DI Frankie Burns’ mood perked up quickly when she heard what the portent of the caller’s message was. She felt like breaking out into song. It was the answer to a prayer, unlikely as one from the policewoman would be; her agnostic view on a thankless world had suddenly taken on a tinge of sunlight. The pieces of the Thames gutted bodies jigsaw puzzle were finally beginning to fall into place, thanks to a welcome result on the intense research and investigative work done by the International Genetics boys on Scotland Yard’s pathology department.
‘You’re telling me we can state categorically that these remains were all people of east European origin?’ Frankie spoke in conversational tones, with her desk phone in open conference mode. She dipped a nail-varnish brush into the bottle and continued her experimentation with a new line in cosmetic refinement while she waited for confirmation.
‘I can be much more specific,’ the reply came. ‘They are all adult, seven of them males; and mitochondrial tests very quickly established their nationalities after a check on all available international records. Three of them are Romanian, five are Moldavian, one is Turkish, and the other two, Macedonian.’
‘And…?’
There was a brief pause at the other end of the line.
Frankie put the brush back in the bottle and held her finished artistry at arm’s length to examine her handiwork; digesting the information and making brief notes in the silence. Then she asked, ‘Is there any possibility any of them are related to each other? Or is there any sign of blood relationship between any of those of different nationality?’
‘Bit hard to deduce, but it doesn’t seem evident, ma’am. Why do you ask?’
‘She thinks they might be fall-out from some east European mafiya war, Ted!’ a man’s voice interrupted.
Frankie turned to see Det Supt Cowper leaned in his familiar position against her office doorjamb.
‘You can bet your bottom dollar the poor bastards are all illegal transfer racket flotsam,’ the pathology lab technician said. ‘In every case, any organs which this gang’s physician concluded were visibly unhealthy are still in situ, and reasonably intact, other than any subsequent river damage, ma’am. One thing’s plain as your nose, ruined livers sure ain’t no western monopoly. But, it’s quite evident; every one of these poor sods has definitely been under a skilled surgeon’s knife.’
‘Thanks for your co-operation, anyway, Ted. Send me a full report on hard-copy,’ the DI said. ‘And less of the “ma’am” when we’re in the trenches. I really hate all that suggestion I ride side-saddle crap. It’s Frankie, unless we’re stood in the glare of scrambled egg at any time.’ She switched off the phone.
‘Heavy date, Frankie?’ The Det Supt pointed to her scarlet painted fingernails.
‘For me to know, sir.’ She smiled coyly, and then, ‘No time for a social life – I’ve got me some Fields to go chasing, I think.’
‘The east Europe connection is just the proof we’ve been waiting for. If that doesn’t tie them in with Knishovo’s blackguards I’ll swap my Gold Block baccy for bloody tea-bags.’ He tapped the pipe poking out of his breast pocket.
‘Those Ukrainians are virtually impenetrable to us lot – I fancy my chances are much better trying to infiltrate the Fields. I’ve decided to go undercover, boss.’
‘Jesus, girl, there’s too many slimy scumballs out there who know your face and wouldn’t think twice about cashing in on your arse. Don’t be ridiculous, Frankie.’
She ignored his outburst, took off her glasses and gathered her hair behind her head. ‘There – shorter, and I’m having it bleached today. I’ve also organised contact lenses instead of my specs. With the right fashion makeover and I’ll be a new kid on the block – “Shaka-da-ass” and all that. None of the bastards will suss me.’
The Det Supt stood with his mouth open. After an awkward pause he said, ‘You’re serious...’
‘Deadly. And I wager my last cent that my way to infiltrate is via the Field girl, Carla. She’s got a bit of a rep as a multisex player.’
The idea took Tommy Cowper totally unawares. He found it hard to respond, fumbling for words. ‘You’re wagering your life – on a pair of flaming contact lenses and a new bloody hairdo!’
