The Murder Exchange

Wednesday, eleven days ago

Gallan

When I arrived at the restaurant, Malik — I assumed it was him — was already there, sat at a table at the far end. I could see why he’d picked this place: he was the only customer in it, which didn’t bode too well. I don’t usually get an opportunity to sample restaurant fare while I’m on duty, so I hoped Malik knew something the rest of the West End’s lunchtime trade didn’t.

He stood up as I approached and we introduced ourselves and shook hands. He was a young guy, thirty tops, with a friendly smile and the air of someone with a lot of self-confidence. He was dressed in a dark grey suit that looked more expensive than a copper’s wage would allow, and a natty-looking red tie. A bit formal for an eighty-degree day with high humidity, but he carried it well. I thought he looked more like an up-and-coming executive than a copper, but there was something genuine about him. A sense that you could trust what he had to say. If he’d been selling, I’d have definitely been in the marketplace, and it’s not often I say that.

A waiter appeared almost as soon as I’d sat down and asked if I’d like a drink. I saw that Malik was on orange juice, but since the Met were paying and I had a pack of peppermints in my pocket, I opted for a beer. I’m not a man who has any problem drinking alone.

‘So, this case you’re working on,’ said Malik as my drink arrived. ‘What’s it all about?’

I gave him a brief rundown of the Matthews inquiry. ‘It’s going nowhere fast. There’s still been no sign of Jean Tanner — it’s like she’s vanished into thin air — and the preliminary autopsy on Craig McBride showed he died of a heroin overdose, of all things. Again, no signs of a struggle. Other than that, we’ve got nothing. No new leads, and no joy with any of the old ones. My hunch is that someone from the Holtz organization is definitely involved, because of the way everyone either ends up dead or disappears, but I’m not in a position to do anything about it.’

Malik nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure how much help I can be, John.’

I took another sip from my drink. ‘I don’t know either, but I’m beginning to run out of options and, you never know, you might have something that’ll move us forward. Basically, I want as much information as you can give me on the Holtzes and Neil Vamen. I know a little bit, but it’s very patchy.’

‘Let’s order first,’ he said. He picked up a menu from the table and handed it to me. ‘I particularly recommend the saltimbocca.’

‘What the hell’s that?’

‘Escalopes of veal and parma ham cooked in a marsala sauce and served with veg of the day and sauteed potatoes. Bellissima!’

‘It sounds like you’re part-owner of the place.’ I gave the menu a cursory scan but nothing else leapt out at me. ‘OK, I’ll go with the escalopes. In honour of my ex-wife.’

‘She used to like them, did she?’

I allowed myself a malicious smile. ‘No, she was a strict vegetarian.’

‘Clearly not an amicable separation.’ He laughed.

‘Are they ever?’

‘Maybe more amicable than that. But who am I to judge?’ He waved the waiter over and gave our order. ‘Anyway,’ he said when the waiter had gone, ‘the Holtzes. I’ve been part of a team that’s been investigating them for getting close to eighteen months now, and let me tell you, they are no easy target. It’s like trying to penetrate concrete.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘A couple of reasons. One is they’ve been around as an organization of sorts for getting close to thirty years so they’re very well established. The old man Stefan’s the lynchpin. He started out as a nasty little thug and amateur boxer who got into debt collecting on behalf of various scumbags before deciding he’d be better off branching out on his own. What differentiated young Stefan from a thousand other lowlifes was that he had a brain, and a very sharp one at that. He was, and is, a very good businessman. I’d say he was wasted in crime but he probably earns ten times more through that than he would do by being legit, and he’s expanded majorly over the years. Moved into gambling, counterfeiting, armed robbery for a while, though of course never getting his hands dirty himself. He organized everything but he made sure he only surrounded himself with people he could really trust. That’s why in many ways it’s always been a family outfit. His two brothers were heavily involved with him in the early days, and then, when they got old enough, his sons got into it as well. They probably never would have been a massive outfit, though, if it hadn’t been for drugs.’

I allowed myself a wry chuckle. ‘Same old story.’

