

THE WICKED WILL

PERISH 1

SAS: BODY COUNT

### © 1999

### By

# Anthony Vincent Bruno

THE WICKED WILL PERISH 1 – SAS: BODY COUNT

Thriller by Anthony Vincent Bruno

©1999 & 2011 by Anthony Vincent Bruno

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

### A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

# GLOSSARY

### AK-47 – Kalashnikov gas-operated, 7.62 × 39mm assault rifle

### APC - Armoured Personnel Carrier

AQT \- al Qaeda Taleban

Bootneck - Royal Marine Commando

Browning 9mm – Hi power single action semi-automatic handgun

### Casevac - Casualty Evacuation

COBRA – Cabinet Office briefing room A. UK crisis committee

### CFT - Combat Fitness Test

Claymore - Portable anti-personnel mine

CO - Commanding Officer

C019 - Metropolitan Police Specialist Firearm Unit

### Det cord - Detonating cord

### FOB - Forward Operating Base

### Flash bang - Stun grenade

### GCHQ - Government Communications HQ

Gimpy or GPMG \- General Purpose Machine Gun

### GPS - Global Positioning System

HK MP5 - Heckler and Koch counter-terrorist sub machine gun

### Icom - Intelligence communication

### IED - Improvised explosive device

### IR - Infrared

### Klick - Kilometre

L109A1 - Fragmentation Grenade with a fuse delay of 3.4 seconds

### L96A1 - Long range sniper rifle

LZ - Landing zone

MI5 – Secret Service, UK domestic counter-intelligence service

### MI6 – Secret Intelligence Service, UK foreign intelligence service

### MoD - Ministry of Defence

### NOK - Next of Kin

Op - Observation post

### PE - Plastic explosive

### PIRA - Provisional IRA

RPG - Rocket propelled grenade

### ROE - Rules of Engagement

### RTU - Returned or Return to Unit

### Remington 870 - Pump-action shotgun

### Rupert - Officer

### SOCO - Scene of crime officer

SOP - Standard operating procedure

Sig Sauer P226 - Handgun used by SAS and other military units.

Stinger \- Shoulder-fired Surface-To Air missile (SAM)

### TAB - Tactical Advance to Battle, a long march.

### Tubes - Mortars

UAV - Unmanned aerial vehicle such as a Predator Drone
CONTENTS

GLOSSARY

GLOSSARY

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

BOOKS BY ANTHONY VINCENT BRUNO

#  CHAPTER ONE

Two men sat in silence in a stolen Ford saloon, awaiting their comrade who was about to kill a man in front of hundreds of early morning commuters. The hum of the nearby London Underground station, accompanied by its distinctive smell journeyed through their opened windows.

A Chinese youth approached their car from the pavement. 'I sell you DVD?'

'Fuck off,' grunted the uneasy driver. 'Chinks everywhere you look Sarge!'

'Get used to it mate, we're just three months away from the new millennium and China is the next big thing.'

'I sell you lots of lighters for one pound?' The Asian youngster persisted, flicking a disposable lighter as though he were Thomas Edison.

'Not interested kid,' answered the more amicable, relaxed passenger.

'Light cigarette every time,' the youth persisted. 'See, it says flammable?'

'Well, I'd say flammable is fucking essential,' the irritable driver remarked as he wound up his window. 'What a cunt!'

The Reverend Martin Love stood amongst the early morning Archway throng awaiting the discomfort of a Northern Line train. The information board's schedule informed them of a tube approaching. The platform was becoming crowded; weary eyed strangers brushing against each other in their haste to get to a workplace they had no great desire to reach. Martin manoeuvred himself through the anxious bustle to the far right tunnel entrance. He stood next to a young office type who acknowledged his dog collar with the faintest of smiles.

'Sister,' he drawled in a heavy Louisiana tongue. And aren't you just the sweetest little thing!

A man arrived beside them, his Yankees baseball cap casting a shadow over his handsome, thirtyish face. His eyes joined Martin's, feasting on the girl's rippling blouse; the whoosh from the oncoming train coating their urbanite faces with that familiar underground smell. A sea of expectant hope edged forward in prey of an empty seat. The handsome baseball fan looked at the reverend who he had been trailing for over a week, wondering if the affable girl knew him, or had just smiled from the crowd to a man of the cloth. Man of the cloth . . . yeah. Sure! The tracks rattled, the heaving platform got on their marks. Conscious of the overhead CCTV cameras he pulled his cap lower and readied the stun gun's trigger, camouflaged within the handle of his Gap shopping bag. It charged just as the lights of the train shone into view, the tip protruding against the leg of the Reverend Martin Love.

The girl shrieked in horror as the dog-collared commuter lurched forward under the train. He was there and then gone, the steel tonnage devouring him, its wheels dismembering. The nearest bystanders who had been craning their necks at the tunnel turned away in horror, their faces suddenly ashen. Shock reigned to the accompaniment of braking, screeching wheels. The Yankee fan looked down at the grisly sight of the reverend's severed bejewelled hand. Tones of moving steel, it'll get flesh and bone every time.

No one remembered how it happened or whom he had been standing adjacent to. The pretty secretary sat with British transport police for an hour, explaining that he must have jumped; her trauma matched by numerous underground staff and shaken paramedics. The unfortunate train driver went home to his wife via a two-hour stop off in his local bar.

Within minutes the platform had emptied, an elevator of frustrated flesh climbed up from the sullen depth to hail a cab or catch a bus, some just phoned in sick. The Northern line was disrupted until noon, just about the same time as the Holloway Police buzzed on the Reverend Martin's doorbell at the Temple of Liberty. A constable informed his docile flock that their leader had been in a tragic, underground accident and had died at the scene. It would normally be a dreadful task but the constable's voice carried with it a sense of irony. The police had visited the secretive sect on various occasions at the bequest of distraught relatives who claimed that the good reverend and his brother, Reverend Jordan Love, were coercing their eighty strong flock into drugs and prostitution.

The good-looking man with the electrifying Gap bag had trailed the nefarious American for five consecutive days, following him down to the platform each morning. Today the self-titled reverend had chosen a place near the tunnel entrance to be near a pretty face. Unfortunately, it was a location where the train would still be shifting. A killing zone.

This was the day he had always dreamed of; the fruition of all those cold early morning starts. The hard work had paid off and Cedric Boban was retiring at the age of sixty-five. He had been with Williams and Co for forty-three years; he was one of the family, respected by all. His boss, a misty-eyed Frank Williams Sr was giving him a lift home on his final day.

'I don't know what we're going to do without you, Bobs,' Frank kindly remarked, knowing that for the last few years Cedric had been more of a bystander in the firm's modernised pallet making plant. He had been kept on as a reward for his loyal years of backbreaking work, and later; his unstinting personal allegiance to the firm as a supervisor.

Frank William's brand new Volvo estate pulled out on to the main road and Cedric turned to look back at the factory, remembering that fresh, crisp morning when he had turned up for his first day's work. Cedric had been with Frank since the beginning in 1956, just as Elvis was beginning his reign, Russia still mighty and the world a better place for an enterprising bloke with a few quid in his pocket. Goods needed pallets for transportation and it all worked out well for Williams and Co, due mainly to the sweat of Cedric Boban and others like him. Frank admired the man enormously, to come to England with nothing, not one syllable of the Queen's tongue and to settle as he did. Cedric still spoke with an East European accent, a thickset man, slightly stooped from years of lifting heavy pallets. He was okay in Frank's book. Never mind, there would be the occasional social gathering, the odd drink or two, they would stay in touch. He was no longer an employee, but he would always be a close friend, he and Maggie were always welcome at the William's house. Maggie Boban, now there was a woman. Frank smiled as he pictured his friend's spouse in her youth; she was a looker, twelve years younger than Cedric, guaranteed to provoke a little trouser movement.

Maggie was also on her husband's mind as he waved good-bye to Frank at the end of his avenue. He had decided to walk the rest of the way home seeing as it was such a lovely day. He had a spring in his step as he ambled between the grassy verge and the red-bricked gardens of the suburbia he cherished. He was going home to be with his Maggie, going home for good. Tonight was the beginning of forever and he now had all the time in the world. Shortly there would be Israel to visit and then Egypt. He had always wanted to see the pyramids. Maggie was into the Holy Land stuff but Cedric's idea of a holiday was a few beers and the Valley of the Tombs. The world was their oyster, his and Maggie's. There was twenty-seven grand in their account and an adequate pension with the house paid off years before. Cedric had used his money well, taking advice from his employer on matters of investments to easily afford his semi-detached home in a middle class area of Kentish Town, North West London. Since his initial step on England's green and pleasant land, he had moved a couple of times. From a Camden bedsit in the fifties, then into marriage and a terraced two up-two down in Holloway, before finally affording their dream semi-detached house which they kept improving over the years. He had his own study in the attic where he kept his collection of Airfix models and where he would go to smoke the occasional panatela. This was going to be great; the hard work had been worth it! They were not blessed with kids but you cannot have it all. Maggie had told him that she was incapable of child bearing straight from the beginning, but it did not matter, she was his world and nothing else came close. No more cold mornings, no more alarm clocks. 'Bloody magic,' he whispered to himself as a familiar delivery man greeted him with a warm smile.

'A beautiful day,' replied Cedric carrying on his way. Would he have said the same in the hell hole that was Belarus, he wondered, the Belarus of his youth that he left in 1955. Doubtful, the communists had come for him and he had narrowly escaped their vengeful clutches. In those soulless days, neighbours informed on each other for the slightest scrap, survival was everything. Survival of the fittest maybe . . . survival of the slyest, definitely. He had first seen Maggie in church eight years after he had settled into life in England, the same church he had attended ever since. The sanctuary he had walked into one balmy August day in 1964 to beg God's forgiveness and plead for a clean slate. All those years ago he had sat in a pew and tearfully asked the crucified figure above the altar to release him from an ever deteriorating malaise that ceaselessly clung to him, questioning his sanity. Moments later, he caught his first glimpse of an eighteen-year-old vision of beauty leaving the sacristy. He had followed her home, stopping at her gate to ask her the time. He loved her then and had never stopped. The demons were long gone, banished from his mind forever; he had gone to ask God for help and forgiveness and had received it by catching a glimpse of Maggie arranging flowers on the altar. Cedric was content; as the years went by he had thanked God less frequently and worshipped Maggie even more, attending mass only to please her.

He began to increase his stride, whistling Beethoven's Ninth Symphony for the world to hear. He'd made it, he'd survived. Survived Comrade Stalin, two slipped discs and the thought of losing his mind. He had worked damn hard and prospered. Now it was time to live. He even thought he might get it up tonight and surprise his gorgeous Maggie; then it was Israel and the Pharaohs. Stopping at his front door he took a deep intake of the free English air and smiled contentedly; England was home and so was he, this time for good.

He went in the front door and called out for her as he had done so many times before, 'Maggie . . . I'm home sweetheart!'

He closed the door and hesitated for an instant, she was usually in his arms by now, planting a sweet little kiss on his expectant, eager lips. She had not been her best lately, complaining of headaches and spending a lot of time down at the library; but today was different, it was retirement day. Aha! This could be a surprise, he thought hanging up his coat. Calling out again, he rubbed his hands together and started to climb the stairs to wash up before tea. This is definitely a surprise . . . no smell of any grub! His whistling stopped abruptly half way up when he saw a darkened figure appear on the landing, pointing a gun at him.

A finger tightened and the weapon jolted, sending screeching Belarusian memories echoing across his subconscious. The blast lifted him off his feet sending him to the floor below. The last image of Cedric Boban's life on earth was the flash of a sawn-off shotgun; which fired from a few feet, took his life and most of his upper torso away. The slate was clean, the screeching culled.

His assailant moved halfway down before jumping over the banister to avoid the bloody mess on the stairs. Maggie walked steadily into the hall from the living room. She gave a little smile and took the small sawn-off shotgun from the gloved hands of the assassin, beckoning him to follow her through to the back door. She opened the door and made a quick check outside. The assassin coughed and pardoned himself as though the setting were a vicar's garden tea party. He put on his dark motorcycle helmet and disappeared out the back gate after gently patting Maggie on the forearm.

There were no neighbours in for at least another thirty minutes so the loud crack of the gun firing would not have been heard. Maggie was left standing alone in her dream kitchen with the murder weapon in her hand. She eyed it curiously, went back to the hall and gazed down at the remains of her husband who she had shared a bed and hopes with for thirty-five years. Maggie stood for a while and reflected on the last few weeks of her life.

She stepped through the life-blood and leaned over to take her coat from the hallstand. Her scarf slipped and fell onto the grisly mess at her feet. As if on autopilot, she retrieved it, bloodying her hands. Unconcerned, she put on her gloves and placing the gun into a Tesco carrier bag, she left her home for the last time. In her scarf and tweed knee length coat she looked quite mumsy, pausing at the gate to look at her home, the concrete structure that echoed a lifetime's memories. Days of laughter, weekends of lovemaking; a good life, a promising remainder of years. All too meaningless now; they need not have ever happened. She had been living with a monster, a chameleon.

Police constable Timothy Jeffries and WPC Sharon Davies were behind the reception counter in Kentish Town police station attending to the needs and enquiries of an assorted bunch of citizens when Maggie Boban entered their workplace. Jeffries nudged his colleague when he saw her come in the front entrance.

'Look out Sharon, Neighbourhood Watch has arrived.'

The WPC looked up from dealing with a burglary report to grimace at Maggie who she remembered in the past had rigorously campaigned for better street lighting to the police, instead of the dead-weights at the council. 'Shit,' whispered Sharon, 'more bloody geriatric moans, give me a break!'

Maggie walked straight up to the counter, ignoring the woman making the burglary complaint and whispered, 'I would like to report a crime.'

The complainant sighed and obtrusively moved over to block Maggie's access to the counter. Sharon forced a smile and remarked that she would deal with her in a moment. Maggie looked across to PC Jeffries who was filling out a form for a young mother struggling to strap an attention-seeking infant into a hand-me-down buggy. The toddler looked open-mouthed at Maggie and then at the carrier bag she was holding.

Maggie stood in between the two constables and raised her voice, 'I have to report . . . a serious crime!'

A sergeant in the back office overheard her anguished plea and popped his head out to listen.

'Can one of you please listen to me?' Maggie blurted out, her nervousness beginning to take over her bodily functions.

PC Jeffries looked to his colleague and then to heaven as he stepped to the counter where Maggie was waiting.

'Yes, Madam?'

Maggie swallowed hard and trying to remain calm said, 'I have just killed my husband . . . I have just shot him!'

Timothy Jeffries looked up at the clock and sighed to Sharon's amusement. 'You did what? Mrs Boban, isn't it?' His grin turned to alarm as Maggie extracted the sawn-off shotgun from the bag. The sergeant moved up behind Jeffries to intervene but Maggie reacted by pushing the small barrel up under her chin, her forefinger wrapped around the trigger. A hush swept through the reception.

'I have just shot my husband. Don't waste your time looking for anyone else!' She closed her eyes and tugged at the trigger.

The sergeant made a vain attempt to get over the counter but he was too late. A piercing crack rang out, Maggie's head whipped backwards, collapsing like a soggy, Hogmanay balloon, her distorted shape falling to the blood splattered linoleum. The weapon fell from her sweaty grip, blood and tissue sloped from the angry smoking barrel, showering the child in the buggy.

The distressed infant's chilling cry rang out through the gun-powdered aftermath. Sergeant Grayson was now over the counter, leaning over the remainder of Maggie, 'oh my good God!'

By now, the station was in uproar; officers appeared from everywhere, the civilians present cowered down for cover as the scene became more graphically horrifying. Grayson shouted at Jeffries to escort the people into the back of the station as he covered Maggie's body with his tunic. PC Jeffries stood nearby, frozen with shock; urine trickled down to the socks he had been due to wash for a week. He could not move so the sergeant let out a deafening roar to jerk him into action. WPC Davies begins to get sick as the sergeant yelled again, 'Jeffries, move yourself man . . . get these people out of here.'

A CID officer came to his rescue and began to shepherd the disbelieving onlookers into the adjacent waiting room. Jeffries started to mumble incoherently at which his sergeant got up and shook him, telling him to get a grip of himself.

### 'Get DI Brannigan down here,' ordered Grayson in as calm a voice as he could betray.

'What?' replied the dithering PC, unable to divert his magnetic eyes from the bloodied scene.

'Get the Duke lad . . . hurry Jeffries. Find out where he is and get him down here.'

'Right . . . I'm on . . . my way Sarge!' stuttered Jeffries as he slid by the body.

#  CHAPTER TWO

Jim 'The Duke' Brannigan held the rank of Detective Inspector in Kentish Town police station, North West London. He had the build of a light heavyweight boxer and always dressed in a smart suit, usually blue or grey with a dry cleaned shirt for every day of the week. For a hardened thirty-nine-year-old, he had the profile of a man who would fit nicely in to a middle aged Gillette shaving advert. A stressful life had surprisingly left intact a fitter physique than many of his juniors and eyes as piercing as brown could possibly attain. The well-groomed greyness that edged around what was once a full head of thick black hair served only to add to the dapper appearance of a man who liked his neat in neatness. He was an ex-military police sergeant who returned from the 1991 Gulf conflict to quit the army and join the Metropolitan Police Force. He became a plainclothes CID sergeant after five years and quickly gained promotion to DI. He was a tough copper in the politically correct days when it was no longer fashionable to be tough. He could take a punch on the chin as well as dish one out. More than one miscreant had remarked of the viciousness with which he had hit them and the dullness they had felt for a time afterwards. Brannigan had a reputation for being fair; a strict disciplinarian with the officers under him and brutal with the criminals who crossed his path. His loathsome for the criminal fraternity stemmed from the tragic, premature death of Susan, his wife. During his time in the army, she had tired of his career; his neglect of her, and so began to drink heavily. She became quarrelsome and they went through a bad patch but things improved when he left to join the police and they enjoyed a few years of relative happiness. Their brief oasis of cordiality had been brought to a shuddering halt the day Mrs Susan Brannigan met Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro, a Jamaican drug dealer from North London. She met him at a party on the Harvist housing Estate in Hornsey and in an alcohol-induced whirl, they took off to Scotland for the weekend. She was impressed by his garish manner and easygoing lifestyle and soon became a cocaine user, moving into Teddy's flat shortly afterwards. There had been rumours at the time of Teddy encouraging her to sleep with his friends to pay for her habit but these whisperings had never been elaborated upon openly. Susan would call Jim occasionally and beg to come home but a slighted and obstinate Jim had demanded a guarantee that she would quit narcotics. It was a guarantee she could not give. By then her addictive nature had kicked in, she was smoking crack and dabbling with heroin and as a result she had died alone on an empty street one freezing November night. The coroner's report indicated suicide caused by an overdose but it left a nasty aftertaste amongst the rank and file and a huge void in Jim's heart. Kentish Town police could not link Karabayro directly to Susan's death but they made it their business to target him and take him off the streets. The cocky Jamaican was charged with possession and intent to supply after a costly and tedious surveillance operation had caught him red handed. Karabayro had always been a party animal who liked to show off and one night he pushed the boat out too far and he and an accomplice were pulled over with a cache of pure heroin hidden within a false compartment of their glove box. Though he was not allowed to work on the case, Jim teed up information for the female detective dealing with the investigation into Karabayro's drug ring which subsequently led to his conviction and lenient five-year jail term. Brannigan had been outraged at the soft sentence maintaining he had given DS Teresa Mannion enough information to put Teddy and his sidekick Jason Clegg, away for at least ten years each. Jim blamed his colleague for the ridiculously short jail terms after she was taken to pieces on the stand by the defence team. She was transferred from Kentish Town CID soon after but left under a shadow because of the circumstances of Susan's death and the high regard in which Jim was held.