Tommy Cowper had always known the day would come when Freddy Field would be held to account and was ready to admit it would not be before time and well deserved. But he had always prayed the axe would not fall on his watch. Nobody knew the torment of conscience the offences known to be committed in the vicious gangster’s name had caused him. More pertinently, nobody had any idea his late brother Eric’s first and last love had thrown herself, blinded with grief, straight into the arms of a flash young tearaway, a man destined to become the most feared crime lord in the East End.
‘People have got away with stranger things, boss.’ Frankie’s reply broke into his disordered thoughts.
‘And just how do you intend to get close – and does Jimmy Dennis know you’re doing this?’ The Det Supt was nervous about the scheme, for diverse reasons. He tried to tell himself if anyone was able to pull that kind of stunt off, it would be his DI, Frankie Burns.
‘I want to keep the sergeant out of the loop for the time being, boss. The less who know, the better for my security.’ She omitted to comment on the reservations she had about her subordinate’s lifestyle. ‘It’s known that Carla Field does most of her drinking in one of the family’s local fleshpots, The Honeycome. You know the place, sir. Everybody around here knows it by the nickname, The Cunnyhome, for obvious reasons. She’s rolled out of there with her arm linked with a lick-alike as many times as she has with a bloke, by all accounts.’
Frankie looked at her boss for some sign of encouragement.
Tommy Cowper was having difficulty trying to hide any sign of the absolute turmoil in his head.
Of course he was aware of Carla’s bisexual nature. The girl’s licentious lifestyle was common knowledge among the vice squad. A fact which was one of so many taboos in his rare but cherished conversations with her mother, Tina Field. He also knew Carla Field would jump at an opportunity to check out the allure of his DI’s shapely, five feet and six inches of pulchritude. Sadly, he realised the nervousness he’d felt at hearing Frankie’s crazy plan was due to a strange hollowness created by the recognition it heralded the end of an era. The bucket-load of Freddy Field’s proverbial shit that had hung in the air and created a stench in his patch for so long was at last going to hit the fan. It made him feel worried for Tina’s well-being and not least for the safety of his own career and pension, when the inevitable disclosure of their long-time friendship was made.
The warbling of the desk phone broke into the mood. Frankie switched it onto “hands free” mode.
A man’s emotionless voice broke the silence. ‘It’s a man’s body, apparently fell out the back of a van on Romford Road, ma’am – course, he’s dead, like.’
‘I take it you’re at the scene with medics?’ Frankie asked.
‘Yep. But they didn’t even try rescuss. Looks like he dived on the road nose first, or somebody wiped it for him a tad too enthusiastically with a baseball bat.’
‘I really don’t think this is any time for sick humour, do you, Constable? Anybody there see anything, or perhaps get the van registration number?’
‘Now who’s ’avin’ a larf, ma’am? And there’s no CCTV in the area – all just a bit too convenient, eh?’
‘Okay, just keep it clear for the scene of crime guys. And thank you, constable, make sure you miss nothing for your report.’ She switched off.
She looked up at Det Supt Cowper. ‘The pleasure of this one’s all yours, sir; I’m off to the hairdresser’s.’
‘Can I pick you up?’
‘Uh – uh, but let’s just hope Carla Field wants to, eh, boss.’
*
Petruso Knishovo was enraged. The information frightened out of the two illegals reinforced his hunch as to the odds of Philip Field being responsible for the disappearance of his niece, Tatyana. He tapped on the glass partition between him and the driver of the black, Mercedes limo, signalled him to speed up. What he had in mind was going to have to be done in a hurry. The element of surprise meant everything in gang warfare.
Warfare was a subject he had cut his milk teeth on. Being born, bred and surviving in Galicia, West Ukraine, call it what you may, a place where no end is to be gained without sacrifices. His father, ex 14th Division Galazien, and his grandfather, were at constant war with one or another of those of border countries. He inherited their battle ethic and applied it against all those he fought with the same intensity. The deep-seated contempt that festered in him for most of his homeland’s neighbouring peoples made it easy for him to treat them as enemies and dispensable, whether in criminal activity or as commodities in the people trafficking racket. What he had not foreseen was having the need to devise and inflict revenge on any of his new English allies so soon in their relationship.
