Criminal Revenge (19 page)

Lenny Mcvitie was a sixty-year-old Irishman, and a legend in the underworld of crime. A onetime bare-knuckle champion, Lenny was feared and respected by people on both sides of the law. Alec had dealt with Lenny many times, never as a suspect though. Lenny had been a vital source of information over the years. He was an old-fashioned criminal, and he didn’t like the influx of foreign gangs or the way they operated. He had manners and he liked to think that he had some morals.

“Detective Naylor, how the devil are you?” Lenny stood up and towered over the table. He held out a giant gnarled hand and greeted the young DI with a genuine enthusiasm. His ruddy face parted in a toothless grin. “Where’s Alec?”

“He’s on his way, Lenny,” Will tried to free his hand from the giant Irishman’s grip, but he wasn’t finished shaking it yet. It would be a huge mistake to disrespect Lenny. He was the type of man that would go out of his way help the people he liked, but woe betide those that crossed him.

“Now then, are you still seeing that little darling from the forensic unit?” Lenny released Will’s hand. The question hit Will in the guts. He thought that his private life was relatively private, especially when the city’s biggest villains were concerned.

“No, Lenny, it finished a while ago.” Will was embarrassed. Lenny had eyes and ears all over the city, and he liked to keep a track of what was going on around him. Keeping up with a police detective’s extramarital affairs could be used to his own advantage one day. It was fun too.

“Did her husband find out?” Lenny chuckled at Will’s discomfort. He tipped him a cheeky wink. “Shame, she was a diamond, so she was.”

Will was rescued from the unwelcome questioning when Alec entered the room.

“Lenny,” Alec said. “How are you?”

“Damn fine, superintendent.” Lenny shook his hand with the same enthusiasm as before. “Now then, will I be needing a lawyer?”

“I doubt it, Lenny.” Alec sat down and gestured for the big man to do the same. Lenny smiled. His front teeth were missing, a result of a bare-knuckle bout years ago. “We just want a chat.”

“About Kenny Richards, I bet?” Lenny wiped his flattened nose with the back of his hand and sniffed. “Good man, Kenny Richards, God bless his soul.” Lenny made the sign of the cross and kissed an invisible crucifix. He wasn’t a religious man, but he had had a Catholic upbringing, and some old habits die hard. He crossed himself more out of superstition than from religious belief.

“You’ve heard, then,” Alec smiled, putting the gangster at ease. They went back years. They met first a charity ball. These are strange events frequented by high-ranking officials, celebrities, and criminals alike. Within minutes they were chatting about Alec’s time in Ireland, the troubles and some of the characters that they both knew. It was the start of an unusual relationship where they shared information, and a mutual respect.

“Who hasn’t heard that?” Lenny shook his head and frowned. “Bad news travels fast, superintendent.” Lenny had a habit of switching from addressing him with his Christian name and his rank, depending on how comfortable he was with the subject matter. He obviously had a problem with talking about Kenny Richards.

“What have you heard on the grapevine?”

Lenny looked thoughtful for a moment. He was selecting his next words carefully. Lenny wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree, but he wasn’t stupid either. Some things were best unsaid.

“The funny thing is, Alec, I haven’t heard a thing.” Lenny tapped his bent nose with his index finger. “Now that is all wrong because I hear everything. Your randy young DI can verify that, can’t you, Will? ”

Alec looked at Will and frowned. Will shrugged, not wanting to go into any detail about their earlier conversation. He waited for the Irishman to expand.

“Kenny Richards was a very good friend of mine, Alec, if someone were to put out a hit on him, then I’d know about it.”

“What if it was someone from out of town?”

“I’d know about it.” Lenny looked deadly serious.

“We know that Kenny was targeted, the gunmen mentioned his name to the staff that they locked up,” Will said.

“I’m talking hypothetically, of course.” Lenny put his huge hands palms-down on the table. His knuckles were crisscrossed with scar tissue, and a heavy gold bracelet hung from his left wrist.

“Of course,” Alec replied.

“Kenny was a popular man. He had many influential friends in the city, and across the country. Now if he’d upset someone to the point that they wanted him dead, then whoever it was would have to seriously consider who else would be offended by his death. Me for instance, and if I hadn’t been consulted then there could be severe consequences, you understand.” Lenny looked annoyed as he spoke about his friend.

“Who would put a hit out on him?” Will asked.

“Everybody knows that me and Kenny were good friends. Now if someone knew that a hit was going down then someone would have warned me, and I would have stopped it. He was one of the lads, everyone’s buddy, unless you pissed him off, of course.”