‘Always the same old story. Everyone’s made big cash out of drugs, no doubt about it, but for an outfit like the Holtzes, with an infrastructure and good underworld contacts already in place, the opportunities have been huge. And they’ve taken them. You know, the word is Stefan Holtz can’t stand drugs. Won’t let any of his family touch them, although of course they all do. But as an organization they were into them from the outset. Dope, amphetamines, coke particularly, even heroin. Over the years they’ve forged alliances with numerous other crime organizations both here and abroad and now they’re one of the biggest importers in Britain. They also supply a lot of the gear, particularly Ecstasy and coke, to Ibiza for the summer season. So, if your nice middle-class teenage kid goes over and drops a tab or snorts a line, the chances are that some of the profits on that are heading straight back to the Holtzes, and we’re not talking about small quantities here. Thousands of people are taking millions of pounds’ worth of gear every night between May and October. And that’s just one part of their smuggling activities.

‘But what sets them apart is their levels of sophistication and the seniority of their contacts in the criminal world. These days they get their cocaine straight out of Cali in Colombia, no middle men at all. And we believe they’ve set up a major smuggling route through Bosnia and into western Europe, not only for heroin from Pakistan and Afghanistan but also for illegal immigrants, particularly now the Mehmet Illan/Raymond Keen operation’s out of business. They even smuggle in ancient artefacts. There’s nothing they won’t touch. If it makes money, they’ll be there. And the sort of money that comes their way is incredible. We don’t know exactly how much it is for sure, there are so many front companies and money-laundering operations, and Holtz employs an army of accountants, but we reckon as a group they turn over in excess of forty million sterling per year.’

I whistled through my teeth. ‘No wonder they’re difficult to penetrate.’

‘Exactly. That sort of money buys a lot of loyalty. And, as I’ve said, they’re well enough established that the main players involved are all very well known to one another, so they’re not likely to start grassing each other up, especially if there’s no obvious benefit to it. A guy from SO10 did get on the periphery of the organization once but they sniffed him out, found out where he lived, and sent a couple of their people round to pay a visit to his wife and baby.’

‘Christ,’ I said, wondering how I’d have reacted ten years earlier if the same thing had happened to me.

‘They didn’t hurt them or anything, just made sure he knew that they could if they wanted to. It spooked the guy so badly he left the Force. And that was the closest anyone ever got. Having said all that, we have had some successes against them, as have other branches of the Met, and Tomas, Stefan’s oldest son, is currently doing a nine stretch for possession of two kilos of cocaine and twenty-four M-16 rifles.’ I raised my eyebrows quizzically. ‘Yes, they also smuggle weapons as well, although that was the first evidence we ever had of it, and of course young Tommy denied knowledge of any such enterprise and claimed that, like the gear, they were a plant.’ He smiled wearily, the standard copper’s reaction to such boring and uninventive lies.

‘What about contacts within the Force?’ I asked, thinking of that arsehole Burley. ‘Have they got any?’

‘We’ve never actually uncovered anyone, but you know as well as I do there are coppers out there susceptible to corruption.’ He paused for a moment as if he was waiting for me to make some mention of his old boss, but I kept silent. ‘Anecdotal evidence suggests there’s quite a few coppers on the Holtz payroll,’ he continued, ‘and it would stand to reason. But they’ve been good at keeping it under wraps.’

‘You said there were two reasons why they were so hard to penetrate. One’s the way they’re organized. What’s the other?’

Malik gave me a serious look. ‘Their ruthlessness. If you cross them, your days really are numbered. Every criminal firm’s prone to violence, of course. I suppose you’ve got to be in that line of business, especially these days with all the competition, but the Holtzes take it one step further. To them, killing’s just another way of protecting their investments. If you get in their way, or do anything that might foul up the smooth operation of their moneymaking, then you die. It’s as simple as that. We estimate they’ve been responsible for something like thirty-five killings since 1985 alone. Incredible when you think that most people have never even heard of them. But we’ve only ever recovered fourteen bodies which could actually be linked to members and associates of the family. Of those fourteen, not one has ever resulted in a conviction. People don’t go against the Holtzes because the consequences are simply too grim, and the rewards of staying onside simply too great.’

‘You make it sound like an impossible task to bring them to justice.’

