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Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 73 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 74 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 75 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 76 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Jaime Raven (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u1b723cfc-a4ab-5889-bf12-f8b0ee0bd1cc)
It was a dry night so Terry Malone decided to walk home. He hoped it would give him time to sober up and get over the shock of what he’d been told.
The revelation had knocked him for six and even now, two hours later, he still couldn’t get his mind around it.
It didn’t help that he’d had too much champagne. He wasn’t used to it. He preferred beer and whisky, but his boss had insisted on cracking open two bottles of Moët.
‘Get it down you, lad,’ Roy Slack had urged him back at the club. ‘This is a big fucking deal and we have to celebrate.’
The West End was still buzzing even though it was almost midnight, but Terry was oblivious to the crowds and the incessant hum of the traffic.
Forty-five minutes. That was about how long it would take him to trek to his home across the river in Lambeth. Amy would be in bed, of course, but she wouldn’t be asleep. Whenever he was this late she stayed awake and worried.
He supposed it was only to be expected. The wives and girlfriends of most of the other gang members were the same. Being a villain wasn’t like being an accountant or a teacher or a bus driver. It was a tough, stressful business that entailed risk and uncertainty. And it put an awful lot of strain on families and friends.
Amy had become far more anxious since discovering she was pregnant four months ago. She kept asking him what would happen to her and the baby if he got shot, stabbed or banged up for years.
That was why Terry had been giving serious consideration to packing it in and going straight. It was also why he was dreading her reaction to tonight’s bombshell revelation. The impact on their lives was going to be considerable and she was bound to freak out.
In all honesty he wouldn’t blame her. He was struggling to come to terms with it himself and it was making his head spin.
When he reached Lambeth Bridge he broke his stride and sparked up a fag. From his pocket he took the letter that Slack had given to him. He read it through for the umpteenth time and once again he felt a flash of heat in his chest. The words were already embedded in his mind. They were shocking, life-changing, terrifying. And they sent a cold chill down his spine.
He put the letter back in his pocket and stood looking down on the inky black Thames, his heart thudding in his chest.
After a couple of minutes he decided that he wouldn’t break the news to Amy for at least a couple of days. That’d give him time to take it all in and assess the implications. There was so much to think about, not least the kind of future he wanted for his unborn child.
He drew smoke deep into his lungs and reflected on what a momentous year it had already been.
Seven months ago he’d been pushing drugs for an Eastern European outfit in North London before its leaders became victims of the Met’s latest crackdown on organised crime. Their arrests had caused chaos inside the organisation and allowed rival gangs to move in on the territory and the various businesses.
Just weeks later his mother had died, aged fifty-three, after a stroke. She’d managed to cling on in hospital for several days before taking her last breath.
Terry had been devastated and the future had looked truly bleak. But as one door closed another one had opened. He’d been approached by Roy Slack’s people and invited to join the biggest and most ruthless firm in the capital.
He’d then met Amy in one of Slack’s West End clubs. After only five dates he realised that he loved her and on the seventh date she’d announced that she was pregnant.
She’d thought he’d be angry and disappointed, but he couldn’t have been happier. At twenty-six he was ready to be a father and was determined to make a good job of it.
He’d been telling himself that he would always be there for his son or daughter, and he’d try to give them a better start in life than the one he’d had.
But was that going to be possible given what he now knew?
It was one of the many questions that were piling up inside his head as he stood on the bridge and fought against the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him.
He felt a little better by the time he got home. The walk had flushed most of the alcohol through his system and his head had stopped spinning.
It was just after 1am when he let himself in through the front door of their terraced house, within walking distance of the Imperial War Museum.
He’d been renting it for two years and the location was perfect. But now they’d have to move. After what he’d learned tonight there was no way that he and Amy could stay here. It just wouldn’t be safe.
‘Is that you, babe?’ Amy called out.
‘It is,’ he replied, closing the door behind him. ‘I’ll be straight up.’
He took off his coat and went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He spotted two new glossy wedding magazines on the table where Amy had left them. The date had been set for January fourth, three months from now, but the details still had to be worked out.
He wanted a cheap and cheerful affair in a register office and a few drinks in the pub afterwards. But Amy had her heart set on something more elaborate, and so they were looking at a hotel do with a combined ceremony and reception for up to eighty people.
As Terry fingered the edge of one of the magazines more questions popped into his head.
Would their wedding plans have to be put on hold? Would Amy still want to marry him after he told her what Roy Slack had said? Was it fair not to break the news to her straight away?
‘What’s keeping you, babe?’
Her voice wrenched him out of himself and he hurriedly filled a glass with tap water. Then he took a long, deep breath, switched off the kitchen light and climbed the stairs.
Amy was sitting up against her pillows, her swollen breasts resting on the duvet, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders.
She was the same age as him but looked at least five years younger. Her pale skin was flawless and her eyes were an electrifying blue.
He forced a smile and crossed the room to plant a kiss on her lips. As always he felt a rush of affection for her. She was the first woman he had ever loved and he couldn’t imagine ever being without her.
Since meeting her he had changed for the better. He’d mellowed and matured. He no longer kept trying to live up to his fearsome reputation as a short-tempered thug. Those days were behind him and he was glad of it.
He still sorted people out when ordered to do so but he no longer threw his weight around or started unnecessary fights just for the fun of it.