“Of course,” Alec humoured the old lag. “Has he pissed anyone off lately?”

“No, Alec, I would have heard about it.”

“Kenny was tortured,” Alec put the picture of Kenny garrotted on the table. Lenny picked it up with trembling hands. His face reddened and his eyes looked watery for a moment. “I think someone questioned him before he died.”

“Looks that way,” Lenny grimaced and handed the picture back.

“What could he possibly know that would result in his entire crew being assassinated?”

“Most of us do business together in a relatively civilised manner, only the foreigners keep themselves to themselves, and they cross the line more often than not.” Lenny didn’t see himself as foreign.

“Foreigners?”

“The Russians, Polish, Pakistanis, Somalis, you name it they’re all out there, and they’re nasty bastards the lot of them,” Lenny ranted. “They have no respect for anybody, especially Shah and his mob, bastards the lot of them.”

“What makes you mention his name?” Alec asked.

“Bruce Mann, poor bastard,” Lenny tutted.

“What about him?”

“Come on, superintendent.” Lenny sat back in his chair. “Everyone knows it was Shah that did for him. They dumped the poor bastard on the town hall steps as a message to someone.”

“Unless anyone can come up with any evidence, then we can’t pin a thing on him, Lenny.”

“He is a slippery bastard, that Shah character. Bruce was no friend of mine, but he didn’t deserve that. They did him the first time round, cut off his thumbs, the evil bastards.” Lenny was getting angry. “Look what they did to him and then look at that picture of Kenny, see any similarities?”

“You think Shah hit Kenny Richards?”

“I do.” Lenny clenched his fists. He regretted saying that as soon as he spoke, but it was the truth. Shah’s mob were the only ones that could put out a hit without him knowing about it, and that was because they kept everything in-house, never using outsiders.

“Why would Shah hit Richards and risk a turf war?”

“That I don’t know.” Lenny breathed out loudly. “I have been asking questions all over town but I’m none the wiser for my troubles.”

“We think someone is targeting Shah and his partners, Lenny.” Alec decided it was time to share information in an effort to gain some in return. The news would be out in the public domain by now anyway. The press would be having a field day when they put the names of Shah’s associates together. It wouldn’t take them long. They would link it to the mosque bombing, and invent a right-wing bombing campaign against Asian-owned businesses and properties.

“Why would you think that?”

“A couple of their dealers were murdered, and his business partners were killed this morning,” Alec kept the details to himself for now.

“I heard about a couple of his runners being killed, but that could have been any smackhead in the city.”

“We don’t think so, Lenny. The shots were too clean and nothing was stolen.”

“Well I didn’t know that, and that sheds a completely different light on things, so it does.”

“Can you think who would attack his people?”

“Who would?” Lenny frowned. Alec could see the cogs turning in his head. “It would be easier to give you a list of people that wouldn’t kill the bastards, Alec. They’re despised.”

“Rasim Shah and Omar Patel were killed early on this morning.”

“How?”

“We’re not sure yet, but it looks like bombs. One device was placed in a car and the other one we think was in a mobile phone.”

“Jesus Christ.” Lenny shook his head and stared at the table. His mind drifted as he digested the news. The world was changing fast, and different methods were used by different organisations, but this was hardcore military technology. “I’ll tell you something for certain, Alec.”

“Go on.”

“If someone was gunning for Malik Shah, I’d have heard about it. There’s nobody that I know in this city that could pull off a stunt like that.”

“What about his gun-running business?” Will asked. If it wasn’t a local crew then it could be a foreign entity attacking Shah.

“I don’t know enough about those people to comment, Will. He sells reactivated shit, and everyone knows it. It’s possible that he’s made enemies abroad, but would they bother with his partners?”

“You don’t think that they would?” Alec asked.

“I can’t see it Alec. Those people have mega-bucks, and they can reach out across the globe. Nowhere would be safe to hide if they wanted you dead. I think they would put Shah’s head on a stick if they wanted him.”

“Does the name Einstein mean anything to you?” Will knew it was a long shot.

“Einstein? That means nothing to me, Will.”

“Have you got any plans to revenge Kenny Richards, Lenny?” Alec sat forward. The last thing they wanted now was a turf war in the city. It was clear that Shah had made enemies outside of the city’s crime world.