‘I take it we know where this porno studio is, Vanko?’
Petruso’s lead captain and right-hand man sat opposite him. He nodded assent.
‘So how long from here?’
‘It’s a place in Canning Town, just a few minutes, Petruso, and we are there.’
The mafiya don’s stubby fingers foraged in what was little more than grey bristle on his scalp. The plate that was the top of his skull amplified the scratching sound. Petruso was uptight, riding on an adrenalin high boosted by a consuming anger. Through the red mist in his brain he could almost feel his fingers around Philip Field’s throat, see the eyes popping, the face turn blue as the blood starved of oxygen.
‘We must find out what he has done with my little Tatyana before we fix this Vlad bastard. You must remember this, Petruso. God knows we have got to find her quickly. Her mama is going crazy.’
The car turned a corner into a cobbled cul-de-sac and pulled in at the kerb. Dockland warehouses, in varying states of disuse, disrepair or conversion, lined one side of the lane. The only vehicle to be seen within view of them was a construction company’s pick-up wagon.
Petruso’s mind was seething, excited by a myriad of vengeful ideas that raged to boiling point. If the porno stud bastard had so much as laid a filthy finger on Tatyana, then sure as God made good and the Devil spawned evil, Vlad fucking Field would die choking on his legendary cock, and be only too glad to. In fact, if so much as one hair on their little girl’s head had been hurt, the rest of the Field family would pay dearly for nurturing such vile genes in their midst.
‘We look like the saw thumb, Petruso, sat here in this thing.’ Vanko grasped the don’s knee, anxious to disturb his boss’s state of preoccupation.
‘Uh – oh, Vanko, yes my friend. We must be quick. Which one of these units is the porno studio along here?’ Petruso got out of the limo before Vanko could answer. He gave a signal to the driver and the boot-lid sprung open. When he got back in the car, he held a rocket grenade launcher.
‘Not in London, Petruso. We will be sought out and gunned down like terrorists, you can bet this for sure.’
‘Not to worry, there will be no serious explosion. It is a smoke grenade, Vanko. Remember, just like we used to smoke fucking Commie rats from their holes back home – yeah? You say the word when we reach the door of the studio, Vanko. Petruso and the grenade will do the rest.’
The limo slowly inched past the warehouses.
A couple of building workers glanced at the car’s darkened windows and then immediately turned away. A familiarity with the ways and customs of the East End triggered the strange, sixth sense so essential to survival in a world where dog eats dog. And in the new millennium there was no shortage of dogs in London’s East End. Neither needed reminding of the well-worn adage regarding valour, and most especially of adherence to its “better part”.
The men in the limo saw the brass plate on the wall between the porn-film studio’s roller-shuttered door and a smaller, steel-plated personnel door.
‘Which door do you think I should aim grenade, Vanko?’ asked Petruso as he poked the nose of the loaded grenade launcher out of a lowered rear window.
‘The vent at side of roller door – the grenade will penetrate that okay, and it is probable they will come running out of other door. It sure will start a panic; will cause a load of shit, yeah – but what we do then, Petruso?’
‘If this Vlad bastard appears, he will cop for a load of shit, you be sure Vanko. Philip – Vlad – Field is going back home in a bucket if we don’t get back little Tatyana before this day is finished.’
Petruso aimed the launcher.
Behind the roller door, at the other end of the warehouse, Philip stood poised over the huge bed. He was sexually aroused and eager to make the manner of entrance, in every aspect of nuance, which is pornography’s trademark. He was unclothed but for a white leather crotch pouch. The fabric strained to cover the porn stud’s most notable claim to notoriety; it was menacing confirmation of his state of arousal. His muscular body glistened beneath a film of baby-oil.