The Duke had prepared himself for a Sergio Leone evening at home with two Californian Reds and an Indian take out when police constable Jeffries phoned to tell him of the happenings in his very own front yard. He did not have much good to say about the Jeffries of the world. Hendon training centre was sending out lambs that expected the force to be something akin to the many television police dramas of the day. Jim recently heard that a street character handing out religious pamphlets had asked Jeffries to name a famous ex-carpenter who had gone on to make it big time and the cocksure PC had answered - "Harrison Ford?" What hope did the Met have? Wondered the former military copper as he corked his wine and prepared to leave his seclusion.

It was Friday evening rush hour and the bewildered detective decided to use his siren to cover the two miles to the station. Along the way, he thought of Jeffries' shaking voice and tried to imagine the horrific scene that awaited him. He had seen carnage before when the Allies had bombed the retreating Iraqis on the road to Basra in 1991. It had been a sight and smell that turned the stomach; one that made you want to hold your breath forever. He dodged through the busy Camden traffic, wondering where all the other motorists were heading whilst recollecting the shaken voice of the babbling PC whose sergeant requested his presence. Though no one ever said it to him directly, Jim knew that 'The Duke' was mostly a term of affection with regard to a character played by John Wayne. He knew that people respected him for being a hard copper as well as a very perceptive one, yet he wondered what they would have thought if they knew he still had nightmares of burned flesh sticking to the sides of scorched tanks and steel helmets melted into the skulls of young Iraqi conscripts. There was also the more personal nightmare of the Provisional IRA's infamous bandit area of Armagh which he had strayed into as an innocent, fresh faced military policeman all those years ago.

His thoughts were interrupted by a call from his DCI to divert to the Boban's home to take charge of the crime scene. His immediate CID superior, Detective Chief Inspector Andrews was not a happy man; he too had left earlier for home expecting to spend time with his grandchildren on their weekend up from Kent. He now had a murder, and a suicide in the front office of his station as well as the high profile case of a couple of missing kids, presumed abducted three weeks earlier. The station's Commanding officer, Chief Superintendent Linley was making plans to return immediately from Paris where he was attending a gathering of European Police Chiefs to discuss future co-operation and policing methods. DCI Andrews was handling the station scene personally and entrusted Jim to handle the house shooting. The media would soon be swarming all over the station and Andrews knew of Jim Brannigan's unease with public speaking. Indeed, it had been Andrews who encouraged Brannigan to attend a private course on such matters when Jim had been promoted to Detective Inspector. DCI Andrews had a great deal of respect for his most productive detective; ignoring many of his tactics that cut through red-taped procedure. The Duke got results and that mattered when you dealt with people who turned their back on the conformed rules of society to get rich quickly or to do harm to one of the great unwashed.

'Will do Guv,' Jim replied to his boss turning the car in the direction of the Boban's Montpellier Avenue home. Jim always called his superiors 'Guv'. Respect for the higher ranks was an old military habit that he had retained and he expected his underlings to follow his lead. In Andrew's case, the title fitted a man he genuinely admired. He remembered last year when they had been together at a local community meeting and a jealous boyfriend of a pretty kindergarten teacher had burst in with a knife "to teach her a fucking lesson." Jim had chased the thug out into the corridor where he bumped into Andrews who had been called to the phone. The panicky youth had lunged at the middle aged DCI who stood his ground and disarmed him, breaking the attacker's wrist. Despite being nine years older than Jim at forty-eight, he was still more capable than some of the brawnier, brain dead lemons the Met were recruiting.

Here we go again, thought the hardened detective on seeing the flashing blues outside a once peaceful haven. Curious neighbours stalked the scene, some cradling their hot cups, others - their morbid fascination. Here we go again, let's see what man's inhumanity to itself has in store for me tonight. He finished off his foiled carton of Madras curry with his plastic fork and wiped his mouth. A copper's life! Who in their right mind would do it? He prepared himself. I would . . . because it's the only thing I know.

#  CHAPTER THREE

DI Brannigan ducked under the crime scene tape preparing to view another untimely death. He took in some cool evening air, acknowledged the ashen faced constable at the Boban's door and entered. He could always tell what awaited him at a fatality by looking at the PC's face outside. The forensic people were already there, huddled over the body. These guys always amazed him with their methodical indifference, casually prodding the remains of a once living being who had once loved and was once loved. What would they have thought of the Basra Road abattoir, Jim wondered as he looked around and greeted Ted Nugent from SOCO, the scene of crime boys. The sight of Cedric Boban's mutilated torso assaulted Jim's consciousness as he surveyed the crumpled corpse lying at the foot of the stairs.

'A sawn-off from up there?'

'About that Jim,' replied Ted, adding, 'I'd guess . . . the landing or the top step.'

'I suppose, the spray of lead would have got him either way.' Jim remarked looking at the banister. No escaping that kind of blast he imagined. 'For a guy his age he'd have had to jump the banister to avoid most of the impact,' observed Jim as he looked curiously around. He could smell the victim's blood settling into his nostrils as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He wondered how this house would have smelled in normal times. 'I'm home dear . . . what's to eat?' Not anymore. Jim remembered his first smell of a corpse when a bullied squaddie had jumped off a cliff near Deal barracks in Kent and then inevitably his mind surrendered to the heart wrenching memories of seeing his woman, the wife he took for better or worse, lying in her own vomit not more than fifty yards from their home. She had collapsed on the street and died in the cold, suffocating on her own sick, the result of too much Colombian. She was on her way home to plead for help and forgiveness. He'd hoped she was. Not that he would have forgiven her then, his anger and sense of betrayal were still too vibrant. If he could turn back the clock he certainly would now, he missed her dearly. Drug dealers, they were lice that traded people's sanity for nightmares. Scum, bloody scum the lot of them, thought DI Brannigan as he tested the strength of the stairs banister.

Ted eyed the Detective Inspector and knew that something was bothering him. He had known Brannigan a long time and knew the way his mind worked. If one tiny little thing didn't fit into place then you could be sure that this copper would delve into it, no stone would be left unturned. Lieutenant Columbo did not come near. Ted remembered five years ago when a burglar broke into a bookmaker's Hampstead mansion. It all went wrong when the bookie discovered the intruding small-time crook, Derek Casey. After a struggle Casey had fled leaving the bookie dead from a fractured skull but neglecting to discover eighty-seven thousand pounds in cash under a dishcloth on the kitchen table. Derek Casey was eventually caught and charged with murder, but there was no sign of the money which the bookie was known to have made at Sandown racecourse earlier that day. Brannigan never let up with the investigation and three weeks after Casey was sentenced at the Old Bailey, Jim was at Heathrow waiting for Billy Nesbith, a paramedic who had been the first to arrive at the mansion on the night. Nesbith was about to jet off to a new life in Brazil to marry Maria Lopez, a beach beauty who he had enjoyed a holiday romance with three months earlier. Nesbith had discovered the cash and hidden it in his emergency medical bag. His colleague, the ambulance driver, was oblivious to this as was everyone else and so week by week, Nesbith used Western Union to send money to a dubious charity in Brazil, which had been set up by Lopez's conniving uncle. Derek Casey pleaded total innocence and the money's whereabouts was unknown but, unfortunately for the love struck paramedic, Brannigan's persistence did not let up. He repeatedly interviewed everybody who had been at the crime scene and then a chance remark about a missing medical bag from the ambulance driver led the stubborn copper to look at Nesbith. He had gone to the paramedic's flat and been told by a neighbour about a great love affair with a Brazilian goddess. The postman arrived at the same time with a postcard from Brazil showing a beach scene with a message of love and an expectant new life together. After a few checks, Brannigan was at Terminal 3 to greet Nesbith who had left earlier in the day to say goodbye to his ageing mother. The money was eventually recovered and from that day, Brannigan was noted as a perfectionist. Peripheral insignificances ignored by other investigators went into Jim's notebook and then reflected on at length.

'What's on your mind Jim . . . you got something?' Asked the curious forensics expert. Jim scratched underneath his chin as he always did when the jigsaw refused to mould; when a tiny piece of it jumped up at him and begged attention.

'I'm not quite sure Ted. Can you see a fifty-three-year-old woman standing up there with a shooter?' he scratched again.

'That's what they're saying Jim, but if you've got . . . ' before he could finish, Jim Brannigan was tip toeing up the stairs over a plastic sheet, 'other ideas . . . then I'm sure there's a reason.'

Jim was in the Boban's bedroom. He stood at the bottom of the double bed looking around, taking particular attention of the Boban's nightclothes neatly folded on their pillows. He gazed at a portrait of the couple and wondered why good looking women marry uglier, older men. He caught his image in the wardrobe mirror and ruminated upon his own qualities. Susan had been the envy of many an officer's want. What did she see in me . . . would I ever meet someone like her again? Up in Cedric's attic, neatly converted in to a hobby den, Jim found DS Peter Johnson going through letters and manuals.

### 'What you got Pete?'

'Nothing yet Guv, Mr and Mrs Boban, happily married until death they most definitely did part, must have been his retirement and her not wanting him under her feet all day,' Johnson joked.

Jim looked exasperated at his goatee bearded sergeant and beckoned to a few aircraft manuals and Airfix models hanging from various beams.

'Everything in its place?'

Johnson nodded, 'Nothing untoward . . . an old bloke from Russia, here since the fifties,' he looked in his notebook to Jim's approval. 'Actually, he could be East European, we're checking it out. There's nothing on file about either of them, the usual "kept themselves to themselves" effort, community spirited and well liked . . . it's a strange one! We're trying to reach his employer, doesn't look like there's any close family.'

'No last will and testament I bet, no relatives . . . another handout for the State.'

'Or the dog's home, Guv.'

### Jim sighed and made for the narrow stairs.

Must be love, thought Jim, as he perused the contents of the downstairs dining room. Had to be love? Why else do good looking women marry older, uglier men who are not obscenely rich. He looked at the Boban's travel tickets for their forthcoming trip to the Middle East. He put them back in the bureau and went out to the hall where a SOCO was taking a final picture of the deceased house owner's corpse. Poor bastard, no pyramids for you, mused Jim as he went outside to breathe in some clean air. He stretched, listening to the duty constable being harangued by a nosy neighbour.

'My Silvia is only sixteen years old officer!' she scowled at the PC while attempting to see over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of the crime scene. 'What are you people going to do about these peeping toms . . . it's not right officer.'

Jim smiled blankly at her as he passed on the way to his car, hearing her continually lecture the bewildered PC.

'With all these weirdoes on the loose it's not safe for my girls to have a shower in privacy,' she moaned as Jim reversed out onto the once peaceful avenue. Another house of horror for the macabre to include on their gory websites. The prices will plummet as usual with another unsellable property, thanks to the choice of weapon used by Mrs Boban. What am I trying to convince myself of? Maggie Boban no more killed her husband than Jack the Ripper did! He pulled up at traffic lights and scratched under his chin. Peeping toms . . . showers? What was that woman going on about?

#  CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning Jim drove past the station's front to see a pavement full of journalists, their lenses and microphones hanging on to Chief Superintendent Linley's every word. Jim shuddered at the prospect of having to face that lot. He would prefer an evening out with the Gregory's, the notorious local crime family, with all their scruffy bulldogs and associates. Since the two recent separate instances of a twelve-year-old girl and a six-year-old blond lad going missing, the media were smelling blood and now they'd got it, albeit from an unexpected quarter - the local nick. A reporter spotted him about to drive in the station's side gate and ran over.

'Any words for The London Standard, DI Brannigan?' enquired the grinning journalist.

'The usual two,' stated Jim before driving into the station's enclosure.

'Yea, yea . . . go and give someone a kicking, why don't you,' muttered Steven Blakely, walking back to the front of the station.

Kentish Town Police station was a purpose built nick, depressingly grey in structure and atmosphere, nestled just off Kentish Town High Road behind the McDonalds outlet. Beside it stood the larger station house, home to most of the dreamy probationers. The station itself was unremarkable in any aspect you would care to look into with the possible exception being the Chief Superintendent's office which offered a modicum of comfort in a maze of homogeneous gloom. Though nestled between arty Islington and trendy Camden Town, Kentish Town had a lugubrious reputation. Drab, for passing through, a stepping stone in an area that threw together the upper middle classes with the highest proportion of street dwellers in London. Ask a mix of Londoners what they thought of Kentish Town and they would usually inquire. 'Is that where The Forum is?' The Forum being the well known music venue with inadequate parking and plastic drinking vessels. Kick out time was to be avoided unless you were a lurking minicab driver or one of the local kebab houses that slopped up an excuse for meat hidden beneath a deluge of lettuce. The local police had frequent excuse to visit its throbbing hive but for all its reputation and colourful history, it could not equal a murder and suicide in the space of half an hour.

Within the CID incident room, a group of officers were gathered around a television set watching the reception areas closed circuit tape of Maggie Boban's suicide. Chief Linley paused for a moment and then cynically asked.

'If there are any officers here who go weak at the sight of blood, then let them be excused or better still, come and see me afterwards.' Everyone in the room looked at PC Jeffries who squirmed in his chair and looked to the equally uncomfortable WPC Davies who gave him a faint smile of support. DI Brannigan, DCI Andrews, CI Walton and Sergeant Grayson were in attendance along with other assorted CID personnel.

There was a polite knock on the door and it opened to reveal DI Teresa Mannion. She was now a Detective Inspector based at Scotland Yard, sent over to help with the investigation.

Sergeant Grayson looked to Jim Brannigan for a reaction, recalling how Teddy Karabayro had made a crude gesture to Jim as he was led to the cells. There was a suspicion in everyone's mind that if the arrogant Jamaican ever met the Duke he would need a surgeon shortly afterwards. The whole station knew that Brannigan blamed Teresa for the shoddy sentence handed down to the drug dealer and now, here she was, standing before the great and the good of Kentish Town nick. She had come back to assist them with a shooting in one of Her Majesty's bastions of safety; she had made it somehow and now there was a swagger in her movement. She looked good, Grayson thought, as he watched her shaking hands with Linley and Andrews. Fuck me, did she look good! Teresa Mannion liked to dress like the busy nineties executive, plain blue jacket and knee length skirt with matching shoes that failed to hide a vulnerable sexiness especially evident from the chin up. She was a cracker, thick jet black hair neatly tied back over a face that make up would have spoilt. Her eyes flashed a greenish sexuality that made you want to cover yourself in her. Her lips invited moments of lust and intimacy. Detective Inspector Teresa Mannion was not what the public expected a modern police officer to look like; her looks conjured images of a high flying executive or the contented power behind a successful businessman. She was thirty-five now but you wouldn't think it, her bare curvy legs led up to a waifish waist topped with an ample chest that made ambient males yearn for a topless beach. Frequently, when she found herself the centre of attraction she would lose herself in humming a tune. Despite what happened in court with Karabayro's solicitor when she was reduced to tears, Mannion was a good cop and she knew it. She scanned the assembled law enforcers, knowing their thoughts. If only they knew what I went through before that shitty morning in court. Chief Superintendent Linley beckoned to Jim to greet her.

'We meet again, it seems like yesterday,' Jim offered, not knowing much else to say.

### Teresa looked for a flicker of emotion on his face before deciding whether to offer a handshake.

'Hello Jim, it's strange to be back here.' Before she could say anything else, Jim walked over and grabbed a seat beside Grayson. A short silence was broken by the hesitant knock of a PC on the glass-panelled door. He cleared his throat and addressed Chief Linley.

'Sir, Mr Chalvet would like to know if he can film the meeting?'

'Give me a break,' said a disgruntled Jim only to be glared at by Linley who looked inquiringly at DCI Andrews.

### 'Not this morning, tell him I'll see him in my office in fifteen minutes.'

'Yes sir' replied the sycophantic constable.

### Linley addressed the group.

'For those of you who are irritated by the presence of Mr Chalvet and his television crew, let me stress again, he looked directly at Jim. 'This decision to allow them access was taken at the highest level of the Home Office and with the exception of this meeting, they are to be afforded your entire co-operation.' Linley's eyes were fixed on Jim knowing that he had refused their requests for an interview with his most decorated and successful officer. 'Warts and all, whatever they wish to film, so long as it doesn't endanger any ongoing operations, obviously, they are not to be hindered, is that clear?

The whole room nodded in unison though Jim barely twitched his head. The visiting French documentary makers were a nuisance to the smooth running of things and were making people edgy. Jim wondered if the Home Office would agree to a 'Fly on the Wall' documentary at their place, warts and all. Doubtful, thought Jim as he eyed up Mannion. She had not aged much since he had seen her last, when he had accused her of being "a sloppy copper who'd be better off working in victim support". In the back of his mind, he knew she was okay. She believed in doing the job right. She was a good copper or else she wouldn't have made DI at the Yard, but to hell with her, she let that scumbag's lawyer tear her to pieces on the stand. He had seen her before under oath when she gave as good as she got, but she had chosen that morning to mess his world up and now she was back in his face. Karabayro would be back on the streets in two years because of her.

