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They eventually went their separate ways. Slack stayed in London and built a reputation for himself as a hard, uncompromising gangster. He served his apprenticeship as a thief, a pimp, a drug dealer and an enforcer. And all that time he managed to stay out of jail by outsmarting the law.
But Danny wasn’t so lucky. At eighteen he stabbed to death a man who came onto his girlfriend in a pub. He was convicted of murder and spent twelve years in prison. When released he went to work with a bunch of mercenaries in Libya. After a couple of years in that hellhole, he returned to London and offered his services to his old pal from Peckham.
Slack had been only too pleased to give him a job, and it wasn’t long before Danny became his right-hand man.
‘So have you got any questions, mate?’ Slack asked as he got up from the sofa to pour some more drinks.
‘I’ve got lots, boss,’ Danny said. ‘But they can wait. I’d rather we got down to business and you told me how we’re going to get this party started.’
Slack poured two more whiskies and then sat back down on the sofa.
‘It’s already started, mate,’ he said. ‘Yesterday I spoke to our friend Carlos Cruz in Mexico. He owes me a big favour and I called it in.’
‘What do you want from him?’ Danny asked.
Slack took a deep breath and held it for a second before speaking.
‘I want him to supply us with an assassin,’ he said, as though that were quite a normal request to make. ‘Someone who won’t be on the radar of any law enforcement agency anywhere in Europe. As we all know the best and most prolific contract killers work for the Mexican cartels.’
‘What was his response?’
‘He told me he’d be only too happy to help and that he’d ring me this evening.’
Danny’s brow peaked. ‘So assuming he delivers, what’ll be the next step?’
A slow smile spread across Slack’s face. ‘We then make use of the information that’s been passed onto me by our mole inside the organised crime task force.’
5 (#ulink_d3a106ae-edd4-5c78-8ed4-916a92f1e58a)
Laura
The task force had a temporary base at New Scotland Yard because the building we usually occupied around the corner was being refurbished. But it suited me because the interior was fresh and modern, and there were spectacular views across the Thames. It was also much closer to the Rose and Crown and a couple of other cosy little watering holes.
I was among the first to leave the pub after four gin and tonics, a ham sandwich and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
I would have stayed later if it had been Friday, but I had no intention of getting pissed on a Monday night.
I’d enjoyed myself, though. The banter, the camaraderie, the chance to talk about things other than work. Plus, I’d also managed to steer clear of Tony Marsden, who’d spent much of the time chatting up the buxom barmaid.
DCS Drummond had been on good form throughout and had taken particular pleasure in using the occasion to reveal some more good news – that the wife of our colleague, DI Dave Prentiss, had given birth to a baby boy that very afternoon, which was why he wasn’t with us. Prentiss was one of the detectives I got on well with, so I was really happy for him.
After leaving the pub I walked to Embankment tube station and travelled south via the Northern Line to Balham where Aidan and I rented a house just off the High Road.
I got home shortly after nine o’clock. Aidan was watching the television in the living room and he was surprised to see me back so early.
‘What happened?’ he said. ‘Did they run out of booze?’
I laughed. ‘I didn’t dare stay any longer. It was my day off, remember, and I had a couple of wines with lunch. One more alcoholic drink and no way will I be fit for work in the morning.’
He got up from his favourite armchair, pulled me into an embrace, and kissed me tenderly on the mouth.
As always it was just what I needed at the end of a day spent apart. His warm, minty breath and the feel of his body so close to mine gave rise to a familiar sense of gratitude for having him in my life.
I loved him beyond measure and I knew in my heart that I’d always be able to trust him. He wasn’t like Tony Marsden or Kate Chappell’s adulterous husband.
Having got my pulse racing, he helped me off with my coat and offered to make me a cup of coffee.
‘Sit down and relax,’ he said. ‘Fancy a couple of chocolate biscuits?’
‘Does the Pope believe in Christ?’
He gave me another kiss, this time on the forehead, and I watched him slide off into the kitchen.
He was wearing his ‘comfy’ uniform – a pair of black tracksuit bottoms and a baggy blue sweatshirt with more stains on it than a baby’s bib.
I was the only person who ever got to see him like this. Whenever we had visitors he’d put on jeans and a smart jumper and pretend that he didn’t live like a slob while at home.
But the truth was Aidan Bray was one of those men who looked pretty cool whatever they wore.
He was tall and trim with a sporty physique honed during regular sessions in the gym. But it was his face more than anything else that had attracted me to him in the first place. It was more interesting than handsome, and there was an openness to it that drew people in.