‘We’ll get them in the end,’ he said, and he sounded like he truly meant it. I thought it was a pity there weren’t more coppers like Malik. ‘We’ll pursue them to the ends of the earth if we have to, but I’ll be honest with you, it won’t be easy. In the eighteen months I’ve been with the team we’ve not been able to secure anything above minor convictions, and those have only been against the lower-level players, but things are changing. The government are getting very concerned about criminal gangs supposedly running the country so they’re putting a lot of resources into the fight to bring them down. We’re not the only people involved. MI5 are looking into them too. So are the National Crime Squad, and even Customs amp; Excise are involved, which is probably the most frightening prospect of all from a criminal’s point of view. So they’re feeling the squeeze. But I can’t see them bursting just yet.’

The food arrived, and Malik was right, I wasn’t disappointed. As I ate, I stole occasional glances at him and I had to admit to being impressed by his overall demeanour. Here was a man whose immediate boss and mentor had been uncovered as a cold-blooded killer, an event that had placed Malik under the microscope of the press and had led to unfounded whispers about his own involvement. I knew what it was like to have the media on your back from my own experience, but the Dennis Milne story had been a much bigger one than our squalid little cover-up, yet Malik didn’t portray the remotest hint that it had adversely affected him. If anything, it was quite the opposite. From what I’d gathered from talking to people at the station who’d known him in his time there, he’d been a fairly quiet, unassuming guy, nothing like the confident-looking individual sat in front of me now.

‘So, Neil Vamen,’ I said between mouthfuls. ‘I know a few things about him, none of them particularly nice, but I’d like to hear anything you’ve got.’ I decided not to say anything about my visit to him at the Seven Bells, since it didn’t exactly place me in a positive light.

He sawed off a large chunk of veal and popped it in his mouth, clearly savouring the taste. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said when he’d finished chewing. ‘Vamen’s an interesting one. He joined the family firm at a fairly low level back in the mid-seventies, apparently as an enforcer. He’s thought to have committed at least one murder on Stefan Holtz’s behalf, in 1978 when he was twenty-one, but he’s a cunning bastard, and very shrewd, and he’s moved right through the ranks. Of people outside the immediate family, he’s easily the closest to Stefan, and acts as his chief adviser, especially now that Stefan’s a virtual recluse. I suppose in many ways Vamen’s the most dangerous of all of them because he’s as intelligent as Holtz, if not more so, and he’s still got the drive. The other family members don’t cut the mustard in that respect. Stefan’s two brothers are both dead: one, Terry, died from a heart attack ten years ago while he was in prison; the other, Kas, got killed in a car crash last year. And of the three sons, Tommy’s in the nick, Robbie’s not interested, and Krys is too much of a nutter.’

‘I’ve heard about Krys.’

‘A real nasty piece of work, and in a way the others aren’t. Everyone connected with the Holtzes is violent, some in the extreme, but in the main it’s just business. I’m not saying that that justifies it, of course it doesn’t, but at least there’s a reason behind it. With Krys, it’s all about the enjoyment of inflicting pain. He’s the sort who likes pulling the legs off spiders — you know the type. In fact, in many ways he’s probably their loosest cannon, although such is the fear he inspires in people he’s never been convicted of a thing. No one would ever testify against Krys Holtz.’

‘Do you think it’s feasible that Neil Vamen could be behind the murder of Shaun Matthews?’

‘Be realistic, John. What have you got? The word of a dead man.’

‘So, the name Jean Tanner doesn’t actually mean anything to you, then?’

He shook his head. ‘Not off the top of my head, no.’

I refused to give up. ‘I don’t see why McBride would have been bullshitting. He said it was well known that Neil Vamen played away from home. Would that be right?’

‘Well, it’s certainly well known that Vamen has mistresses, but, like everything else in his life, he likes to keep them as secret as possible. We put him under surveillance whenever resources allow, and we’ve photographed him with a number of women other than his wife, but as far as I’m aware we’ve only positively identified two, neither of whom goes by the name Jean Tanner. What I’ll do, though, is go through what we’ve got back at HQ and I’ll email over the information, including any photos we have of the women.’

‘I’m sure that whoever killed Matthews was also responsible for the murder of Craig McBride, although God knows why. To me, that level of organization suggests someone like Neil Vamen.’

‘But you haven’t got much of a motive.’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Whatever did happen, it wouldn’t have been Vamen inflicting the fatal dose, although I suppose it’s possible he could be behind it. Remember this, though: he doesn’t do things that are going to bring attention on himself. In the end, unlike Krys, he’s first and foremost a businessman. A nasty one, admittedly, but still someone who’s not going to risk his position by committing rash crimes. And even if he had something to do with it, you’re going to have a sod of a time proving it.’

