The Murder Exchange

Wednesday, four days ago

Gallan

Roddy Lee Potter lived in a swanky apartment situated on the ground floor of an attractive Georgian townhouse just off Kensington High Street. When I’d finally got him to answer the phone the previous day he’d been in a bar in Soho, sounding extremely drunk. We’d arranged to meet today at midday at Roddy’s place, but I’d phoned ahead to make sure he hadn’t forgotten our conversation, which he had. He’d wanted to postpone, the hangover in his voice obvious, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily and insisted we keep the time as arranged.

I got there ten minutes early and was buzzed in straight away. The door to the apartment was opened by a large, red-faced gentleman with curly, greyish-black hair who looked like he hadn’t been out of bed that long. He was dressed in a crumpled pair of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt.

‘Detective Sergeant Gallan, please come in.’

I followed him inside and through to a lavishly furnished but very messy lounge. It looked like the cleaner hadn’t been in for a few days. Lee Potter motioned me to a leather armchair and I sat down, wrinkling my nose at the three-quarters-full pub-sized ashtray on the table beside him, the smell reminding me why I’d chosen to give up all those years ago.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked.

I said I would, and waited while he went to get it. He seemed a genial enough chap, but then I guess you would be pretty genial if you lived an easy, relatively wealthy life from rental income, and had no responsibilities. Was I jealous? What do you think? Of course I was.

When Lee Potter came back with the coffees, he asked how he could be of assistance. ‘I hope I’m not in trouble for anything,’ he added in a tone that was a little bit too ingratiating, and sat down opposite me.

‘No, but it’s something you might be able to help with. You’ve been renting a house out to a Mr Tony Franks?’

He nodded his head. ‘That’s right. He moved out a couple of weeks ago.’

‘How long’s he been renting from you?’

‘About four years now, something like that.’

‘Can I ask how much you charged him in rent?’

Lee Potter looked taken aback. ‘Is it strictly necessary to know that? What’s it got to do with anything?’

‘I’m trying to build up a picture,’ I said, ‘and this information’s an important part of it.’

‘Two thousand two hundred a month. I probably could have got more but he was an easy tenant, and they’re not all like that, I can tell you.’

‘How many properties do you rent out, Mr Lee Potter?’

‘Four altogether.’

‘I expect they make you a tidy little income, don’t they?’

Lee Potter smiled nervously. ‘It’s not bad. Not bad at all.’

‘No, I bet it isn’t.’ My tone was deliberately suspicious. Lee Potter struck me as a weak character, someone you could push. ‘What does Mr Franks do for a living?’

‘I believe he owns his own company. I’m not sure what it does, though. As long as he paid the rent on time-’

‘… Then you didn’t ask too many questions. How many times have you met Mr Franks?’

‘Er, I don’t know. Not many. Two or three times at most.’

‘In four years?’ I raised my eyebrows.

‘There was never any need to see him more than that.’

‘He lived there alone, did he?’

Lee Potter nodded, clearly flustered by my rapid-fire questions. ‘As far as I know, yes. That’s right.’

‘Where did the money come from?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he pay you directly or did it come from someone else?’

‘His company paid. They used to send a cheque here every month, and they were always on time. That’s why I never bothered too much. Is there something wrong?’

I ignored the question. ‘Did he leave a forwarding address when he moved out?’

‘No, no he didn’t. In fact he never actually came round at all. I got a phone call from his brother saying that he’d gone, and asking what was owed. I was concerned because obviously it was all a bit sudden, so he suggested I go round and check that everything was OK. I did, the house all looked very clean, and then he phoned back a couple of days later, we divvied everything up, and the company sent another cheque for the balance.’

‘Did his brother leave a phone number you could reach him on?’

He shook his head. ‘No, he didn’t. He-’

‘So you couldn’t actually say for certain that it was his brother?’

‘Well, no, but there was no reason to believe otherwise. Why should there have been?’

‘The reason I’m asking is that we want to talk to Mr Franks about some very serious matters, and I’m particularly interested in details of any of his associates.’

‘As I said, Mr Gallan, I only ever met him a couple of times, and that was alone. He was a model tenant in pretty much every way. He never called me out, never complained, nothing. Just paid his rent and that was it.’

I paused for a moment and took several sips from my coffee before speaking again. ‘Was there ever any suspicion on your part that the house was being used for anything other than simply being lived in?’

Lee Potter tried to look like he was thinking hard about the question. It didn’t really work. ‘No, not really,’ he said eventually.

‘Are you absolutely sure? It’s very important we know about it if there was.’

He sighed. ‘I once went round there, I don’t know, about a year or so ago, mainly because I hadn’t even seen the place for God knows how long, and I was in the area anyway.’

‘Go on.’

‘It was nothing really, but all the curtains were closed, which I thought was a bit odd as it was the middle of the day, and there were also a couple of cars there. Anyway, I rang on the doorbell a couple of times, but no one answered.’ He paused before continuing. ‘Only, I was sure there were people there, because there was a tiny gap in the sitting-room curtains and I was certain I saw the shadow of someone moving around in there. It was probably nothing, almost certainly nothing, but I phoned Mr Franks up a couple of days later and he made out that he’d been away, which was odd.’ He shrugged expansively. ‘But that’s about it. I can’t think of anything else. What do you think was happening there, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, but I had my ideas.

