Criminal Revenge (6 page)

Superintendent Alec Ramsay briefed his troops about the findings that Will Naylor’s team had discovered, setting them the task to find out as much information as they could about Malik Shah and Ashwan Pindar. The investigation was to be covert. No one would approach them directly, or their associates, for now. They had to gather information from other departments, other constabularies and international law enforcement agencies. There was no shortage of suspected crimes allegedly committed by their criminal organisation; however, there was no hard evidence against them. They were smart. Malik Shah hadn’t been arrested and questioned since the late nineties. His record was clean. It was just before three o’clock when the entire Major Investigation Team was present at their desks.

“Half past three, ladies and gents, please, let’s have a quick update. I don’t want anything overlooked, no matter how insignificant it might seem now.” Alec brushed his blond fringe back from his head. Grey and ginger strands were creeping into his mane; he had read that the ‘hair industry’ called it salt and pepper. ‘Getting older’, he called it. His hair was parted down the centre, and while it was still thick, the roots always appeared a darker, greying blond. The afternoon sun was sinking fast in the west, its warmth gone, but its glare annoying through the full windows. In the near distance, the river looked slate grey in the fading light. Heads nodded in confirmation of the superintendent’s order, and several small clusters of officers formed as they collated their team’s information. Alec had been kept up to speed all day as news had come in, but each team needed to be completely aware what avenues their colleagues were following. Hundreds of man-hours could be saved by frequent briefings. They stopped people working on the same issue, or heading down a dead end that others had already been to. Alec had the bit between his teeth, and the longer they investigated the bombing, the less likely it seemed that it had been a terrorist attack. He needed the divisional commander to have the same opinion, or it would be left to the Counter Terrorist Unit to deal with.

“Guv.” Will Naylor held up his telephone. He looked sharp and refreshed after his break, as did his team. Even Smithy looked half-tidy.

“It’s the commander, guv.”

“Patch it through to my office, please, Will.”

Alec stepped into his office and clicked the door closed behind him. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to be the lead unit on the bombing or not. It was a massive case which would carry volumes of kudos if it ended with a conviction. The careers of the entire team would be enhanced by working on a case like this. They could also be damaged beyond repair, if mistakes were made. Alec was too long in the tooth to be a glory hound, but he relished a challenge, and his detectives were the best.

Alec was convinced it had been a targeted hit. The problem was that both the protagonists and targets lived in the world of organised crime. It was a world of secrecy and silence. There would be no informers, no tip-offs, and no witnesses. Malik Shah appeared to be made of Teflon, nothing stuck to him, and Alec would have bet a year’s wages that his enemies were of similar material. The police hierarchy would want results and convictions tomorrow, if not sooner. Alec couldn’t see either coming quickly.

He lifted the phone and pressed a button to connect the line. “Commander.”

“Detective superintendent, how are you, Alec?” Alec and the commander went back years. Alec had always been a few rungs down the ladder, but the two men had a mutual respect that could only grow over decades. Alec had been pulled out of a few close scrapes during his years on the force, and though he was never certain, he had a hunch that the commander was his guardian angel.

“Not so bad, Bob. How’s Sally?”

“Fine, thanks, how’s Gail?”

“Still trying to poison me with organic everything. I’m still not sure what organic actually means, but I’ll live forever at this rate.” Alec was force-fed a healthy diet by his long-suffering wife, whether he wanted it or not.

“Heaven forbid! Why would you want to do that? By the time we retire our pension funds will have been invested in an Icelandic bank. It’ll be worth peanuts.”

“Probably, but as long as they’re organic, the boss will be happy.” Alec Ramsay had been married twenty years, and he’d never strayed once, which he was proud of. He’d had plenty of offers over the years; a mixture of power and personality made him attractive to his female colleagues, but he’d never succumbed to
the temptation.

The commander laughed and then said seriously, “All joking aside, Alec, how’s the investigation going?”

“It depends on where you’re looking at it from,” Alec replied thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “What are CTU saying?”

“They have nothing solid worth shouting about. You know what they’re like, cards very close to their chest and all.”

“Do they think it was an extremist attack?”

“I’m assuming from that comment, superintendent, that you don’t,” the commander batted the question back.

“No, commander, I don’t.” The two old friends slipped into their professional standings comfortably. “Have you seen the preliminary forensics?”

“Yes. What do you make of it?”