His eyes were large and green and set slightly too far apart. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled and his light brown hair was flecked with grey even though he was only thirty-three.
As he disappeared into the kitchen I realised yet again how lucky I was, certainly compared to Kate who had lost all faith in men, and was struggling to get her personal life back on track.
I dropped onto the sofa and exhaled a long breath. In front of me on the television a recorded episode of A Place in the Sun was drawing to a close. Aidan was a big fan, partly because he dreamt of moving to Spain one day to be nearer to his parents who’d retired to the Costa Blanca a few years ago.
I picked up the remote and turned to the BBC News Channel. Within thirty seconds they were running the Harry Fuller story and I watched DCS Drummond facing the media outside the Old Bailey.
‘So tell me more about this bloke Roy Slack,’ Aidan said as he re-entered the living room with my coffee. ‘I gather you’re gunning for him next.’
I looked up, surprised. ‘Have they mentioned him by name on the news?’
‘No. But he’s been all over social media this evening and he was trending on Twitter when I last checked.’
The force was always careful not to name people until they were questioned or charged, especially those who had the means and clout to cause a fuss. The mainstream media also tended to be cautious for fear of litigation. But on the Internet it was a different matter and people didn’t care about such things as libel and defamation.
Aidan handed me my coffee and biscuits and settled back into his armchair, waiting for me to answer his question.
He rarely asked me about my work and the characters we pursued because he knew that there was so much I couldn’t tell him. He had only ever demonstrated a vague curiosity anyway, and that could more often than not be satisfied by reading the Evening Standard.
‘Roy Slack can best be described as a tyrant who presides over this country’s biggest criminal enterprise,’ I explained. ‘He’s the closest we have to the old Mafia godfathers.’
Aidan didn’t want a detailed character assessment of the man, just the lurid headlines. So that was what I gave him.
‘Slack’s whole life has been spent as a criminal but would you believe the bastard has never seen the inside of a prison cell?’ I said. ‘He’s got a hand in every illicit pie across Central and South London. That includes drugs, extortion, fraud, prostitution, porn, money laundering – the lot.
‘He’s been the subject of intense investigations by the NCA and before them the Serious Organised Crime Agency. But he’s kept a clean sheet, thanks to witness intimidation, bent coppers and by being more careful than any other villain out there. And he’s still going from strength to strength after more than a decade at the top of his game. We now know that he’s even established strong links with a notorious Mexican cartel that’s flooding the whole of Europe with cocaine and heroin.’
‘He sounds like quite a guy,’ Aidan said. ‘But you’d never guess it from the photos I’ve seen on the web. He looks like a kindly uncle who’s ageing before his time.’
‘Well, over the years a lot of people have learned to their cost that his appearance can be more than a little deceiving. He’s a vicious bastard who surrounds himself with men who are even more vicious, including some nutter known at The Rottweiler.’
‘What about his private life? Does he actually have one?’
‘He lives well,’ I said. ‘But that’s about all we know. He’s got a fancy apartment overlooking the Thames, a big country house in Kent and a luxury villa in Spain – all paid for through legitimate businesses that are fronts for his dodgy activities.’
‘Is it a family-run organisation?’ Aidan asked.
I shook my head. ‘If it was we’re sure he would have retired by now and handed over the reins to a son or daughter. But if you ask me that’s down to poetic justice.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he lost his wife ten years ago in a car crash. They never had children.’
‘That’s tough,’ Aidan said. ‘But even so it’s hard to feel sorry for the guy.’
I didn’t bother carrying on even though I could have revealed a lot more about Roy Slack. I could sense that Aidan had heard enough and, besides, it was only fair that we talked a bit about his day.
He jumped at the chance to tell me that he’d been asked to organise the staff Christmas party this year alongside my mother, who always got involved in her capacity as school secretary.
I feigned interest even though it wasn’t something that I could get excited about. But at least it was a timely reminder that it wasn’t all about me and the work I did. Too often I gave that impression whenever I got wrapped up in a case. I withdrew into myself and thought about little else. And I knew that wasn’t fair on Aidan, even though he never complained.
To be sure Roy Slack and his minions were going to dominate my days for the foreseeable future, along with every other member of the task force.
I told myself that this time I would do my best to keep the investigation separate from my home life. I was determined not to let Aidan suffer in any way.