I finished the coffee, got the name of the company that paid Franks’s bills from Lee Potter, and then left.

Outside, the sky was darkening and it was already raining, but I hardly noticed as I started off in the direction of the Tube station. I was too busy thinking.

* * *

Twelve hours later my thoughts had turned to very different matters. Like why wasn’t the chief super traipsing round the rain-drenched midnight streets of Islington if he was so bloody keen to ‘foster a continued and ever deeper spirit of co-operation’ between those pounding the beat and those who’d hoped it was all behind them? It was ten past twelve and we’d just been called to the ground-floor council maisonette currently occupied by Brian and Katrina Driscoll.

The smell hit me in the face as soon as I followed Berrin and the two uniforms in through the open front door. Shit and BO and stale rubbish. Food that had gone off, trapped stagnant air; the standard, all-pervading odour of decay. A kid of about eight dressed in filthy pyjama bottoms, his ribs sticking out like they were going to burst through the skin, stood watching us impassively at the bottom of the stairs. It was dark in the hallway but there were lights on further in.

A hysterical wailing came from one of the rooms down the hall. The voice was female. She sounded drunk. ‘I can’t believe you fucking did that to me, you fucking cunt!’

‘Fuck off you old slag or you’ll fucking get some more!’

She screamed again. ‘Fuck off!’

Then him. ‘Do you want some, then? Do you fucking want some?’

There was a sound of glass or crockery breaking and the first uniform, PC Ramsay, called out that it was the police responding to a call. We walked down the hall in a long line to the kitchen, past the boy who continued to stare at us blankly.

‘I fucking called you! Look what he did to me!’ She came into view, a big, misshapen woman in jeans and a white vest that rode up over her ample belly. A thick trail of blood ran down her face and onto her neck. Its source was a large cut on her forehead where she’d clearly been struck by something. She grabbed hold of Ramsay and pulled him to her like a sexually aggressive bear. ‘Look what the cunt did to me! Look!’

The WPC with Ramsay, Farnes, shepherded the victim into the lounge away from her partner, who now appeared, bare-footed, in the kitchen doorway. ‘I ain’t done fucking nothing,’ he said, shaking his head, the words oozing drink. He was tall with a thick head of messy brown hair and an out-of-proportion beer belly. Aged about thirty-five, and dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. We’d been warned he was violent, particularly when drunk. Apparently, the police had been called here plenty of times before.

‘Come on now, Brian,’ said Ramsay, who seemed to know him. ‘I think it’s best you come with us.’ The words were spoken calmly, almost soothingly. Ramsay was understandably eager to avoid a scene. I was too, since I’d have to get involved if he didn’t come quietly.

His response, however, was predictable. ‘Fuck off. I’m all right. I didn’t touch her. She’s fucking lying again.’

Brian came forward, trying to get into the room where his partner was. Ramsay stood in the way and put his hands up to stop him. ‘She’s made a complaint, Brian. Now we’ve got to follow up on it. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘Fuck off. Get out my way.’

‘Look, don’t make this hard on everyone, Brian. Let’s just go nice and quiet now.’

Brian lunged forward and I did my best to grab him in a bearhug from behind while Berrin managed to get him round the neck. Ramsay produced some handcuffs from out of nowhere and the three of us wrestled him towards the front door. Two more recently arrived uniforms came in and helped with what was no easy extraction. Brian cursed and screamed, then fell over, trying to lash out with his arms. I grabbed one, one of the uniforms grabbed another, and Ramsay forced on the cuffs.

‘What are you fucking doing to me, you cunts! Leave me alone! Bastards!’

I looked up and saw the kid on the stairs still watching the whole thing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to see your dad wrestling with a load of police officers. The man reeked of sweat and his hair was greasy. I had my knee in his back and I felt this sudden urge to grab him by the back of his greasy mane and slam his head into the floor.

‘I’ll fucking kill you, you bastards! You’re dead! You know that? Dead!’

We pulled him to his feet and he snorted loudly, filling his mouth with phlegm.

‘All right, get rid of that spit,’ demanded one of the uniforms in his line of fire. ‘Get rid of it now.’

‘Come on now, Brian, let’s be having you,’ continued Ramsay, persisting with his softly-softly approach.

Brian gobbed something thick and horrible onto his carpet, deciding against sending it into one of the arresting officers’ faces and risking a charge of assault, and continued with his pointless invective. We got him outside on the pavement and, while one of the uniforms got the doors of the van open, he had a final angry struggle, just to show he wasn’t coming quietly, and tried to kick Berrin who dodged out of the way. I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back.

‘Fuck off, you fucking wanker!’ he shouted, and lashed out again with a bare foot, this time in my direction.

I stepped aside, then stepped back and stamped hard on his other foot, grinding the heel of my shoe in. Brian howled in pain and I felt a momentary burst of satisfaction.

‘Did you see what he fucking did, the cunt? Did you fucking see?’

I turned away as he was manhandled into the back of the van and cursed myself for losing control. I’d forgotten what these lowlife domestics were like, and how irritating drunks could be. Still, that was no excuse for rising to the bait. As much as anyone, I knew the possible long-term consequences of a two-second loss of control.