I nodded wearily, having already heard this several times. ‘I know, I know. No one ever said it would be easy.’ I stabbed a couple of sauteed potatoes. ‘It would be useful if I could find Matthews’s boss, Roy Fowler, as well. Do you know anything about the ownership of this club, the Arcadia? I’m hearing that the Holtzes run it, but I’ve got nothing concrete.’

Malik shook his head. ‘Not specifically. The number of front companies they’ve got is incredible; it has to be when you’ve constantly got millions of pounds to launder. I’ll ask around within the team and see if they’ve heard anything, but don’t hold your breath.’

‘So you don’t have any informants within their organization, then?’

For the first time during the course of the conversation, Malik appeared cagey. ‘I’m afraid that’s classified information, John, as you’d appreciate.’

‘Well, if you do, I’d take it as a favour if you could ask the questions.’

Malik said he’d see what he could do. ‘I’m sorry if I’m not being too much help,’ he added with a sheepish smile.

‘It’s a lunch’s worth,’ I said, ‘and, anyway, I came here more in hope than expectation. But if you can get me that info on Vamen’s associates and women, I’d appreciate it. It might even be worth buying you coffee for.’

Malik smiled. ‘Now that’s an offer I’ll take you up on.’

I ordered two coffees — a cappuccino for me, a black filter for him — and the conversation drifted on to other things, mainly what life was like back at the station. I told him I didn’t think he was missing much: Capper was still a talentless arsehole, Knox was still yearning for a detective superintendent role, the chief super was still an idiot. We had a few laughs about things, and found we got on pretty well, but soon Malik was looking at his watch and saying it was time to go.

We stood up at the same time, me a good four inches taller, and shook hands.

‘Good luck with the case, John,’ he told me, ‘but be careful as well. The Holtzes, and Neil Vamen in particular, are not people to mess about with. If it came to it, they’re not afraid to put a bullet in a copper.’

Which is just the sort of uplifting advice you need on a Wednesday afternoon.

Wednesday was Berrin’s first day back at work after his impromptu bout of summer flu, which was the reason I hadn’t allowed him to come on the lunch with Malik, but had instead got him reviewing witness statements. He wasn’t going to get a decent meal on the Met when he’d spent the last three days lolling about at home. The bastard looked quite brown, too, which made me suspicious. When I got back to the station that afternoon he was doing an interview with a man who’d been arrested for possession of eight hundred quid’s worth of counterfeit currency. Apparently there’d been no other CID available, and such was the quality of the fakes it was thought appropriate that there was plainclothes representation when they were talking to him.

While I waited for him to come out of his interview, I wrote down what I’d picked up in the meeting with Malik. I also checked my emails but he’d yet to send through the information he’d promised me, which wasn’t a huge surprise. He was a busy guy and it could wait, particularly since it didn’t sound like there was going to be anything earth-shattering contained in it. The Shaun Matthews incident room was eerily quiet again that afternoon, with me the solitary person in it. For some reason, it made me feel sorry for Matthews in a way I doubted he’d ever deserved, but there was something vaguely undignified about the way his death was steadily being forgotten by those charged with finding his killer. As if he simply wasn’t important enough.

I picked up the phone and dialled the elusive DI Burley, expecting to get his voicemail as I had on the last two occasions I’d called. He hadn’t returned either of those calls. This time, however, I was in luck.

‘Burley,’ he grunted. Even his telephone manner was obnoxious.

‘Hello, sir,’ I said, trying hard to sound as polite as possible. ‘It’s DS Gallan here.’

‘You again. What the fuck are you hassling me for now?’

‘I wondered if there was any sign of Jean Tanner yet.’

‘Listen, I told you the other day, and I’ve told your DCI since then, that when she turns up we’ll let you know.’

‘Is there any actual effort being made to find her?’ I asked.

‘What do you want me to do, run adverts on the front page of The Times? Do a door-to-door poster campaign? We’re looking all right, but we haven’t got unlimited money and manpower, so it’s going to take some time.’

‘And what sort of progress are you making?’

‘A lot more if I didn’t keep getting my voicemail clogged up by the likes of you.’