The Chief played the tape that showed Maggie Boban killing herself and the resulting chaos. Jim looked at Mannion to see her reaction but she just stared ahead more in disbelief than shock.

'Right,' said Linley, 'we've got a fifty-three-year-old woman blowing her husband away on his retirement day and then coming into my station to kill herself in front of a mother and child. Linley paused to take a sip of water as Sergeant Grayson wiped the floor with a glare at Constables Jeffries and Davies.

Davies and Jeffries were probationers nearing the end of their first two years and both hated their stints on the station's front desk. Their indifference to Maggie Boban's shocking "I've just killed my husband" statement and then their negligence to act swiftly had caused some of the station's personnel to question their aptitude for the job.

Linley was now in full flow. 'Now, there are questions being asked from higher up as to how this can happen in a police station. My neck is on the line, so I want answers . . . I want facts. Why did this obscure middle class woman shoot her loving husband and then herself? Where did she get her hands on a sawn-off shotgun and the cartridges to commit murder? Answers, if you please!'

### No one spoke until Teresa Mannion offered the obvious.

'Not knowing any of the facts yet sir, my first impression would be insanity, there are a number of cases where a spouse has shared a lifetime with someone only to end it all and decide to take others with them, I guess they just flip.'

Linley frowned. 'Maybe, DI Mannion . . . but why didn't she complete the grisly job at home, why walk half a mile with a shooter in a Tesco carrier bag and take the risk of being stopped from pulling the trigger here.'

DCI Andrews spoke. 'Maybe that's what she wanted . . . to get caught, but we weren't quick enough?'

PC's Davies and Jeffries looked sheepishly at the floor as Jim took a deep breath and strolled over to the window. He spoke as he looked out onto the industrial estate to the rear on Regis Road.

'I don't think so Guv, I don't actually think she killed him.' There was a rustling of movement; the assembly looked curiously at Jim.

'Didn't you just hear her taped admission that she acted alone?' the Chief Superintendent enquired.

'Yes Guv, but that's one of the reasons why I don't think she did it.' Everyone was perplexed by Jim's reply. Linley beckoned him to continue, 'the very fact that she came to the station to say she'd done it alone and then kill herself here tells me there is more to it, it's too neat, you know . . . she did it? So don't look for anyone else, smile . . . it's on candid camera.'

Mannion asked. 'You said reasons, what are the others, Jim?' A number of the gathering are surprised to hear her use his first name.

Brannigan ignored her, addressing his answer to Linley. 'You see Guv,' he took a breath, 'the blood spray on the Boban's stairs covered quite a few steps and they were untouched, they hadn't been walked in? So, seeing as the shot was fired from the top landing, how did the killer get down the only staircase?' Everyone was in deep thought as Jim reached for a large SOCO photograph of the body at the end of the stairs. He held it up and asked, 'did a woman of fifty-three jump over the banister from there,' he indicated on the photo a drop of five foot, 'to there . . . or did someone else do it? Someone with their own sawn-off, or the ability and contacts to acquire one?'

DCI Andrews motioned to DS Peter Johnson. 'When do we get ballistics back on the shooter, Pete?'

'Another hour, sir.'

Chief Linley frowned as he got up. 'I was worried enough with the questions we already had and now it seems there is more to this than there was. Not good!' There was a gradual recognition around the room towards Jim's theory.

The weary Chief announced. 'Right Jim, you're on this with DI Mannion. See where the shooter gets you and check out the Boban's habits and the rest.' The office was generically shocked at Linley's teaming of Jim and Teresa. DCI Andrews gestured at Jim to hold his tongue. Linley continued, 'I want house to house on this and every local villain collared about the present availability of guns. Get your snouts on it, all of you.' He paused and after deep reflection added, 'we now have two missing children and a murder on our own doorstep. This station stinks at the moment . . . and you lot are gonna clean it up. You all draw wages, it's time to bloody well earn that crust . . . I want answers before I leave tonight. Understood?' No one present had ever heard Linley speak in such a forthright manner. They suspected he was under threat from above. 'Detective Brannigan, could you join me and the DCI in my office right now? You too Miss Mannion!' Jim and Teresa nodded and followed Andrews out after the Chief.

The Chief sat pensively behind his desk in his impressive, modernised office. As chief's offices went these days, his was pretty comfortable with its en-suite facilities and snack bar. His office was the only room within the station's austere walls that offered a modicum of comfort, so long as you were not called in for a "come and see me chat" as Linley termed his disciplinary meetings with his officers. The nearing sixty Chief Superintendent was not feared, the office he held was more intimidating than the man.

Andrews asked if anyone would like a coffee. Mannion accepted to calm her nerves, making herself as comfortable as possible for what was going to be a very difficult session. Jim eyed her with indifference, making herself at home. Andrews did the talking.

'Now, I know what you are thinking Jim, but, we didn't call you in here to appease you with regard to working alongside an officer you'd prefer not to work with. DI Mannion is a competent copper and you will be working with her for the duration, she was chosen to come in because of her past experience here.' Linley sat back and waited for Andrews to break the more distressing news.

'We wanted to chat about another matter.' The DCI looked directly at Jim, 'It's about Karabayro . . . he's out on parole.'

Brannigan's breath left his frame, he felt himself reeling at the mention of his tormentor's name. He collected himself, knowing that his superiors were looking for a reaction. His stomach was a furnace, he controlled the images of the cocky Jamaican that were flooding his mind, trying desperately to block out the memory of holding his dead wife's head in his lap.

'Released yesterday from Wandsworth on good behaviour,' added Linley. He's back inside if he thinks as much as a bad thought, but you Jim, are not to get near him, understood?'

Jim composed himself and looked at Mannion who did not look surprised. 'You knew about this?' he asked.

'Yes, I knew it was coming and I asked to be kept informed, I was going to let you know anyway but with the Boban thing, I decided to wait until I got here this morning.'

'How do you feel about it?' Linley asked. Jim took a moment to respond and then addressed his Chief.

'If you're expecting me to say it doesn't matter, I won't, it does. He's out . . . I'm getting on with my job and my life.' Jim paused and cynically added, 'I'm surprised they kept him in at all . . . we catch them and the Criminal Justice system slaps their wrists and tells them not to be naughty.' He paused, remembering the vow he had made to himself. Collect yourself Jim and bide your time. 'Let's just hope we never have cause to hear from him again sir.'

'Commendable James! You two get out there and get a hold of this situation,' said the mousy looking Chief with a flourish, but Andrews was not so convinced. He knew Jim was burning up inside, and could not understand why he did not let rip. Maybe it was because of Mannion's presence?

### He caught Jim's attention as he was leaving. 'Are you okay about this Jim?'

The Duke sighed, 'It's not as if I have a choice . . . is it Guv?'

Following DI Mannion out to the car Jim remembered the promise he made to himself the very moment Karabayro was being taken down to the cells after sentencing. Karabayro had turned to face Jim, and protruded his tongue lasciviously against his cheek, as if to indicate fellatio and then swallowed while wiping his lips with his forefinger. 'Dat was a sweet little gal Jimbo!' he had said, his eyes popping bulbously within his smirking face. He had cocked his head back and had laughed, knowing he would be out in a few years. Jim interpreted it as a sign that his wife had given the Jamaican oral sex. This personal act of intimacy was something Susan had delighted in, especially when she was a little tipsy. The aftermath of her death had been a terrible time for Jim. A mixture of unadulterated hate for the dealer and his cohorts was inflamed by his own self-remorse. He should have buried his pride and taken care of her, sectioned her if necessary. Hatred, guilt and red wine occupied an empty soul and a lonely house. He would often return home and sit staring at her photographs, concocting a make believe world with the two of them cooking and tending to some kids. For a while afterwards, night time became drunk-time. The realisation that death finally prohibited her return had sunk in. Before, though she was living a hopeless drug dependent existence, she was still there, still capable of being Susan again. But now, death proved the ultimate divide. Jim would sometimes stand outside his back door looking up at the stars, wondering if she was on the other side, behind them, looking down at him. Now the smiling piece of shit was back on the streets and Jim knew what he had to do. He did not care about the consequences; he would not be restrained by the job; he would keep his vow. Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro was going to pay for what he did.

#  CHAPTER FIVE

Maurice Sexton of Sexton and Chappell lay back in the bathtub. He had had a good week. The solicitors firm of which he was a senior partner had won two long overdue cases. Both of them were bitches, long, drawn out legal sagas that sometimes defied common sense. A ruthless landlord who had been responsible for six fatalities on his properties and a notorious public official who had secreted away public money to pay off a crime syndicate. Far too many of the firm's clients were undesirables, but it mattered not. They paid for an exquisite set of offices on Chancellery Lane and a flamboyantly decorated company flat nearby.

He was in the London flat today, a convenience used by business associates or important witnesses from out of the area. It was all his this weekend and in about twenty minutes he was due to receive a beautiful, expensive female companion. His wife and two teenage sons were at home in Hadley Wood, content in the knowledge that their breadwinner was working the whole weekend to improve their already opulent lifestyle. Maurice did feel a tingle of guilt on occasions such as these but if Mrs Sexton did not care to thrill him in the manner he felt he ought to be thrilled, then whose fault was that? He provided well for his family, so what harm was he doing. She'd never find out, no chance of that. There was never any evidence in coat pockets or lipstick on collars and certainly nothing sexual. He did not like his body marked, that was for his costly visitor. Sexton was the type of man his clients could easily hate, until of course he won them a large settlement or used his legal prowess to help them escape incarceration. Then they would throw their arms around his large barrelled midriff, noticing the cloak of dandruff laid across his shoulders, his breath always smelling of onions or peppers. His belly preceded him everywhere, his manners modelled on a prisoner of the Viet Cong who had not eaten since boot camp. He was the guy to have on your team, but not to invite to dinner. A number of legal secretaries at his firm had come to realise that the definition of the word 'employed' actually meant 'used' in his vocabulary. A small trickle of the sexually harassed had left over the years, one or two leaving with a bit extra in compensation. His partner Greg Chappell put up with his shortcomings because of his brilliant interpretation and use of the law. The guy was a winner, albeit a seedy, grubby winner with the disgusting habit of blowing his nose with the largest handkerchief in the city and then shaking it out. Women who were not bought by him, ignored him. His wife became his wife simply because she had forgotten to take her contraceptive pill on holiday, and also because he was loaded.

He smiled and pulled himself under the bathwater, thinking of his wife's panic when he would nudge her anus with his penis. If she won't do it, I know of women who will, plenty! He left the tub to dry himself in front of the mirror. His kink was rough anal with oral to follow, though it did cost him two hundred pounds extra for the privilege. Not many escorts delighted in swallowing, especially after anal sex, but he had found a certain agency recruiting mostly Russian girls, who for the right money would let you do anything. Glasnost, long live Gorbachev, he exalted before seeing the intruder in the mirror.

He froze as the black clad visitor with a dark visored motor cycle helmet came up behind him. Maybe it was a she, maybe the flat door was open and suddenly the helmet would come off to reveal a mass of blonde hair. His heart rate accelerated.

'Drop the towel fatboy. Back in the bath,' a male voice ordered the now shaking solicitor. Wet and scared, he wanted to do something, but could think of nothing. All thoughts of action were instantly dismissed when he saw the gun, equipped with a silencer at the end of the intruder's black sleeved, outstretched arm. What the fuck was going on!

'Yes . . . yes, in the bath, of course!' He stuttered, wobbling into the still full tub. 'Are you from the escort agency?'

'Eyes closed and keep them closed!'

He obeyed instantly. A robbery, it must be, thank God! With any luck, the slut will get here any minute and this Darth Vador fuck will do a runner. Hurry up Ruskie bitch, hurry up!

He started to feel a little calmer, listening for noises. In a minute he would open his eyes and wander out to see if Vador had gone. He heard what sounded like a click. Fuck, please don't let that be the gun preparing. His heartbeat went in to overdrive and then what seemed like thirty seconds passed uneventfully. Feeling calmer, he decided to take a peak. Slowly his eyelids came up until he saw the silent gunman standing over him holding a hairdryer.

'A blowjob sir?' asked the mordant intruder.

Sexton's mind raced just as the electrical appliance fell from the figure's grasp and descended into the water. Between trying to lift himself out and trying to catch the implement of his death, he accomplished neither. His nervous system exploded, his heart failed; the bathtub became his coffin. His last thoughts were not of his wife and children but of a debauched encounter with an unknown foreigner that had promised to blow his mind.

The helmeted figure waited until the rotund solicitor breathed no more and the last of the fart bubbles had reached the water's surface. He was leaving through the front door when he was greeted by a sultry European accent.

'I come early my lover.' She had barely spoken the words when she was dragged into the deceased solicitor's flat and pushed into a chair.

'Eh eh, mister . . . you like the rough quickly?'

He took no notice of her pleas, just pushed the 9mm semi-automatic silenced pistol into her mouth and fired up into her brain. Her head turned to a red blob and she slumped back into her chair as if she were a rag doll. He placed the gun into her right hand and pressed down to coat her prints. It then fell naturally to the floor beside her.

Svetlana Basilek died nine months after coming to England to sell herself for a life of opportunity. She had had the atrocious luck to arrive ten minutes early and thus a lifetime too soon in the hereafter.

'Sorry lady, nothing personal,' the killer said to her lifeless form. He then emptied the contents of Sexton's wallet on to the floor and knocked the furnishings about to create the scene of a struggle before carefully opening the door and leaving.

Jim Brannigan and DI Mannion were driving along in silence. Neither seemed at ease with the other's close proximity. Eventually, Mannion attempted some job talk. Jim stared ahead silently as they came to a halt at a set of traffic lights. His attention focused on a well-dressed man bending down to tie his shoelace outside a sweetshop. He drove on another few yards before stopping again at a lollipop woman's request to let some people use the zebra crossing. Jim looked at the council worker, she was elderly yet wore the latest in Nike trainers. Opposite the sweet shop was St Anthony's Primary school where parents were attending a bazaar with their children. Mannion had accepted his reluctance to chat and was looking through the Boban case file on her lap.

Jim's attention strayed to a cute little girl, lifted up by her mother to cross the road. Jim could never accept criminality, but understood why burglars robbed and gangsters killed, it was about greed and being number one. But satisfying your lust with an innocent child and then killing them was the worst of the worst. If the child survived it would be affected for life, parents were torn apart by recrimination, brothers and sisters lived with the memories and misgivings. As Jim looked at the child, seeing the trust that she placed in the mother it hit a raw nerve in him, for he knew of the way of paedophiles. He had worked on a few cases over the years that showed him that the modern child abuser was part of a sophisticated network. Old men in raincoats offering sweeties were old hat. These people planned ahead and worked out everything in detail.

They dreaded capture and prison life so they took no chances with their targets. A lot of them were the well to do middle class who treated the child fairly well up until the moment of surrendering themselves to their wanton desires. These days the children were given drugs to relax their muscles and so aid their abusers in hours of lustful torture.

His feelings of disgust were interrupted by Mannion. 'Look, if we are going to work together then we really need to communicate, this silent treatment is ridiculous!'

'I've no great desire to small talk with you, DI Mannion. When we need to discuss the case we will, until then, pipe down.' He drove on observing that the man bending down was cursing what appeared to be his snagged shoelaces.

Mannion was livid. 'Pipe down? Where did you get that from, Waltons Mountain? I am a Detective Inspector and the news is . . . you don't talk to me as if I'm some kind of bloody probationer. You treat me with respect fella or I'll be the one who's pissed . . . bigtime!'

Jim ignored her but a part of him was impressed. She's changed, tougher.

He looked in his mirror and saw the little child walking beside her mother. She was about the same age as one the two missing kids. Where were they? Were they suffering or had that ended and their bodies already been discarded. Camden had been turned over, the Territorial Support Group and the needle in the haystack specialists of POLSA had joined in the search, but nothing, except two distraught families checking their telephone lines every ten minutes to see if they were working. It was not looking good at this stage; everybody who had been anywhere those two days had been questioned. He knew they would strike again when their craving got the better of them; having had the audacity to act twice in the space of three days. The Metropolitan Police Service were looking for teardrops in an ocean.

### 'You remember the Gregory mob?' Jim asked.

'Three brothers with a garage on Leamington Road who think they're the Krays, dealing in protection, drugs and pimping. Stolen cars refitted and sold on.' She was about to continue when Jim remarked.

'Okay, you remember them. They've moved up in the world, this is their newest centre of fun.' Jim pulled over outside a renovated public house called The Kingdom.

'How in God's name were they granted a licence?' inquired Teresa.

'Peter Griffiths is the landlord in name only, he signed it over to them after a dodgy card game three months ago. The Gregory boys run it and poor old Griffiths does the cellar work. The licence is up for renewal soon and they've got no chance, until then it's a place where we can keep an eye on them. They're in most nights lording it up at the bar, talking about the old days telling everyone how much they love their ma.'

Going into to the pub, Jim stopped to caution his colleague. 'Watch your back Mary Lou, this is the animal kingdom.'

'Will do . . . John Boy.'

'Well, look who it is lads, Mr Brannigan has honoured us with his presence,' said Philip Gregory, the youngest of the Gregory clan.

'Evening all' could be heard sarcastically in the background. Four lowbrow customers who had been playing poker at a drinks table quickly covered their illegal stake money with a bar towel. They kept the poker hands they had with the pretence that they were playing for fun. One of them, a burly Glaswegian appeared agitated at the sudden arrival of the two detectives. Jim and Teresa ignored them and walked to the bar. It was a large modern pub with a couple of pool tables and a dartboard. There were some dodgy looking adolescents playing the two fruit machines and other assorted cauliflower-eared types scattered about in vulgar tracksuits at the small, unvarnished tables. Michael Gregory gave the tarty, forty something barmaid a signal to take a break so he could attend to them personally.