‘Nice one, Sarge,’ said Berrin, giving me a pat on the back.

Another patrol car had arrived now and two more officers went into the house. The van containing the prisoner remained where it was while Ramsay and the other two officers chatted among themselves, ignoring the steady rain that beat down from the night sky.

I didn’t say anything. I was pissed off. It struck me as ridiculous that Berrin and I should be sent out on worthless exercises like this that did nothing to bolster morale or understanding, while every effort possible was being made to squeeze the life out of the Matthews murder squad. Capper and Hunsdon had now gone over to the aggravated burglary inquiry involving the pregnant woman, and I’d even had difficulty holding on to Berrin. Knox had lost interest in the case. Particularly now there was no evidence to back up his theory of a Matthews/Iversson partnership. Maybe if the Crimewatch mugshot helped to flush out Iversson, things would change, but for the moment Matthews’s murder was slipping down the endless list of priorities.

The sound of a baby crying came from inside and I walked back in. The kid on the stairs had gone, and the two officers who’d just arrived were talking in the doorway of the room where WPC Farnes had taken the victim, who was still sobbing and cursing. Since no one else seemed bothered about the crying baby, I mounted the stairs, wrinkling my nose against the smell, and walked onto the landing. I found a light switch, flicked it on, then went to the door where the crying was coming from.

The smell when I opened it was foul, fetid. I had to work hard to stop myself from gagging as I switched on the lights.

The room was a cramped mess of toys, boxes, tissues, all sorts. It was difficult to make out the floor in places. In the corner was a cot, and in the cot was a baby of no more than six months, naked except for a nappy and crying hysterically. The stench of shit was horrendous, and I saw that a lot of the tissues were stained brown with it.

I walked over to the cot, the smell getting worse with each step, and looked down at the crying infant. He or she had sores round the thighs where the nappy, which looked almost full to bursting, must have been chafing. I wanted to turn round and walk out of there, and I could have done, too — there was nothing to stop me. It wasn’t my business if this family, and I used the term loosely, couldn’t look after their own. But it wasn’t the kid’s fault either so, steeling myself against the smell, I leant down and picked it up. My hands immediately felt wet and slimy and I knew without looking that they were covered in shit. Grimacing, I turned the baby over and saw that the nappy had leaked and the stuff was all up the poor little kid’s back. No wonder it had been crying, having to lie helpless in its own waste. Nobody had changed this nappy for hours, possibly days.

‘Whatchoo doing with her?’ came a hostile voice from the doorway.

I turned to see the kid who’d watched us come in standing in the doorway. ‘Trying to change her,’ I said. ‘Find me some wipes or a tissue, will you?’ The kid didn’t move. ‘Look, do as I say. I’m trying to help her.’

As the kid rummaged through the crap on the floor, I laid the baby on her front and removed the nappy, using it to mop up the worst of the stuff that clung to her. I folded it up and put it on the floor, for want of a better place. ‘Here y’are,’ said the kid, handing me a half-used roll of toilet paper. Not quite what I had in mind, but at least it was clean.

‘Thanks,’ I said, continuing the grim process. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Wet some of these tissues as well, and see if you can find a cloth. If you do get one, put soap and water on it, and bring it in.’

‘Is she all right?’ asked the kid.

‘Yeah, she’s fine. I think she was feeling a bit neglected.’

The kid came back a few moments later with a cloth and two wet bundles of tissues. ‘Right, see that plastic bag over there?’ The kid nodded. ‘Put the dirty nappy in it, then bring it back here so I can chuck this stuff in it.’ The kid did as he was told, and I thought he’d probably make a good assistant.

When I’d finished making the baby half-presentable, the kid and I hunted round for a clean nappy, finding a bag of them in the corner. ‘Have you ever changed your sister before?’ I asked him.

‘Course I have,’ said the kid.

‘Good. What’s her name?’

‘Karen.’

We cleared a place on the floor, then I lifted her out of the cot and put her down gently on her back. ‘OK, Karen. Your brother’s going to change you now, while I go and sort myself out.’

I found the poky little bathroom and washed my hands thoroughly in the dirty sink. There were a load of hairs clogging up the plughole — hopefully from heads, but it wasn’t that easy to tell — and I thought that this woman and her partner deserved absolutely no sympathy whatever. They behaved worse than animals — which was fine if that’s how they wanted to live, but to ruin their kids’ lives too, that for me was unforgivable.

I went back into the bedroom and helped the kid with the rest of the nappy. Then we both put Karen back into her cot. She was still crying.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.

‘Dean,’ he said.

‘I think Karen might be hungry, Dean. You go to bed now, and I’ll sort out some feed for her.’

The kid disappeared without a word and I walked wearily back down the stairs, thinking that he didn’t really have a chance with parents like that. Neither of them did. The ambulance had arrived for the mother and they were tending her wounds in the lounge while WPC Farnes looked on. The mother was wailing drunkenly and I found it hard not to hate her for her selfishness.

‘Your baby needs feeding,’ I told her. ‘I presume she’s on bottled milk.’

There was a commotion outside the front door and Berrin walked inside, talking excitedly to PC Ramsay. He saw me and immediately came over. ‘Sarge, we’ve got an all units out. There’s been a shooting.’