“Did you pick up on the mixture?”

“I did indeed, superintendent.” The commander had spent a number of years in Belfast. “Echoes of our Republican friends?”

“Without a doubt, commander, I haven’t seen or heard of a cooked mixture since our time across the Irish Sea.”

“You’re ruling out any Irish involvement, I presume.”

“I can’t say for definite, but what would their motive be?”

“I agree, so where does that leave us?”

“I think it’s a hit, commander.”

“The Patels being the possible target?”

“It’s a possibility that needs to be investigated. Patel has some very dubious business associates.”

“Malik Shah, I believe.” Alec thought the commander sounded like the bulldog from the car insurance adverts on the television. “That man has been a thorn in my side for as long as I can remember.”

“It could be a coincidence, commander, but the extremist attack doesn’t sit right. It’s a hunch, but the evidence tells me it’s a hit.”

“Was Patel of value to Malik Shah?”

“According to Smithy, the drugs squad had him down as the bookkeeper for the entire operation, but they could never follow the money trail to anything solid.”

“Do you think Shah could have taken him out, maybe he was skimming off the top?” the commander speculated.

“Who knows, it’s way too early to tell, but my money is on a link to Shah, rather than right-wing extremists, commander.”

“I tend to agree, but if it is, then the ball will be in your court.”

“Yes, commander, I thought as much.” Alec swept his hand across his mouth and eyes, rubbing them.

“I think the joint departments meeting will iron out where we go with this.”

“We’re working our way through the possible options, commander. If it falls to us, then we’ll hit the ground running.” Alec swallowed hard, and loosened his tie. It seemed that this case was about to drop into his lap.

Lana floated in and out of a troubled sleep. Her dreams were real and worrying. She dreamt of a lake and a rowing boat. Mamood had fallen into the water, and no matter how hard she rowed, the boat drifted further away from him. Lana called his name and shouted for help, but he was being carried away by an unseen current. There wasn’t anything she could do to help him. He became a spot on the horizon, just before he disappeared beneath the dark waters. She awoke with a start, out of breath and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The red glow of their digital clock told her that it was past three in the morning, and she hadn’t heard Mamood coming home. She didn’t make a fuss when he was late, but she didn’t sleep soundly until she knew that he was home safe. Lana thought that maybe he’d sneaked in quietly, while she had dozed, but she dismissed that as wishful thinking. She knew when her son was home, and when he wasn’t. It was a mother’s intuition. Lana lifted the quilt and slipped out of bed. Ashwan murmured and turned onto his back. He could sleep through an avalanche without waking. She tiptoed across the thick white carpet to the door, where she removed her dressing gown from its hook and pulled it on.

Lana moved quietly down the landing, thick carpet cushioning her footsteps. She hoped she was overreacting as she pushed open her son’s bedroom door. Amir Khan, the Asian boxing hero from Bolton, snarled at her from his place above Mamood’s bed. His Manchester United quilt cover lay unruffled. There was no sign of a sleeping teenager beneath it. Lana bit her lip and her stomach twisted and sank. She felt physically sick with worry. He had been home late from parties before, but never this late. Midnight was his allowed time, and he never pushed the deadline much past half-past. Mamood had been so full of life and excitement when he’d left that evening. The thought of his prospective date had made him high and giddy.

Maybe he’d got lucky, she thought, remembering what he’d said before he left, but then maybe he was in trouble. Lana was his mother, and she was bound to worry about her only son for the rest of her days, that was what mothers did. She sat on his bed and touched his pillow. He was growing up so quickly, and his staying out late with girls was something that she would have to get used to, whether she liked it or not. Lana thought about waking up Ashwan to tell him, but he would probably laugh and say, “That’s my boy,” or something equally macho and crass.

Lana crept downstairs and walked down the long, wide hallway into a large open kitchen area. Their home was huge, and the kitchen was bigger than most people’s gardens. The floors were tiled with Egyptian white marble. It felt cool beneath her feet. She opened the American refrigerator and took a glass from the cupboard, filling it with milk and sipping it as she debated what to do. She leaned against a granite worktop and chewed her manicured nails as she debated in her mind. Finally she decided to ring Mamood on his mobile, after all, that was why he had it. To let them know where he was, and to keep in touch. If she was worried, it was his own fault for not letting them know that he would be late.