Michael was the oldest of the Gregory clan and lived up to his image as the Godfather. For a thuggish man, he dressed respectably with the only hint of gangster being the heavy gold Rolex on one hand and a chunky gold bracelet on the other. His chubby lived-in face was steadily losing its two-week Malaga tan. He revelled in the stories of his past, most of them exaggerated by time. There was one notorious tale of him having killed a fellow inmate whilst on remand in Brixton prison. The story was that he got put inside deliberately to confront a man who had called Ma Gregory "an old slapper." There was an inquest but no one had come forward to testify the truth that Michael Gregory had thrown the prisoner over the prison block landing when he stupidly repeated his slur of the Gregory's mother. He had already served three separate prison sentences totalling eight years before his thirty sixth birthday. Two for minor robberies and one for a vicious attack, which left a traffic warden partially deaf after he rammed a biro pen into the council official's eardrum. Michael had mellowed slightly but remained a man to be avoided.

'What can I do for the long arm of the law today?' asked Michael as the irritable Glaswegian poker player approached the bar. Taking a sip from a drink, he eyed Jim and his colleague with contempt.

'You'd think they'd have something better to do, like looking for missing kids, wouldn't ya?' he remarked in a heavy Scottish accent, clutching his treasured card hand.

'Shut it Terry!' Ordered Michael Gregory, who then nodded approval to a charity official collecting for the blind. Jim ignored the burly Scot's remarks and motioned to Michael who leant over the counter to listen with discretion.

'What's the word about pensioners using sawn-off's on the manor?' asked Jim.

'Curiosity,' replied the bemused Gregory, showing his reluctance to give information. Nearly all villains passed on information at one stage or another and the Gregorys were no different, when it suited them to do so. As a result, most police officers turned a blind eye to minor misdemeanours in order to keep the channels of co-operation open. Brannigan was different. If it took them off the streets for a day, then he would nick them. Jim relied on a few snouts but never gave an inch. The villains who helped his work did so purely to keep on the right side of him.

'Curiosity is it?' asked Jim walking over to the card players' table. He motioned to the blind collector to come over. Removing the bar towel he picked up bank notes totalling about thirty pound and stuffed it into the blind collection box. The man, carrying a white stick and wearing a pair of tinted glasses offered a thank you and made a quicker than usual exit. The burly Glaswegian attempted to follow him out the door when Michael Gregory told him to think about it.

'Take a seat pal,' Jim told the Scot as he turned back to the bar. He ignored Jim's advice and threw his poker hand on the counter. He was now very agitated.

'I had a chance to make up my losses with that hand, until the foul smell of pork interrupted me.'

'Have you got a problem, Jock?' Jim enquired.

'No, he hasn't DI Brannigan. Don't be a wanker Terry . . . tomorrow is another day.'

'Oh, so this is Brannigan, The Duke! The pig who likes to throw his weight around,' said the sneering Terry.

'I'm warning you Terry, leave it alone or and you'll have me to deal with,' growled Michael.

'Not on our doorstep Terry,' added Philip Gregory. The Gregorys had warned their henchmen that they were not to be tooled up or misbehave while using the 'Kingdom'.

'Nah, don't worry lads . . . I'm cool, this bloke picks on wimps. He wouldn't think of throwing his weight in my direction, cause he'd know about it if he did,' mouthed Terry, sensing it as a situation to make a name for himself. 'Why don't you piss off and take your tart with you,' he said gesturing at DI Mannion.

Jim shrugged and walked over to the cocky Scot who picked up an empty beer bottle from the counter and held it ambiguously by the neck.

'Showing off in the playground, are we son?' said Jim sighing.

Just as Terry was about to speak, Jim head butted him and Terry crashed straight to the floor with a broken nose, his three aces and two jacks landing on top of him.

Michael Gregory came rushing out from behind the counter as customers gathered around. Philip rushed over to help the stricken Glaswegian. Teresa was shocked but walked over and stood beside her colleague.

'Our Scottish friend should have some respect for the law,' said Jim rubbing his own forehead.

'Am I being stupid or is there a law saying that coppers can't beat the shit out of decent, taxpaying citizens?' Philip Gregory asked inquisitively.

'What do you know about sawn-off's stupid?'

### 'Fuck you Brannigan!'

Jim shook his head and approached him just as a bloodied Terry came running up behind him wielding a snooker cue. Teresa put out a foot tripping him, propelling him over a table of drinks. The table and drinks were upended, leaving the indignant Scot on the floor. She extended her baton and held it threateningly over him when he attempted to get up.

'I'm going take the lot of you down to the station and charge you with illegal gambling and assaulting police officers if I don't get some shit hot, clever answers right away' barked Duke Brannigan.

### 'There is no word on the shooter, it's not from around here,' came the reply from Mrs Thelma Gregory who had come down to the bar.

'Now that wasn't hard, was it?' asked Jim. Pointing at the dazed Terry, Jim addressed Michael. 'I'd put that article on a train up north, cause the next time I get tackled in here, I'll be dealing with you.'

Michael looked at Jim menacingly but said nothing as the Matriarch of the family came over and whispered in her son's ear.

#  CHAPTER SIX

Jim and Teresa left the 'Kingdom' and its wounded egos behind. They were driving off when Jim remarked.

### 'Well done back there, that was quick.'

'I wouldn't have called your actions back there, text book policing, John Boy.'

'Listen lady, forget about doing any bonding, I was just offering thanks for backing up a colleague, you did your job and I did mine, but we are not pals all of a sudden, okay?'

'You idiot, I did my job, but beating up villains is hardly yours. There are certain people on the force who would report you for that back there.' She sighed heavily adding, 'why can't you just put the past behind you?'

'Because ten to fifteen would have finished Karabayro, it would have done him! Instead, you go to pieces in court and he's out in three, that's why!' replied Jim angrily.

They continued in silence. Teresa was disgusted with herself for going too fast in trying to make a new start with a copper she admired. She actually agreed with his idea of policing, but would never admit it to anyone. She had made the effort . . . to hell with him!

Twenty-two-year-old PC Freddy Chalmers was on his way to DI Brannigan's office. He was wondering why he had been summoned to the DI. I hope to fuck he's not gonna have a go at me? Maybe he wants me to do a plain clothes stint, work undercover with CID for a bit. Maybe my day has come and the powers that be have recognised my talent?

Freddy had finished his probationary period and was gaining in confidence as the months passed. He was smarter than PC's Jeffries and co and had realistic ambitions. CID was his eventual target; plain clothes were better suited to detecting crime . . . you can creep up on them. He was born down the road in Highgate into a respected family and was determined to do well. His mother nearly sewed her hand to a jacket lapel when he confounded her one summer's morning, telling her he had joined the Metropolitan Police Force.

'Over my dead body, you'll leave this house if you have!' she had said, and then watched as her only son had gathered his belongings and headed for the station house. They had made up since and she now bragged to everyone about her handsome son in uniform protecting the capital. She would soon no doubt be sewing more limbs to garments if he got his way and joined CID. He had applied recently, so the call to see Brannigan might be his chance. He respected the DI but felt that Jim's methods of dealing with the rank and file left a lot to be desired.

This should be interesting, thought the expectant PC as he knocked on Jim's door.

'Come in Freddy!' said Jim as he looked up at the neat looking constable from behind his desk. DI Mannion was also present, checking out the ballistics report on the Boban's sawn-off. The office was neat and tidy with the exception of the large modern desk, cluttered with the missing kid's files. There was a large information board displaying the children's photos and mug shots of known child offenders as well as key information about the case.

'Remember when you were on duty outside the Boban's house Friday night?' asked Jim.

'Yes Guv.'

### 'There was a woman complaining about a peeping tom eyeing her daughters, right?'

Freddy looked bemused but then recalled the irritant. 'Yes, that's right sir.'

### 'What's her address?'

Freddy looked at him expecting him to add something else. 'Address Guv? She never gave one.'

Jim was on his feet behind his desk with a curious look on his face. 'You didn't take her details . . . we've got two missing kids and you ignore a mother's complaint about a peeper watching her daughters in the shower?'

'She didn't make an official complaint sir. She was just letting off steam, hanging around to see what was going on at the Bobans.'

'Was she a close neighbour of theirs?' asked Jim, as Teresa finished her ballistic report.

'I don't know sir, I presume so.'

'Are you mentally challenged Freddy? Bloody hell man!' said an angry Jim. 'Why are you a copper, was it a bet or are you just here to wind us all up.' Freddy stayed quiet as Jim added 'listen up constable, I want you to locate that woman and bring me the address of the peeping tom in one hour, understand?'

Freddy looked at Teresa and then back at Jim, 'how can I do that, Guv?'

'You're wearing the uniform man. Go and earn the right, hire a bloody private detective . . . ask Mystic Meg. Just do it man, you're supposed to be a police officer, it's your job, get out there and do it!'

'There's no need for personal abuse sir, I get what you're saying and I'm on my way.' Freddy muttered, his voice shaking as Brannigan cocked an eye at him.

'No need for personal abuse you say . . . how about physical then? Get out and get me that info before I split your arsehole with my shoe!'

'Not everyone is as observant as you Brannigan, the poor guy was quaking in his shoes.' said Teresa after Freddy had left. She thought Freddy's humiliation was a bit over the top but still could not help smiling at Brannigan's reaction.

'There's no room in the force, sorry, service for people like that, not when you're dealing with criminals, they'd eat him up and spit him out. We've got to have people who command respect, and that respect is earned. He might be better off somewhere where he doesn't have to think.'

Teresa gave him the ballistics report. 'It's short and sweet, nothing. The Boban's bank are faxing me their details, there was a large withdrawal made last month.' Brannigan scanned the sheet and Teresa went to the door. 'Fancy a coffee Jim?'

### 'No.'

'Right . . .' She left him to it. Fancy a smack in the gob Jim?

Young, handsome and with short cropped black hair to match his uniform, Freddy Chalmers, known as PC Charming to his mother's neighbours, was chatting to another constable and about to leave the station when DI Mannion saw him. Teresa just caught his last few emotive words, 'I'll fucking do that Brannigan one day.' She laughed to herself on hearing Freddy's heartfelt frustration. He was surprised to see her and wondered if she heard his outburst to his colleague regarding the Duke. He paused to see if she would rebuke him while the other PC made a hasty exit.

Teresa feigned ignorance, 'where are you going now?'

'I'm going to get down there and make house to house enquires until I find that woman who complained, Ma'am.'

Beckoning him with her finger she told him to follow her. They entered the control room to be greeted by the sergeant on duty.

Twenty minutes later, Jim and Teresa were interrupted by PC Chalmers' knock on the door.

'I've got that information you wanted, Guv. The peeper is one Johnny Spicer, a sixty-year-old star gazer. He lives alone and turns his telescope on the neighbours when the stars are shy,' he finished brashly, placing a typed A4 sheet on the desk; his chest swelling as he eyed the Duke.

Jim went to look out the window, smiled and motioned to Freddy to sit down. Freddy gave a knowing wink to Teresa who looked amused. She then crossed her legs, which Freddy tried hard not to notice.

### Jim turned from the window and asked. 'Has he got form?'

'None to speak of sir, he's regarded as harmless but several neighbours have made official complaints since he moved in four years ago. One of the complaints was made by that woman we saw the other night, Mrs Hughes who lives at number twenty-three, five doors down from the Bobans.'

Jim smiled at Freddy as he stressed the words - official complaints.

'Good work lad, and to whoever pointed you the way . . . keep it up.'

The wind was slightly taken out of his sails but he left the office with a swagger accompanying his boyish smile, enjoying his moment of glory.

#  CHAPTER SEVEN

Jim and Teresa were walking up Wood Green High Street to the large Shopping City complex. They were going to interview the star gazing Spicer who worked in the supermarket bakery. He was getting on a bit in years, cautiously employed as an early morning cleaner. Jim was guided to Spicer's maintenance room by a shelf stacker in the store. They found him snatching a quick cigarette.

'Mr Johnny Spicer?' Teresa asked. The old man looked nervous, a legacy of petty crime and snooping had left him with an acute awareness of police methods. He was a haunted looking figure poured into a cheap set of overalls with very noticeable nicotine stains on his fingers, the legacy of cigarettes burning away in his hand as his attention focused down the end of his telescope.

'What do the cops want with an old cleaner?' he remarked in a cockney accent, closing the door behind them to ensure privacy from a few young shelf stackers who had started to nose around.

'We would like to know if you saw anything suspicious on Friday night, anything that might help us with our enquiries dealing with the death of Mr Cedric Boban,' asked Teresa.

'The foreign geezer who got topped?'

Teresa nodded. Jim eyed him with disdain.

### 'No, why should I?' He said, realising that they had not come to query him about his peeping passion.

'Mr Spicer, we are aware that you have a telescope and are known to take an interest in your neighbours, but relax, we're not worried about anything else at the moment. Can you help us with our enquiries?'

'No.' he said abruptly.

'To hell with this,' said Jim nearing the old cleaner. 'Is that no, you won't help us or no, you don't know anything?'

'Which part didn't you understand . . . the n or the o,' he scoffed, taking his mop in hand. 'Anyway, you coppers shouldn't show up at a respectable person's workplace hassling him about some wop getting snuffed.'

Jim addressed Teresa, 'see Di Mannion, this is why I behave the way I do. Dealing with this kind of crap. He turned on Spicer. 'Respectable person? Are you on drugs Spicer? You get some manners quickly or I'll raise my voice about your viewing pleasure for the benefit of those young lads out there. Then you'll see stars!' said a menacing DI Brannigan.

'Okay, okay. just give me a moment.' He squinted his eyes in frustration. 'I can't think of anything . . . honestly, it's what I told your uniformed lads who were going around. I was upstairs at the time but not looking through the scope, I was in the crapper having a pony and trap. I heard what must have been your gunshot but wasn't sure, so I ignored it.'

### Teresa asked. 'Did you look out after you heard the noise?'

'Em, no,' he said trying to remember. 'No, cause, as I said, I wasn't sure it was a gunshot, I closed the loo window cause there were some morons starting up motorbikes outside.'

'Motorbikes?' asked Jim, his chin beginning to itch.

### 'Yea, I hate the bloody noise they make.'

'There were motorbikes starting up outside after the gunshot?' asked Teresa.

'No, that's not what I said, the bathroom window is at the front of my place, so you get the full blast of the traffic, I remember closing the window after one sped past noisily on the front road and another one sounded as if it was nearby. The foreign geezer lived behind me. I told your uniformed blokes all of this already. Those bikes should be banned, bloody nuisance, the noise of them. Respectable people can't have a crap in peace anymore!'

'Yea, but not as bad as respectable people not being able to take a shower in private. A word of advice old man, keep your telescope aimed high or move,' warned Jim.

The two detectives were making their way out of the supermarket along the main mall when their past suddenly confronted them with a swagger. Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro stood before them, grinning, accompanied by a strapping six foot 'friend.'

Jim's mind was in a whirl. He wanted to tear the smarmy dealer limb from limb. Teresa stepped between them.

'Hey Mr Policeman, how ya doin' bouy . . . ya gat anything for ya old friend Teddy,' said the smirking ex con in his heavy Jamaican drawl.

Jim was awash with fear; the fear he always knew he would feel when finally meeting up with the man he loathed. The fear of what he knew himself capable of.

Karabayro had a broad smile that showed off a gold front tooth. He was five foot ten and muscular. A mixture of sweat and Paco Roban aftershave assaulted the vicinity. He was dressed in his usual full length blue cotton coat covering black plain slacks and a red silk shirt. There was a heavy gold ring with the inscription T.C.B hanging on a chain around his neck. It stood for - 'Taking care of business,' which he claimed was once owned by Elvis Presley. Prison had not changed him; he had had a relatively easy time of it, keeping on the good side of the major players by supplying them from his outside contacts. He looked and smelled slimy and Jim had often agonised over why his late wife could have anything to do with him.

He stood before Jim as if he had not care in the world. Jim's fear was of what he would do to the man who had robbed him of his love.

Teresa was nervous. 'Karabayro, go about your business if you've any brain cells left.' Teddy reached into one of the shopping bags his friend was carrying and took out a small item of lingerie. It was a tarty red body stocking.

'Yea, Dukey bouy, I can see your new bitch in dis, she'd look good in it bouy, better than she looked in court. What come over ya sista, why you so good to your Teddy in cou-r-t?'

His words were grinding slowly into Jim's consciousness as he tried to rid his mind of the image of his wife's body lying in the street. His senses began to come round and slowly he started to take in what Karabayro was saying. Jim took a deep breath and looked skywards. Amidst the whirl of emotions, he was experiencing, he saw a face looking straight into him from the mall's second floor balcony. It was worn and weathered, a face that you would see etched in a boy's war comic. Jim was feeling anxious, but before he could take it all in, the man had vanished.

Brannigan scratched his chin and saw Teddy lean forward to Teresa.

'Ya come and see me sista, I show you wat a propa man can do.' The words barely left his mouth when Jim moved forward and stood on Teddy's right foot. The burly friend saw this as his business but Jim held up a warning finger.

'Don't bother pal, stay healthy . . . this isn't yours!'

The minder stopped in his tracks, a foot from Jim who was now eye to eye with Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro.

'There won't be any court next time asshole' he said, then whispered into his ear, 'you're going in the ground scumbag!''

Teddy broke away and raised his voice to attract an audience. 'Hey bouy, leave me be, I ain't done nothing to the pole-ece, leave me be!'

Teresa took Jim's arm and nudged him away from the scene. He privately rebuked himself for saying anything, knowing what he intended to do to Karabayro. He was all too aware that it was a weakness that occasionally stood in the way of effective policing.

'That was stupid Brannigan, bloody stupid, smacking a villain in a bar is one thing, threatening a high profile con in the middle of a shopping centre is another.' Jim remained silent as they headed towards the street exit. 'What were you thinking for God's sake, he'll be on to his brief straight away with that.'

Teresa stopped to see Jim looking curiously back in to the centre.

'I know that guy from somewhere,' he mused.

'You should be more concerned with what Linley says when he hears what happened back there!' She looked bewildered, 'what guy?'

'Why do I get an uneasy feeling about that bloke,' Jim reflected.

### 'Karabayro?'

'No, this guy . . . this guy back there on the second level. He was . . . staring at me, there was something about him, bloody hell!' He said in frustration, trying to remember where he had seen that face; if he had seen it before. He then realised that the man who had been watching him had taken his attention away from the man who he wanted dead, the sneering, cocky Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro.

DI Mannion's mobile phone rang.

'Hello sir . . . when?' she listened for a brief moment and finished the call, 'that was Andrews, he's pissed off, there's been another double killing. He wants us to take a look.'

'What?'

'It's off our patch, Holborn, but it's similar, so he wants us there.'