‘If you’d let us fucking help in the first place-’

‘Don’t ever swear at me, Gallan,’ he growled, but by this time I was past caring.

‘Is someone paying you to drag your feet on this? Is that why you’re taking so fucking long about it?’

‘You piece of shit. You’ll be hearing from me about what you just said.’

I think we both hung up on each other at pretty much the same time, and I was left staring at the phone, wondering what motivated some people to join the police force. In Burley’s case, it was probably a desire to mess up people’s lives. I hoped he didn’t make a formal complaint to Knox, who had no idea I was hassling Burley.

Next, I tried Roy Fowler’s numbers, more out of habit than anything else. I knew he wouldn’t answer, and he didn’t. I then phoned the Arcadia and asked the man who picked up whether they’d heard from him, but they hadn’t. It also turned out that Elaine Toms had left, which was vaguely interesting. No one had a forwarding number for her, and there wasn’t one on the murder log, so I was reduced to scanning the phone book until I found it. She wasn’t home; a man I assumed was her boyfriend or flatmate answered. I introduced myself and asked if she could call me back. The man on the other end politely asked what it was about and I gave him the usual spiel that it was simply a routine police inquiry. In truth, I wanted to find out why she’d left the club and whether or not there was anything she might want to add to her existing statements. A bit of a straw-clutching exercise, perhaps, but if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

When Berrin came back from his interview, we discussed any new developments on the case, but there was nothing of note to report. At about five o’clock, Elaine Toms phoned back. She seemed in better spirits and was certainly a lot politer than the last time we’d talked, but that didn’t alter the fact that she had nothing further to add to her statement.

Fifteen minutes later I decided to call it a day, and on the way out I bumped into WDC Boyd in the corridor. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days as she’d been transferred to the assault case on the thirteen-year-old girl and was in charge of liaising with the victim. It was a role I reckoned her well suited to. She had the right combination of sensitive and strong.

We both stopped and made small talk for a minute or two. I asked her how she was getting on with the new case and she told me that, like all sexual assaults, it was a difficult one, but particularly so when the victim was so young. ‘She’s bearing up well, considering,’ she told me, ‘but it breaks your heart, John.’ There was a genuine pain in her eyes as she spoke, and all I could do was tell her that hopefully the girl was young enough to shrug off the trauma of what had happened. I wasn’t sure I believed it, though.

‘Have you managed to get anywhere further with the poisons lead?’ she asked me.

‘No, I’m still not sure where else I can go with it.’ I’d taken Boyd’s notes on what she’d uncovered regarding the venom that had killed Shaun Matthews after she’d left the murder squad. They were very thorough but didn’t contain any hidden gems of information. ‘You seem to have covered every angle,’ I told her.

‘I’ve covered the obvious ones, but I’m sure there’s something I’ve missed and we’re missing.’

‘Did you ever search for any matches on the Internet?’

‘I had a couple of dabbles but as soon as you put in key words, you get hundreds of pieces of information that are totally irrelevant. Sometimes I think the net’s overrated as a means of finding out about stuff. And you know what it’s like round here. If you start surfing, people think you’re just messing about and not working. They’re still Luddites in CID.’

‘I think I might have a go at home,’ I said. ‘I bought this PC a while back and I never seem to get the time to use it.’

‘Story of our lives,’ she said.

I wanted to ask her what she was up to now and whether she had time for a quick drink, and I was just about to open my mouth when Knox appeared round the corner, looking troubled.

‘Hello Tina, John.’ He stopped and took hold of my arm. ‘You’ll have to excuse us, Tina, but we’ve had some movement on the Matthews case. John, I need to speak to you in the incident room. Urgently.’

I said a brief goodbye to Boyd then walked back towards the incident room with Knox. ‘What’s happened, sir?’

‘That stain in the car we stopped the other day. The one you phoned in about.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘It was blood. And guess who the blood belonged to?’

‘I couldn’t tell you, sir.’

‘None other than Mr Arcadia himself, Roy Fowler. It matched the sample we took from him when he was nicked for driving under the influence.’

‘Well, well, well.’

He turned and fixed me with a self-important stare. ‘I think I know what’s happened,’ he said.