6 (#ulink_0f3e1128-8cc4-5537-a9e7-1a2d28644288)
Slack
Danny Carver was a man of many talents. He was proficient in the use of most guns. He could strangle the toughest of men with his bare hands. He knew exactly how to torture someone to get them to cough up. And he could go days without sleep and still be a match for anyone in a street brawl.
But in recent years he had acquired a particular talent that didn’t involve violence – and yet it had proved just as useful to Roy Slack.
Danny had become a computer geek. He wasn’t up there with those cyber criminals who terrify the likes of governments, banks and big corporations. But his newfound skills had helped to develop new revenue streams for the firm through scams involving online fraud, hacking and identity theft. He’d also helped to make it difficult for the Old Bill to eavesdrop on their communications by installing sophisticated defence software in their mobiles and laptops.
It was therefore going to fall on Danny to get the ball rolling.
Slack took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and held it up.
‘This is a copy of the list I just told you about,’ he said. ‘It contains the names and contact details of every detective on the organised crime task force. Next to each individual there’s a home address and the names of the people who are closest to them – wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, children, etcetera. Our mole has also provided me with a separate file containing photographs of most of those on the list. It’s been uploaded as a password-protected page on the web.’
‘So what is it you want me to do, boss?’
‘To start with I want you to send an anonymous text message to every detective so they receive it at the same time. You have to make it impossible for the message to be traced back to us. Can you do that?’
Danny nodded. ‘Piece of cake. So what’ll be in the message?’
Slack handed the sheet of paper to Danny.
‘I’ve written it there under the names. It’s short and to the point and there’s no way it can be misinterpreted.’
Danny read the message and gave a little whistle through his teeth.
‘Well, if this fails to put the fear of God into the bastards then I don’t know what will,’ he said.
Slack’s office was above a pub/restaurant the firm owned in Rotherhithe, a quiet suburb of South East London.
It was used as their base of operations and had round-the-clock security.
There was a meeting room next door and from its rear window you could see across the Thames to the spectacular skyline of Canary Wharf. One of the high-rise buildings had been home to Slack for the past four years. It was where he stayed when he was in London, which these days was most of the time.
It was just after nine o’clock and usually when he was here this late he would go for a meal downstairs. But tonight he had no appetite – at least for food.
‘Call Mike and let him know I’m ready to go home,’ he said to Danny. ‘And tell him I’ll be making the usual stop along the way.’
Mike Walker was one of his regular drivers. Long gone were the days when Slack drove anywhere himself.
He put on his suit jacket while Danny made the call, and filled his pockets with his phone, wallet and pack of Havana cigars.
‘Mike’s warming up the car,’ Danny said. ‘He says he’ll ring Jasmine to tell her you’re on your way over.’
Slack nodded. ‘That’s terrific. The last job for you tonight is to tell the lads that I want them here for a meeting tomorrow at eleven o’clock. I need to warn them that the shit’s about to hit the fan.’
They headed off in different directions – Danny to his house in Streatham and Slack to the home of his mistress in Vauxhall.
Jasmine Tinder lived in a flat he paid the rent on and it was an arrangement that suited them both. He wasn’t interested in another long-term relationship because he knew that no bird could ever match up to his Julie.
But it didn’t mean that his sex drive had hit the buffers, and so he made sure he got his end away on a regular basis. He was lucky in that the nature of his business meant that horny little muffins were always on tap.
Jasmine was one of several he currently had on the go, and the moment he entered the flat he realised yet again why she was his favourite.
‘I was hoping you’d drop by, babe,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘The thought of you fucking me senseless has had me dripping between the legs for hours.’
She stood before him in nothing but a black bra and panties, a twenty-one-year-old sex siren from Manchester with metallic red hair, tits the size of melons and the face of an angel.
It was all part of an act, of course, a performance designed to get him excited. But it was exactly what he wanted. What he paid her for.
She took his hand and led him into the bedroom and as she started to slowly take off his clothes, his cock rose to the occasion.
Sex with Jasmine was always good, and it was the only time he never used a condom. He didn’t have to because he’d had the snip years ago and he made sure she had regular check-ups at a private STD clinic.
He didn’t try to drag it out because he had a lot on his mind and there was a risk he’d lose his erection. But it was no less enjoyable. He came inside her from behind and she did a pretty good job of faking her own orgasm.
His timing, as it turned out, was perfect because he’d just got his breath back when his mobile rang. He’d placed it on the bedside table, and as he picked it up he told Jasmine to leave the room.
‘It is me, my friend,’ Carlos Cruz said when he answered. ‘Are you able to talk?’
