Criminal Revenge (17 page)

Kenny Richards swallowed the remaining half of his pint in one go and slammed it down on the table loudly. He was a big, red-faced man, with a grey flat-top haircut and too many gold chains and sovereigns. Steroids made his face bloated, and caused acne on the back of his neck and shoulders. There were always half a dozen yellow-heads lurking un-squeezed above his collar. No one mentioned them, of course, because the steroids also made him temperamental at best, violently unstable at worst. His younger brothers, Jimmy and Billy, were smaller versions of him.

The Richards had started their careers working on the doors of the city’s nightclubs. They began taxing the drug dealers, and eventually started to supply them with wholesale gear themselves. The brothers set up a construction company, working on civil engineering projects for the highways agencies. It was a perfect way to launder their income. Kenny was known as a hard man, with a granite jaw and fists like bowling balls. His brothers were always armed with knuckledusters or blades. Anyone stupid enough to tackle them was dispatched to accident and emergency at high speed. Repeat offenders found themselves surrounded by quick drying concrete, entombed in the foundations of a motorway bridge.

The men were talking when Kenny slammed down his glass, and shouted for another round. “Wendy! Get us the same again, sexy.” He looked towards the kitchen and saw shadows approaching the swing doors. There were round porthole windows in them, allowing the waiting to staff to see their colleagues coming the opposite way, loaded with plates of food.

“Wendy, you sexy bitch, get over here with the beer!”

His face reddened when two masked gunmen entered the dining room. “Shut up!” He said to his party. They were listening to a succession of dirty jokes, and unaware of what was happening. One by one the Richards gang became silent. The masked men approached the table, their silenced Uzis raised.

“What the fuck is this all about?” Kenny snarled. His face had turned purple with outrage.

“Get over there against the wall, hands on your heads.” The gunmen waved the muzzles in the direction of the wall. “Move it!”

The Richards stood slowly, hands in the air.

“You’re fucking dead men walking,” Kenny snarled.

“Not you,” the masked man indicated that Kenny should remain seated. “You stay there, fatty.”

“Fuck you!”

“Shut up, Kenny, or I’ll blow your face off now.” The gunman was ice cool, no emotion in his voice. This was another day at the office, and Kenny could sense it too. They were in big trouble.

“What do you want?” Kenny asked. His brothers and the others moved away from the table.

“Kneel down and face the wall.”

“Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll triple it,” Kenny said.

“Shut your mouth.” As the men kneeled, one of the gunmen opened fire, emptying his clip in seconds. A Chinese mural became a grisly frieze of blood and gore. It changed shape slowly as the mush began to dribble down it. Kenny’s brothers and his men twitched momentarily, and then lay still. The second man covered Kenny with his weapon.

“You have no idea what you have done,” Kenny growled. Self-preservation stopped him bolting for the door, or rushing at the gunmen in a desperate last effort to save his own life. The kitchen was the only viable exit, as the manager had locked and shuttered the front of the restaurant hours before. Keeping his liquor license was more of a priority than letting the Richards out of the front entrance in the early hours of the morning.

“I’ll ask you once, and once only.” The gunman speaking slid a sawn-off shotgun from his belt. He walked around the table and stuck the gun against his temple. The second man slid a wire noose over his head and a simple pull of the wrist tightened it to choking point. Kenny tried to place his fingers between the cutting wire and his throat, but the man was too quick. He clawed at it desperately with his fingernails, but the wire sliced into his flesh.

“Do you have Mamood Pindar?”

Kenny’s eyes widened. Pindar. The only Pindar he knew was Malik Shah’s side-kick, and he was sure his first name wasn’t Mamood. The wire tightened and his eyes bulged as his air supply was restricted. He shook his head in the negative.

“Last chance, do you know where Mamood Pindar is, or who has him?” The gunman could tell by the confusion on Kenny’s face that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d questioned enough men in his time to see past the fear and spot the truth or a lie.

Kenny Richards croaked and blood began to pour from the vicious wound on his throat. His larynx was sliced and air hissed into the gash. Kenny shook his head.

“He doesn’t know anything, step back.” The sawn-off kicked in the gunman’s hand as both barrels fired. The twelve gauge shot ripped the side of Kenny’s skull away, exposing his teeth, and covered the mirrored wall in grey matter.

DS Alec Ramsay yawned as he drove towards China Town. The news of a multiple homicide had reached him shortly after six that morning. He stopped at the traffic lights, and looked at the empty shell of a bombed-out church, a reminder of how the city suffered during World War II; it marked the start of the Chinese quarter. He indicated right and pulled off the main road into the maze of streets that serviced that area of the city. An ornate Chinese archway covered the road and he parked up beneath it, next to a row of marked police cars and two ambulances. The streets were beginning to fill up with early morning commuters, and uniformed officers were building a cordon to keep curious onlookers back from the scene.

