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He made a point of telling me that, because my first six months on the job coincided with a relentless wave of negative publicity for the police.
Corruption within the Met was being exposed on an almost weekly basis, and a lot of new recruits like myself became disillusioned.
But for me the scandals served only to strengthen my commitment and my resolve to be a good, honest copper like my father.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been aware that the Met in particular was infested with officers who were on the take. While at university a report was published that claimed there’d been a sharp increase in the number of officers dealing in drugs and abusing their power for ‘sexual gratification’.
I’d since discovered myself that the force did indeed have its share of bad apples, but most officers walked a straight line and were a credit to the profession.
Of course, being above board and serving with distinction did not make it less likely that you’d come to harm in the line of duty. My father found that out the night he opened his front door to a man who shot him three times in the chest.
Seven years on – with the killer still out there somewhere – the memory moves me to tears and gives rise to a blast of anger.
It’s only about two miles from the Old Bailey to New Scotland Yard. But the traffic was murderous so it was slow going in Kate’s pool car.
She took us via the Victoria Embankment and there was gridlock for much of the way.
We were passing under Waterloo Bridge when my mobile rang. It was Aidan.
‘I gather congratulations are in order,’ he said. ‘I just heard it on the news. You must be pleased.’
‘I’m over the moon,’ I said. ‘We all are, which is why we’re going to the pub for a celebration drink.’
‘You deserve it, hon. Have a great time.’
‘Are you home already?’
‘No, I’ve only just left the school. I’ll grab a takeaway. Do you want me to get something for you?’
‘No, don’t worry. I’ll sort myself out.’
Aidan was a teacher and worked in a big comprehensive near our home in Balham. We’d been together for four years, having been introduced by my matchmaking mother who was one of his colleagues.
‘I’ll see you when I see you then,’ Aidan said. ‘And try not to get too tipsy. There’s still a big stain on the carpet from the last time you rolled in drunk.’
I laughed and told him that I loved him, then put the phone back in my shoulder bag.
‘From the sound of it, things are still great on the home front,’ Kate said.
I nodded. ‘It couldn’t be better. We’re a good match, and thankfully Aidan’s pretty understanding about all the unsocial hours and stuff.’
‘You’re lucky. I’ve come to the conclusion that good men are a dying breed.’
Kate had been bitter and cynical about men ever since I’d known her, but I had some sympathy. Her marriage came to a brutal end after only two years when she found her husband – a fellow detective working at the same station – in bed with another woman, for whom he promptly left her.
What compounded her suffering and humiliation was the fact that most of their colleagues had known he’d been having an affair for months and no one had told her.
But the sorry saga did not end there. Two months after walking out, her husband died in an accident outside his new home when he was struck by a car that mounted the pavement. So grief was suddenly added to Kate’s emotional burden.
‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ I asked tentatively.
She shook her head. ‘I was going out with a bloke until a couple of weeks ago. He was some kind of financial adviser, and that was the problem. He kept trying to get me to part with money. When he said he could double my savings I realised he was a wrong ’un and told him to sod off.’
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, but then it was a familiar story. I knew a couple of other middle-aged women who’d had similar experiences on the dating scene.
‘I made the mistake of telling that lech Tony Marsden that I was single again,’ Kate said. ‘And he had the cheek to ask me if I wanted to go out for a drink with him.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him that I wasn’t that bloody desperate and that he should be ashamed of himself.’
I grinned. ‘I’m sure he’s heard that before.’
‘Maybe so, but the slimy toerag then said I didn’t know what I was missing.’
We both laughed and I went on to tell her about how Marsden tried it on with me at the last Christmas do.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t by far the worst of a bad bunch,’ I said.
Tony Marsden was another of the detective sergeants on the team. He was an opinionated prick who despite being married with a young son was known to play away with anyone who’d have him, including prostitutes.
It was no secret that he was addicted to gambling as well as illicit sex, and he had always struck me as a pretty dodgy character, the kind of copper my dad would have hated working with.
And it was just our rotten luck that Marsden should arrive at the Rose and Crown at the same time we did, after Kate had dropped off the pool car.