‘You’d better wait here until social services arrive,’ I told Farnes. ‘And sort out the baby’s feed, can you?’ Farnes tried to say something but I wasn’t listening. ‘Where’s this shooting at?’

‘Heavenly Girls.’

Iversson

It’s true I stood to make a lot of money from the abduction of Krys Holtz, but I’ll tell you this, I was going to earn every fucking penny of it.

It was our third night in a row outside Heavenly Girls, and tempers were fraying, particularly mine. It was Johnny Hexham. He was driving me mad. After two nights stuck in the back, I’d finally decided to risk sitting in the front where it was a lot more comfortable. I now had a full beard, and with a cap on and a pair of specs, I looked a lot different than I had two weeks back. In fact the look quite suited me, to tell you the truth. Showed my intellectual side.

But unfortunately there was no escaping Johnny, who’d spent the night constantly trying to weasel information out of me about what we were doing on this street, and coming up with all these theories, some of which veered dangerously close to the truth. Not to mention the complications of his love life, which he insisted on going on and on about even though I wasn’t in the least bit fucking interested. Apparently, his ex-girlfriend Delia was pregnant, the result of a flying visit by Johnny to pick up some CDs he’d left there, but she was already shacked up with some seventeen-stone black bloke who thought the baby was his and who was going to have something of a shock come the happy day. Delia wanted to run away with Johnny, who it turned out she still felt something for, and was threatening to tell the boyfriend Johnny had raped her if he didn’t. But Johnny, not surprisingly, wanted nothing further to do with her, and was getting worried that any day now he was going to receive a leg-breaking visit from half a dozen of the boyfriend’s mates. Also, he had another serious girl now, Amanda, who he’d met at Arcadia some weeks before, and who he was really smitten with. Matters were further complicated, if you could believe it, by the fact that Amanda was vigorously bisexual and wanted Johnny to share her with her other lover, German student Beatrix.

‘The problem is, Beatrix is, like, a full-on Magnus.’

‘A what?’

‘Magnus Pike, dyke. She wouldn’t touch a dick if her life depended on it, so there’s no way of, you know, having a bit of fun with both of them together, which would definitely have helped to numb the pain of having to share her. But I don’t want to lose Amanda. I don’t know what I’d do if she pulled the plug on it. But it’s a bit of an odd fucking way to run a relationship, isn’t it?’

‘You know, Johnny,’ I said, taking a swig from my bottle of mineral water, ‘you are the only thirty-four-year-old I know who complains that he gets laid too much.’

‘It’s not like that, Max. Honest. I really love her, but I know what’s going to happen. Beatrix is going to make her choose between us.’

‘So buy her some flowers or something. Get in there first.’

‘No, Max, you don’t understand.’

‘I know I fucking don’t.’

‘Amanda says there’s something special about girl-on-girl love. It’s more gentle than the stuff you get with a bloke, more sort of tender. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Not really, Johnny, no. I’ve never really thought about it, to tell you the truth. I’ve seen women at it with each other in porno films, though, and they always seem to be enjoying themselves.’

‘I tell you, Amanda swears by it. Says it’s the only way for her to achieve a multiple orgasm. There’s no way she’s going to turn down that sort of action, is there? Which means it’ll be me who gets the old heave ho. It’s making my life a fucking misery, it really is.’

‘I’m sure there are millions of blokes out there who really sympathize.’

I turned away and stared out the window in the direction of Heavenly Girls, a hundred yards away down the road. It was raining steadily again, which at least was helpful. We’d been parking on the same stretch of road night after night, so we had to be careful about the amount of attention we attracted. Every wasted night increased the risks, not to mention the stiff-legged, claustrophobic boredom of it, blunting our senses and making reaction times just that little bit slower — something that could prove fatal in this sort of operation.

Johnny continued to rattle on about Amanda, Beatrix, Delia and all his other birds, but I was blanking him totally now. I had enough worries of my own. The waiting around was beginning to lead to the first rumblings of discontent from the others. Kalinski had suggested that snatching him froma place he only visited periodically, and with no obvious advance warning, was tempting fate, which was true I suppose, but there were no other suitable venues. Joe hadn’t helped matters either by remarking, after we’d finished a frustrating four-and-a-half-hour stint the previous night during which Kalinski had stunk the place out by shitting in a Tesco carrier bag, that maybe it might be an idea to knock the whole thing on the head. I knew Joe was feeling a bit spooked thanks to his almost daily visits from the Law, but I hoped it was just the frustration talking. If he — or, to be honest, any of us — pulled out then the whole thing was bolloxed and I’d be back to square one. On the run, skint, and with the near rape of my girlfriend unavenged.

I took another swig from the water as Johnny recounted how Beatrix was the dominant partner in the lesbian relationship even though she wasn’t good-looking at all, and was, in his opinion, bullying Amanda into dropping him. ‘She’s got whips and chains and everything,’ he explained, shaking his head. ‘Apparently, her gaff’s like a fucking torture chamber. She’s even got a selection of butt plugs. How’s Amanda meant to resist?’ In the back of the van, I could hear movement as they shuffled about trying to make themselves comfortable.

A Land Cruiser pulled up outside the brothel. It looked familiar. The time was ten to midnight.

‘Are you listening, Max, or are you fucking ignoring me?’ Johnny whined.