“I am too long in the tooth to be playing games like that, superintendent. If someone out there is taking on Malik Shah then it would be advisable to keep out of the way. I’ll let them blow the shit out of each other and see what bits and pieces are worth picking up when they’ve finished.”

“Thank you for your time, Lenny, and if you hear anything give me a call?”

“Oh, you’ll be the first to know, Alec.” Lenny raised his hand as he stood up. They shook hands. A mischievous grin crossed his face. “There is one other thing.”

“What is it?” Alec raised his eyebrows.

“There’s an old leather warehouse on the docks, near Panama Street.” Lenny nodded. “You might want to have a look at it. Rumour has it Shah’s lot use it for interviewing clients, if you know what I mean.”

“Thanks, Lenny, we’ll do that.”

Ashwan Pindar packed three kilos of crack cocaine into a small holdall. He placed the holdall into a black suitcase and zipped it up. The smell of eight hundred thousand pounds in mixed notes wafted up to him. The odour was a mixture of paper and sweat. His hands were shaking as he stood the case on its wheels. He checked the screen of the mobile phone that had been sent to him that morning. He had been released from the cells without questioning, and he returned home for a change of clothes and to smooth things over with his wife. She wasn’t returning his calls or replying to his text messages. The police swooped on his home and checked out all their vehicles and phones for explosive devices. Malik was going ballistic. Omar, Rasim and the others were dead and he was feeling vulnerable.

Ash switched on his laptop and checked his e-mails. The kidnappers had made contact. He followed their orders and drove to a lay-by a few miles from his home. In a litter bin he found the mobile phone and a set of instructions. The signal bar was full, as was the battery power, but there was no message yet.

“Anything?” Malik Shah asked angrily. His face was like thunder. He was sitting on the edge of long pine table, swinging his legs back and forth. A Mac-10 machinegun lay on the tabletop, next to him. He picked it up and stared at it in his hand. The weapon was compact, but deadly. Its matt black finish belied its lethal potential, making it look toy-like. Far from a toy, it was capable of firing nine hundred nine millimetre bullets a minute.

“Nothing,” Ashwan shook his head. He felt his trouser pocket through the material: wallet, keys, and phone. He had checked them every five minutes for the last two hours. They hadn’t moved, but he checked them anyway. “I’m nervous, Malik. Who is doing this to us? It must be someone that we know. Who would ask for three kilos of gear unless they knew us?”

“We’ll be behind you every step of the way. There is no way they’ll get their hands on that money or the drugs until Mamood is safe and sound. Once he is, they’re fucking fish food.”

“What if they spot you tailing me?”

“They will not.”

“What if they do?”

“Shut the fuck up, Ashwan!” Malik was on the edge. The sustained attack on his business interests had him seriously rattled. He was clueless as to who the perpetrators were. Someone was stalking him and Ashwan, someone dangerous and deadly.

Ashwan looked down at the suitcase and frowned. Eight hundred thousand pounds was not a substantial amount of money compared to the safe return of his only son. Malik had put up the money, and he had acquired the drugs from their own dealers. He had taken over the whole ransom operation, much to Ashwan’s concern. Malik was making this a personal vendetta. Ash just wanted his son back unharmed. It was rare for Malik to become physically involved, but the murders of Rasim and the other directors forced his hand. They had worked together since their school days, and now there was only Ashwan and himself left alive. He wasn’t going to wait around for the killers to get them. It was time to take this war to them. They had demanded money and drugs for the safe return of Mamood, and that required them to collect the ransom. When they did his men would be there waiting.

The kidnappers had told Ash to drive his Porsche until they contacted him. Malik and a small army of their men would take it in turn to follow him, reducing the risk of being spotted. Ashwan had no idea who had taken his son, or how many of them there would be at the ransom drop. What he did know was that there weren’t many outfits with the men and machineguns that Malik’s gang had. The kidnappers would be outnumbered, out-gunned, surrounded, and dead five seconds after Mamood was released. At least that was Malik’s plan.

Malik Shah was a cold man. His brutality stemmed from his contempt for humanity itself. As a teenager he systematically used and abused anyone that came near to him, girls, family and his friends. He surrounded himself with the strongest characters, and used them as a shield. Anyone who crossed him felt the wrath of his close-knit unit. Malik Shah and his gang left school at the time of one of the worst periods of recession and unemployment to hit postwar Britain. His older cousins, Imran and Ishmael, were already importing heroin into the country, via extended family in Pakistan. The cities of Manchester and Liverpool became battlegrounds as feuding crime families battled for turf. The eighties was the decade of the chemical generation as ecstasy became the social drug of choice, and drug taking became part of the club scene, and socially acceptable. Drug dealers became millionaires almost overnight. Malik was a natural leader, and as he matured, he rose through the ranks and took control of the business. He was brutal and ruthless, taking out several of his older family members on his way to the top. As his wealth grew, so did the number of his enemies, although few dared to cross him.