“Where’s DI Naylor?” Alec asked a uniformed sergeant that he recognised from his early career. The portly sergeant nodded a greeting and shook his head, wobbling his jowls as he did so.

“Round the back of the Lucky Dragon, guv,” he leaned closer and lowered his voice as he lifted the crime scene tape to allow him in. “It’s the Richards crew, guv, I’ve known them for years.”

Alec patted him on the shoulder and ducked beneath the tape. “Lucky Dragon indeed?” he mused to himself. The restaurant looked peaceful enough from here. The roller shutters were locked down, but the main signage was still lit, as if someone had forgotten to turn it off when they went home. He headed round the back via a narrow cobbled lane.

A uniformed officer staggered out of the backyard. His hand covered his mouth, but didn’t stop the vomit from coming up. It sprayed through his fingers across the cobbles and up the wall. Alec skirted around the officer at a safe distance and entered a small backyard. The smell of rotting vegetables mingled with cooking odours and rancid refuse hit him. The yard was untidy. There were empty cooking oil drums stacked on top of each other next to an overflowing skip. Flattened cardboard boxes strewn across the yard by the wind, and never tidied up. Next to the door a bun tray of frozen chickens sat defrosting on an upturned peddle bin.

“Morning, guv,” Will Naylor stepped through the chain fly-curtain. “Just getting a breath of fresh air, whiffs a bit in there.”

“Whiffs a bit out here too,” Alec replied, pointing to the defrosting meat.

“I don’t think food hygiene was number one priority,” Will replied. He held open a gap in the chains and gestured the superintendent through it. “The milkman found the back door open like this, about five o’clock this morning. He went into the kitchen and shouted ‘hello’, and heard the manager and the waitress calling for help. They’d been locked in the fridge there.”

Will pointed to a wash-up room. Stainless steel tub sinks lined the walls and spring-loaded spray heads hung from the walls above them. At the far end was the walk-in.

“Were they locked in?”

“Yes, guv, the bolt was thrown.”

“Are they hurt?”

“No, guv. The waitress went out the back door to go home at about two o’clock, and encountered two masked men in the backyard. They pointed machineguns at her and the manager, asked them how many of the Richards crew were in there, and then locked them in the fridge.”

“The gunmen knew the Richards were in there?”

“Yes, guv, they knew Kenny Richards by his first name.”

Alec scanned the kitchen but there was nothing out of the ordinary there. The gunmen had entered by the most obvious route, the only route available at the time because the front was locked up. He walked towards the swing doors and pushed through them into the dining room. The sickening smell of death met him as he entered. Blood, urine and faeces, mingled with the cooking odours of ginger and satay oil. Will was close behind him.

“First glance indicates that Kenny was garrotted in his chair while his men were executed and then he was given both barrels close up.”

“Why?”

“Why what, guv?”

“Why not just blow him away with his men, if it was a hit, that is?”

Will looked back at the bodies and studied the scene. It looked like a hit to him. Alec moved closer to Kenny’s body, careful not to stand on any evidence. A forensic team was en route.

“Why bother to garrotte him and then blow his head off?” Alec asked himself aloud. “If it was a hit he’d be over there with
his men.”

“Maybe they wanted to make him watch,” Will suggested.

“Or maybe they wanted to ask him some questions.”

“It doesn’t look like he gave them the right answers,” Will said, nodding.

“Maybe he didn’t know the answer, Will.” Alec stepped away from the bodies and walked back towards the kitchen. They would have to wait for the forensics reports before they could hazard an educated guess as to what had happened.

“Have you got any theories, guv?”

“We have two dead dealers linked to Malik Shah, and then a small-time gangster is tortured to death and dumped on the town hall steps. Shah’s bookkeeper is assassinated, and now the head of a major crime family and his men are wiped out. I think somebody is looking for answers or revenge, and my guess would be that it’s Malik Shah,” Alec pushed open the kitchen doors and came face to face with Graham Libby. “Morning, doc.”

“Ah, superintendent, I hope you haven’t contaminated my crime scene,” he said sarcastically. Will came through the doors and he ignored him.

“I need whatever you can give me, as soon as you can,” Alec carried on walking.

“Charming,” Dr Libby muttered as he entered the dining room.

The detectives walked back to their cars in silence, mulling over what they had seen and trying to put the pieces together. Will recalled the events of the previous evening, which he hadn’t had a chance to speak to Alec about yet. It wasn’t significant enough to bother him at home, but it needed to be told.

“I found our homeless guy last night, guv.”

“What?” Alec was deep in thought.

“I found the homeless guy that lived at the back of the shops, where we found the dealers.”

“Oh, right,” the cardboard box sprung into his mind.

“His name is Ronald Theakston, an ex-marine turned wino.”

“Did he have anything useful?”

“He was there when the shooting happened, and he recognised the weapon as a nine millimetre handgun from his army days.” Will paused, and thought about how to explain the rest of the conversation. “He didn’t see anything, but he heard a diesel engine.”