Krys Holtz, Big Mick and Fitz stepped out, and the car did a U-turn and pulled away, driving past us. It looked like the driver was Slim Robbie, and I wondered if he’d be coming back.

‘I’m ignoring you, Johnny,’ I told him, watching as Krys and his men rang the buzzer, and a couple of seconds later went inside. Johnny hadn’t seen them, which suited me fine. If he’d had half an inkling that our job was to kidnap Krys Holtz, he would have been out of the van faster than Wile E. Coyote and running all the way back to Amanda, Delia, even Beatrix and her butt plugs, without stopping.

‘I thought you was a mate of mine,’ said Johnny, sounding put out, but I hardly heard him. My blood was up, and like a youthful Elvis I was ready to rock and roll.

I banged three times in quick succession on the van’s interior panel, then twice slowly, the signal that they’d arrived. Three more bangs came back to acknowledge that the message had been received and understood.

‘Sorry, Johnny, but we’ve got work to do. Start driving.’

Johnny pulled the Mercedes van away from the kerb and drove slowly along the road until he was about fifteen yards past the entrance to Heavenly Girls.

‘All right, stop here,’ I told him. ‘Double park.’

‘Can you tell me what’s going on now, Max?’

‘No.’

I banged on the interior panel twice to let them know we were in position. The back doors opened and I saw Tugger Lewis in the wing mirror as he walked up the steps to the entrance. It was on.

I pressed the stopwatch and watched it as the seconds ticked by, knowing that this was it, the big one. Just like the old days. All my senses fusing together into one single core of absolute concentration. It’s life or death, this. Nothing’s got higher stakes. You fuck up, you die. Your life ends, just like that. Kaput! You’re history. But nothing beats it either. Nothing ever beats the pure adrenalin rush, the intensity, the sheer joy of battle. I bet not even one of Amanda’s multiple orgasms comes close.

Thirty seconds. Forty. Johnny said something to me, but I couldn’t hear him. His voice was just interference, meaningless. Fifty seconds. Time to go. I banged the interior panel five times in quick succession, put the stopwatch in my pocket, and stepped out of the van. I pressed my mouth against the half-open window. ‘Stay here,’ I said. ‘Do not move.’

I turned away before he could answer and walked towards the front entrance of the brothel, Joe and Kalinski coming up beside me. Joe had a holdall over his shoulder. No one spoke. As we walked, we took black balaclavas from the pockets of our regulation blue boiler suits, and pulled them over our heads. The rain was coming down in sheets and the street was empty. We didn’t look suspicious, we just looked like three normal kidnappers.

Kalinski pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open straight away. So Tugger had the reception area under control. Good. Part one had at least gone to plan. We stepped into the lift, and Joe put the holdall on the floor and took two automatic shotguns with sawn-off barrels out of it, handing one to Kalinski. He then pulled out a dozen spare shells which he stuck in one of the pockets of his boiler suit before replacing the holdall on his shoulder. We didn’t want to leave any evidence behind. While he was doing this, I produced the Glock, gave it a quick check, and chambered a round. We were ready.

The lift opened directly into the reception area and the three of us stepped out, weapons at the ready. Tugger was standing there in his suit, balaclava on, in front of a good-looking young receptionist with strawberry blonde hair. She had her hands flat down on the desk in front of her. Tugger was facing her but pointing his gun at two well-built doormen in dickie bows — one white, one black — both of whom had their hands arrow-straight above their heads, their faces suggesting there was no way they were going to be heroes. I couldn’t blame them. Being a hero can be a very overrated pastime. And you don’t even get paid.

The receptionist’s eyes widened when she saw us come striding in and she looked like she was going to scream. Tugger put a finger to his lips. ‘Now now, pet, don’t go causing a scene. No one wants to hurt a pretty little thing like you. Just tell us which room Krys Holtz is in.’

I saw the white doorman’s eyes widen, like he couldn’t believe we’d be messing around with someone like Krys Holtz. Believe it, my friend. Believe it.

‘He’s in the Lovers Suite on the next floor up,’ she stammered, keen to co-operate. ‘It’s the second door on your left when you come out of the lift.’

‘What about the other two with him?’

‘I don’t know which rooms they’ll be in, but they’ll be on the same floor. They always stay close together.’

Tugger pulled her to her feet while Joe and me handcuffed the two bouncers under the watchful eye of Kalinski. When they were secured, and Tugger had got hold of the CCTV tape, we shepherded the three of them towards the room to our left. At the same time a potbellied businessman emerged from it on the arm of a stunning-looking oriental girl.

‘Ohmigod!’ whispered the girl. The businessman simply stood there, looking surprised.

I raised the gun and pushed them back into the room, following them in. Two more men in suits sat in the corner with two equally stunning and scantily clad women, while another girl sat at the bar talking to the lone barman, a baby-faced guy in his early twenties. All eyes went to the door as our unusual-looking convoy entered, but no one was stupid enough to cry out.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said in my best public-speaking voice as we ushered everyone into the far corner of the room, ‘you have nothing to fear. We are here to collect a debt from an individual within the building, and are interested in that man only. If you do as you’re told and co-operate, no one will be hurt and we’ll be out of your hair within a few minutes.’ I motioned to the barman with my gun. ‘You, get over in the corner with the rest of them. And you.’ The girl sitting at the bar scowled at me but did as she was told, as did the barman.