At the age of twenty-four, Malik and his cousins boarded a North Sea ferry headed for the Dutch port of Rotterdam. Imran carried a sports bag which contained seventy-five thousand pounds. They were planning to exchange it for tablets at seventy-five pence each, which would be resold at twenty pounds a pop. The demand was enormous, and this deal would make them one of the richest crime syndicates in the country. Imran liked Malik because he was sharp. If given an area to look after, then he did it with an iron hand. Other drug dealers were dispatched without mercy and his profit margins were always top drawer. He demanded the respect of all those that worked with him, and he was feared by his enemies. With that in mind, Imran decided to take him on the trip to Holland, and Malik jumped at the opportunity. They travelled as foot passengers and the voyage was uneventful. Imran and Ishmael talked openly with their young cousin about their plans to offload the drugs when they returned to Britain. Half the haul was to be sold wholesale to two big crime families in London, and the remainder would be sold at hugely inflated prices to local dealers in the Liverpool and Manchester areas. They had no plans to retail the drugs themselves, which meant that Malik had no way of taking any profit from the deal. He raised the issue, and offered to take personal control of the resale of the tablets, but his cousins wanted the drugs gone quickly. Malik was both gutted and offended by the plan. He began to think that his cousins were losing their backbones, and missing the opportunity to maximise the potential profit from the deal by selling it on the streets themselves. Malik spent the rest of the crossing coming up with his own plan.

The trio travelled in a hire car to a service station on the outskirts of Rotterdam, where they met a Hell’s Angel who went by the name of Grizzly. Malik could see why he was called that. He was a monster of a man, muscular arms completely sleeved in tattoos, and his hands were the size of a gorilla’s. He wore a red bandana and mirrored sunglasses, black leather pants and a biker jacket with the Angel’s crest embroidered on the back. Imran handed the biker a brown envelope full of money and in return he received a leather satchel. Imran handed the satchel to Malik while the Hell’s Angel counted the cash. He opened the bag. Inside were an Uzi nine millimetre machine pistol and three full clips of ammunition. Imran was taking out some insurance. It made sense, and it took away the hassle of smuggling weapons onto the ferry. Grizzly slipped the envelope into his scuffed leather jeans, and walked away without saying a word. The huge Dutch biker had swastikas tattooed on his hands. He hated Asians, but he put his prejudice aside as their money was the same colour as his, and business was business.

They drove on twenty miles in silence. The reality of their predicament was sinking in. They were far from home, carrying a huge bundle of money, and looking to do a drug deal with people that they didn’t know and couldn’t trust. The Uzi offered some reassurance, but not a lot. The meeting place was the exit road of another service station. Ishmael indicated and looked at Malik in the mirror.

“We’re here, game on,” he said, trying to sound aloof, but failing miserably.

Two men in a dark green Range Rover waited for them on the far corner of a large car park. Imran pulled the vehicle behind them, but before he could get out the driver signalled for them to follow the vehicle. The Range Rover drove at a steady pace for over half an hour before turning onto a deserted farm track. The track was rutted and the vehicles bumped their way along it until they reached the farmhouse and outbuildings. The property was ramshackle and in disrepair, the windows were gaping black holes in a crumbling facade. Imran took a packet of Marlboro from his shirt pocket. He removed three and handed them out to his cousins. Malik felt a rush of adrenalin as he inhaled the soothing smoke deep into his lungs.

“Wait here,” Imran instructed, as he and Ishmael climbed out of the vehicle. “Keep the gun loaded and cover our backs.”

Malik slammed a full clip into the gun and it clicked home. He slipped the spares into his jacket pocket. Imran and Ishmael waited nervously for the men to exit their vehicle. When they did, Malik thought that they were Turks. Both men were dark haired and unshaven. They looked alike, and Malik thought that they could have been brothers. One of the men walked to the tailgate of the Range Rover, and opened it slowly. He took out a large rucksack and a silver twelve gauge Mossberg pump action shotgun. Malik was surprised that they didn’t have backup with them, and that the only weapon he could see was a weapon limited to five shots before it needed to be reloaded. The Mossberg would do terrible damage to a human target with five shells, but it would be limited against multiple moving targets. The Uzi would fire a full clip in under four seconds, spraying a wide area and increasing the chances of a kill.