“That it?” Alec thought there was more.

“He said one of the men was called, Einstein, guv.”

“Einstein? Was he drunk?”

“Wasted, guv.”

“Okay, we’ll park that for now.” Alec couldn’t make any sense of it. “Get the team together and bring in Malik Shah and Ashwan Pindar. It’s time we had a little chat with them.”

Rasim Shah woke early. He was still weary, as he hadn’t slept well. The events of the last few days played on his mind. Omar told him that Malik had set the dogs onto the Richards gang, but he didn’t know why. He called Malik to ask him what was happening, but he told him to sit tight and wait, nothing more. Rasim hated Malik with a passion. If he wasn’t so scared of him, he’d have left the organisation years ago. He had enough money now, and didn’t need the bullshit that came with working for Malik; however, no one that had walked away lived very long afterward. Shah and his organisation operated in the city with relative impunity from the other crime families. They didn’t bully the smaller gangs, and they had enough firepower to ensure that none messed with them. The Richards weren’t as big by any stretch of the imagination, but they were popular – Malik and his men were despised by everyone. Attacking the Richards could encourage the smaller organisations to unite against them, and then things would get messy. Rasim didn’t have the stomach for a turf war of that scale. He had too much to lose.

“Are you okay, Ras?” Shelpa reached out and touched her husband’s cheek with the back of her hand. “You’ve been twisting and turning all night long, darling.”

“Indigestion.” Rasim turned to her and kissed her forehead. “It’s your cooking, I’m sure.”

“Well if it’s that bad, I’ll stop cooking, cheeky boy,” Shelpa moved closer to him and she pointed her finger playfully at his nose. Her other hand stroked the thick hair on his chest. Rasim was in good shape for his age. He swam fifty lengths every morning, which kept his muscles toned.

“If you stop cooking, I’ll file for divorce.” Rasim kissed her lips gently. Shelpa responded, opening her mouth and probing gently with the tip of her tongue. “What’s the point in having a wife if she doesn’t cook?” he whispered.

“Is that all I’m good for?” Shelpa pulled away and kissed his chin, running her tongue across his neck, stopping momentarily to nibble his earlobe. She could feel him growing hard against her stomach. Her hand slid down, teasing the skin on his stomach. She wrapped her fingers around his erection and began to stroke him up and down. “Well, is that all I’m good for?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Rasim whispered playfully. He put his hand on the back of her head and pushed her down gently towards him. Shelpa took him deep into her mouth, and she rocked her head back and forth until he cried out in ecstasy.

“I remembered why I married you,” Rasim gasped. She held him tight while his head returned to planet Earth. “It wasn’t your cooking.”

“Do you feel better?”

“Much better.”

“Go for your swim,” Shelpa kissed his cheek.

“I’m going, bossy boots,” he kissed her back.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Do you want eggs?” Shelpa sat up and gathered her long black hair into a ponytail as she spoke.

“You are beautiful, you know?” Rasim touched her neck with the back of his hand.

“Thank you.” she took his hand and kissed it. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” he leaned over and kissed her lips. “Even though you give me indigestion!”

“Ras!” she punched his arm gently. They held each other for a precious moment, kissed and then moved to the end of the bed.

Rasim pulled on a towelling bathrobe and tied the belt at the front. He grabbed a towel and padded down the stairs towards the swimming pool. The laminate floor was cold as he stepped off the carpeted staircase and headed through the wide split-level living room. In the corner of the room was a white marble coffee table. A black onyx table lamp stood proudly in the centre, guarding three remote control pads and his mobile phone. Rasim picked up a remote and switched on the music system. David Bowie started to sing ‘Heroes’, and Rasim turned the volume up in the pool area. He eyed his mobile as he walked by, checking the battery was fully charged. It was. Rasim put it back down and walked towards the pool block. The phone began ringing and he stopped in his tracks. It was early, and the call would be trouble, he was sure of that. He sighed and thought about ignoring it. If it was Malik then he would be furious it wasn’t answered, it was his pet hate. The Richards crew had been attacked last night, so he guessed Malik would be ringing to bring him up to date. He walked back and looked at the screen. The caller’s number was withheld.

“Who is that at this time in the morning?” Shelpa called through from the kitchen. Pots and pans clanged as she prepared to make their favourite breakfast. It was omelette with onions and peppers fried in sunflower oil.

“The number is withheld, it will be Malik.”

“I hate that man, he makes my skin crawl, ignore him.”

“He’s my boss, Shelpa, you know how he is.”

“He’s a creep, he stares at me.”

“I stare at you.”

“You’re allowed to.”

Rasim smiled as he placed the phone to his ear and accepted the call. The fingers on his right hand were blown clean across the room, and his skull exploded like an egg being hit with a sledgehammer. Crimson fluid splattered the wall and ceiling and his body stayed vertical for a few seconds, as if it could function without its head, then it fell forward and knocked the onyx lamp across the room.