It was exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds from the moment Tugger had entered the building, and so far things were running smoothly.

Kalinski was tasked with guarding those in the bar, so he stepped forward and stood blankly watching his charges, shotgun pointed towards them, while the rest of us exited and headed up to the next floor, using the stairs behind the reception area. Tugger was leading because he’d gone up that way the other night. When he got to the next floor, he slowly opened the door and looked down the corridor, then turned and gave us the all clear. We followed him in, and Joe took up position by the lift where he could make sure no one interfered with things. Tugger and me crept quietly towards the second door on the left.

When we reached the Lovers Suite, Tugger stopped and listened at the door. The rooms were meant to be soundproofed but he could obviously hear something because he motioned for me to have a listen. I put my ear against the wood and immediately caught the noise of some serious humping. The girl was sounding like she was having the time of her life, which, for the money Tugger claimed it cost, was no great surprise. Holtz, meanwhile, was making these horrible grunting noises, sounding like something out of a wildlife documentary.

Tugger turned the handle very slowly and gently eased the door open. When it was six inches ajar the noise of the shagging was amplified several times over, and so far neither of them appeared to notice that they were being interrupted. Tugger used the barrel of his gun to push it open further and, as quietly as possible, we tiptoed inside.

The sight that greeted us was pretty fucking horrible, to say the least. Krys’s hairy and surprisingly large arse viewed us like an angry cyclops from its position on the four-poster bed as it pounded up and down, piston-like, while two shapely legs sprouted out like feelers on either side. It was impossible to see the girl’s face as it was almost completely enveloped by Krys’s furry form. A few locks of blonde hair peeped out over one of his shoulders, and that was about it. I wondered if she could even breathe down there. I looked across at Tugger and he grinned at me beneath the balaclava. I grinned back. I was enjoying this.

The room itself was very flash-looking and worthy of such a high-class establishment. A thick shagpile carpet obscured the sound of our footsteps as Tugger quietly closed the door and we crept up to the bed. Not that it was likely we would have been heard anyway above the noise being made. Krys was grunting like a herd of hungry pigs as he pummelled his way down the home straight, only seconds from the finishing line.

‘Aiiieeeee!’ he wailed in a final flurry of activity, lifting his head up as he unloaded his milky cargo. ‘Ooooofff!’

At that point, two things happened. The girl, her face red and sweaty, courtesy no doubt of being stuck in Krys Holtz’s armpit for the previous five minutes, saw me standing over her. Her eyes widened and she went to scream. At the same time Tugger smacked Krys hard on the back of the head with the handle of his gun. Krys let out a surprised gasp and rolled off the girl, moaning faintly.

I stuck the barrel of the Glock against the girl’s head and told her not to cry out. ‘We’re not interested in hurting you, so if you keep quiet and do not say a word, everything will be fine. If you do cry out or raise the alarm at any point in the next ten minutes, then we will kill you. Understand? Nod once for yes.’ She nodded frantically. ‘Good. Now turn over, put your face into the pillow and be absolutely quiet.’

While I was speaking, Tugger whacked Krys again, just for good measure, before handcuffing his hands behind his back, encountering little resistance from the semi-conscious gangster. The girl did as she was told and I handcuffed her, taking a long second to admire her beautifully rounded rear and ponder the question that has vexed so many observers down the ages: why is the female form so much more attractive than the male? And thinking that maybe Johnny’s girlfriend Amanda had got the right idea.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ moaned Krys while his eyes made a bad job of trying to focus.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ snapped Tugger, pulling him off the bed by the handcuffs and forcing him to his knees. He gave him a quick smack round the face with the barrel of the gun to establish control. ‘Now, get to your feet. Now!’

‘Fuck off,’ snapped Krys. ‘You know who you’re fucking dealing with?’

‘Course I do, you prick. Now shut it.’

Krys opened his mouth to say something else but I came round the bed, holstering my gun and pulling open a roll of adhesive tape. I bit off a piece and shoved it over his mouth while Tugger held his head still. Krys’s face went red with rage and he started struggling wildly so I kicked him hard in the stomach, doubling him over. It was important to break him quickly so we could get out of the place with the minimum of fuss.

Tugger pulled him up by his hair and we manhandled him to the door. When we reached it, I fished out the keys to the girl’s handcuffs and chucked them on the bed. No point inconveniencing her any more than was necessary. Krys was struggling again, and in his rage he managed to kick the door, making a little bit too much noise for my liking. So I grabbed him by his bollocks and yanked hard. Twice in quick succession. His eyes bulged and I could almost smell his pain. I put my mouth close to his ear. ‘Struggle again and I’ll have the fucking things off,’ I hissed.

He seemed to get the message, and we pulled him out of the door without further incident. Joe was still standing at the end of the corridor next to the stairs, shotgun in hand. He nodded in acknowledgement as we came towards him. Krys turned to me as we walked and his eyes narrowed, the message in them clear. I stared right back, daring him to try anything.

Then, suddenly, it all went wrong.

