Brotherhood of Blades (8 page)

Stephanie had rung ahead to warn the uniformed sergeant and his team on the ground that they were going to arrest Yo-Yo Reilly, and that there could be a riot.

Alongside the fleet of patrol cars, a police wagon was waiting in the grounds of the Sparrow estate, its blue light silently flashing. Georgia and Stephanie travelled the twelve flights to the bottom of the high-rise in the airless, coffin-sized lift, hemmed in by thick steel doors with a stale dog turd to keep them company.

Lights had come on all over the estate, and residents of all the high-rises were spilling from their front doors and leaning over their balconies, most in dressing gowns, to see what was going on.

Uniformed police holding alsatian dogs on leashes had surrounded all the exits around the ground floor flat where Stuart Reilly lived. Inside the flat Reilly’s pit bulls snarled, spoiling for a fight.

The wind was biting, and the rain still spilled down as Georgia and Stephanie took body armour from the back of the police van. Georgia gave instructions to call for the armed response unit as back-up. The record of violence and firearms around here meant she could take no chances, and the safety of the large number of police officers on this estate was her responsibility. PC Elvin had been shot for a lot less than pulling in the most notorious criminal in South London. Reilly himself bred vicious dogs, and his Brotherhood gang ran into many dozens on this estate alone; it was quite possible they would outnumber the police.

The odd stone had already been hurled from a balcony somewhere high up on the Sparrow. It had hit the ground this time, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed. The police were nervous, and very wary.

Something nagged at Georgia as she stood in full body armour, ready to arrest Reilly for the murder of Haley Gulati. The Brotherhood gang were known for torturing their victims. Reilly had earned his street name of Yo-Yo through his habit of repeatedly driving a knife in and out of his victims and watching them writhe in agony. Phoebe Aston had said it was likely the victim had been stabbed more than once, and had been raped.

But this killing didn’t have Reilly’s personal stamp on it. Other victims had been found with no fingers, and a couple of corpses were headless. Haley Gulati’s murder didn’t have the hallmarks of a trophy Brotherhood killing – and that gave Georgia a niggling doubt about Reilly.

For now she put it to the back of her mind. The Brotherhood would be involved somewhere, and locking Reilly up would take a significant load off the police. The whole of the Met wanted the bastard off the streets, and Chantelle’s statement gave them enough to pull him in for at least a day or two, until the DNA testing came back. If it turned out it was one of his Brotherhood thugs committed the deed, not Reilly himself, they would find him too, and then two of them would be behind bars.

She wondered if the killing might be an initiation into the Brotherhood of Blades gang. She had been told that they had to stab someone brutally in order to become members; then they were given a permanent tattoo of a sword on their forearm. Reilly’s rules again.

The whole estate would be a better place once he was locked up; and once that was sorted, she’d go after the rest of them. With luck they’d get the dogs too. That was something else he’d got away with until now: the dogs were illegal pit bulls, but no one had ever been able to prove it. This time she would; she’d call in an expert, and make sure they were taken away from him for good. Wherever they ended up they’d be better off. She’d witnessed his steel-cap boots kicking their underbellies raw, and heard them whimper and moan in pain before attacking on his command.

As the CO19 team arrived on the estate, a volley of stones, sticks, and bricks rained down from the high balconies above them. The armed officers jumped from the van and moved in, firearms loaded and pointing, to cover Yo-Yo’s door. Georgia instructed the uniformed sergeant to gather half a dozen of his most reliable officers to knock on Reilly’s door. As they moved in she followed close behind with Stephanie and trainee DC Peacock. Hank was over six feet tall, skinny as a broom, with hair that stood upright from his smiling, amenable face. He had told her a few days previously that he wanted to get straight into the action. This estate, at three thirty on a freezing Saturday morning, with missiles and unthinkable liquids raining down in their direction from Sparrow block, was Hank’s baptism of fire; she would be interested to see how he fared. She noticed Stephanie was watching the young DC closely, too – she hoped with a professional eye.

‘Police! Open up!’ Georgia shouted as the uniformed officers banged on the door. Without waiting for a response, she nodded to the officer holding the bright red battering ram, and he swiftly took the door down.