He was a squat, bullish man in his late thirties, with a florid complexion and fair hair that was as short as putting-green grass.
When he saw us approaching, he opened the door to the saloon bar and treated us to one of his lascivious smirks.
‘Evening, ladies,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ll both be on your best behaviour. If not then I can assure you that it won’t be a problem, at least with me.’
‘Grow up, for pity’s sake,’ I said as I brushed past him, noting that his suit carried the heavy stench of cigarette smoke.
Inside it looked like the start of a boy’s night out, which was usually the case when the team got together socially. That was because Kate and I were two of only four women among the twenty detectives.
One of the others was Janet Dean, who was the same rank as me. She was already at the bar and waved when she spotted us.
Janet was in her late forties, and it was fair to say that she was the most unpopular member of the team. She was a miserable bitch most of the time and rarely attended social functions. When she did she tended to drink too much and slag people off.
‘So what’s your tipple, girls?’ she said as we approached the bar. ‘The booze is on the house so we might as well get stuck in.’
Her thin face was flushed and there was a wet patch on the front of her cream blouse. It was obvious she had already downed a few glasses of something.
I opted for a gin and tonic, and Kate had a white wine.
‘I’m surprised you’ve graced us with your presence, Janet,’ Kate said. ‘I can’t remember the last time you joined us for a drink.’
Janet lifted her shoulders and eyebrows at the same time.
‘It’s a special occasion,’ she said. ‘And besides, Ethan is spending a couple of days in Brighton working on the boat so I’ve got no reason to rush home.’
That was the other thing that people didn’t like about Janet Dean. She too often boasted about how well off she and her husband were. They lived in a town house in Chelsea, owned two BMWs, and their latest acquisition was a cabin cruiser that was moored in Brighton marina.
Of course, their lifestyle wasn’t funded by her copper’s salary. Her husband worked for an investment company in the City, although she’d always been vague about exactly what he did, and kept schtum about how much he earned.
I was on my second G and T when DCS Drummond decided to propose a toast to the team’s latest success.
‘You’ve all done a great job and I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘But make no mistake – things are about to get much tougher. Roy Slack is a master when it comes to evading prosecution. And there’s no one who’s as cautious as he is at avoiding surveillance. As you know from the intelligence packs you’ve been given, he uses unregistered mobiles and employs debugging devices in his home and office. He also has powerful friends and we suspect there are officers in the Met who are in his pocket. Those are among the people we aim to flush out during this investigation.’
We all knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Slack was London’s longest established crime boss and it was strongly believed that he had connections with senior officers, the Crown Prosecution Service and several MPs. It was one of the reasons he had managed to reign supreme for so long.
‘When we get together tomorrow I’ll give a full briefing on our approach,’ Drummond said. ‘But one of our main lines of enquiry will continue to be the disappearance of firearms officer Hugh Wallis. I still believe that it’s highly likely that Slack had something to do with it, despite his denials.’
Officer Wallis had vanished while returning to his home in Shoreditch from a late shift just a week ago. His car was then found the next day parked behind a warehouse a few miles away in Stratford. The keys were still in the ignition.
No one had heard from him since his disappearance and no clues to his whereabouts had been offered up by traffic cameras and CCTV.
According to his wife there were no issues in his life that he might have decided to run away from. It was therefore feared that something bad had happened to him.
The task force had been alerted because Wallis had been involved in a joint operation that had been mounted three months ago with the NCA. Raids were carried out on the homes of twelve known villains, including a man named Terry Malone, who worked for Slack.
Wallis had shot Malone dead when he thought the guy was about to attack him. But there was a bit of a rumpus because Malone’s girlfriend – who sadly miscarried during the raid – later claimed that Malone had not posed a threat, and that the officer had fired the three fatal shots because he panicked.
An investigation cleared Wallis and accepted that the action he took upon entering the couple’s bedroom that night was justified.
But the decision caused a ripple of alarm within the criminal community and the word on the street was that Roy Slack’s people had been using their contacts to try to find out the identity of the officer, which hadn’t of course been made public.