Capper, Hunsdon and Berrin joined us in Knox’s office in the incident room. Capper asked me how it had gone with Malik that afternoon. ‘Has he heard anything from Dennis Milne lately?’ he asked with a snide smile as he grabbed a chair and sat down.

‘Yeah, he got a postcard from him the other day,’ I said, smiling back. ‘Apparently he’s opened a guesthouse in Bournemouth. Says he’ll do discounts for CID and pensioners.’

Capper didn’t look too amused, knowing that his attempt to score a point, however pathetic, had backfired, but he didn’t say anything. Hunsdon yawned.

‘All right, gents,’ said Knox, bringing the meeting to order. ‘Important news.’ He then explained what had happened for the benefit of Capper, Berrin and Hunsdon, before sitting back, bolt upright, in his chair. There was a moment’s silence while the news sank in.

‘That puts the cat among the pigeons,’ said Capper, exhaling dramatically.

‘My theory’s this,’ said Knox, looking at us each in turn for maximum effect as he spoke. ‘Fowler had Matthews killed. He used poison to make it look like an accident but obviously wasn’t aware how easy it was for us to find out about it. That’s why I don’t think it was the work of organized criminals. They would have just shot him. Fowler’s motive was drugs. We know that dealing went on at the Arcadia in fairly sizeable quantities, we know that Matthews ran it, and we’re almost certain that Fowler organized it. I reckon Matthews was ripping Fowler off, Fowler found out about it, and took revenge.

‘But I think Matthews had a business partner. Someone involved with the drugs with him, and that person was Max Iversson. He and Matthews were both ex-soldiers, same regiment in fact, and I think we’ll find that the two of them knew each other. Iversson found out about what Fowler had done and decided to take revenge. He may have simply assaulted Fowler, but more likely he’s killed him, and is consequently lying low.’

‘It certainly sounds plausible,’ said Capper, nodding.

I wasn’t sure. Given that there was no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Iversson and Matthews knew each other, Knox’s theory relied one hell of a lot on suppositions.

‘What about McBride?’ I asked. ‘Where does he fit into it? And what about the Holtzes?’

‘I don’t know is the short answer,’ he said, which at least was honest. ‘McBride may well be something completely different. And, as for the Holtzes, I just can’t believe that they’d use an obviously traceable and extremely rare poison to get rid of a business rival.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said, because he had a point. I still didn’t go with it particularly, but it was hard to argue with the logic. A poisoning did seem a very odd way for a gangster to operate.

‘Anyway, the most important thing is we find Max Iversson and see what he’s got to say for himself. His details are going to have to be distributed to other forces, along with that photo of him we’ve got.’ He looked at Hunsdon. ‘Paul, you get that sorted out, OK?’ Hunsdon nodded. ‘Crimewatch is going out next Wednesday and I want a photo of Iversson on it for the rogues gallery. That ought to get some response. Plus, I’m organizing a search warrant for Fowler’s place.’ He looked at Capper. ‘Phil, you and Paul turn it over and see what you can find. At the same time, start really digging up on Fowler’s background, generate some clues. I know he’s the key to it.’

Next, Knox turned to Berrin and me. ‘John, something’s going on down at this Tiger Solutions company, or whatever they’re called. It may be coincidence but that missing person, Eric Horne, worked for them and he still hasn’t turned up, has he?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, sir, no. I spoke to his exmissus briefly yesterday and he hadn’t then. She seems pretty worried.’

‘I don’t know how we missed the fact that he and Iversson worked for the same outfit. Anyway, you and Dave go back, grill the people there, particularly Iversson’s partner, and get some answers. Something very dodgy’s been going on, and I want to find out what it is.’

Which were my sentiments exactly. I hoped Knox’s theory was right, because if it wasn’t we were left with dozens of pieces to a jigsaw that seemed to be getting more complicated with each passing day.

Introducing Krys Holtz

Krys Holtz was a man who knew that a show of weakness, any show of weakness, inevitably destroyed a man’s authority. You had to be strong. You had to break the bastard in front of you and shut out every last fucking scream for mercy he made, however loud it was. After all, if a bloke didn’t do Krys any wrong, then the bloke had nothing to fear. It was only cunts who took major fucking liberties who found themselves paying the price, and the price was always justified. They could yell and squeal and beg as much as they fucking wanted. They could piss their pants, even shit in them (and some of the bastards did, too), but it was never going to make a blind bit of fucking difference, because if he let the geezer go, gave him a pat on the head and told him not to be naughty again, then they’d be lining up to put one over on him, and that was never going to happen. No fucking way.