A door swung open just behind us and a white-haired geezer of at least sixty came out, saw what was going on, and shouted, ‘Oh dear! What on earth’s happening?’ in tones that made you think he half-expected us to turn round and tell him. However, he decided against waiting around for an answer and immediately jumped back into the room, slamming the door behind him. At this point we were ten feet from the stairs, and fifteen from the lift.

Krys, sensing the possibility of rescue, tried to slow up, dragging his heels along the floor, but I tugged on his nuts again while Tugger pushed the barrel of his gun hard against his face. It seemed to do the trick, and this time he didn’t resist as we pushed him right up to the lift entrance. Joe had already called the lift and he pressed the button to open the door. At the same time, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another door open further down the corridor. A second later Big Mick’s naked upper half emerged, wielding a handgun that was pointing in our direction.

There was a deafening roar as Joe pushed us aside and pulled the trigger on the shotgun. A huge chunk of skirting and wall disappeared and Mick leapt back out of sight. We immediately pushed Krys into the lift, and I kneed him hard in the groin to minimize any further disruption. He went down to his knees and I turned and pointed the Glock back down the hall. Big Mick appeared again, his body crouched down, and let off a couple of wild shots. Joe and I held our ground and returned fire, sending dust and skirting flying in all directions. Tugger held on to Krys.

Then, without warning, the door opposite the Lovers Suite flew open and Fitz appeared in view with a revolver in hand, firing wildly in our general direction. A bullet whizzed straight past my head and into the lift, narrowly missing Krys. It hit the full-length mirror at the lift’s rear, shattering it instantly. Taking advantage of the covering fire, Mick also appeared again, firing off another series of rounds. Joe’s shotgun erupted in return, blowing a huge hole in the doorway where Mick’s head had just been, while Fitz was forced to retreat as I unloaded a steady burst of gunfire in his direction. I then jumped to one side and disappeared into the stairwell while Joe retreated into the lift as the doors closed.

I dashed down the first flight of stairs until I was in the second floor stairwell. The lift carrying Krys and the others was going all the way to the ground, and from there they were going straight into the back of the Mercedes van. My job now was to make sure Big Mick and Fitz didn’t get a chance to balls anything up. I ejected the Glock’s magazine and replaced it with a full one, chambering the first round. Above me the door on the next floor up banged open and heavy footfalls came down the stairs. Taking a deep breath, I stepped back so I was leaning against the door that led into the reception area, and raised the gun. Behind me, I could hear people crying out and shouting in the bar, and I hoped Kalinski was calm and ruthless enough to keep a lid on things until it was time for him to go.

Big Mick came crashing into view, dressed only in trousers, almost slipping up in his haste to get down the stairs and intercept the lift before it escaped with his boss. Fitz was right behind him. Mick’s eyes momentarily widened when he saw me, but before he could react I pulled the trigger, holding the gun two-handed.

Mick never had a chance. He took a bullet in the gut, then the chest, then the neck, the force of the rounds knocking him back in the direction of the wall. He tottered for a moment, then fell heavily. Fitz dived out of the way, but I kept shooting, my bullets ricocheting off the carpet and taking chunks out of the paintwork. From his position lying on the stairs, and partially covered by his friend, Fitz returned fire, his bullets passing dangerously close. But I stayed calm, adjusted my aim, and hit him in the shoulder and chest as he sat up and tried to get a better shot at me. He fell back down again with hardly a sound, and I turned and charged through the door and into the reception area. Kalinski was already retreating out of the bar, his weapon trained on the spot where I appeared. I gave him the thumbs up and the two of us went back into the stairwell where the bodies of Fitz and Big Mick lay sprawled above us, their blood mingling as it dribbled onto the carpet. Kalinski paused for a moment to view the men who’d almost certainly helped to murder his brother.

Then, without warning, Fitz sat back up, blood dribbling from the corner of the mouth, and aimed his weapon at us. There followed an excruciatingly long one-second pause, as if we were all just frozen there, and then I pulled the trigger. My first bullet missed but the second ripped the top of his head off, depositing a lump of something nasty on the wall behind. Fitz continued sitting where he was for maybe a couple of seconds, then tipped straight back. I didn’t need any more encouragement to get the hell out of there, and turned and charged down the stairs in the direction of the ground floor, Kalinski in hot pursuit.

The van was still double-parked with the engine idling when we got outside. We ran straight for it, pulling the balaclavas from our heads, Kalinski heading for the back, me for the front. In the distance we could hear the first faint sirens.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ howled Johnny as I jumped inside. ‘I saw them shove some naked geezer with an Elvis barnet in the back!’

The back door shut as Kalinski got in, and there were two knocks on the interior panel to tell us they were ready to go.

‘Shut the fuck up and drive! Now!’

Johnny took one look at me, saw something in my face he didn’t like, and did exactly what he was told.

Gallan

There were already at least a dozen police vehicles and several ambulances double-parked along the street when Ramsay pulled up about fifty yards down from the scene of the shooting. I pulled open the side door of the van and stepped out into the rain. I didn’t wait for the others and started walking down in the direction of the brothel, Berrin following behind. The call had said that there’d been a serious shooting incident with several casualties, but it was the location that intrigued me. Heavenly Girls. The brothel Neil Vamen’s girlfriend, the woman who had had nothing to say regarding the death of a man in her home, had worked in; the place in which the mysterious disappearing Roy Fowler had an alleged interest. Something was happening, and I desperately wanted to get a handle on what it was.