### 'Similar?'

'Yeah, a Russian escort girl, and a solicitor, she fried him in the bath and then shot herself in the head.'

'What's going on, there's Russians dropping everywhere, who needs the Cold War!' Remarked the bewildered Brannigan.

'How did it feel seeing Karabayro again?' Teresa asked on the way to Holborn.

'What's it to you?'

'Well, I know it can't be easy for you, I hate that waste of space for what he did to your wife.' She paused, 'If it's worth anything to you, I'm very sorry for what happened in court. I'd had a bad experience just before and was actually debating whether or not to seek a postponement.'

Jim raised his eyebrows, 'If you'd had a bad night lady, or whatever, you should have made an excuse and we could have got a postponement! Instead you let him get off lightly, didn't you?'

'Yes, I know, I should have sought a delay but.' She paused, realising his inference, 'It wasn't a bloody hangover, thank you very much, it was a lot more attention grabbing than a piss up on the town.' She seemed in deep thought. 'Mind you, I went on a bender after that, it was the worst three days of my entire life.' Slowly, her thoughts drifted back. 'Anyway, as I said, if it's worth anything to you, I'm sorry . . . very sorry about the whole thing.'

'It's not worth anything, but, to be honest I always thought that seeing Karabayro again would freak me, that I'd just go for his throat or something, but there was some strange feeling that it didn't matter anymore . . .?'

Teresa eyed him quizzically.

He realised what he had said and back tracked slightly, 'don't get me wrong, the guy will see justice. Did you see the arrogance of the bastard back there . . . that is one bad article.'

She looked pensive and in a soft voice offered. 'I don't like to admit it, but those guys scare me, when I'm standing there, dealing with some crackhead or blagger who has no comprehension of civilised society, the ones that just don't care, they see your authority but it means nothing to them, they're the biggest threat to us.'

'You're not wrong lady, those guys worry me too, they worry us all. When I was a lad my father would have taken the face off me if I'd back chatted a copper, it just wasn't done.'

Teresa was surprised to hear him admit to her that he also worried about some of those with no respect for law and order. No matter how hard it was, she was going to get to know him. Despite him being arrogant and taciturn sometimes, he intrigued her and in a strange type of way she still fancied him, maybe it was the macho stuff, she had always liked the strong hard types. She knew that many younger men wanted to get intimate with her and she had accepted a few offers which led to heavy petting on her couch, but she wanted more than a flat stomach and a chiselled profile, she wanted what was in short supply these days, a real man. Some men were reluctant to approach her at parties, her job and rank threw them. If they were not put off, they would ask her something about squashing a parking ticket. Teresa looked sideways at Jim and wondered what he was like at home; was he overpowering in bed? He was a good looking man who kept himself in shape. Okay, he's no Mel Gibson but still not ugly by any stretch of a girl's imagination. An image of John Wayne came into her thoughts and she thought twice about intimacy with someone nicknamed 'The Duke!' Stop it girl, put these thoughts out of your head, the guy doesn't even like me.

Her thoughts drifted as they pulled up at the crime scene in Holborn.

Jim Brannigan looked across at her wondering what she was thinking. He looked up at the building. A posh high rise, not his style.

'Do you mind being called Duke?' she asked.

'It wasn't what my parents christened me, but who cares, some would be flattered I suppose . . . why'd you ask?'

'Oh no reason, I just wondered, and don't worry . . . I wasn't trying to bond.' They saw a plainclothes man talking to the uniform on duty outside. He was plump, the sort of man you would see struggling in a Sunday morning pub match. He had an infectious grin and smiled at them as they approached.

'Barney, hello!' said Jim recognising DI Barney Taylor from Saville Row CID.

### 'Hi ya Jimbo, how's it swinging?'

'So-so,' they shook hands, 'we've still got the missing kids and now these killings. Barney, meet DI Mannion, she's in with us on the station shooting. Barney clasped her hand.

'Teresa, this is Barney Taylor, he's not a bad copper when you can get him out of the ladies' toilets.'

Barney laughed remembering the night when he and Jim were uniformed sergeants on duty at Arsenal's Highbury ground during a visit from a high-browed American delegation. They had both worked long shifts and were famished. Barney had slinked away for a couple of kebabs during the game as there was not much going on outside. Jim decided to eat his in the back of a police van but Barney chose the women's toilets in the main stand. He had presumed that not many women would use it during the game. He reckoned without the visiting New York Mayor's wife. The Lady Mayor had walked in on him munching his kebab, so Barney tried to hide behind his kebab wrappings and squeeze out undetected until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He had turned around to see his Chief Constable, who had shown the unfamiliar Mayor to the toilets during her and her husband's visit to one of England's top sporting venues.

Teresa watched the two of them reminisce and then realised that Brannigan had addressed her as Teresa. There's hope yet she thought, following them in to the lift to take them to the swanky flat on the fourth floor where a contract cleaner had earlier discovered the remains of a solicitor and a Russian escort girl.

'I don't know of any other copper on the force who could get away with bumping into your Guvnor while eating a kebab in the ladies' toilet being used by a Yankee mayor's wife!' said an amused Jim.

'I'll tell you what Jimbo, I've been told since that she never felt so safe in all her life. She thought I was there to look after her until she was ready to have a crap.'

Jim laughed, saying. 'There are probably coppers all over New York now on toilet duty thanks to you.' Teresa did not find it funny but smiled realising that her stubborn work mate had a sense of humour, somewhere.

The three of them entered the flat owned by Sexton and Chappell, the solicitors firm based around the corner in Chancellery Lane. The bodies had already been taken away, but Barney had stayed around to brief Jim and check out any similarities between the two fatalities. London could be a big nasty place but two similar events in days warranted a closer inspection. They would cooperate and exchange information if needed.

'What we had here was a failure to co-operate' said Barney, a DI for the last couple of years. 'It looks like a dirty weekend that got out of hand.' He checked his notebook, 'the dead solicitor Sexton liked his girls foreign and acceptable to a bit of the rough stuff. I'm not talking about hand cuffs and the like, he liked to beat on them for a price. They must have argued over that price and she cooked him in the bathtub with a hairdryer.' Barney walked over to a bloodstained chair in the corner and pointed at the floor. 'She then decided to top herself with the shooter she carried for her protection. The gun was found there.'

'Nine mill semi?' asked Teresa.

'Spot on luv, with a silencer, she must have been wanted by emigration . . . by someone. I reckon she panicked after killing the ratbag and just decided to end it all. The thought of being shipped back home to God knows what didn't appeal to her.'

Jim wandered around in his usual fashion looking at everything and anything. He looked down at the scattered currency on the carpet.

'I'd say your pretty close Barn, but how come the money is here and he was in the bath. How come after arguing over money he went back to finish his bath and left her to it, and why would she use a silencer?'

Barney raised his eyebrows and went into the bathroom. He came back out almost immediately. 'You're not saying, that he shot her and then fried himself in a fit of shame, are you?'

Barney knew Jim a long time and began to doubt his own theories now that Jim had placed an element of doubt in his mind.

'No, I'm not saying that Barn, it just looks a bit odd that they'd have a fight over cash and then . . .' Brannigan paused and frowned, 'try this for size.' He looked around, 'you must agree, it looks odd that he'd get back in the bath and leave her to the money after quarrelling over it. I reckon he asked for something too rough, something unacceptable, even to her and she demanded more money. She probably threatened him with the pistol to get back in the tub and then maybe asked him how . . . he'd like some pain?' Jim went over to the socket just outside the bathroom door. 'Was this the plug used?'

'Yep,' said Barney. 'I see what you're saying now. She turned the tables, panicked and ducked out, she didn't want to deal with the consequences.'

Teresa nodded. 'That's what it looks like, she probably had her fill of sickos using her as a punch bag. This guy was just unlucky to get her on a bad day. Was he married Barney?'

'His nearest and dearest are in shock. They are coming to terms with daddy's betrayal at the family estate in Hadley Wood. Bless em!'

'I bet immigration will have something on her. They are all over the place, these Russian girls, the others don't like them,' said Teresa.

A smiling Barney added. 'Yeah, they're cheaper and they reach the parts others can't.'

'Or won't!' observed Teresa returning his smile. Jim stopped his probing around and smirked at them both.

'Right, I'm gonna go with your theory Jim, it seems unrelated to your domestic.'

### 'Ours was a hit, nothing domestic Barn.'

'You're kidding, I thought the woman confessed all on the stations CCTV before doing herself.' Enquired an inquisitive Barney Taylor.

'It was all too neat and besides, there's six grand to be accounted for!'

### Barney looked troubled, 'Is there anyone in the frame for it?

Jim looked about the plush flat, but before he could answer Teresa said.

### 'Nothing, it's gonna take a bit of digging I think.

'Well, it just shows you, doesn't it . . . there's nothing cut and dried these days' stated Barney with an exasperated look on his face which Jim interpreted as time to go time.

'We'd better make a move then Barn.'

'Let's get together for a drink or two Jim, talk some shite, what do ya say?'

'I'll give you a ring and we'll do it,' lied Jim.

The lift was busy so Jim and Teresa decided to walk down the four flights of stairs. They walked to the end of the brightly decorated hallway passing two, three, four apartments; the well off residents all hidden behind expensively varnished, heavy wooden doors with small gold coloured lettering marking their respectively numbered dwellings. They were passing number 47 where a CID colleague of Barney's was speaking to a ruffled resident. The bombastic man was talking down to the officer in a loud voice that carried down the stairs.

'As my wife told your Inspector, she heard nothing. The only person she saw all weekend was the caretaker. I myself saw a courier chap making a delivery earlier. Nobody else, it's quiet here at the weekends, the way we like it.'

No sooner had she heard his words when Teresa halted on the stairs and looked at her colleague, 'did you hear that?'

### 'Which bit?' he asked.

'The courier, what do couriers use?'

### Jim smiled, 'bloody motorbikes!'

They turned and went back up the stairs.

#  CHAPTER EIGHT

Jim and Teresa were in Chief Linley's office. Kentish Town's top copper was sitting behind his desk, deep in thought.

'I don't see any connection, between Boban and this lawyer,' he said forlornly.

'Sir . . . it's just a hunch, but if there is something linking them, then it's got to be worth a look,' suggested Teresa.

'Too coincidental, there are thousands of bikers and couriers all over the city. Run this Boban thing by me again Jim,' demanded the Chief.

'It's just guess work Guv. We've just spoken to another of Boban's neighbours and on reflection they can also place a biker at the rear of the Bobans around the time of the killing.

'Backing up this peeping-tom's version, yes?' asked Linley.

'That's right Guv, we went back to the respectable Mr Spicer and he definitely recalled the sound of a motorbike starting up and the noise of one, maybe two passing by. Jim has an interesting theory on this sir,' she added.

### Linley motioned to Jim who then explained.

'Years ago, I think it was eighty-nine, some army personnel came across the same thing in Northern Ireland.' Chief Superintendent Linley made himself comfortable in his leather cushioned chair and waited for the delicacy. He loved Brannigan's dark tales of wrong doings in the army. 'A particular IRA cell used to do their stuff and escape on motorbikes. They knew the sound of a bike starting up was a distinctive sound, so they disguised the getaway bike by having one or two passing by at the same time. It confused witnesses' recollections of events that happened the night before and were also there as back up if needed.' Teresa sat quietly and looked to the chief for his reaction. He pondered for a minute.

'Mmn, it's interesting Jim, but, I don't know, there's too much conjecture,' another pause. 'Is this your opinion also, DI Mannion?'

'It's possible sir, I would say quite possible. You've got a fifty-three-year-old house wife who tops herself after saying she's killed her husband. Three days earlier she'd withdrawn six thousand pounds from her building society account and tells the cashier that it's a surprise for her husband's retirement. She didn't pull the trigger on her . . .'

Linley interrupted. 'Tell me why she would hire this bike killer to do the husband and then take the bother to kill herself? Why not arrange for both or just do both herself?'

### Teresa took a breath.

Jim had a go.

'Maybe, she was the type that couldn't kill another, but doing herself was another matter. She might have found out something terrible about Boban, maybe he'd been having an affair.' Teresa gave him a dubious look. He continued. 'I don't know, maybe something from his past? Anyway, she has him bumped off and then she takes the easy way out.'

The chief stood up shaking his head, 'sorry people, but I'm not ordering a major crime map into recent deaths in London on what you've given me.' He looked directly at Jim. 'Look, you've no bigger admirer than me when it comes to your intuitive nigglings . . . but this . . . this just doesn't fit together. Put it away and get me the killer of Cedric Boban. Find the motive and the identity of the killer might become clearer.'

Jim shrugged and looked at Teresa who was expressionless.

'Okay Guv, but there is another thing.' The chief nodded, 'the iffy lawyer Sexton?' the chief nodded again. 'Well, he'd just won an appeal and reversed the court's decision to imprison his client, a dodgy landlord who'd been found guilty of manslaughter due to irresponsible building maintenance.'

'The Freeman case?' stated Linley, recalling two years ago that a mother and her two daughters had died of gas asphyxiation in a rundown flat in nearby Kings Cross. A week later three students died in a fire in the top floor flat of an adjacent building, both owned by Marcus Freeman. He had cut corners and had installed dodgy gas fittings and was eventually tried and found guilty at the Old Bailey. The trial case had been high profile then but the appeal was not and after Freeman's wife hired the expensive firm of Sexton and Chappell to handle the appeal, her husband was released on bail and eventually acquitted of any responsibility. He had since gone to live in Spain and was suing the firm of solicitors who had handled his original trial case. It was a mucky business, one in which Sexton and his practise excelled.

'Yes sir . . . the Freeman case was just one incidence of Sexton and his firm handling dodgy clients, so maybe someone got upset and had him bumped off and the Russian girl just happened to get in the way.'

There was a knock on the chief's door.

'Come,' he said. Jim heard the accent before he saw Mr Henri Chalvet enter the with his camera man and sound engineer. Jim and Teresa were both disgusted that Linley would allow an important meeting to be broken up by Chalvet poking his camera in.

Fuck this, thought Jim as a dazzling, smiling Mr Chalvet shook his hand.

'I am pleased to finally meet you Mr Duke Brannigan,' he said in adequate English.

Linley smiled, greeted him and offered a final word to his officers.

'As I said, don't waste your time with these unfounded theories. Use your talents to find the real culprit.'

'Sir, there's a shooter out there breaking the commandments and I have-' Jim was halted by Linley holding up a finger to indicate discretion.

'Shooter?' asked Chalvet inquisitively.

Unbeknown to everyone but the camera man, these last few words were recorded. The Frenchman had walked in holding his camera at waist level, but with his finger on 'record'.

A month earlier Chalvet had been given Home Office clearance to film and was looking forward to making an expose of the workings of a typical English police station. He could not believe his luck at finding himself in the midst of a paedophile hunt and a police station shooting.

### Jim and Teresa were walking out to the car when Teresa asked.

### 'Did you deliberately say that commandment stuff while Chalvet was there?'

'I don't know Teresa; I don't know anymore. It's a sad bloody day,' she gave him a cute Saturday night smile, 'when your Guvnor is more concerned with frog documentaries rather than his officers following up their hunches. A sad day for policing lady!''

Teresa was thirsting for something alcoholic and was going to invite him for a drink in the local when he called her Teresa, but now it was back to 'lady'. Forget it, don't rush.

'I'm off for a gin and tonic, see you in the morning Jim.'

He stood there for a moment looking at her shapely form. He could feel himself being drawn to her. She's gorgeous, and she backs up her colleagues, good for her. Jim drove home wondering what she was like intimately. He had not been with anyone else since his marriage fell apart. He did not want to; there was no itch to scratch. God, if things were different he would be all for getting to know Teresa Mannion. She was paying him a certain amount of attention but that was probably because he was paying her none. Women hate to be ignored, you can do almost anything else, but they want to be noticed. And they talk about male egos, we're not even a close second, thought Jim as he pulled up outside The Mahra Balti House.

Tonight was finally going to be Sergio Leone night. One or two bottles of red, a nice chicken Korma with onion bhaji and three hours of 'Once Upon a Time in The West.' Now that was bliss. Maggie Boban's antics had cancelled the showing for the last three days, he had worked late every night to come home to The BBC's Newsnight, a meat pie and a couple of glasses of wine before falling asleep in his clothes. Not tonight, no phone, just Sergio Leone. Jim regarded his films as an art form and even though he had seen this one at least five times, it had never lost its shine. Jim needed tonight, this was his escape, other officers would be out in a pub or restaurant, but not him; he had his own way of dealing with the job.

Jim Brannigan got the nickname of The Duke because of an early seventies film which had an American police detective called Jim Brannigan following an American gangster to the UK. The role of the tough uncompromising copper was played by the late John Wayne and so Wayne's nickname of 'The Duke' had stuck. As a result, Jim became interested in the movies of John Wayne and was now a big western fan. He loved to get lost in his western world where the good guys won the girl and the bad guys went to Boot Hill; the world that made him feel warm and safe, it was a better place to be. His favourite time spent away from the force was watching 'Shane' and the likes of 'High Noon,' which he would view alone at home with his £6 bottles of anything red. He was hardly a connoisseur of wine but he liked the taste and the escape it gave him. He was most happy in his darkened rear lounge, his cine projector relaying images of heroes and villains against the backdrop of Arizona and other such remote places. This was his private world and guests were never invited. Nobody knew of his appreciation of the vine and he liked it that way. If he was in the station's local boozer it would always be a pint and a half of Bitter and nothing more, though he seldom frequented pubs. He knew he liked his red wine to the point where it might be labelled a problem but since the departure and untimely death of his wife he cared not to dwell on it. As long as he enjoyed it and it did not interfere with the job, what was the harm? He would sometimes drink one or two bottles in an evening but he always used an off licence well away from his patch to make sure that no one got near enough to him to suspect it. He was always in the station on time and dressed better than most of the solicitors that he hated to be in the same room with. His cure for hangovers was to dunk his head into an icy lemon-watered sink and then eat some toast. Coffee, he found added to the feeling of uselessness. It might be refreshing for some but Jim found the taste recurring and preferred a pint glass of lemon squash with a teaspoon of brandy before he nodded off, and the same again when he awoke, usually in his armchair with the cine projector flickering.

Three men drove into Cavendish Square's underground car park in a stolen Peugeot 405 and exited ten minutes later having relieved a similar car's number plates.