‘First things first. Admit to me you took that fucking money. Because I know you fucking did so there ain’t no fucking point in pretending that you didn’t. Is there?’

The ‘you’ in this instance was Mr Warren Case, proprietor of Elite A Security and supplier of door staff to the Arcadia nightclub, who was, at that moment in time, tied to a filthy old bed in Krys’s cavernous workshop. He was naked and spread-eagled, his hands and feet tightly bound, and very very frightened, which was hardly surprising given the fact that he’d been part of the Holtz organization for getting close to ten years and therefore knew exactly what Krys was like.

‘Please, Krys,’ he whimpered, ‘I didn’t do nothing, honest.’

Krys laughed. So did the three other men gathered round the bed: Big Mick, Fitz and Slim Robbie. ‘I tell you, boys,’ said Krys, shaking his head, ‘this cunt’s taking me for a fucking fool. Have I got “gullible cunt” written on my fucking forehead or something?’

‘No, boss,’ said Fitz somewhat unnecessarily.

‘Oh God, God … Please, please …’ Case might have been a big man with a reputation to match but his words were spewing out so fast that no one could really understand what he was saying. Not that anyone was listening. It had gone way too far for that.

‘Why don’t you torture him, Krys?’ suggested Slim Robbie helpfully, looking down at Case’s sweating, panic-stricken features.

‘Good idea, Rob, I think I might just do that. It’ll save us all a lot of time and will, in this case, be particularly fucking enjoyable.’

Case tried to struggle with his bonds but he was too well secured for anything more than the smallest of movements. ‘Krys, please, I swear I didn’t fucking do anything. Honest. On my kids’ lives …’

Krys looked mildly put out by this. ‘On your kids’ lives? That’s a mean fucking thing to say, Warren, especially as I know you’re as guilty as sin. I can’t understand why you don’t just come fucking clean and admit it. I mean, we’re going to get it out of you sooner or later. Why don’t you save us all the trouble?’

But Case continued to protest his innocence in forced, desperate tones, which really peeved Krys. It reminded him of that time with Jon Kalinski. Right up until the bitter end, that bastard had sworn he’d never nicked a penny off Krys, when in reality he’d had him over for close to two hundred grand in cash and diamonds. And for a long time Krys had believed him, too — the smooth-talking cunt — but in the end he’d had the last laugh, making him watch while he’d gone to work on his girlfriend, telling him to be patient, because it would be his turn next. Come to think of it, Kalinski had shat himself as well. Terrible smell it had been. Runny, too. Some people have got no self-respect.

It was time, Krys decided, to drop the Mr Nice Guy act with Case and take more radical measures. He picked up a dirty apron from the chair beside him and made a great show of putting it on, ignoring Case’s whines. When that was done, he walked up to his tool rack where a vast array of implements covered almost the entire length of one dank, grimy wall. He stopped, inspected what was on offer for a few moments, then selected his Bosch 3960K battery-operated drill, a fine piece of German workmanship if ever there was one, and vastly superior to the equivalent Black amp; Decker. It had been a birthday present from his dear old mum and was something he only liked to use on special occasions. Removing it from its handy carry-case, he spent some time selecting a suitable drill bit, opting eventually for a nice thin three mill. After all, he didn’t want any accidental fatalities. Not before he’d found out what he wanted to know. After that, he’d have to see.

He fitted the bit and turned the drill on, enjoying the revved-up shriek it made as it shifted between the two gears. He turned it on and off several times in rapid succession, and once again the naked prisoner struggled on the bed, tears of frustration and bowel-churning fear streaming down his face.

‘It ain’t looking good, is it, Warren? This is Teutonic toolmaking at its finest. Vorsprung durch technik, and all that. This cunt goes through concrete like it ain’t even there, and with hardly an ounce of pressure. Not like its cheaper, more substandard rivals. So, think how easily it’ll go through human flesh. Your flesh.’ As he spoke, he approached the bed until he was standing right above it, looking down at Case’s fear-engraved face.