Lana dialled the number from memory. It clicked straight onto voicemail. She tried again, just in case. Voicemail. She bit her lip as she replaced the handset, remembering the nightmare she’d had before she woke. Lana tiptoed back to bed and slid gently under the warm covers, next to her husband, scolding herself for being overprotective of her child. She tried hard, but she could find no peaceful dreams that night.

Abdul Salim ground a cigarette butt into the pavement. A steady evening rain had started to fall, but he did not go inside to shelter. Salim was a teenage drug dealer, and there were customers to serve, rain or shine. He was tucked between two empty shop units situated beneath a gargantuan tower block. A service alleyway snaked between them, connecting the lockups to a delivery bay behind them. The tower blocks had once been the architect’s solution to overcrowding and a simple method of providing state housing, but they had actually become vertical human zoos. The tenants were either unemployed or in low-paid jobs, easy pickings for drug dealers and loan sharks.

Across the street, two police cars passed by, their uniformed occupants straining to look out of the steamed-up windows. Salim watched as they drove off down the street. The police knew what he was doing. Sometimes they left him alone, sometimes they didn’t. He always carried just enough drugs to qualify as being for personal use, never more. The rest of his stock, his takings and his weapon he kept stashed with a young runner. Like his parents before him, Salim was an Asian pioneer, but instead of settling down to the hard-working toil of previous generations of Asians, Salim and others had blazed a new trail into the violent world of drug dealing. Hard drugs had arrived in Britain’s Asian communities, rapidly creating a social problem of spiralling crime rates and increased numbers of addicts. It had led to the emergence of Asian drug gangs, willing to use violence to carve out territories and defend the enormous profits the trade could bring. On the streets of some northern towns, gang shootings had led to public killings, executions and a climate of fear that the drug dealers were only too willing to encourage.

Salim knew that it was not a problem confined to the north of the United Kingdom. The previous year, police in London had smashed a huge crack and heroin dealing operation in the East End of the capital city that had controlled a trade worth millions of pounds. The gang, based on several large Asian families, had run a twenty-four hour operation supplying drugs to thousands of the capital’s users. Tower Hamlets with its large and deprived Asian community had slowly become the ‘heroin capital’ of the country. If he could progress through the ranks of the organisation and make money for his boss, then he would eventually be given his own area to manage. Drugs were everywhere, and where there were users, there was money to be made.

Successful Asians left the rundown areas, as did the educated ones. Once they achieved a degree course at university, they up and left for pastures new, using their qualifications to escape the ghettos. What they left behind were poor, vulnerable and isolated communities: places that were easily invaded by gangs. They brought with them a culture of extreme violence and ostentatious wealth that seemed more at home in the ghettoes of Los Angeles. Salim knew who his role models were, and they were not his parents. They spent their lives slaving away in a small corner shop which they called their family business. Salim could make more money in one night than they did in a week. His role models were the gold-chain wearing drug traffickers with their new BMW cars, pumped-up hi-fi systems and latest designer sportswear. The only way he could achieve his material aspirations was through crime.

Salim was a street dealer, near the bottom rung of the ladder, but he was highly thought of and he would soon reach the next level. The ‘next level’ was a violent place where the culture of ‘saving face’ among drug gangs could lead to the slightest perceived insult being punished with horrific violence. Salim wanted to be as rich as his boss Ashwan Pindar was. Aspiring to be at that level was like standing at the bottom of a mountain, looking up at the peak. Malik Shah was the man at the top of this particular mountain. He controlled several successful crime families across the country. His gangs were highly organised and stretched from the inner cities of Britain to the poppy fields of Afghanistan. At the bottom of the pile were the ‘runners’, usually young teenagers who made drug deliveries on specially bought mountain bikes. Then came street dealers like Salim, supplying runners and customers with their fixes. Above him were the murky upper echelons of the gang world, often using family ties with Pakistan to arrange the courier routes that brought the drugs back to Britain.

The callousness of Malik Shah was staggering. He groomed girls as young as thirteen to be mules, bribing their families to be complicit. He sought out the financially destitute people of his communities and pressed them into service. Malik would offer them loans at impossible interest rates and then force them to act as mules in order to repay their debts. Those that refused were terrorised. As his gangs grew, they became more sophisticated. Over the past months, Salim had noticed crack cocaine make its first appearance among the Asian gangs. It had led to friction with other drug gangs, but the potential profits were just too great to ignore.