The front door of the brothel was under police guard, and in the doorway I could see a very concerned-looking DCI Knox with his back to the street, talking to someone. The person came into view as we mounted the steps, and I was pleased to see that it was Asif Malik.

Knox and Malik turned round as we approached them.

‘Hello, John,’ said Knox grimly. ‘Dave,’ he added, nodding towards Berrin. ‘You both know Asif, don’t you?’

‘I do, Dave doesn’t,’ I said. We stepped out of the rain, then did the introductions. ‘So, what’s happened?’ I asked.

‘A double murder,’ said Knox.

‘Off the record,’ said Malik, ‘they’re both associates of Krys Holtz: Danny Fitzgerald and Mick Noble. According to the witnesses here, a number of masked men came in, shot the two of them, and then, from what we can gather, abducted Krys himself.’

‘Shit,’ was the only reply I could manage.

‘Exactly. God only knows what this is going to lead to.’

‘We think the Serious Crime Group are going to be taking this case, John,’ said Knox, sounding not entirely unrelieved by the prospect, ‘but we’re going to need some help taking statements. There must be thirty people up there we’ve got to talk to, quite a few of whom are not going to want to cooperate very much.’

‘Sure, no problem. We’ll get on to it.’

Knox nodded, and headed up the stairs to the reception area. ‘I’d better get up there too,’ said Malik.

‘Before you do, can I grab a moment?’ I asked.

‘It’ll have to be quick,’ he answered. ‘This little lot has really complicated things.’

‘It will be.’ I turned to Berrin. ‘I’ll meet you up there, Dave.’ Berrin looked put out but didn’t say anything and did as he was told.

I took Malik by the arm and led him to the far corner of the foyer. ‘I spoke to the landlord,’ I told him, giving him a brief synopsis of what had been said. ‘Something was going on in that house, something very illegal.’

‘And you haven’t been able to get hold of this Franks guy?’

‘Not a word. He’s disappeared, just like Roy Fowler, who, for your information, apparently had a share in this place.’

‘That’s interesting, except it still doesn’t prove anything. Whatever was going on in that house won’t be going on now, and if there’s no evidence of a criminal enterprise taking place, there’s not a lot we can do.’

‘Does the company name mean anything to you? Dagmar Holdings?’

‘John, the Holtzes have God knows how many front companies washing their money. I honestly can’t remember them all individually. But I promise I’ll look into it for you.’

I could tell that Malik was beginning to think of me as an irritant, and I could hardly blame him. I might have unearthed a few matters that needed explanation, but in the end I had absolutely nothing concrete, and it was the concrete stuff that any police officer needed.

‘You know, Asif, you’re always looking for a way into the Holtzes. If what I spoke about to you yesterday … If that actually happened, think what it could mean. Someone would definitely open his mouth.’

‘Ifs and maybes, John. At the moment the most important thing is trying to prevent some sort of gang war breaking out, and that means finding out which madmen decided it would be a good idea to snatch Krys Holtz.’

‘Do me one favour.’

‘What?’

‘I’m going to ask DCI Knox to authorize a full search of Franks’s house for any traces that might back up my theory. I’d like to add that I’ve got your support for it as well. Please. If I can turn something up, I’m sure it’ll help your investigations. If I don’t, then it’s no loss to you.’

Malik thought about it for a moment, then, deciding that it was probably easier to agree than put up with more hassle, said he would. ‘But that’s the extent of my involvement. Is that clear?’

‘As daylight.’ I patted him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks. I owe you one.’

It was two hours before Berrin and I finished taking statements at Heavenly Girls. A number of the clientele and staff were severely traumatized, including one of the security people, a huge ex-boxer who’d had the misfortune to witness what was left of the two shot men, and who now kept bursting into tears, so it hadn’t been an easy task.

The rain had stopped by the time the two of us descended the steps to the street. The van we’d been travelling around in all night remained parked further up and I could make out Ramsay behind the wheel eating a sandwich, lazy bastard.

‘Sarge?’ said Berrin as we walked along.

I yawned. It was half two in the morning, a long way past my bedtime. ‘Yes, Dave?’

‘Have you got a problem with me?’

I stopped and looked at him, and realized how difficult I’d made things for him lately. ‘Of course I haven’t. I’m sorry about the last few days. I’ve been trying to follow up on a couple of theories I’ve got, and I suppose I didn’t want to share them until they’d come to something.’

‘But we’re working together on this. I need to know what’s happening otherwise I’m not going to be of any use to you at all.’

‘No, I understand that.’

‘So what was it you were talking to the SO7 bloke about?’

I sighed. ‘A theory I’m working on, but a real vague one.’ And it was vague, too, but I was sure there was something in it.

Berrin lit a cigarette. ‘Well, let’s hear it then. You never know, I might even be able to help.’

So I told him. By the time I’d finished talking, it had started to rain again. ‘What do you think?’ I asked, wondering if I was really any good at man management.

Berrin finished his cigarette and chucked it in the gutter. ‘I think I hope it isn’t right because if it is then it’s a gruesome chain of events. But it wouldn’t totally surprise me, you know. I reckon it’s got the ring of truth about it.’

‘So do I,’ I said. ‘So do I.’