As the door caved in, more bricks and stones and a bucket of faeces pelted down. Something slimy and foul-smelling narrowly missed Stephanie and Hank Peacock and landed on the back of Georgia’s head in her neatly tied ponytail. As the slippery globules dropped from her hair on to the back of her black leather coat, she fought not to cry out in disgust. The memory of that long-ago autumnal night spun inside her brain.

Stephanie handed her a large handkerchief. At the same moment Hank Peacock took off into the flat at a sprint. He had caught sight of Yo-Yo in the room at the end of the hallway, hauling himself out a window. Hank was like a whippet on speed. He leapt up on a table, grappled with Yo-Yo’s fat, kicking legs and pulled him back into the room. Uniformed officers moved in to help, ducking and jumping to avoid the kicks Yo-Yo flung out in all directions. Hank wasn’t about to let go; he dragged Yo-Yo’s feet back to the floor, and Stephanie was ready to click handcuffs into place.

As she read him his rights the sound of the angry, barking dogs in another room almost drowned her voice. The police made a speedy exit from the flat.

Getting him into the police wagon was the next problem. It seemed as if half of the Brotherhood were now blocking their way, holding bats and chains. Georgia made an educated guess that some of them were carrying knives, and possibly even firearms.

She took a deep breath and stepped in front of Stephanie and Hank, who were walking either side of the handcuffed Yo-Yo.

‘Mr Reilly is being taken in for questioning,’ she told them calmly. ‘Anyone who tries to hinder our enquiries will also be arrested and charged with obstruction. Please stand aside. There are more of us than of you, and we also have armed police officers in position. Please go back to your beds and let us do our job.’

Her words fell on deaf ears. More youths of all colours and sizes arrived from different parts of the estate, armed with bats, sticks, bricks and chairs. Some leaned menacingly against the police vehicles while others blocked the exit from the Aviary Estate.

Georgia stood her ground while Stephanie phoned for back-up from the riot unit.

‘I’ll ask you again, politely for now,’ Georgia said loudly as a brick landed next to the police van. ‘Step away from the vehicles and clear the exit from the estate. You are obstructing the police in their line of duty.’

No one moved. A couple of youths took a step towards her and lifted their weapons.

The uniformed police surrounding Reilly moved closer to guard their prisoner.

Hank Peacock took up a position beside Georgia.

Yo-Yo beamed from ear to ear.

The police and the estate gang stood facing each other, each waiting for the other to make a move.

The sound of sirens grew louder, and a fleet of police vans sped into the estate only to be blocked by a horde of angry youths. The siren’s scream stopped, replaced by an urgent growl from a loudspeaker, and a warning to move back or take the consequences.

Some of the youths gathered to form a barrier. The police vans’ riot grills dropped over the windscreens. The vans slowed, but kept moving, sirens shrieking.

Then a brick flew out of the crowd.

The vans halted and the doors flew open. Police clad in face shields and body armour jumped out, ready to face the threatening mob. Some of the crowd dropped their bats and sticks and hurried off, realizing they were probably going to lose and get arrested.

Others held their ground.

Stephanie, Georgia, and Hank Peacock were now flanked by a dozen uniformed police. A handcuffed Reilly stood in the middle of the group, wearing only boxer shorts and a dressing gown, socks and trainers on his feet. They attempted to hustle him through the crowd and into the van, but each time they tried, they were pushed back by armed youths.

A tall youth holding a jar threw its contents at Georgia. She realized it was urine, and ducked to prevent the putrid liquid from hitting her face. In that instant the same youth pulled a blade and danced in front of her, waving the knife and urging her to take it from him.

Another man seemed to come from nowhere. Quick as a fox, he knocked the knife out of the youth’s hand, sending it clattering to the ground. Hank Peacock moved quickly to lift and bag it. Stephanie and three uniformed police moved in to arrest the youth, and Stephanie managed to knee him hard in the balls as they struggled with him.

‘Move back,’ the newly arrived police shouted as some of the mob surged forward. Sticks and stones were still flying, but most of the mob retreated as more sirens screamed into the estate. The police outnumbered the crowd by quite a margin now; not only would Yo-Yo Reilly’s supporters fail to prevent his arrest, they would end up being arrested with him.

The man who had jumped in and knocked the knife out of the youth’s hand watched the crowd retreating. ‘I think I came at a good moment,’ he said to Georgia, managing a brief smile.