'Where to first Sarge? asked the driver, a haggard faced man in his thirties.

'The copper!' he answered, 'then we'll call on the born again Christian.' The third man, the youngest and self titled 'most handsome', checked the chamber of his Browning handgun and readied it.

'I love this town,' he said loading a clip and pushing the firearm into his waistband.

#  CHAPTER NINE

Jim pottered around his smallish kitchen, warmed a plate for his food and settled down in his cinema style armchair in his cosy rear lounge, neatly decorated years ago by the late Mrs Brannigan. His inspector's salary afforded him a three bed roomed semi in a nice part of Camden. The front room, the parlour as she had called it, was barely used, it had been a while since anyone had reason to use its soft flowery three-piece suite. The bigger lounge at the back was his favourite room, in which he spent most of his time. It housed his small desk that he used for work related matters and household accounting. His cine projector was perched high just inside the back window relaying its images onto the wall opposite. His cinema seat was the scruffy yet comfortable leather armchair underneath the projector affording him a wide screen view. The opposite wall was all about Hollywood. The top half, his silver screen and below; his latest pride and joy, a 31 inch Nicam stereo television and matching Nicam video recorder. His four Hi Fi speakers were connected through the video to the television producing a quality Dolby sound. Being a CID officer he frequently came into contact with dealers selling quality equipment at 'bargain prices,' but he always turned down these mouth-watering deals. He never accepted anything, no matter how tempting. His only freebie was the London Standard that a grateful street vendor would shove into his car on a daily basis. The newspaper seller's daughter had been roughed up one night years ago by two doped up Rastafarians. She had missed her last tube home and had been standing at an all-night bus stop when they approached and got too friendly. Jim had been sent to investigate and the duo took umbrage to his questions. One of them hit him with a frying pan before needing twelve weeks of physiotherapy in the Royal Free Hospital. The other 'fell down' a flight of stairs, losing an ear. They complained to the Police Complaints Authority and Jim had been called before a panel to answer his over zealousness. But the charges were dropped when the publicity shy clients of the Rasta's drug supplying went elsewhere. Every time since, at a set of traffic lights between job and home Mickey Flynn would refuse to accept payment for Jim's paper. Jim was uncomfortable with it, but bar changing his convenient route home, he accepted it. Mickey was a decent, hard working man who reported the occasional whisperings to the man he always called 'sir'. Never familiar, though very handy when it came to film and video clubs. Flynn's cousin in Barnet imported cine films from the States and Jim would buy the odd one and add on an extra couple of quid to make up for the free papers. It was a game they played, so relaxed in its simplicity. Jim spent a couple of hundred pounds a year on his hobby but everything that was his, was paid for by graft. In the early days he'd bought so many cine films on reel that he'd decided to keep his cinema set up to date, despite the advancement of video. A large mahogany bookcase of seven shelves was filled with western classics, mostly on reel but the newer ones like 'Unforgiven' were on video tape. He varied his viewing between the older, cinemascope classics and the modern, Dolby enhanced sound offerings of today. If you had the money you could transfer video to cine but there were very few films worthy of the effort anymore. Overall he preferred the projector, it reminded him of his youth, sitting in old fashioned cinema houses, eating bon bons, watching in awe as the magic flickering beam relayed tales of heroes, villains and getting the girl. He missed his youth, his innocence and its clear-cut moralities. He missed his wife, and just lately, the company of a woman. He was changing. He was beginning to ask himself if he wanted to remain alone forever. He would like to have someone, someday to share his thoughts and world with.

For the time being it was just him, the curtains closed, the slightly warm Red uncorked, his projector inviting him to step back in time. If he could travel in time, he would be off to the American west of the last century. He would resist the temptation to drop by a Dallas book depository, a visit to Lord Lucan's home, or a bunker in Berlin. It would have to be Tombstone in the 1870's. What would it have been like? Standing beside a nervous Wyatt Earp in a fusty, beer smelling saloon, deserted except for an old timer tinkering on the piano. A shot of whiskey to steady the nerves and then on to the dusty street to face down the lawless Ringo and Clantons. Give me that time machine and I am there. For now, it was the fruit of the vine and the music of Ennio Morricone that filled Jim's airy semi-detached retreat. He sat transfixed and watched three bad men laying in malicious wait at a stifling hot New Mexico train station.

Nearby, outside the curtains that Susan Brannigan had hung in happier days, sat three men who were far deadlier than the likes of Johnny Ringo. There was no haunting music to provide any romance to the situation. They were all killers; they had killed for Queen and country and were now doing it for other reasons and nobody, good or bad, would get in their way. They sat discussing the future of a copper who was presently making enquiries into two recent murders. Was he a hero? Was there any way he might be genuinely sympathetic to our cause or would he have to meet with an accident?

Jim looked at Charles Bronson and wondered at his character's courage, why was he going up against three gunslingers? What did he have, that all three of his reckless opponents could not muster together. One of the bad guys, a striking Negro with unreachable, callous eyes that betrayed his devilish trade, sparked a cord of anger in Jim. Brannigan only had to look at a black man now and his mind caved in to his dying wife slumped on the pavement. Looking down at her shocking condition, he had feared madness. He had been notified straight away and because it happened around the corner, he had arrived before the ambulance. She must have been coming home! She was in a bad way; must have been hoping for forgiveness and a fresh start from the only man who had ever loved her. Jim had been at home that terrible night and Sergeant Grayson had been out in a patrol car. Grayson found her and after calling in for help he had sent the car around the corner to get her estranged husband.

Karabayro had as much as put her in a coffin and now he was out, he was free to wreck more lives. Bronson's Leone character would have shot the Jamaican, no questions, not a word spoken. He would play his harmonica, wipe it, put it away and then send Karabayro to the devil. Jim swallowed a mouthful of the grape and realised that he could not exist in London, could not breathe the same air as 'Teddy' Karabayro. Therefore, after the Boban investigation, the children recovered, dead or alive and all those bloody media people were gone . . . the Duke would do what Bronson would most definitely do. He had a plan; all he needed was the opportunity. Satan would have to wait a little longer to meet 'Teddy' Karabayro, but meet him he would. The Duke's attention was brought back to the screen by Bronson's gun as it spat out death to the three desperados. He settled down for a night of escapism. Part of him ached to know what she was doing now. Did Teresa have any male company tonight? What was going on in his mind? The other part of him was disgusted that he was intrigued by her. The grub had been good, the wine alcoholic and this was one of the greatest westerns ever made. Enjoy Jim, forget silly thoughts. But it was hard, his mind raced. He pictured Karabayro in the shopping mall and then suddenly, it was that face filling his mind. That haggard face that had been staring at him from the balcony. Who the hell was it? Jim had been thinking about it all day and was sure that he had seen him before and his intuition said beware, the man with the haggard face was no ordinary man.

Jim's intuition was spot on, the face he saw in the mall was that of a killer; a callous killer and he was looking at Jim Brannigan as he sat watching 'Once Upon a Time in The West'. An aluminium cord had been inserted through an air vent with a minuscule camera at its tip, giving the observer a wide scan view of Jim's private living room cinema. At the front of the house, the other two ex members of the Special Air Service sat in their car debating whether or not the former military policeman was a risk to their operation. How close could he get? Did he pose a threat and if he did, Old Bill or not, he would have to be dealt with? It would be harsh, but nothing could get in the way of the crusade. Being a high ranking detective, it would definitely have to look like an accident. Too bad, thought the haggard faced Danny Thornley, crouched at the rear of Jim's house. He would not have scoffed at the opportunity to run his hunting knife along the ex-redcap's throat. He sighed and went back to watching a scuffled videoed view of a classic western on cine film.

Mrs Mary Austin sat quietly alone in her make-do kitchen. A rarity since her son Neville failed to arrive home with his father three weeks ago. Since then her home had become a coffee stop for the police, victim support, church officials and worst of all, the media. The clamour was slowly fading; it was no longer headline news, just the odd journalist calling with invites to talk about her heartache. Her kitchen was no longer the happy playing ground where she prepared the family meals and watched her darling, mischievous Neville playing freely, stopping now and again to ask for a lolly from the fridge. Those days were gone, taken from her. Mary knew in her heart that three weeks was too long a gap to hope that her angel could still be alive. Everyone had told her to keep going, to carry on as normal. How could she, how could I pretend? Her husband Craig was back at work and she was left alone to come to grips with her loneliness. A one child family had been wiped out in an instant. Faceless, seedy men had robbed her of her God given happiness. She and her husband now slept in separate beds, something that never could have happened, not in their marriage. Husband and wife had grown apart, he was drinking heavily and swearing all sorts of vengeance on the world's paedophiles, only to wake in the morning and pick a fight with her about the same old thing. It wasn't his fault that he'd left little Neville alone in the car while he'd popped into the shop to do his lottery numbers. He blamed the man in front of him for spending a week's wages on lucky dips. The expectant gambler had held up the queue while a passing pervert seized upon a lucky opportunity. One tabloid paper had printed a "PERVERTS LUCKY DIP" header on a second paragraph. How could they use our loss to sell their venomous rags? Two days later, a repentant editor had put up a ten-thousand-pound reward for information leading to the discovery of her son. Mary no longer cared for Craig; she did not blame him for his careless lottery obsession, for she too had often anguished at the thought of missing a single draw. But she and her husband of seven years were finished. He had begun to hit out at her for the flimsiest of reasons. He had proved himself a weakling when it mattered most; he had failed her in her loneliness. He could not talk about the family's feelings; he had simply given up and replaced the joy of fatherhood with the blurred escapism of brandy and bottles of Becks. Last night's drunken rambling concerned the Daniels, the family whose twelve-year-old girl had also disappeared whilst the family were out at a neighbour's barbecue. Craig was now blaming them for his drinking because they still had two children left. 'One down two to go,' he stammered and then threatened to go around and kill their two remaining children. There had been plenty of counselling offered to Mary since the abduction, but her only friend, the only person she could tell how she truly felt was a stranger, an ordinary chap at the end of the Samaritans phone line. In the last two and a half weeks, they had spoken nearly every day, sometimes for an hour in the evening. His call name was 'Joseph Four' and he had been brilliant, aware of her loss through the media frenzy before she even phoned. He listened and then listened again. He understood. Their chats loosened the knots that lay embedded across her stomach. He was a friend, her friend Joe. He reached into her; and got her to face her own doubts and in doing so, saved her from losing her sanity. One day, no matter what happened with her angel, Mary Austin would like to meet Joe and give him a hug. People like him were the genuine salt of the earth. He could even be funny, she laughed last night when her Samaritan friend suggested that she could rid herself of a drunken and increasingly abusive husband and use his insurance money to get even with the wrong doers who had stolen her child. Joe was honest, he was not like the do-gooders who said 'Chin up Mary love, he'll be back, you'll see. He'll toddle back home and ask for a lolly and all will be forgotten'. Rubbish! Mary was no fool, Neville was gone and he wasn't coming home. The disappearance of the twelve-year-old Daniels girl from Bank Avenue, just half a mile away, was evidence enough that a paedophile gang were at work in the area. Joseph told her to prepare for the worst, to be realistic, and keep praying. Pray for the slim chance that maybe some distraught mother had snatched Neville and was keeping him locked up or else . . . pray that anyone who harmed an innocent child would see justice.

Mary looked around her empty world and waited for Joseph to phone. This was the way it was now; because of his day job and other commitments he was now phoning her, at three and for a longer evening chat around eight. She had not phoned the Samaritans since, because of the connection she had made with Joe. He had broken the rules they placed on their volunteers. Callers cannot ask for a particular Samaritan; they spoke to whomever they got. By chance, she had spoken to him initially and subsequently twice afterwards. Then for two days, she'd hang up if he couldn't come to the phone. They were insistent with their rules but relief came when Joe called her the next day. He said his heart went out to her and he would phone her from now on. She'd like to ring him, but his home phone number was disconnected because of a bill dispute and he was waiting to get connected with cable. She had a mobile number for him, in case of emergencies.

A panic attack was edging towards her subconscious; his voice needed to halt it in its tracks. Craig's drinking was getting heavier, as were his blows. Please phone me Joe . . . please! She would talk about last night's soaps and then they move on to discuss a just and fair world for all. Please, for God's sake ring me!

#  CHAPTER TEN

The two-car convoy approached the turn off and once on the smaller road, slowed down to ensure there were no uninvited parties following behind. They always followed this same precautionary route in the exact same way. One car went on ahead and the cargo car followed, both had mobile phones and the watch car ahead would alert the cargo car if any police or suspicious observers were waiting. They always followed the same routine, no matter how boring it got. Safety first, no chances were taken, none whatsoever. Prison was not an option.

The lead car drove past the dirt road very slowly and then messaged the cargo car - 'Enjoy the flight gentlemen, see you at the next party.' The two men in the cargo car let go of an hour's nervous breath and drove the last two hundred yards onto the airfield. They observed the rubbish bin with the black ribbon attached - giving them the all clear. Spotting their accomplice who would be taking them out over the Channel, both men sighed with relief. He smiled also, he was always nervous that someone else would turn up one day and he would be forced to try and flee in his ten-year-old Cessna or stay and wallow in the contempt of his fellow man.

They were here; time to go. It was a nice day for a jaunt over the water, the air was pure, its freshness lay against their faces; a hint of salt replaced the staleness of London and the putrid odour that had increased in the car during the journey down. The new Ford Mondeo Estate reversed up as far as possible to the light Cessna aircraft and the back opened up. All three men exchanged the usual handshakes and the two, who had driven the thirty-two miles from Lewisham in approximately one hour, prepared to unload their cargo. It was a double dunking this morning, two to go, the fun was had. The party was over and it was time to dispose of the incriminating waste. They dragged the heavier of the two sacks from the car and heaved it into the belly of the Cessna.

Twenty minutes after the second sack was loaded, they were airborne and miles from shore. Three men, the pilot who was a retired RAF officer, a police officer and the other, an ordinary man who sold conservatories, all relaxed. Whatever happened now they were home free, Neptune smiled up at them and would soon take possession of the remnants of their fun. The pilot looked at his readings and signalled his passengers to complete the grisly task. The aircraft, flying at five hundred feet separated the hesitant sun from the great void below. It was not mid Pacific, but it was all that was required. Nothing weighted came up from that depth.

Mary Austin put down the phone. Wow, she felt better! Joe had come through again. He had suggested an idea that was highly improbable, thoroughly illegal, but tempting enough to fantasise about and even consider. He felt her pain and suggested a way for her to have a life when her torment had eased. She could not tell anyone, nor would she. Was it possible that her friend of barely three weeks, the anonymous stranger at the end of the telephone line could have the answer that when mentioned, leapt to the forefront of her beleaguered mind, begging to be used. Leaping past all her Christian upbringing, compassion and respect of the law, she knew deep down that her friend had lit a light of hope within her. Not the hope of finding her beloved son, that was in God's hands now. This new hope was in the guise of revenge. Do unto others as they would do to you. "There was nothing wrong with that . . . was there?" Joe had asked. No, there bloody wasn't thought Mrs Mary Austin as she reached over to the fridge and took down the drawing that was blue-tacked to its door. Tears came to her eyes as she remembered three months ago when her little Neville had come tearing into the kitchen yelling, "Mummy I've got a surprise, close her eyes!' Opening them moments later, her excited child screamed, "It's a hairplane!" She sat looking at the frayed image of an aeroplane. A "hairlane across the sea, to Disneyland mummy!" Mary's heart cried out for justice.

'Goodbye little man!' said the jocular policeman as he pushed Neville Austin's mutilated corpse out of the aircraft, 'ya little fuck!' All three laughed. Next, it was the turn of the distorted remains of Linzi Daniels to freefall into the English Channel.

'Whew! I'm glad she's gone' said the salesman, indicating that the treatment applied earlier to the girl's corpse had worn off sooner than expected.

'But what a shag eh?' enthused the pilot.

'I know mate, I can't wait for another one like her, and this time, I'm gonna get to do the topping,' added the police officer.

'Little fucking bitch!' smirked the pilot as he pointed the Cessna skywards, climbing to circle and look at the spot. They all looked down at the English Channel; a greenish blue swell licked the salty sea air. Like all pilots, he had a healthy respect for the deep. He looked down in awe, Davy Jones' Locker . . . our secrets you keep. He wondered if there were others making similar deposits. This had been his ninth in two years and he knew that his network had other equally ingenious methods of disposal, but didn't know where or who was involved. Snuff parties were first names only. No social niceties. Just pure lust when they had someone exceptional to share. There was a lot of anonymity on the scene, with good reason. If a group were ever discovered, the less they knew, the less the police knew.

The cop looked at his finger and then down to the spot where they had deposited the bodies. He put it in his mouth and sucked it, still hurting from where the Neville boy had bitten him. Despite the drugs given to the child, he had still managed to put up a fight, even when his pelvis had snapped. Over zealousness, I got carried away, what can a man do? Served him right, the fish were welcome to him.

'Did ya hear the yells of it when it got snuffed . . . squealed like a pig,' he joked, mimicking the youngster's pleas for leniency as the plane made its way back towards land. The other two smiled and went back to their own recollections of their week long orgy. The media portrayed us as sub humans, sub humans we will act, but we are men like others. Men who dealt with children on a regular basis. Middle class pillars of society, just like stamp collectors or anglers, they formed a group and met regularly to enjoy their indulgence. Theirs was a secret world where death could be dished out to any member not willing to attend a party or to snuff out a life. Anyone showing the slightest unwillingness would be carefully observed. Detection was unthinkable.