At the end of the bed, a cameraman focussed his lens on Philip and his leading lady. She cowered, naked, on the black satin spread. She feigned a look of terror, a task made easier by her surprised fascination at the volume of penis her body was about to accommodate. The scene was set for posterity’s digital video record of the gangster stallion performing once again, flagrante delicto.
Almost as though scripted, the Ukrainian crime tsar’s calling card smashed through the vent panel at the other end of the warehouse just as the cameras started to whir. The missile ricocheted off a steel column narrowly missing Philip’s Mercedes SLK 55 and disintegrated against a wall. Acrid, dirty yellow smoke billowed everywhere. It enveloped everything.
The mafiya man’s desire to create pandemonium was satisfied immediately and completely. All around was terrified muddle and chaos. Everyone was frightened and utterly disorientated. The sound of Philip’s extremely expensive digital cinematic equipment hitting the tiled floor was of least consequence to the three film technicians in full flight to make their frantic exit. The girl instinctively rolled into a ball and screamed with all the fervour her lungs would allow in the choking, stifling haze.
Philip Field sprang from the bed and dived through the doorway of the changing cubicle. Cold, steely fingers of fear tore at the pit of the amoral bully’s belly for the first time in his life.
He needed just the one horrifying guess to be sure the smoke grenade was unfortunately the precursor to an immediate attack. Was it gang warfare, or could it be some over-the-top police raid?
There was no landline at the studio and his mobile phone was still in the car. He vainly prided himself on his physique, was a devout workout enthusiast, and continually delighted in his visual portrayal of strength and fitness. He kidded himself he would be a pretty awkward handful in a rumble, though avoided any occasion to test the belief. It was an impression he tried to create to enhance his porn movie persona. But he always knew he just didn’t cut it as a hard case, had never performed or ever fancied the role of a heavy, armed or otherwise. He wanted no place in the front-line of the family firm, unlike the lot of his two older brothers. And to cap it all, he cursed to himself, when you’re in a hurry, why the fucking hell do you always end up hopping around like a drunken fool because your foot is stuck in the wrong bastard trouser leg?
Getting his trousers on was a kind of knee-jerk, man-thing priority, which soon became the least important of Philip’s worries. His confusion and uncertainty as to what the intruder’s motivation could be, was instantly and dramatically clarified. As he sweated, cussed and struggled to get the tight-fitted trousers onto his liberally oiled limbs, he was left with no room for misunderstanding.
The screeching out on the bed from his would-be leading lady ended abruptly in a stifled gurgle. The gurgle was followed by a stifled scream. A muffled gunshot punctuated the scream. The deadly full stop confirmed the mortifying prospect of an imminent episode of more personal misfortune for Philip.
Philip surprised himself with the lack of room left in his thoughts for self-pity. There was no doubting the deadly serious downturn about to unfold in his life. But he could only feel thankful Sis had suddenly decided to go to top up her tan in readiness for her Friday night prowl at the Honeycome.
Someone out there decided to activate the electric motor to open the roller shutter door slightly. Thank heavens they were prepared to allow the foul air to start clearing. And then, from outside the tiny changing cubicle came the sound of Petruso Knishovo’s guttural voice, parleying quite excitedly in his native Ukrainian.
In a matter of seconds after the smoke grenade’s impact, the changing cubicle’s flimsy door was smashed from its hinges under the impact of Vanko’s boot. The imposing muzzle of his Russian A-91 assault rifle fanned the doorway, the unmistakeable reek of spent cordite wafted from its nose. The mafiya soldier sidled, half crouched, into the confined space of the doorway with trained caution. He levelled the weapon at Philip’s bare midriff.
‘In here is Vlad, the young Field bastard we are looking for, I think, Petruso,’ shouted Vanko. ‘We sure got this one caught with his fucking pants down, like they say in this shit country!’ He laughed, but it was a cold and sardonic reaction.