Personally I had my doubts that Slack would be so stupid as to seek retribution against the police, especially on behalf of someone who was fairly low down the food chain within his organisation.
But as we would soon discover, the man was far more ruthless than his reputation had led us to believe.
And he had secrets that would turn out to be just as shocking as his actions.
4 (#ulink_bc80cc06-f918-5ade-a597-fe611c8693a9)
Slack
It didn’t take long for Roy Slack to reveal his plan to Danny Carver. It was a simple one, after all.
Danny’s reaction was predictable. His jaw dropped and the colour retreated from his face.
‘Is this a fucking joke, boss?’ he said, his voice stretched thin with shock. ‘Because if it ain’t, then I think you might have lost your marbles.’
Slack stood up and stepped out from behind his desk. It was uncomfortably warm in the office so he slipped off his cardigan and threw it on the chair. His white shirt had dark patches of sweat under each armpit.
He crossed the room to the cabinet with the bottles of spirits on top.
‘Care for a whisky, Danny?’ he asked.
‘Too bloody right I do,’ Danny answered. ‘And please make it a large one because I think I need it.’
Slack smiled to himself as he poured out triples of his finest malt, flown down from his favourite distillery in the Highlands.
He handed a glass to Danny. ‘You’ve been with me a long time, mate, and you’re the only person in this world who I’d trust with my life. It’s why I’ve told you what I intend to do and it’s the reason I’m now going to tell you why I want to do it.’
Danny’s hard face fisted into a frown and he rolled out his bottom lip.
‘Well, I’m all ears, boss,’ he said.
Slack sat down beside him on the sofa and sipped at his whisky.
‘I also need you to know that you’re going to be well looked after whatever happens,’ he said. ‘I’m going to transfer a large sum of cash into your offshore account first thing in the morning. If the firm survives then you can stick around if you want to. If it doesn’t you’ll have the option to fuck off abroad and enjoy an early retirement.’
Danny’s frown deepened and he tilted his head to one side.
‘Sounds to me like you’ve given a lot of thought to this, boss,’ he said.
Slack nodded. ‘It’s been rolling around inside my head for weeks. Now I can’t wait to get on with it.’
Danny grinned, showing off his two gold teeth.
‘Well, it sure is an insane idea,’ he said. ‘But for what it’s worth I reckon the fuckers have it coming. Most of ’em are more crooked than we are.’
Slack knew he could depend on Danny not to fill his nappy at the thought of what was going to happen. They didn’t call him The Rottweiler for nothing. He was a man of violence, a crazy fuck, who had maimed and killed more men than he could probably remember.
He was also fiercely loyal and had carried out heinous crimes on Slack’s behalf without a second’s thought. He was completely devoid of empathy and compassion.
For that reason Slack had absolutely no doubt that he would be able to count on him in the days and weeks ahead.
‘So come on, boss,’ Danny said. ‘There’s no way you’d be set on doing this just to hang on to what you’ve got. There has to be something else, something that you’ve been keeping close to your chest.’
So Slack told him, and for the first time since they’d met, Danny Carver was lost for words.
‘So now you know everything,’ Roy Slack said. ‘And that’s a privilege I won’t grant to anyone else. The rest of the guys will be fed information as and when I deem it to be necessary.’
Danny was slow to respond and Slack could tell that he wasn’t sure how. What he’d just been told had come as quite a shock, and he was shrewd enough to know that his world was about to be tilted on its axis.
‘I’m determined to see this through for the reasons I’ve just given,’ Slack said. ‘So don’t bother trying to talk me out of it. My mind’s made up, and since I’m still head of this outfit I’ll expect you to support me.’
Danny drained the whisky from his glass and found his voice.
‘I won’t try to talk you out of it, boss. Not because I know it’ll be a waste of time, but because if I was in your shoes I’d be tempted to do something similar.’
Slack was pleased but not surprised. He and Danny were very much alike in the sense that they had no respect for authority and both harboured a simmering hatred for the police.
It went way back to those early years spent on a rough council estate in Peckham when the cops were their enemy.
As teenagers they were sucked into the gang culture and from there they embarked on a life of villainy.
