A Good day to die

24

Jason Khan's brother, Jamie Delly, had never known his dad. I don't suppose his mum had, either. He was eight years old when he'd first been nicked, after making a valiant effort to burn down his primary school. Since the age of criminal responsibility in the UK is ten, he'd been let off with a warning, which when you're a kid like Delly is the same as a letter of encouragement, and over the next six years he'd been arrested on numerous occasions for offences which ranged from the minor, like shoplifting and possession of dope, to the potentially far more serious, like knife point muggings and aggravated burglary. He'd been fourteen when I'd left the force, and even then I hadn't seen him in close to a year. He'd be seventeen now, and doubtless making a mess of his life. Like his three brothers, he was a nasty little bastard, but I felt that he'd also be the easiest to talk to. He was the youngest and the smallest of the Delly boys, and he hadn't been the brightest of sparks either, with nothing like the animal cunning of, say, Jason. Or indeed Bryan or Kyle, the other two. If he knew something, I'd get it out of him. I also thought he'd be the least likely to recognize me. But I put my glasses back on, just in case.

On that Monday morning the rain had stopped and the sun was shining. My head still ached, but a lot less than it had done the previous day, and the lump from Saturday's blow in the cafe had shrunk considerably. I rose at eight o'clock, dressed in fresh clothes and got something to eat from the Italian place round the corner. I took the paper with me and was surprised to see that the shootings in Soho weren't the top story. In fact, they only got a small initial mention in the bottom left-hand corner of the front page, supplanted by another Palestinian suicide bombing in Jerusalem, plus something about GM crops, and I had to turn to page three to get the full report. There was a photo of the street in which I'd gunned down the assassin. It had been sealed off with scene-of-crime tape and a uniformed copper was standing in the background. Aside from that there were a few sentences describing how three men had been shot dead in a gunfight, part of which had taken place in an adult cinema. None of them had so far been formally identified by the police.

And that, pretty much, was it. Twenty years ago, an incident like that would have been front-page news. Now it was just one more shooting. For a country with some of the strictest gun-control laws in the world, Britain has a remarkably high incidence of gun crime, and it always amazes me that by and large the police remain unarmed.

I'd finished breakfast and was on my way to collect my new business cards when Emma phoned. Our conversation was short and formal, but at least not awkward. Clearly, she was still prepared to work with me in the cold light of day. She gave me Jamie's last known address in Islington, on an estate east of the Essex Road, in the direction of Hoxton. I recognized it as a place I'd visited before on police business, and I told Emma I'd let her know how things went.

'Careful, Dennis,' she told me, and I felt mildly touched at the way she used my first name. No one had called me that for a long time.

'Don't worry about me,' I told her. 'I have a knack for surviving. How about you? You haven't had any more unwanted deliveries?'

'No, everything's fine. They're replacing the window this afternoon.'

'Well, you be careful too. We'll talk later.'

I hung up and looked at my watch. Nine thirty-five a.m. I didn't suppose a lazy no-hoper like Jamie would be out of bed yet, which made it the perfect time to visit. The estate he lived on consisted of a series of L-shaped grey-brick buildings five storeys high, arranged in a loose square, with each one connected to the other by a covered passageway built at the level of the third storey, giving the whole thing the appearance of a giant puzzle. As with most London council estates, there was a map at the entrance to give the visitor some idea how to find his way around. Jamie lived in Block D, which according to the map was on the left-hand side.

A twenty-yard-long tunnel carved out of the block in front of me led into the interior of the estate, and as I walked through it, I wondered what the designers of these places were thinking about when they made their plans. They were a criminal's paradise. Built like fortresses, they could be defended with ease by the local youths against the encroachments of the police during street disturbances, and the profusion of passageways offered all kinds of ambush sites and escape routes for even the slowest and noisiest of muggers.

One night in October 1985, when I was still a probationer in uniform, I'd been sent to a similar estate in Tottenham, along with hundreds of other Metropolitan Police officers, to deal with a bloody riot, during the course of which we were petrol-bombed, shot at, and bombarded with paving slabs by a mob who were able to defend their territory with terrifying effectiveness, thanks to its design. The estate was Broadwater Farm, a byword for infamy in the Met, and by the end of that night more than two hundred of my colleagues were injured, and one, PC Keith Blakelock, was dead, having suffered multiple stab wounds at the hands of machete-wielding rioters. I swear that if the site had been more open-plan we would have brought the riot under control a lot quicker than we did, and with far fewer casualties.

At this time in the morning, the place was quiet: a couple of young mothers were pushing prams; a frail pensioner still in his dressing-gown was standing about on one of the balconies that ran round each block. Not much else.

I found Block D, and climbed the steps that led up the side of it until I came to the fourth floor. Delly lived at number 42 and the balcony that ran its entire length was empty. When I got to his door, I could hear the radio playing from inside and I knocked hard. There was no answer. The curtains were pulled and I couldn't hear anything above the radio. I knocked again, harder this time.