‘Bring out here on bed – I make sonn-offa-bisch sorry he alive.’ Petruso replied in his broken English. ‘I think we make picture of Vlad make fuck with dead bitch an’ send to his mama.’
Vanko ushered his captive out of the cubicle. He rammed the muzzle brutally into Philip’s back, pushing him over and onto the bed, alongside the prostrate body of the dead girl.
‘Whatever your game is, you picked the wrong day for this stupid kind of shit, Petruso. My old man is on his way. He will be here any minute, an’ he doesn’t ask questions first,’ Philip blurted, hoping it was true now and desperate to avoid what he knew was otherwise going to be an agonizing outcome for him. ‘You know damn well he’s not gonna let you get away with somethin’ like this!’
It was an outburst made in panic, one that very quickly proved to be a serious mistake.
After an exchange of nods and meaningful looks with Vanko, Petruso pulled a handful of heavy-duty plastic garden ties from his pocket, and swiftly hobbled and handcuffed Philip. They rolled him in the blood soiled satin bedspread. Then they carefully repositioned the girl’s body, arranging a mobile phone and vibrator in grotesque lampoon of her profligate lifestyle. With the help of the driver they bundled their prisoner into the limo’s spacious boot. Vanko gave his hands a peremptory wipe on the dead girl’s buttocks and jumped into Philip’s Mercedes.
*
A jet-black Jeep Cherokee screeched to a halt outside the porn studio. Freddy jumped out of the 4x4 followed by his two sons, Billy and Terry.
‘What in hell’s bleedin’ name’s been going on round here?’ snarled Freddy, glaring into the studio through the now fully opened roller shutter door. He looked up and down the lane, in the lifelong cautious, suspicious habit of a malefactor. He shook with anger and surging adrenalin.
Billy and Terry stared inside. Neither knew whether to laugh or curse at what they saw. The Mauser was drawn, ready and clenched in Billy’s fist, trigger finger curled, his knuckles drained as white as his face. But neither of the brothers dared take a step inside until their father gave the nod.
Nothing stirred. No one could find words for some moments. The attention of each was fully occupied taking in the comically absurd horror of the spectacle on the bed inside the studio.
Freddy lifted his fingers to touch his eye-patch, an involuntary gesture of nervous anxiety. He entered the studio, still cautious. His two sons were at his shoulders.
‘Way to go, Phil, baby,’ crowed Terry. ‘Looks like he’s gone an’ fucked this one fit to blow the top of her bleedin’ head off!’
‘Just you get real an’ have a bit of respect here, boy – your brother’s been snatched by those soddin’ barbarians. An’ not even this kinda slag deserves to be paid off like that.’ Freddy played with his eye patch. ‘It ain’t straightforward no more, it just ain’t good old fashioned crime no more, it’s all fuckin’ perversion!’
The blonde’s body, the head lying in its own congealed blood, was already a ghastly grey hue. Blood, hair, bone and brain tissue was splattered on the headboard, from the bullet exit wound at the top of her head. The trajectory and lack of sign of any entry wound suggested the bullet’s path had been aimed to course the length of her body from inside her vagina. With her arms straight, rested on her stomach, between her raised knees, her hands clasped the remaining portion of a large vibrator, unceremoniously rammed into her body. It was running at low ebb, the battery almost expired. Clenched between her teeth was a mobile phone. This started to rattle as one of the “Crazy Frog” type call-tones shrieked its alert, indicating a call on line. The irritating, frenetic sound added a note of ridiculous pantomime in the gory setting.
The misery of the scene spelled out an unmistakable warning to the three men of their brother’s fate at the hands of men with the bestial nature and inhuman attitude of whoever had stage-directed the horror show.
‘Phil’s car’s not here, but pound to a pinch that’s got to be about him on that phone for us. I got a nasty, nasty feelin’ about this. But I know the phone’s not his, though,’ Terry said, not really knowing what to think, say or do next.