‘You look done in, Terry,’ Amy said. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Sure it is,’ he told her. ‘I’m late because I had a meeting with the boss.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, just business stuff. But he got me drinking champagne and it’s gone straight to my head.’
She laughed. ‘I have no sympathy. You know that bubbly doesn’t agree with you.’
‘Yeah, well, best to keep the boss sweet.’
He went into the en suite, cleaned his teeth and emptied his bladder. He was anxious not to get drawn into a conversation because he might just blurt out something he’d regret.
‘I need to get some shut eye,’ he said as he climbed into bed. ‘I’ve got another early start in the morning.’
He gave her a cuddle and at the same time reached over to switch off the lamp.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Amy asked him. ‘You don’t seem your usual self.’
‘I’m fine. Honest. Just dead tired.’
‘Only I was hoping that maybe we could get it on. I’ve been so bloody horny all evening.’
Pregnancy had boosted Amy’s libido to the point where it seemed she couldn’t get enough of it, and normally he was only too eager to satisfy her craving. But right now a shag was out of the question. With what was going on inside his head he was sure he wouldn’t even be able to get it up.
‘It’ll have to wait until morning, babe,’ he said. ‘I’m so knackered I know I’ll disappoint you.’
‘Why don’t you let me work my magic then,’ she said as she reached under the duvet.
But she failed to get a rise out of him and he was relieved when she gave up after thirty seconds and rolled over.
It wasn’t long before she started snoring so he didn’t have to pretend to be asleep. He was able to lie there on his back with his eyes wide open, his mind wrestling with a growing anxiety.
He was still awake an hour later when a chilling sound reached him from downstairs – the sound of the front door being smashed in.
He knew instinctively what was happening before the shouting started. It was a police raid and they were sure to be mob-handed.
He heard their boots pounding up the stairs and he felt the floor shudder.
Then the landing light went on and there was another crash as the door to one of the other rooms was rammed open.
‘Armed police,’ a voice called out. ‘Stay where you are.’
But Terry was already on the move, throwing off the duvet and leaping off the bed.
As he fumbled for the lamp switch the bedroom door was flung open and Amy screamed.
Terry, naked and disoriented, spun round so fast that he lost his balance and lurched towards a police officer in full body armour who was standing in the doorway. The officer reacted by discharging two bullets in quick succession from his Glock 17 pistol.
Both shells slammed into Terry’s chest and he was thrown onto the floor.
The last thing he heard was Amy screaming, but he died not knowing that she was in the throes of a painful miscarriage induced by shock.
The police officer, a man with three years’ experience in the firearms unit, would later tell an investigation that he thought the suspect was attacking him.
The inquiry would also hear that the raid was one of a number that took place that night on the homes of individuals known to be involved in organised crime.
In Terry’s house the team found a quantity of Class A drugs, a sawn-off shotgun and a total of ten thousand pounds in cash.
They also found a collection of documents and magazines pertaining to a wedding that would now never take place.
PART ONE (#u1b723cfc-a4ab-5889-bf12-f8b0ee0bd1cc)
1 (#u1b723cfc-a4ab-5889-bf12-f8b0ee0bd1cc)
Laura
Two months later
The man in the dock had already been convicted and this afternoon he was going to be sentenced.
That was why I’d come along on what was supposed to be a rare day off. I wanted to see the bastard’s face when the judge told him how many years he’d have to spend behind bars.
My colleagues and I were hoping for a long, long stretch. If he got less than twenty we’d be disappointed. With any luck he’d die in prison, and since he was in his mid-fifties there was every chance he would.
The man’s name was Harry Fuller, and at his trial, which had ended a month ago, he’d been found guilty of a range of offences from extortion and money laundering to drug trafficking and people smuggling. These were committed during the five years he’d spent as head of one of London’s most notorious crime gangs.
He had also been linked to at least six murders, but we hadn’t come up with the evidence to charge him with those.
It was still a great result, though. We’d managed to succeed where others before us had failed. Harry Fuller had at last been well and truly nailed.
I was watching the proceedings from the packed public gallery and switching my gaze between the judge and Fuller. The judge had indicated that he was going to make a statement before passing sentence, and he was now consulting his notes before getting on with it.
As usual I was in awe of my surroundings: London’s Central Criminal Court, more commonly known as the Old Bailey. I’d been here many times and it never failed to impress me. So many lives had been changed in this place and so many wrongs had been put right. For a copper like me it was nothing less than a shrine to the law and to the legal system.
I noticed that Fuller had spotted me and even across the courtroom I could see the devilish glint in his eyes.
I held his gaze, forcing myself not to waver. But it was hard not to be unnerved by the expression on his face. It reminded me of the old cliché that if looks could kill I’d be dead.
In appearance Fuller was the archetypal gangster, big and beefy with a bullet-shaped head and broken nose. But there was more to him than muscle and menace. He was also a shrewd businessman, and it was estimated that his firm had been turning over fifty million pounds a year.
Without him at the helm, the firm was already coming apart at the seams, and that was great because it had been one of our primary objectives.
It was DS Martin Weeks and I who had made the collar that day at Fuller’s office in Stratford. I was the one who’d done the talking, and I would never forget Fuller’s reaction when I’d showed him my warrant card and said, ‘DI Laura Jefferson. I’m with Scotland Yard’s organised crime task force and I’m here to tell you that you’re nicked.’