The salesman had seen the sacks plop and sink to the depths. He looked forward to the next time they would all meet. The network stood by brotherhood, one for all and all for partying. Hundreds of children went missing in London every year, swallowed up in the big city's anonymity. Train stations were an ideal point for picking up teenagers arriving alone with no one to meet them. However, the majority of their prey came from a chance spotting. Then the tedious surveillance and finally, the catch. Snatching the Neville boy was no accident; they were on his tail for a week previous. The dummy of a father throwing his money away on the lottery was just the opportunity they had hoped for. They were on him as soon as the father stepped inside the shop. Within a minute, the Austins were childless. The Daniels girl, now that had been daring. To see the parents go next door to the barbecue and to snatch her in broad daylight, that was a classic. A fucking cheek. Selling conservatories was boring, life needed an edge. Scouting, targeting and snatching was a buzz. The orgy that followed was the icing on the cake. Once someone attended a snuff event or an orgy, that was it, they were in until death. Last year a dentist got cold feet and was prepared to tell all to the police. He had never taken part in the event, just watched, but that was enough to buy him a plane ticket and a bath in the channel. Mind you, joining was not easy. They were obsessively selective about who perverted with them; they had to be. Back to selling conservatories for a while, a bit of cold calling never hurt anyone, knocking on doors had its reward. Exactly six weeks earlier, he had knocked on a door to be greeted by the twelve years of purity that he had just helped despatch into the deep. The Daniels girl had answered the door and called out petulantly to her father - "There's a man trying to sell something at the door." Bitch, she didn't have much to say all last week. By the time we were finished with her she looked nothing like the girl that came to her parent's door. He had spotted her, alerted the others and never went near the house again. His friends waited until they saw her parents leave and then knocked, this time with a blanket and syringe. Now, for the time being, it was back to selling to provide for the wife and kids. He looked at his two companions and gauged their respectability, pillars of society, who would possibly suspect them? He looked at his own reflection in the aircraft window and smiled; if the wife found out . . . don't even think of it, worse than prison. I just can't help it!

#  CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jim had awoken at four in the morning, unaware of the scrutiny merited to his reputation and investigation. He was slightly groggy, having finished both bottles of red. He was used to waking up in his cinema chair and then trudging off to bed for a more comfortable three hours kip. He had enjoyed Mr Leone's masterpiece and the alcohol had done the trick. Oblivion was never far away and you always had to return, but it was an escape. He had reawakened at seven, submerged his head in an ice cold basin of lemon tainted water, showered and dressed in a smart navy blue suit that he had bought in Italy last year for a special occasion. Between sleep he had decided upon spending the day looking into the Boban's life; their habits, spending, their access to guns if any, their neighbours, work colleagues, and where they'd been recently. Though technically over the limit on these occasions he would drive to the station carefully and then task a colleague to do any other necessary driving.

He peered over his notebook to where Teresa sat drinking her coffee in his office. What was he all spruced up for, who will notice? He prided himself on his appearance and others had come to expect it of him now. He remembered thinking about Teresa last night and wondered again where she had been and if she had been with somebody. God, she was looking good today! It was effortless. This woman was exactly that . . . all woman, from the slightly turned up nose beneath that beautiful mop of jet black hair to the athletic legs, beautifully toned and silky. He started to wonder if he was the only one who noticed this beauty stride elegantly through the station, as yet he'd only seen a few of the younger types catching a quick ogle. Maybe ogling is not the done thing for the nearly forties to pleasure in. Jim wondered why men presumed that their female colleagues dressed for them and them alone.

Walking out to the car, he had looked at her and craved closeness. He would be mortified if she caught him looking. Why wasn't she with someone? She never spoke of anyone; the way people do in the job. Police work being what it was, people's outlet was talking about home, to remind themselves that they counted, that they just weren't there to clean up after everyone else had had their fun. Later in the day, he'd casually ask her about her private life. First, it was to Williams and Co. to speak to Cedric Boban's friendly boss. Teresa had already established that Maggie Boban had withdrawn six thousand pounds from their joint account. She had spoken to the clerk who dispensed the money to Maggie. The girl remembered because she had asked Maggie how Mr Boban was and Mrs Boban had said that he was retiring in three days' time. The chatty teller then asked her if the money was for a retirement present to which Maggie mumbled "something like that." The Boban's last holiday was in Prague four months ago, where they had spent a long weekend. With no children to speak of, Jim had given DS Johnson the unenviable task of going through their phone bills to check frequent numbers dialled. The shotgun was a particular curiosity that kept coming back to Jim. Where does a respectable suburban housewife of fifty-three get a sawn-off shooter from? He and Teresa had not discussed their biker killer theory all morning; as if Chief Linley's practicality had erased it from their mind.

That wasn't the case though; it was there in their heads, waiting to say I told you so. One word nagged at them both, a word common to every investigator throughout time – motive! Why did this nice middle class woman kill herself after claiming to have shot her husband and why did a hooker apparently shoot herself after taking the time to electrocute a seedy heavyweight lawyer? Why didn't she just shoot him? Too many unanswered questions! Witnesses recalled a bike or bikers at both locations within days of each other. Jim and Teresa asked themselves whether they were coincidences and wondered if there was any sort of connection between. Before meeting Williams, Teresa commented on what a stylish suit Jim was wearing.

'It'll do,' said Jim phlegmatically, though he felt like a schoolboy who had just caught the class beauty staring at him during a suggestive biology lesson. Immediately after, Jim reproached himself for his inner giddiness. This was the woman who had buckled under pressure at Karabayro's trial.

What they did not know was that Theodore Karabayro's lawyer was, at the time, in Kentish Town police station, waiting with his client to make a complaint against DI Jim Brannigan. Karabayro now feared Jim, but decided that provoking him was the best form of defence. He had bumped into Jim and Teresa at the shopping mall quite by accident, but all the while had been secretly engineering a chance meeting in front of witnesses to examine the possible vindictiveness of the man. Years ago, before his jail term, he did not care when told that he was messing with a tough copper's wife. Jail had changed him, he was still going to have his fun, but no way was he seeing the inside of a cell again. I'll make this copper wary of meeting me again. I'll play the innocent ex-con trying to start a new life. These were Teddy's thoughts as he sat angelically in the station's reception, smiling and nodding to any and every passing official.

"Fuck the slag pig, make out a complaint! Ya dozy, waste of me green lawyerman," had been the words that Teddy used to his lawyer earlier. It had been a bad morning for Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro. His old sidekick, Mr Jason Clegg had disappeared without trace despite Teddy putting out his feelers. He had wanted him to get back in the game, but Jason had found religion in Brixton Gaol where he had served only two and a half years, six months less than Teddy. Clegg had befriended a vicar whilst inside, and when freedom came it was accompanied by a job with a removal firm and a sweet girlie librarian. She had become a pen friend during his detention at Her Majesties pleasure in South London. He was living in a bedsit somewhere in Islington and did not want to know Teddy anymore; he was going straight with the help of the Lord.

DCI Andrews was dealing with Karabayro's harassment complaint from the shopping mall when he received a friendly call from a colleague in Stoke Newington CID. Jason Clegg had been found dead that morning in Clissold Park. Misuse of drugs had been the cause, but there was also the matter of his finger and toe nails being removed and the word 'dealer' etched into his forehead. Andrews sat and watched Karabayro and his lawyer going through the motions, bursting a gut to tell the Jamaican of the wickedness that had befallen his old partner in death. Fucking drug dealing wanker, he thought to himself as he promised the lawyer to look into the matter.

I make more in one deal than you make in a year, ya trumped-up, pussy skank, white piece of shite police bouy, Teddy ruminated as he smiled goodbye to DCI Andrews at the door.

'Thank you, Mr Andrews,' he muttered, totally unaware that the man he sought was lying in the morgue, having suffered a night of excruciating torture at the hands of men who had done it all before, but then it had been done at the bequest of Her Majesty's Government.

The three ex-servicemen who had watched Jim watching Bronson last night, had waited until the wine was drunk and he had fallen asleep before they drove to Stoke Newington to carry out the plan they had meticulously rehearsed for two days. Their contact had told them of Clegg's location, so when the cute librarian had left for the night, one of the team had knocked on his door, posing as a neighbour from down the road and asked if he could go through to the back garden where his cat had caught itself in a bush. This had happened to plan as the team member gained easy access after remarking - "cats were the dumbest of all God's creatures." Clegg even offered the veteran soldier a cup of coffee. It had been eleven thirty at night but Jason Clegg, who once would have flicked his lighted cigarette in your face at such a request, had been more than helpful in rescuing a poor cat in distress. He walked to his back door with his visitor not far behind. When the back door opened, Jason had been greeted by a masked figure pointing a pistol in his face. The cat loving friendly neighbour produced a thick oil soiled rope from behind him and forced it into his mouth pulling it backwards tightly, then around his midriff, to couple his hands to his waist. It happened in seconds, and Jason immediately knew that these were serious boys, with bad news for him. A hood had been placed over his head and he was led through his back garden and bundled into the boot of the Peugeot parked in the back alley. Danny Thornley was waiting on his motorbike with the engine running at the top of the moonlit alley. The Peugeot flicked its headlights twice and the two vehicles moved off into the chilly London night. Twelve minutes later Jason had been pulled from the boot and kicked down a flight of stairs into the basement of a dilapidated Victorian house. Squatters had been forcibly evicted by the council weeks ago leaving easy access to three killers to secure it for one night's privacy. Attention to detail ensured that the screams of the former Brixton inmate would be heard by nothing human. Whether Clegg had found God for real was not an issue, he could not be believed. They might not kill me, Jason had thought, as he lay blindfolded in the dimly lit cellar. They just wanted to ask a few questions and kick the shit out of me, must be an old drug score. They had whipped off his hood. He didn't look at them; he didn't want to recognise them. He then fainted as his right thumb nail was torn off and a heavily built man had jumped down onto his face. He had felt a stirring in his facial nerves and then awoke to water being poured onto it. Information that he screamed out had been filed onto a laptop. Information about everything and nothing. One particular abductor had taken great pleasure in inflicting pain, smiling all the while and then writing on his head with a Stanley blade. This isn't happening to me, he'd thought. Time and time again one of them would use his head as a football and then after chewing on a mars bar would redirect his size eleven's to his groin. Lots of questions about his old acquaintance Mr Karabayro, enquires about the copper Brannigan whose wife had died from a drug overdose. Jason had blacked out for a third time and forgotten the Queen's English as it became clear that he was not going to live. He couldn't speak, the big craggy faced bloke was enjoying himself as another fingernail was removed from his hand. He passed out and awoke to more water on his face. I don't fucking deserve this shit, not now. Then, all three had been standing before him and the inquisitive one, who appeared to be the leader, produced an instrument of death. A syringe of bleached, pure heroin was injected into the throbbing vein that stood to attention on Jason's forearm, a wave of terror had masked his tormented, bloodied face.

'Please . . . I beg you, my girl is having a baby, I swear . . . I'm clean!' screamed the dying ex-dealer as a heavy Doc Martin thundered into his temple. Six kicks later, Jason had gone to the afterlife. If by any chance he had not been brain dead from Danny Thornley's right foot, the drugs would have done it. They had checked his pulse, a job well done, another dealer cleansed.

At 4AM, just as Jim Brannigan had been exchanging leather for cotton sheets, the body of Jason Clegg was propped up on a urine drenched wall at the back of the padlocked public lavatory in the quietness of a North London park. During the four hours to discovery, an assortment of insects would creep over to the expectant daddy to sniff about his body. They scattered when a frustrated mini cab driver, needing a toilet urgently came upon him only to wet his tracksuit bottoms. It was 8 AM and "the morning traffic was becoming a joke, the fucking pisshouse was padlocked . . . and what's this bum doing. He's fuckin dead!" Later the cab office would be full of the news that one of their own had come across a dead druggie who had received his come-uppance. The police had arrived and dealt with the intrigued early shift workers who craned their necks to see a body. No one said a kind word about the deceased, he looked worthy of a cold death in the park. 'Dealer' on his forehead said all that was needed to be said. More would follow until someone figured it out, until the message was heard and clearly understood. Whether his death would be interpreted as a citizen's revenge or gang related, it did not matter. His torture and demise would be picked up by the eager media who would promulgate it to the sewers; London was no longer a safe place to push drugs. Clegg had paid his price to society but it had not been enough. During his dealing career, he had a hand in providing heroin to innocents for their first taste of death. He had been made an example of.

Hours later, an elderly vicar would visit a pregnant librarian. "He has gone to a better place dear," said the kind old man to the tearful, ordinary girl. She had had the misfortune to love a man whose past had caught up and slaughtered him.

'He was a drug pusher, I won't be sending any wreaths.' Duke Brannigan remarked when told of the death.

'A good kicking was the major cause of death, the drugs were added after,' said Forensics' Ted Nugent to the expressionless cop. Jim stared at Clegg's body on the slab, and mentally pictured him and others abusing his wife. Good riddance, you piece of shit Clegg. He felt no compassion whatsoever and then pictured Karabayro lying next to him. That was my job!

While Jim was at the morgue, staring at the broken remains with 'Dealer' etched into the forehead, two of the three men responsible had entered Jim's house through the rear lounge window. They had disconnected the "piece of piss alarm" and were inside within a minute. The third team member, Jamie Richardson was nearby on a bike looking for anything that might interrupt them. Inside Jim's parlour, the carpet was pulled up at the corner and the floor boards undone. Into the cavity a plastic bag that contained the syringe that had delivered death into Jason Clegg's vein had been secreted. There was also a small stash of heroin, eight finger nails and one and a half thumb nails, all bloodied, all unkempt. The boards and carpet had been relayed perfectly as before and the intruders left by the back reconnecting the alarm box. Insurance.

#  CHAPTER TWELVE

Jim Brannigan drove away from the morgue in an ambivalent frame of mind. He was not the slightest bit perturbed at the death of Clegg. A long harsh prison sentence would have been his preferred punishment but justice was done and the lawyers would not see their appetising slice of legal aid. Leaving the morgue, he had taken one last look at Clegg's body and to his bewilderment, felt a split second twinge of regret. He had always felt sadness at the loss of any life, ever since he had seen the carnage on the Basra road where young Iraqis had been incinerated by blast bombs from unseen Allied jets. Charred bodies had littered the highway; death clouded the senses. Clegg had been bad news and by the state of him, he had obviously suffered terribly, but at the end of the day he was not the lice that Susan had run off with. Karabayro was different league, vermin. His death would not be grieved over, not for a second. Jim would deal with the Jamaican when the time was right.

A mile from the station, Jim spotted young Freddy Chalmers and pulled over to give him a lift. Freddy readily accepted and jumped into the car thanking Jim, addressing him as 'Guv'. Whenever he met a superior away from the job he would always observe the correct protocol and respect the officer's rank. Some of his fellow juniors would use the opportunity to get pally and use first names. Freddy kept his mouth shut and waited for Brannigan to speak if he was so inclined. They drove past St Anthony's school and to Freddy's complete surprise, Jim suddenly braked and barked at him to jump out. A bewildered Freddy unbuckled his belt wondering if he should have tried to make some conversation. Wanker, he thought of himself as the DI leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. The Duke was paying him no heed, his attention focused on his rear-view mirror. He was watching a well-dressed man bent down tying his shoelaces opposite the school, in front of the newsagents. Jim scratched under his chin. This same guy was outside the same school last week in the same spot, again tying his laces . . . coincidence? Brannigan was renowned for his hunches; that gut feeling a copper gets when something is not quite right. Was this ordinary looking chap a parent, a local resident whose laces became undone every time he passed St Anthony's? Gut feelings do not fade easily, find out just in case.

'Freddy . . . see the guy in the pinstripe over there?' Jim motioned to the bewildered constable. Freddy looked up and saw the man finish tying his laces and walk slowly away, all the time looking into the school playground where bored teachers kept their eyes on their shrieking brood whilst waiting for assembly bell.

### 'I see him.'

'Follow him, Freddy. I want to know his movements . . . stay out of sight and don't lose him.' As Jim prepared to drive off a bemused and bewildered Freddy enquired. 'What for . . . who is he sir?' He suddenly shoved both his hands into his trouser pockets. 'I'm skint . . . what if he gets a taxi . . .' Jim grimaced and quickly took a twenty from his wallet. A smiling Freddy took the note and looked up to see his suspect about to turn off the main road.

'See me when you get to the nick . . . and remember, no contact with him. Phone me if you've any doubts.'

### Freddy was about to pocket his hands again but Jim pre-empted him and handed over his own mobile phone.

Freddy grinned, 'plain clothes at last . . . I won't let you down Guv.'

Jim sighed and watched him dash down to the junction where the pinstripe had turned off. The Duke drove away debating whether he had acted wisely. He had been told to report to Linley's office as soon as he arrived. Plain clothes . . . the young idiot! I suppose we all start somewhere, sometime. He wondered what Freddy spent his money on to be broke so soon after payday. There was a freshness about young Freddy that Jim liked. He was eager, mannerly and could stand up for himself. Good luck lad, keep your wits about you.

Jim arrived at the station and after clearing Freddy's absence with the duty sergeant went straight to Linley's office. On arrival he found the expectant Mr Chalvet along with his 'warts and all' film crew.

To hell with this for a game of sailors, thought the peeved copper as he answered one mundane question after another. Linley looked a contented man behind his desk and after barely ten minutes, excused himself and went for a walkabout. Jim sat through the boring episode wondering about Freddy. He would ring his mobile in twenty to check on the lad. The Frog Chalvet can't have much more itch to scratch. The Frenchman knew Jim viewed the film crew with disdain. Every time the demonstrative film maker made a gesture, Jim pictured him in a striped shirt, onions about his neck and wearing a beret whilst shooting a fifties Bardot movie in St Tropez.

Jim looked at them and tried to imagine their salaries. Easy work if you can get enough of it, I suppose. He relaxed and nodded his head for the umpteenth time. His thoughts strayed, am I supposed to be overawed by their presence? Messing about with lights and make up. Come on Fred . . . report in lad. Jim told the control room where he would be and to put Freddy straight through if he called. Chalvet was about to finish his routine questioning and fearing Chief Linley's imminent return he changed tack and got personal about the life of a man he should not have got personal with.

A buoyant Linley stepped into his office to be greeted by a melee. Jim had Chalvet up against the wall by his throat. The film makers cohorts were attempting to extract Jim from the quivering Frenchman. The inquisitive journalist had asked him to comment on his late wife's dalliance with the drug supplier Karabayro.

'Inspector Brannigan, let go of him immediately!' barked Chief Superintendent Linley.

### Jim backed away from Chalvet with a warning finger jabbed into the director's chest.

'Any other questions about my wife and you'll eat that camera! Understand?'

Chalvet swallowed heavily and nodded his head. He ushered his crew out of the door with Linley mumbling an apology.

The chief closed the door behind them and turned on Jim. 'What the hell was that about Inspector?