His initial air of macho flippancy was gone; he no longer needed Freddy’s remonstration to convince him of the seriousness of the situation. It was difficult to come to terms with the brutal message in the scene and its implication for his brother’s safety. He wrenched the noisy instrument rudely from the dead girl’s mouth.
‘I don’t give a shit whose bleedin’ phone it is, I want to know who the fuck’s on it. Just get it sorted, for cryin’ out loud,’ Freddy snapped at Terry.
It was a photo-text call. They all looked at the display, grimfaced. It showed a picture of Philip, naked but for the crotch pouch, and he was hardly conscious. He hung by his wrists from ringbolts anchored in the bare brick ceiling of what was almost certainly a railway arch. The text message read, “You have saying, exchange is not robbery”.
Terry scrolled the memory, and found the picture of Tatyana which was sent earlier to Philip, with its message. ‘I don’t know how many times I told him that greedy bleedin’ prick of his would end up in the wrong hole one day,’ he said.
‘Some real bad shit, this, Dad,’ Billy murmured. ‘Screw these Knishovos.’ He walked to the doorway and looked up and down the turning. His gaze settled on the pickup wagon further up the road.
Terry looked at his brother’s back. The previous strange feeling about Billy returned. His elder brother was demonstrating flashes of increased self-esteem and capability, almost of a new personality. There was no longer any sign of the brother whose survival in their world had been attributed, by his own family and those in the firm, more to brute force and blind luck than good judgement so far.
Another van pulled into the lane and approached slowly. It parked by the Cherokee. The Field firm’s “sanitising” squad had arrived. Two men jumped out, and with a curt nod at Freddy, went into the studio, lugging a couple of bulky canvas bags.
The two building workers further back down the lane, when given the opportunity, had not had the guile nor foresight to opt for the wiser, healthier, discreet and speedy get away after Petruso’s raid on the studio. Further prevented from doing so by the arrival of Freddy and his sons, both had thought it best to mind their own business and bank on not being noticed.
They both thought, in hindsight, they should definitely have “done one” when the going was good. Now, in the harsh light of real time, game on,, they had to make best of what they knew would only be the briefest of opportunities to piece together a convincing tale. They most definitely would not suggest they had witnessed events that could be in any way a threat to these hard-knocks. Their situation was, by mutual agreement after hasty but detailed discussion, delicate. They reckoned they’d seen enough of the first gang’s raid to satisfy the curiosity of this second bunch of desperadoes. Play it right and they could look forward to getting full value out of their Hammers’ season tickets.
No sir, joiners may not be “A1” on the social scale, true; but they are savvy enough to know just when it is not only a lack of etiquette but a neglect of the more essential question of survival to attempt an unmannerly exit. Exercising such an option, indifferent to the desires of the present company, would be downright suicidal folly. Any fool could see the gang’s lightweight, custom-made schmutter was no disguise for the heavyweight material inside it. It was on the cards that before many minutes, this trio of extremely pissed looking faces with the armoured, gas-guzzling charabanc would want some hard facts and had already sussed out the close proximity of the most possible source.
Nobody would give very good odds against their spending a weekend on hospital food, if they were lucky, if they tried on a plea of ignorance. And any attempt to hide would be futile, as a certain giveaway was their all too conspicuous vehicle parked where all could see it. No, cooperation was the only course.
It was an accurate surmise. And without hesitation they presented themselves and made known their wish to be of use when Billy and Terry walked along to introduce themselves and invite them to meet Freddy. They risked no prevarication and spared no detail, equipping Freddy with as much information of events as they could recall and relate intelligibly in their anxiety to please.
When satisfied they were genuine, Freddy assured them of his gratitude, and suggested they could help him immensely and do themselves no harm by repairing the damage to the entrance of the unit.
Freddy leaned out of the Cherokee window, ‘I’m glad you boys didn’t try blowin’ no smoke up my arse. Just make sure you and your mate make-good that vent good, an’ nice an’ rapid for me, now, my old son,’ he said to the relieved joiner. ‘Don’t you go worrying about bein’ a bother to my lads; they’re tidyin’ up a little bit of office partyin’ mess in there. Just send the Jack’n’Jill to this address, here.’
