saw three more men on the boat. He adjusted the binoculars, looking for the boat’s name. He could only see the words Sea Fisher, the number 2608, and the type of boat it was: Purse Seiner.
Steven frowned. Garvey didn’t strike him as the fishing type.
Steven watched as the boat’s engine started up, Garvey shaking hands with the three passengers in turn; going by Garvey’s body language, he didn’t know any of them.
There had to be more to this than a night fishing trip – had to be. Maybe that was all there was to it? He shook his head. No way!
“Officer Dyer, please be advised that local police are present, joining the NCA in apprehending the target upon his return,” came the female voice. “You are to report to the Metropole Hotel for a briefing.”
Steven frowned again. “Can you elaborate on that, Control?”
“You are to report to the Metropole Hotel,” the voice repeated. “A half mile from your current location, for a briefing. The NCA have received new intel concerning the target’s activities; local police and the NCA are conducting a joint operation to apprehend the target when he returns… please acknowledge.”
What new intel? They hadn’t been able to record him discussing his criminal activities at home, or in his car, so how had they come by this new intel? “Acknowledged, Control,” he said reluctantly, “on my way.”
When he turned to walk back along the promenade, he saw the joint task force. In fact, everywhere he looked, he saw police. There were no blue lights flashing, but there were at least fifteen police cars parked in and around the main car park to the shopping market.
Steven glanced at his watch: 00:04. At this time of night the marina was largely deserted by civilians, yet there were a few people hanging around. He could see the main pub was still open as was a twenty-four-hour supermarket with late-night shoppers milling around inside. The bowling alley and cinema still had their lights on, though they would be closing soon.
When he reached his car, Steven sat on his seat and found the Metropole Hotel on his GPS. He could probably have walked it, but he didn’t want to leave his car.
He sat back in his seat and sighed. Something was definitely going on; it was suspect, this new intel. He was interested to find out where it had come from.
It reeked of a set-up…
Lennox was in dangerous waters, both literally and figuratively speaking. It was a choppy night for a pickup, and he was being steered by a man he’d never met before, in a boat with three of Rothstein’s guys he had never clapped eyes on. And, to make matters worse, he’d just fucked Rothstein’s daughter, killed her husband, and then left her without knowing how she was going to react or what she was going to do. Beattie could be on the phone to her dad right now, he thought.
On the way over to the marina, Lennox had phoned Barkley and informed him of what was happening. He’d asked Barkley to meet him at the marina when he arrived on shore. With a feeling of being set-up, he’d asked his friend to stay back, not wanting him to get collared, if that was what Rothstein had planned.
Why was he so distrusting of Rothstein? Lennox kept asking himself. Rothstein had been good to him, for the most part; he’d given him a good job, and had given him the chance to prove himself – which he had. Rothstein had also proven himself by turning down that commissioner’s offer. It didn’t make sense for Lennox to feel like this – to doubt his boss – but even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling. It didn’t help that in the ten years he’d been making this trip, he had never had a different captain steering the boat. That was his main doubt; he didn’t trust change.
As the boat cut through the waves, Lennox held on to the bannisters inside the cabin, visions of Alan’s face flashing through his mind – images of his face after one hit from the fire extinguisher, then the second, the third, the fourth. By the time he’d finished, Beattie’s husband had been unrecognisable; his face had caved in and his skull had cracked under the force and weight of the blows.
Why had Rothstein phoned him that night of all nights? Did Rothstein know about him and Beattie? Had she told him already? Maybe she’d picked up the phone as soon as he’d left the bunker? Lennox had to stop thinking like this. Rothstein had his reasons for moving the date forward – the captain he’d come to respect had family problems – so Lennox had to stop obsessing over it.
The boat ride would go as smoothly as it always did, he kept trying to tell himself. He was just being paranoid; it was the cannabis he smoked regularly messing with his head, that was all. He gripped the bannisters harder as the waves increased in size…
56
“Bring your friend inside,” Nasreen ordered, her gun pointed at Conrad Gebhardt.
Nasreen walked around her target, the gun trained on him every second; if she lost focus, she was sure he would lunge for her.
She watched as he mumbled something in German, grabbed the shadow’s arms, and pulled him towards the warehouse door.
“That’s it,” she added, “pull him inside.”
Walking backwards, her gun never swaying, she was inside the well-lit warehouse. Then she reached inside her bag and pulled out two lengths of rope. “Tie him up, nice and tight.” She threw him the rope. “Tie his wrists behind his back and his ankles together. Leave him face down.”
“You don’t know what you get involved in here, lady.”
Gebhardt tied his associate up the way she’d ordered.
Studying him, Nasreen noted how stocky he was. He was only about five foot seven, but he was almost as wide as he was tall. Underneath his jumper, she could clearly see his toned arms, the biceps defined even through the fabric. If she wasn’t careful, he would overpower her. It was simple physics – he was a lot bigger and heavier than she was.
“Aww, you’re looking out for me. That’s sweet.”
“Who the fuck are you anyway? What do you want with me?”
“All in good time, Conrad. All in good time.”
She was stood with her pistol pointed at his back as he stood up and turned to face her. He wasn’t a bad-looking man – with his wide face and big cheeks – but his pleasant features belied his underlying sickening actions. “Before we get to that,” she said, “let’s see what horrors you have hidden out back, shall we?” She found the shutter control panel, pressed the red button, and waited for the door to close with a squeak.
She could hear crying and whimpering in the background, coming from multiple women, and she stood to the side, letting him walk past her after she signalled with her gun for him to move. They were in the delivery point of the warehouse, surrounded on both sides by heavy-duty shelving units piled floor to ceiling with boxes of envelopes and other sundry products required on a day-to-day basis.
Never being more than two feet behind Gebhardt, Nasreen walked through the warehouse floor, scanning the large room. The main area of the factory housed four large tables with eight chairs around each, set off to the left of the room. This, no doubt, was where the inserting happened, where employees were paid to stuff inserts into magazines before the machine at the other
end of the warehouse wrapped the magazines in cellophane. There were two of these machines to the right of the factory floor. There were also four large cages dotted around the factory, three half-filled with sacks, the other empty.
As she adjusted to her new environment, Nasreen looked upstairs at the mezzanine level, where there was a kitchen to the right and a storeroom to the left, with more boxes piled floor to ceiling. The main office was to the right of the kitchen.
“You’re one sick bastard, Conrad,” she said, observing five petite Chinese girls tied to the shelving units at the rear of the warehouse. “How old are these girls? They can’t be any older than twelve or thirteen?”
Feeling rage building up inside her, Nasreen reached into her bag and pulled out the serrated pocketknife. With one hand holding the gun, still trained on Gebhardt, she used the other to hold the knife as she walked up to the terrified girls. “Do any of you speak English?” She waited for a response, studying each of the pretty girls in turn.
“I… do,” came a tiny voice.
Nasreen went behind the girl who could speak English and cut the rope she was shackled to with her knife, still pointing her gun at Gebhardt. “I’m here to help, sweetie. Take this knife and free the rest of the girls, okay? Then I’m going to need your help with something.” She noticed a pile of clothes and shoes on the floor to her right. “Get everyone dressed, then come over and join me when you’re ready.”
The girl nodded, still petrified.
While the English speaker was busy cutting her friends free, Nasreen focused her attention back on Gebhardt. They were stood next to the four tables with a cage nearby, Nasreen three feet away from Conrad, giving her enough room to manoeuvre if he decided to lunge at her. “So tell me, do you just rape them, sell them, or what? What’s your set-up?”
“Why you so interested in what I do?”
“I’m not interested in what you do.”