‘Thank you,’ Georgia said without looking round. She felt desperately uncomfortable, and horribly aware of the smell of whatever had landed in her hair. ‘I don’t think we’ve met?’

‘David Dawes. Detective Inspector. I’ve just been seconded to this enquiry.’ He didn’t look at Georgia, but kept his eyes pinned on the last of the youths as a uniformed sergeant warned them to stay back.

None of them moved. DI Dawes took a step nearer to them and shouted above the din. ‘Move back, now. If anyone makes any attempt to prevent us leaving with this prisoner, we will arrest you, all of you if necessary, and you will be charged with obstruction.’ He nodded to the uniforms flanking Yo-Yo, to indicate that they should get him into the prisoner’s van as quickly as possible. This time no one tried to stop them.

Once Yo-Yo was in the van, Hank Peacock pushed the other handcuffed youth in beside him and the van was locked. The driver took off toward the station without further delay. As it sped out of the estate, more bricks and chairs were hurled down from high up on the estate. But as it disappeared, the crowds started to disperse.

Georgia was angry and upset. She didn’t want anyone else to see the effect that the faeces in her hair were having on her. The memory of Clapham Common all those years ago was back with her. She needed to be on her own, preferably at home and in the shower. She made her way quickly towards Stephanie’s car.

Stephanie caught up with her and clicked open the car door as DI Dawes came up behind them.

‘Probably not a good place to get acquainted,’ he said flashing his ID card. ‘I’ll see you at the station. I’m on attachment with you, for this case.’

Stephanie was beaming at him. ‘Drop me home first,’ Georgia said to her. ‘I need to shower and wash my hair before I go back to the station.’

Stephanie drove in silence, much to Georgia’s relief. Stephanie was oblivious to Georgia’s history, but though she joked about most things, in the five years they had worked closely together she had learned that Georgia’s cleanliness phobia wasn’t a subject for hilarity. Only occasionally, when they paused at traffic lights, did she lift her eyebrows, wrinkle her nose and twinkle in Georgia’s direction.

Georgia stared out of the window and said not a word.

As Sally Young set up her stall her mind was turning nineteen to the dozen. It seemed only yesterday that her teenage daughter Wendy had broken the news that she was pregnant. Wendy was a crack addict, so poor Jason was born to suck a drug-taker’s milk, then left to fend for himself while Sally worked long hours at cleaning jobs to bring in money to keep a roof over the three of them.

It was years later, after Wendy died, that she found out that the boy had often been left hungry. She never forgave herself for not noticing. It was no wonder he turned to stealing.

If she had of known of his love of dancing earlier, she would have done something about it: paid for his dance lessons by working another shift, or whatever it took. That might have saved him from the thieving and drug trading and ultimately from the prison sentences. But it was no good wishing, she told herself; she had to deal with what was, not what might have been.

She blew into her hands to keep warm as she piled plates on the hard, frosty ground. She’d let her daughter down too, she thought sadly. If she’d been any kind of mother to her, Wendy might still be alive and Jason wouldn’t have ended up the way he did. He was a good boy deep down. He had been the one to come through for her; after all, he’d given her the money to fulfil her dream and set this stall up.

She stood back and admired the wobbling plates, then moved them in case they toppled. Breakages ate into her profits, and she needed to save as much money as she could now. It was payback time; she would look out for Jason as he had for her. She hated Haley Gulati anyway, always had done, and wasn’t a bit sorry she was dead. The stuck-up cow thought Jason wasn’t good enough for her niece. She should have known her darling Chantelle was nothing but a cheap little slapper, not a patch on Jason. He had a scholarship and he was going to make something of himself, and he’d never need to steal again. Chantelle was on a bad road.

This crockery was a good little business, and she’d use it to make sure he had the things he needed until he was sorted and on his own two feet. He was a clever lad and he’d have a training soon. She would take a cleaning job, too, if need be, to help him. She was used to hard work; as a child she had to miss school to cook and clean for her alcoholic mother. Then she’d met Frankie, and got pregnant herself at fifteen. Frankie soon disappeared, and she found herself with Wendy to feed and no bloody help from anyone. But it was all worth it; she adored her new daughter, and happily worked four cleaning shifts a day to feed her as well as keep her mother in gin.