He thrust a business card wrapped in an appreciable wad of fifty-pound notes into the man’s overall pocket. ‘An’ that’s a thank you, just a little bit of extra moola so’s you, your mucker here an’ your significant others can go out an’ get shit faced tonight. Do the old girl one for me, after, on the strength of it bein’ your lucky day, eh? Kinda help you both forget what a funny old game this buildin’ lark is, eh?’
He winked and smiled, and then the smile disappeared and he added, more pointedly, ‘An’ if I think my generosity an’ good will don’t help either of you boys to remember it’s better kept shut, I know a man who will be very happy to give you both an unforgettable reminder just whose tune you’re best off dancin’ to – if you take my meanin’, lads!’ He tapped the patch on his eye. ‘Remember, I seen more with this than either of you seen today, get me drift?’
Freddy gave a farewell wave to his two clear-up men who were busy bagging the dead girl’s body for transportation, and then he turned to his sons.
‘Let’s get motoring, then, you two, sooner we’re gone from here the better – an’ a bit sharpish. Bollocks to global warmin’ an’ all that urban fuel economy crap.’ Freddy slumped back in the rear seat of the Cherokee.
‘Where to?’ asked Terry, as he spun the steering wheel. The Cherokee growled away from the kerb, disappearing in the cloud of smoke from its screaming tyres.
‘Home, better make double sure your mother’s alright. We can’t phone her about any of this, it will only get her all worked up. An’ then, as a first move, you can find out what the bleedin’ Tracker Company’s got to say about where the bastards have taken Phil’s car. The Knishovos are not stupid enough to take Phil where they know we will look for them, that’s a knockin’ bet.’ Freddy’s fingers went to the patch again. ‘Looks like your balls-for-brains brother has really gone an’ got himself – an’ the rest of us – in a whole pile of shit this time.’
‘No probs, Dad. Them Russkis know their life won’t be worth a box of wet Swan V’s if they harm a hair on Phil’s head.’ There was the unmistakeable metallic rattle of a gun being breech-loaded as Billy readied his beloved Mauser. His jaw was set, and the glint in his eyes betrayed his eagerness to deal severely with any disruption on their way home to Romford.
‘An’ where’s your sister? It seems obvious they don’t have her, but she was at the studio when I rang before. Though why she has to hang round the likes of the cheap, slapper filth as gets in there, Lord alone bleedin’ knows.’
‘Try her on the dog’n’bone,’ Billy said, keeping quiet about his sister’s weird and improper partiality to her youngest brother’s porn career.
‘Bloody hell, she’s switched hers off. Hell an’ damn-fuckin-ation! I hate these fiddly bastard things…’ Freddy cursed and mumbled, fiddled with his mobile. He put it to his ear. ‘Wherever you are, girl, just get yourself home as quick as you like, got it?’ He flipped the phone shut with a grunt and leaned back in his seat. Freddy Field was weighing up the afternoon’s events and becoming very uncomfortable with where the Field family had come out in them. One of his sons was in extreme danger. This presented the most immediate and serious issue. He had to do something very quickly. To be seen at a loss to make adequate response would severely dent, perhaps even ruin his stature on the streets of the firm’s territory and far beyond.
*
Tommy Cowper smiled wryly at the woman sat across the table from him. ‘No, apart from work, nothing much happens that is any surprise, dear. One or other of the kids pops in, later rather than sooner, but I get the feeling they’re just making a check on our vital signs, to see how much longer we’re likely to hang on to deprive them of their inheritance! But they are unimportant at this moment. It’s you, my dear – your safety concerns me very much now, Tina.’
Tina Field smiled across the bistro table at the Detective Superintendent, her friend since their college days, time of her tragically curtailed courtship of his brother, who was struck down with meningitis. ‘You know we’ve been here before, we’ve been through this so many, many times before, Tommy.’