“Salim,” a voice behind him disturbed his train of thought. He turned to see one of his young runners approaching from the blackness of the alleyway on his bike. He was a skinny Bangladeshi kid known as Rozzo. Rozzo looked up to Salim in the same way Salim respected his superiors, hoping one day to be working in his shoes.

“What?” Salim was angered by the fact that Rozzo had arrived unannounced. The rules of the business were clear. The runner sent a text message first, and then came for the drugs, carrying the buyer’s payment. Rozzo had broken the protocol. “What the fucking hell are you playing at, Rozzo?”

“A weird-looking bloke has been asking questions in the park, Salim. Questions about you. I’ve never seen him before. Don’t think he’s a dealer. He’s not a pig, no way!”

“Take it easy.” Salim lowered his voice to try to calm his frightened associate. “What was he asking about?”

Rozzo spat on the floor, and a string of saliva hung from his chin. He wiped it excitedly away with the sleeve of his black tracksuit before answering. “He was asking who worked for Ash, but he’s not a pig. I swear he’s not a pig.”

“When was this?”

“Five minutes ago, Salim. I came straight here!” Rozzo smiled a toothless smile. He had lost his front teeth to an angry customer who had wanted credit for a hit but was refused. His line of credit had been revoked when he had failed to pay his debts on time. It was one of the hazards of the job. Rozzo was convinced that he had done the right thing by alerting his boss immediately. Salim was smarter, and he knew it was a mistake. Rozzo had led the inquisitor straight to him.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, Salim!” Rozzo pulled a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree wheelie on his bike. “I told him to fuck off!”

“What did he look like?”

“He’s a fucking weirdo, mate! Army pants and boots, and he’s a real ugly motherfucker! Massive head like a caveman!”

“Did he follow you?” Salim reached into his white Nike windbreaker for his phone. White was his colour of choice. Salim thought it made him stand out from his colleagues, who always opted for black hooded shell-suits. He dialled quickly, looking left and right along the empty street. It was time to acquire his weapon. A young voice answered the call.

“Bring me the ten, and bring it fast,” Salim spoke quickly, trying to keep his cool. His runner kept a reactivated MAC-10 machine pistol in a duffle bag. He kept the weapon safe, constantly circling the area on his bike, in case Salim needed it for protection. “Have you seen anyone wearing combats?” he asked the runner on the telephone. Salim nodded his head at the reply and ended the call with a stab of his finger.

“Could he have followed you?” he asked, turning back to Rozzo.

“No way, Salim, I’m too fast,” Rozzo bragged proudly, pulling the bike into a wheelie again. He was about to speak again when a nine-millimetre hollow-point smashed into his back. It was as if he had been hit with an invisible sledgehammer. Salim thought that he had tumbled off his bike for a moment, but as a dark pool of blood spread quickly from beneath his body, realisation hit home.

Salim froze to the spot in panic. It was every dealer’s worst nightmare. He was under attack, and unarmed. He couldn’t tell which direction the bullet had been fired from because Rozzo had been spinning the bike when he had been hit. Salim flattened himself against the wall and scanned the area for his attacker’s possible hiding places. The street was empty. He reached down and touched Rozzo’s neck, checking for a pulse. There was none, he was long gone. Salim looked down the alleyway which ran between the tower blocks. The darkness was impenetrable. His mobile vibrated and he looked at the illuminated screen. It was his runner. He was a minute away, bringing Salim his machinegun. The sound of rubber tyres approached, a splashing drone as rainwater sprayed up from the tarmac. A mountain bike approached at high speed. The young runner was standing upright as he pumped the pedals as fast as he could. Salim felt adrenalin coursing through his veins now as his weapon neared. The MAC-10 would even things up. Whoever this clown was, he would be sorry he had crossed paths with Salim. He was destined to be a famous gangster. Malik Shah and Ashwan Pindar would be impressed when they heard that Salim had taken out a rival. He could taste the street cred a kill would bring to him.

Salim broke cover and sprinted to meet the runner. The runner reached inside his black hooded top, and pulled the weapon out. He lifted it out in front for Salim to grab it. A silenced shot spat from the darkness, and a nine-millimetre dumdum hit the cyclist straight between the eyes. A jagged black hole appeared in the runner’s face and the back of his skull exploded as the bullet exited, carrying lumps of grey brain matter with it. The mountain bike carried on without the rider, clattering to a halt at the entrance to the alleyway. The runner was blasted backwards off the bike, dropping like a dead weight onto the pavement. The MAC-10 clattered away into the night, lost in the shadows.