The Turks approached his cousins, and they met cautiously halfway between their respective vehicles. Malik edged out of the hire car and stood behind the rear passenger door. Words were exchanged, but Malik couldn’t make out what was said. Imran opened the sports bag and showed the Turks the cash. The Turks responded by opening the rucksack. The man with the Mossberg looked nervous, and sweat was trickling from his temples, running down the side of his face. Malik could smell his fear. He stepped from behind the car door, raised the Uzi and pulled the trigger. The nine-millimetre machinegun bucked in his hand as it released its lethal load. Imran and Ishmael never knew who shot them. Bullets slammed into their backs, smashing bones and tearing organs to shreds as they ricocheted around inside their ribcages. They dropped dead where they stood. One of the Turks took two rounds in the face, blasting the lower jaw and cheekbone from his skull. The other man was hit in the shoulder, and he tried to crawl away from the scene, digging his heels into the ground, his breaths coming in short gasps. Malik released the empty clip and slammed a full one into the Uzi. Malik walked over to the wounded Turk. He stood over him, looking into his eyes. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Malik pulled the trigger and emptied the magazine into his twitching body.

The Uzi was red hot. Malik kneeled down next to Imran’s dead body. His eyes were wide open but there was no life in them. The light inside had been extinguished. Malik took the cigarettes from his cousin’s shirt pocket, and lit one as he surveyed the carnage around him. It took him ten minutes to strip the bodies of any valuables or identification, and he removed his jacket and tee shirt, leaving them on the front seat of the hire car while he worked. He put the bodies into the Range Rover, his cousins in the front and the Turks in the back. Dragging them across the farmyard was difficult, and lifting them up into the vehicle was backbreaking, but he managed to complete his gory task. When he finished, he was covered in blood and gore from head to toe. Malik tossed the weapons into the back seat with the dead Turks, and then he ripped the shirt from one of the bodies, stuffing it into the petrol filler pipe. He set fire to it and jogged back to his hire car.

Malik smoked another cigarette as he watched the material burn. It wasn’t long before the petrol tank exploded and the vehicle became a raging inferno. He had seventy-five thousand pounds in cash, plus the drugs and a selection of credit cards that he had found on the bodies. It would be the financial rock upon which he would build his empire. Malik posted the drugs in several packages to himself and returned home as a foot passenger on another ferry. Within a month of returning home, he was the richest, most powerful drug dealer in the north of England. Ashwan and the others stayed loyal to him, and they prospered as the business grew.

A knock on the kitchen door snapped Ashwan back to reality.

“We’ve got a problem.” A huge fat man filled the doorway. His cheeks were flabby jowls which joined his neck without the need for a chin. Indi Pindar was a cousin to Ashwan. He had a black sweater stretched over his massive bulk and dark sweat patches were spreading from beneath his armpits.

“What is it?” Malik stood up from the table. He held the Mac-10 in both hands ready for action. Ashwan could see how tense his boss was, and that worried him.

“We’ve got company outside.” Imran nodded towards the window. “We’re under surveillance.”

Malik walked to the doorway and switched off the kitchen light. He went to the window and parted the venetian blinds with his fingers. Across the road, one hundred yards away, was a white transit van. Two men sat low in the front seats, and there was a dull glow from the rear of the vehicle. It was a surveillance unit with a sophisticated listening capability fitted to the back.

Malik reached for the sink and put the plug into the hole, turning both taps full on. The he switched on the radio and turned it up full blast. Indi followed suit by waddling through every room in the house, switching on every television set and turning the volume up to full. Malik laughed as he looked through the blinds again. The two policemen in the front seats of the van were now sitting bolt upright. They twisted round to face the men in the rear of the vehicle, and a heated conversation was going on. The driver slammed the steering wheel with his fist, furious that they’d been spotted. There was little point in remaining there anymore, and he started the engine, switched on the lights and drove towards the house. The vehicle slowed slightly as it neared. Malik flicked on the light and waved through the blinds sarcastically. The surveillance officer returned the gesture by raising his middle finger. Malik Shah was too clever to be caught out by a clumsy operation like that: MI5 had been trying to catch him for years and they couldn’t find a shred of evidence against him. His men were sharp and on the ball. He had Electric Counter Measures in every house and every vehicle. As soon as a listening device was aimed at them, they were informed of the fact.