‘I know, I know! And, yes, there were times I could do something – or rather, just do nothing, turn round and look the other way. But your Freddy’s never left himself out on a limb like this before. We’ve had no concrete proof that he’s ever been involved in anything apart from survival in the dog-eat-dog world he lives in.’ Tommy shrugged apologetically as Tina Field winced. ‘But I'm afraid he’s over the abyss now, and there’s stuff I can’t – stuff that won’t be brushed under the carpet. I’m trying to tell it’s not just my call anymore.’
He hacked off another mouthful of the 12oz fillet steak that wallowed in its blood on his plate, speared a generous morsel of juicy, wild mushroom and refilled his mouth. His mind wrestled to contend with an interminable wish that the beautiful woman opposite him were family. If only, after they’d eaten, she would get up, kiss his cheek and go home to safety and his dear, sorely missed brother Eric.
He continued, ‘Of late we’ve been getting more than our fair share of illegal immigrants – okay, it’s embarrassing but not the end of the world. But our share is now suddenly being very quickly lessened by a pile of very dead illegal immigrants, and it’s not due to any of those bloody horrible viruses or diseases they bring in with them.’ The Det Supt shrugged again in almost a helpless fashion. ‘We’re talking of a premeditation, a catastrophic atrocity here, the inexplicably gruesome deaths of innocents – and I can’t see how we can get this one chalked down to ethnic rivalries or the law of the jungle, Tina. It just won’t wash with the intolerant mood of Joe Public, and certainly not the international investigative press.’
Tina played distractedly with the ingredients of her melon and prawn cocktail. She knew exactly what Tommy was trying to say to her, despite his guarded turn of phrase. But loyalty to her husband would not allow her to spell out the one, awful, unspoken word in her own mind and attribute it to her husband.
‘It is so bad for Freddy now, I think, you can’t tell me how serious it eventually is going to be, can you, Tommy? Is that why we’re here, what this meeting is all about?’ She sipped at the sparkling grape juice in her glass. Her eyes fixed on his and she stared hard, unabashed, intent on determining the magnitude of what he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say. If her dear, old friend Tommy did not respond to her gaze and say more, she would know circumstances were truly and absolutely beyond his control.
An awkward and seemingly unending passage of no more than a few seconds of silence confirmed her fears. She lowered her eyes. Her husband, her children, and the helter-skelter life she had chosen for so long not to understand but had learned to live with were under the direst threat, one she had always feared inevitable.
The Det Supt ended the strained silence. ‘Just do your best to make sure that your Freddy – nobody in your family, underestimates Detective Inspector Frankie Burns. She is a determined and dedicated officer. She will never look the other way. I can’t say any more.’
Tina was disturbed by her friend’s increasing embarrassment and discomfort. ‘Tell me, Tommy, really, deep down, are you religious?’
The question took the Det Supt by surprise.
‘Er – well, I keep my praying down to one day in the week. I make a point of doing all that kind of stuff tomorrow, Tina.’
‘You go to prayers – on a Saturday? But, you didn’t tell me – I never knew you were a Jew?’
‘No, Tina, I’m not; that’s not my meaning. I mean, like – well, Saturday is tomorrow, it’s okay for me because we all know, tomorrow never comes, Tina. At least we say it doesn’t, don’t we? It’s my cop-out of all of the religion stuff. With some people it’s a diet they postpone, or giving up smoking; with me it’s prayer. It’s something this job does to you, so hard to explain to someone like you. But I can’t help feeling life would be so much better if sincere prayer was answered just a little bit more often. But I always promise myself I shall make up for my own neglect tomorrow. I find I don’t get half so disappointed if I don’t ask for something.’
There was a sad resolve in his words that left no more for either to add. Whatever Tina had wanted her old friend to say would have to wait for a better day. Neither of them had dry eyes as they said their farewells.