A second silenced dum-dum round hit Salim in the left thigh, the bullet flattening and fragmenting on impact, ripping through muscle and sinew. A crimson pattern widened across the white tracksuit, a ragged black hole at the centre. Salim dropped his cell phone and it clattered across the paving slabs noisily. He leaned his back against the wall of the alleyway, sliding down it into a sitting position. Blood was pumping through his fingers as he tried in vain to stem the flow. Two figures emerged from the darkness. They grabbed the dead body of Rozzo, pulling him out of sight of the road, and then they returned to Salim and his runner. Salim gritted his teeth together in agony as they dragged him by the legs into the darkness of the alleyway. His fingernails ripped and split as he clawed desperately at the concrete. He was badly wounded and helpless as they pulled him off the street and into the urine-stinking blackness.

“What do you want, you bastards!” Salim cried through the pain. His question was answered by a hard punch to the bullet wound in his leg. He screamed and flailed helplessly at thin air, trying to grasp anything that could stop the men taking him further into the blackness. “I’ll tell you where the money is!”

The two men stopped momentarily; they glanced at each other silently. Salim took their reaction as a positive one. Blood had soaked through his underwear and saturated the back of his hooded top. He was losing too much blood to survive this attack for any length of time.

“The money and drugs are hidden in the bike frames,” he gasped, thinking that giving up the information would buy him some time. “Pull the seats off, it’s all in there. Take it and fuck off!”

One of the men stopped pulling his injured leg and headed off in the direction of the discarded mountain bikes. Salim almost breathed a sigh of relief until the other man began to drag him alone. He tried desperately to struggle, but his energy was fading as his life force bled away. The stabbing pain in his thigh was excruciating, and white-hot bolts of fresh agony pierced his brain with every movement.

“Did you have to shoot him there?” A voice came from the darkness. Salim was slipping in and out of consciousness. “There will be blood everywhere.”

“Shut up, Einstein!” the man dragging Salim replied abruptly. “That’s why we brought the plastic, isn’t it?”

“We brought the plastic because I told you to. There will be blood all over the alleyway.”

“Bollocks, open the doors.”

Salim heard vehicle doors being opened, and then the crinkling, crackling sound of a polythene sheet being dragged across the delivery bay. Another shaft of pain shot through him as he was dragged onto the plastic by the legs. He tried to scream, but a choked gargle was all he could manage. Time was running out, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Where is he?” Einstein asked angrily.

“He’s getting the drugs and the money,” came the snarled reply.

“What for? We’ve got what we came for,” Einstein moaned. “Can’t you two ever follow a fucking plan?”

A hooded figure emerged from the alleyway. He had the bike in one hand and he dragged the body of the dead runner in the other. He dropped them on the loading bay and then returned for the other.

“What are you doing?” Richard Bernstein hissed, looking at the dead boys. He was shaking his head in disbelief.

“Change of plan, Einstein,” the man replied calmly. “We’re going to leave these little bastards here with the drugs and a message for the police. I want everyone to think that this was a drugs hit. The scumbags will take this personally.”

He rummaged through Rozzo’s pockets and recovered a small notebook and a biro. He ripped a blank page from amongst the illegible scrawling, and penned a note, sticking it to the dead boy’s forehead with a piece of discarded chewing gum. “That should put the pressure on Malik Shah and his friends for a while; anything that we can do to spotlight his activities is a good thing.”

Einstein could see the sense in it immediately. If Malik, Ashwan and their associates had the police crawling all over them, then that would make it very difficult for them to step out of line. They would have to do as they were told, or face the consequences, just as Amir Patel and his wife had done. They hadn’t followed the instructions they had been given, and they had paid the ultimate price. Malik Shah would realise that his dark empire was under attack, but he would be helpless while the police scrutinised his businesses. If this were a game of chess, then Einstein would have all his strong pieces in the right places, and this game would have only one ending, checkmate. The dead boys were a bonus for now, and he could see the benefit. The big man couldn’t, but he rarely did, he just followed orders. At first Einstein had been worried about killing, but as the years had gone by and he had watched Malik Shah and his empire grow, he had realised that anyone connected to them was evil and equally guilty. There would be collateral deaths too, but that was to be expected.