I'd come a long way this morning and was loath to go back to the hotel without seeing Jamie, so since there didn't appear to be anyone else around, I decided to resort to more radical measures than I would usually have considered. Taking a step backwards, I kicked the door as hard as I could just below the handle. It wobbled but held, so I kicked it again, and this time it flew inwards with a loud crack.

I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. The place smelled terrible. Fat; unwashed sweat; domestic rubbish; smoke. The only way I could have spent a night in there was if I'd been wearing a gas mask.

'Who the fuck are you?'

The voice belonged to a well-built, square-jawed white guy of about thirty, dressed in a black leather jacket and holding a foot-long cosh in his right hand. He was standing in a doorway on the other side of the room, and without waiting for an answer, he raised the cosh menacingly and advanced across the mess-strewn living room.

'I'm the man with the gun,' I answered, pulling the.45 out of the waistband of my jeans and pointing it directly at his chest. 'Drop that fucking thing. Now.'

He stopped dead, held his ground for a couple of seconds while he assessed the situation, then reluctantly dropped the cosh as I walked towards him, cocked the gun and pushed it against his chest.

'I don't think you know who you're dealing with here, mate,' he snarled.

'Well, why don't you enlighten me? Because you sure as hell aren't Jamie Delly, and that's who I'm here to see.'

He looked down at the gun, then at me, and could see that I wasn't messing about. When he spoke again, it was with another menacing growl. 'I'd advise you very strongly to turn round and walk away. Because I am here on behalf of someone who has a lot of clout round this neck of the woods, and who does not like people doing things that fuck up the smooth running of his business. You know what I mean?'

I took a step back, and raised the gun so it was a millimetre from the bridge of his nose. 'Where's Delly?'

Through the doorway came another voice, above the music. 'What's going on, Jer? Who you talking to out there?'

'Don't answer him,' I said, keeping the gun where it was. 'Go back in there.'

He started to tell me again that I was making a mistake, so I let him know that I'd count to three and if he hadn't moved by then, he wouldn't be moving anywhere again. He glared at me through slit-thin eyes until I made it to two, then slowly did as he'd been instructed.

I gave him a nudge and followed him through the door and into the flat's small interior hallway. The voice called out again, asking what Jer thought he was doing. It was coming from the first room on our right. The door was half open and I shoved Jer inside. At the same time, I used my foot to push it as far open as it would go, and was immediately confronted with a sight that I could have done without at that time in the morning.

A skinny, unkempt teenager who I recognized as Jamie Delly was hanging by one arm from the shower hook above the bathtub. He was wearing nothing but a pair of threadbare boxer shorts that had probably been white once but were now a murky grey, and he was staring at me, his eyes wide with fear and pain. Blood ran in rivulets from his nostrils down to his chest, but it wasn't this that caught my eye. It was the fact that the top third of his left ear was missing where it had been freshly sliced away. The bottom two-thirds and the area of the neck beneath it were just a red mess. In front of Jamie, and slightly to one side, stood another white man with a shiny bald head, a dark goatee beard and a smile like a gash. He was holding a pair of bloodied secateurs, the blades of which were now pressed against the little finger of Jamie's free hand, ready, by the looks of things, to lop it off.

When the guy with the secateurs saw me, the smile disappeared, to be replaced with a glare of annoyance much like the one Jer had just given me.

'Hello,' I said, pointing the gun in his general direction. 'Am I interrupting something?'

'Who the fuck are you?' he demanded.

'What is it with you two? Didn't anyone ever teach you manners? I'm this boy's guardian angel and I'm here to tell you both to get going while you're still in a position to do so.'

'I think he means it, Tom,' said Jer, staring at the gun.

'The fuck he does,' snarled Tom. He turned to me. 'You ain't gonna do nothing in here. Not with that fucking thing.'

I laughed. 'I think you could be in for a shock, but don't worry, I'm not going to kill you. Just make a mess of your kneecap.' I changed the angle of my gun arm to make my point. 'Now, I'm going to count to three. After that, if you're still standing here they're going to be calling you Pegleg until the day you die.'

'You don't know who you're messing with.'

'That's what Jer said. I wasn't interested then, I'm not interested now. One…'

They exchanged glances, then Tom slowly eased the secateurs away from Jamie's finger, cutting the skin as he did so. Jamie gasped, but said nothing.

I stood out of the way as they exited the bathroom and turned in the direction of the door, Tom leading.

'You'll regret this,' Tom told me as I followed them into the living room.

'Life's too short for regrets.'

'Yours is gonna be. You're a dead man, mate.'

'Can the threats and keep moving, baldie,' I said, realizing that I was beginning to enjoy myself. Detective work was infinitely more rewarding when you didn't have to play by any rules.

He glared at me, but opened the door and did as he was told. Jer also managed a glare, but his lacked conviction. I watched them as they walked along the balcony towards the steps, Tom already talking on his mobile phone, doubtless calling up reinforcements with guns.

I didn't have much time.