‘Please, Krys, I swear. I have never, never, never fucked you over. I’ve never skimmed you, I’ve never taken nothing that wasn’t my due. Honest. Please, for my kids’ sakes. Don’t hurt me.’

‘Admit you did it, Warren. That’s all you’ve got to do. Just fucking admit to me that you took my fucking money, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you go.’ He switched the drill on again.

‘But Krys, I didn’t, I didn’t. I promise-’

Krys shoved the drill into his face, ripping a vicious hole right through the cheek. Blood splattered angrily across his features and the dirtencrusted mattress, and flecks of it splashed onto Krys’s apron. He held the drill in there for a few moments while it made a nice mess, careful not to push too hard and damage the tongue, then pulled it out, taking a lump of meat with it. He switched it off, removed the lump, and chucked it back at Case. ‘That’s yours,’ he said evenly.

Case coughed and choked as his mouth filled with blood. He managed to turn his head and spit most of it onto the pillow. Then he sicked up some pinkish fluid.

‘Ooh, that’s horrible,’ said Fitz, attempting to wrinkle his flattened nose.

Krys grinned. ‘Fuck that, I’m only just warming up.’ He turned to Big Mick and told him to turn the radio up a few notches. ‘I think we’ve got a screamer here.’ A couple of seconds later, the sound of ‘Take on Me’ by veteran eighties rockers a-ha jingled catchily over the airwaves.

Case stopped vomiting and looked towards Krys with wide, pleading eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to make a confession, but Krys would not be denied his prize. The cunt had held out, he’d had his chance and refused to take it, and now he was going to pay the price, there was no getting away from that. No fucking way.

He pounced on the bed, half-screaming, half-laughing, and shoved the drill into his prone victim’s left knee. There was a moment’s stubborn resistance, as he worked to create a decent opening, but then he was into his stride and the bit was coursing through bone like the Nazis through Poland, triumphant in its efficiency. Krys was forced to look away as the debris flew off in every direction, the screams of Case so loud that they all but drowned out the vocals of one-time Norwegian heart-throb Morton Harket, but then old Morton had never had the most forceful of voices.

Finally, the bit was through and cutting into the mattress beneath. Krys pulled it out, a crackle of almost sexual excitement surging from his groin to his neck. He paused for a moment to relish the feeling, then fell upon the other kneecap like a wolf upon freshly killed prey, lost in the noise and the blood.

By the time he’d finished this one, Case had passed out and a-ha had been replaced by trendy American rockers Mercury Rev. Krys thought that he preferred the Norwegians, mainly because the song reminded him of his youth. He was sure he’d once fucked a girl to the sound of ‘Take on Me’. Take her on, he fucking had. And won.

‘Wake him up,’ said Krys, looking down at the blood as it dripped onto the bed. Fitz put some smelling salts under Case’s nose. At first they didn’t seem to do too much, but then Case started coughing and dribbling, and his eyes opened. ‘Oh God,’ he managed to say, then shut them again. Krys wiped the drill bit with a handkerchief and noticed that some blood had got onto his jeans, which annoyed him still more. This cunt, Case, hadn’t yet paid enough. It was hardly Krys’s fault if he was such a fucking nancy boy that he fainted rather than took his punishment.

He walked back round the other side of the bed, switched the drill on again, then shoved it into Case’s other cheek, this time pushing hard and twisting it around a bit before retrieval. Case didn’t scream at all this time, he just turned his head from side to side, alternately coughing and moaning.

‘So, did you nick my money then, Warren?’ Nothing. Case didn’t even open his eyes. Instead, he vomited again. Krys’s face darkened. ‘I said, did you nick my drugs?’ Then, louder: ‘Did you nick my fucking money, you fucking cheap dirty lying cunt? Well, did you? I’m fucking talking to you, you piece of shit, fucking answer me!’

And then the rage came surging up like a wave in a storm and, with his face carved into a terminally unforgiving sneer, Krys Holtz pushed the drill into Case’s left eye, at just the moment when the weather girl came on to say that heavy rain was on the way.

Some time afterwards, while they were standing drinking beers and wondering whether to call a doctor for Case or patch what was left of him up themselves, Slim Robbie made an interesting point. ‘What if he was telling the truth all along, and he hadn’t ripped you off?’

Krys shrugged. ‘Fuck it. I never liked the bald cunt anyway.’