'Exactly what I told him Guv . . . it's personal, nothing to do with the job.' The phone buzzed. Jim was relieved to hear Freddy's voice. 'Well done lad, get back as quick as you can,' Jim replied, the infuriated Linley listening on. The excited constable was about to go into detail when Jim interrupted, 'okay Dick Tracey okay . . . give it to me later.' He replaced the phone and waited for his boss to give him his all.

Former SAS Sergeant Joseph Cassidy radioed from the driver's seat of an old British Telecom transit parked on Trinity Road. Danny Thornley and Jamie Richardson sat on their motorbikes nearby, eating sandwiches and drinking tea from plastic cups, as couriers invariably did throughout the capital. Danny answered his Sergeant's call and nodded to Jamie. Shortly a transport would leave HM Prison Wandsworth, despatching Duncan Whyte back into a society that reviled him. Whyte had just completed a five-year stretch for child molestation. He had stayed in Wandsworth overnight having been sent down from Broadmoor Prison the day before. Two plain clothes police officers were escorting him to a new life in Camden. Joseph and his men had been active since the early hours and were now waiting to follow his trail. Their high level police contact had been able to ascertain the time of departure from gaol but not the exact location of his safe house, a house known only to a few liberal-minded counsellors on Camden Council. All three of the former soldiers were beyond tired, as the night had been late and the morning had arrived far too early. Observation detail was boring, but a moment's lapse could be costly. They could not take a chance on missing Whyte so the bikes would follow him alternatively with Joseph bringing up the rear in the van. They required information from him regarding missing children. Even though Whyte had been incarcerated during the Austin and Daniels abductions he was a major player who would be shortly watching a snuff video of their actual killings.

Whyte stepped into the courtyard with his belongings tied up in a transparent carrier. As the door clanked behind him, he smiled and filled his lungs with freedom. His perversion had begun when his drunken stepfather had sodomised him at the age of twelve. It put him on the perverted slope that he had since descended to mind numbing depths, interrupted only by three separate sojourns at Her Majesty's pleasure. Two indecent assaults on two separate neighbour's children, each as the toddlers played in adjacent back gardens and the latest, for attacking a young girl in a Finsbury Park portoloo during a summer music festival. He had an extensive list of perverted misdemeanours that the police could never fully prove. He knew he should always wait for an organised snatch and snuff but the temptation sometimes got too great and he could not help himself. At times, the urge proved irresistible and it led him to take chances. Perversion ran deep and all involved were maniacally suspicious of anything out of place, the postman arriving twenty minutes late would ring alarm bells. Wrong number telephone calls were sufficient reason to cancel an event. They all watched each other's backs. Whyte had been involved with the Weasel and Oliver gangs but they were too high profile to contact at this stage. As was his right, he refused his police custody suite at a suburban station for his own protection and was determined to go it alone. He claimed he was a changed man. He was not. His thirst needed quenching. He had heard of the Kentish Town abductions and enviously awaited his turn to partake in the next snuff party. He was on the sex offenders list so he would have to play it safe for a while in case the cops were watching, but then he would lose himself in debauchery. He could barely contain himself, envisaging the next snatch and snuff.

The blue Volvo estate pulled out of the prison courtyard and was soon engulfed in the heavy South London traffic. Drizzling rain coated the car and the face of evil within, looking out at a playground of opportunity. Whyte sat in the back listening to his personal stereo.

DJ Chris Evans "welcomed all Londoners, whoever you are", to spend the morning with him as he spun Bad Moon Arising. Whyte relaxed in the leather upholstery and gently bobbed his head to the tune. In front, his two escorts made a mental note not to ever sit in the seat he now occupied, not without cleaning it first. They hated their lot on mornings like this. DS Eddie Sinder swallowed gruffly and looked at the thing in his mirror. They were transporting a piece of excrement to some nice flat where he would soon ready himself to attack another innocent. Paedophiles like him were lost causes; they did what they did though they knew it was wrong. They immorally hid behind the excuse of mental illness while knowing that they would strike again. Eddie looked again at the grooving pervert and thought he detected a faint smirk. He imagined what he would do to the thing if he went within a yard of his own small bundle of joy. He would be a prisoner of Her Majesty soon after himself, he suspected. Whyte eyed the drivers mirror and returned the sergeant's glare, before chuckling to himself and swaying his shoulders slightly to the 'Clearwater Revivals'

¶don't go out tonight,

you'll probably lose your life,

there's a bad moon on the rise¶

Outside the comfort of the sturdy Swedish car, the drizzle turned to heavy rain and the two ensuing bike riders were feeling the pinch. Poxy fuckin weather, thought Thornley, you're gonna pay for this Whyte . . . you piece of shit!

Joseph followed behind at a distance, smirking at the thought of Danny Thornley getting a soaking. They had all started out early when the sky was cloudless and there seemed no need for leathers. Joseph radioed Thornley up ahead to ask how he was enjoying the weather. His response contained one word of English followed by a barrage of expletives; he was not a happy bunny. Joseph drove on, remembering when he had first met Danny.

It had been a cool Welsh morning in the Seventies, both a part of a new batch of recruits on basic training. The valleys tested their mettle and they had since become shadows to one another. All through the Falklands; Ireland where they befriended Jamie Richardson, then Belize and the Gulf. Paratroops together, eating together, drinking together and finally B Squadron of the Special Air Service together. Jamie had become their soul mate after a boozy night out in Belfast. They had just come back from Gibraltar, exhilarated after the successful ambush of an IRA active service unit. All three made a special vow to put each other first, the regiment second and the kitchen sink third. It was their terminology for England. The English, a proud race and the armed forces were its crème de la crème in their eyes. It mattered not that they had been demobbed; as they still thought of themselves as soldiers. All three had suffered at the hands of Iraqi savagery when captured during the 1991 Desert Storm offensive and unlike the McNabs and Ryans of the publishing circus; they were not destined for riches and celebrity.

Joseph suspected that he was suffering from radiation poisoning though the Ministry of Defence's medical staff were keen to admit only that he had - "ill defined signs in relation to service in the Persian Gulf." Of the forty thousand British personnel who served in the Gulf, only five people had been thoroughly examined for what became known as 'Gulf War Syndrome'. Joseph resisted the temptation to sue the MOD but he, Jamie and Thornley felt highly aggrieved at the government's dispassionate treatment of its ex-service people. Having served their Queen with honour, they came back from the desert to discover that they were surplus to their nation's need. After years of protecting their country's interests abroad, they suddenly found themselves in a civilian Britain where crime and injustice were rife. They were not alone in their disillusionment. Joseph had three high level contacts who, like him, were disgusted with the judiciary's inability to protect the masses from gangsters brandishing clever, highly paid lawyers. His friends in high places supplied information and the necessary technical equipment vital to their cleansing work. Joseph alone made contact with them and after such telephone conferences, a unanimous decision was needed to give the 'go' for a hit. Jamie Richardson and Danny Thornley were troopers who followed orders. Joseph had held the army rank of Sergeant, a title that the other two still occasionally used to address him. Life promised little after a lifetime of Queen and country so they enthused with Joseph on hearing his plans to rid society of the vermin and filth that threatened it. Joseph liked them; they were blood brothers. They had survived Baghdad and the appalling treatment at the hands of Hussein's henchmen after capture. They flew out of Iraq with all the other prisoners but came home to anonymity. The government lacked credibility in their eyes. They were supposed to be heroes. Joseph had a strong dislike for bureaucracy, as did Jamie. Thornley had an irrational dislike for the world. He nurtured an obsessive desire to somehow get back into Iraq and locate the grave of secret police thug, Taribh Madani. He maintained he could not die before unearthing the corpse of his chief wartime tormentor and putting a bullet through his sunken skull. Joseph knew that Thornley was a psychopath but did not care, he was using it to some good and Danny Thornley looked up to Joseph Cassidy. More so, Danny Thornley feared his former sergeant. He had seen what the quiet, sometimes passionate man was capable of, and the thought of it made his skin tighten.

'Joseph Four', the Samaritan, was an unusual man. He displayed menace in his demeanour but also possessed a caring, sensitive side. He was in his early forties and unlike the other two, no longer built like the proverbial brick outhouse. He had lost weight and was slowing up. He had a dry cough ever since the days of Madani and co, which was getting progressively worse. He would soon visit a doctor but for now, there was work to be done. Work that was sometimes unpleasant but worthwhile and satisfying. Thornley enjoyed his work, loved the kill, put all his heart into it. That is, all the heart he had left if you could describe it as one. The organ that God had given him had been supplanted by one donated by foreign adversaries.

Joseph eyed the sodden Thornley pull back and be overtaken by Jamie to alternate their distance from the Volvo. To contrast their appearance, Thornley wore a denim jacket whereas Jamie opted for a workman's grey bomber coat. The former sergeant took a drag on his Marlboro and coughed. This is getting fucking tedious, coughing my guts up, morning, noon and night. The concoction of injections given in Riyadh had started it and father time had later accelerated it. The government had done nothing to help all the people who had come back with their minds fried or their bodies malfunctioning. Fuckin' useless, pen-pushing pricks, thought Joseph. I'll rectify their ingratitude; I'll bring them to their knees.

He drove on, keeping the bikes in sight wondering whether Whyte would lead them to Neville Austin's abductors. He had promised Mary Austin that revenge was on its way and that it would be savage. For a quiet housewife she had shocked him by asking if she could watch. He declined and assured her that despite their growing telephone friendship, they would never meet. The cost of the operation would be met by Mary. Over the years, she had put a few pounds away for a child's education. It amounted to nearly three thousand pounds but Joseph required only half of it, to be sent by registered mail to a convenient address in Tottenham.

An hour and ten minutes later, the Volvo pulled up outside a house on Pratt Street in the heart of Camden. Its occupants disembarked and were met on the doorstep by a housing official from the town hall. If he felt revulsion, he hid it well, shaking Whyte's hand with an uncommon firmness.

Joseph sat in the van and watched as the Volvo pulled off having completed its task. Whyte would be residing in a three-storey house divided into six modern studios. Thornley and Jamie parked up behind the van and clambered in through the back. Work to do, the scumbag would soon need to chat; his isolation guaranteed it. The team would place a listening device in every phone booth within a fifty-metre radius. They copied the idea from the drug squad in Kilburn who years earlier had noticed dealers leaving the 'Roman Way' public house on Kilburn High Road to use nearby telephone kiosks to set up their deals. Joseph had acquired the old BT van and his uniform from a convenient dealer in Enfield. The markings had been removed but its faintly visible BT indentations made it look like the real thing, albeit shabby. If seen by a genuine BT employee, it would be instantly recognised as obsolete stock but to Joe Public or a passing cop it would appear bona-fide. Danny Thornley sat up front in the cab and watched while Joseph and Jamie prepared their eavesdropping equipment in the rear.

#  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Duncan Whyte sat on his toilet enjoying the privacy. The man from Camden council had left and he was alone at last. In due course, he would walk the streets and get some groceries before making contact with the others. There was a pay phone in the hall downstairs but he would not be so stupid as to use it. Who knows what type of person hid behind the ground floor studio doors? The council had developed the house specifically to accommodate the unfortunates that fell by the wayside. At present it housed a defrocked vicar, two junkies, a disgraced city analyst and an immigrant Kosovan couple. Duncan decided that he would have to be extra careful and contact his group only from public phones. Today he would use a phone kiosk near the tube station.

Tomorrow, unbeknown to him, he would make a fatal error and use the payphone on the corner of Pratt Street. That conversation would be recorded by Jamie and later relayed to his disbelieving comrades. Then the former operatives of B Squadron SAS would set their trap. Vengeance would soon wing its way to the childless Mary Austin.

Jim and Teresa sat in his office and listened to PC Freddy Chalmer's account of his first clandestine surveillance detail. He was in his element, Lieutenant Columbo step aside.

'I followed him around the corner and up on to Regis Road Industrial Estate,' he continued, consulting his small leather bound note book, looking all the time at his two superiors for approval. 'Making sure he never clocked me-'

### Jim interrupted. 'Get to the crux lad!'

He paused, took a breath and handed Jim a business card. 'It's his card sir . . . Gordon Briggs, he's a conservatory salesman!' he said with pride looking at the bemused Teresa.

'He gave you his card . . . and he never clocked you? she asked incredulously.

'Not quite ma'am . . . I took it, he stopped at a roadside sandwich van so I queued for my morning coffee as well. When he took out his wallet to pay he dropped a few business cards.' Both of his bosses were now smiling, Freddy concluded with a flourish. 'I helped him pick them up as I was standing next to him and I put my foot over one he didn't notice. I picked it up after he left!'

### 'Did you speak?' Jim asked.

'He seemed a nice enough bloke . . . just said "thanks" and walked on.'

Jim looked at the card. 'Well Gordon . . . what's your story?' he sighed. 'Well done Fred . . . nice bit of work.' The eager constable waited expectantly for his next assignment. Teresa winked at him and Jim rose to his feet, crossing to look out of his office window. He could just about see the backs of the units on Regis Road Industrial Estate. He scratched under his chin, 'St Anthony's school to the estate . . . is about,' before he could guess Freddy answered.

'Just over half a mile Guv!'

Unlike their CID counterparts, uniform seldom addressed superiors as 'Guv,' preferring 'Sir'. The two detectives smirked.

'Is this salesman a walker, fitness fanatic . . . why walk?' Wondered Jim.

Silence, until Teresa enquired. 'What did he buy for breakfast Freddy?'

A quick check in the notebook. 'Bacon and egg roll with a coffee, three sugars!'

'I doubt fitness fanatic,' she surmised, 'banned from driving more like, let's check him out, shall we?'

Jim nodded handing the card to Teresa. Freddy looked disappointed.

'Right, thanks lad, you'd better get back downstairs.'

After Freddy had left, they both remarked on his boyish enthusiasm. They liked him.

'Teresa, I've gotta be somewhere at two so do you mind working on the motives of these two. Who would want Sexton dead and why Mrs Boban would want her husband dead if she'd planned to depart herself. Work with DS Johnson on their phone records and see what you can dig up.'

She agreed, waiting for his itinerary. He saw her perplexity, 'I'm off to the shopping mall, there's an itch I need to scratch. That guy in the shopping mall . . . when we bumped into Karabayro? I haven't been able to get his face out of my mind since. I'm gonna take a wander down there.'

Teresa shrugged her shoulders as he left. She sat in his chair and tried to fathom out what a sales-type with loose laces and a people watcher in a shopping precinct had to do with anything. I suppose he knows what he's doing. Just leave me with the donkey work why don't you. She took a deep breath and picked up the phone to summon DS Johnson whose maxim she knew was that he never passed up an opportunity to flirt with the fairer sex. Boarding school educated Johnson would get as casually close as he dared while observing her every move with an air of indifference. She had frequently caught him looking her over with the lecherous look of a hyped up adolescent.

She grimaced and started to hum a catchy Phil Collins tune preparing herself for the goatee's gaze.

#  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jim sat in the control centre of the shopping city complex where all the CCTV monitors were viewed. Don Crosby, the security manager had been only too willing to help out the police. He expected any future distress calls to be answered with indecent haste after his efforts. Jim had asked how long they kept their surveillance tapes. Crosby had sighed as if it were a huge task to find a particular one. It was simple and he relished the break from his monotonous workload.

'There you are Inspector,' he played a segment of tape from the day Jim and Karabayro had their confrontation in the downstairs mall. He fast forwarded it until Jim indicated to him to freeze the frame. The still picture on the monitor showed Jim eyeballing Karabayro with Teresa and the minder looking nervously on. 'Who's the pretty woman?' asked the portly Crosby, 'Is that your missus?'

Preoccupied with the tape counter, Jim shook his head. The inquisitive administrator seized the opportunity for some lad's talk.

### 'She's gorgeous, who is she?'

'DI Mannion . . . Scotland Yard.'

He lost interest and asked why Jim wanted to see the tape.

'Police business,' he replied before seeing that face again. Danny Thornley's image was partially hidden from the screen but Jim knew it was him. He frowned heavily as Crosby munched noisily away on a Snickers bar.

Jim reflected on the image and said. 'It's not too clear is it Don?'

Crosby interceded, placing another tape into a separate recorder.

'I thought you were after the scene with the black guy downstairs, if I'd known you wanted the second level . . . there you go!'

Jim took over the second tape and fast forwarded again. Within seconds, the face he sought filled the screen in menacing mood. Ex-Special Air Service trooper Danny Thornley looked back at him as if posing for a mug-shot. Jim scratched repeatedly under his chin, shifting uneasily in his chair. Who the bloody hell is this article . . . and why do I feel bothered? Where have I seen this face before? What's his name? Crosby was about to open a flask of soup.

Jim intervened. 'Don, listen . . . you've been very helpful. How do you fancy a bite to eat?

Potbelly felt the Snickers inside, declined, instead offering Jim a cup of his soup.

### 'Is there any way you could get me a still photo of this guy?'

Ten minutes later Don handed Jim a full length still shot of Thornley exiting the mall. It had been taken from the exterior high street viewpoint. After closer inspection, Jim pushed his luck. The still photo showed the roguish man carrying a Champion USA shopping bag. Crosby traced the bag to one outlet, "Durnhams Sports" on the second level.

Jim thanked the podgy, self-praising gatekeeper and left. Crosby did not enjoy his lot. Jim tried to imagine what it was like to occupy yourself nine hours a day doing something you hated. Jim introduced himself to the ebullient, efficacious manager of Durnhams sports store. The shop occupied a full unit on the busy second level across from a smaller lingerie shop. Jim showed the picture of Thornley to the thirty something retailer.

'Any chance you remember him?'

The man gave a knowing look. This was Jim's lucky day. It began with Freddy's card trick, then the haggard man's photo and now fate would reveal his name and address. Durnhams limp wristed manager actually remembered the "gentleman" in question.

'A friend of yours, officer?' Jim shook his head, 'I remember the brute . . . acted very butch, very intolerant sort of chap. Not my cup of tea, too aggressive,' and with a slight whimper he added, 'called me a stupid fag.' The wounded retailer then revealed that his store had its own CCTV system.

Jim nipped out for a couple of egg and salad sandwiches and two steaming coffees during which time his new found friend produced another still shot of Thornley, taken from over the counter as he bought a sixty-pound pair of trainers. The data information act should have protected the offensive customer's identity but the shoe seller had been able to link the recorded surveillance tape to his service till record from the day in question. It showed Thornley paying by credit card. Jim was then shown the customers signature on the receipt slip. It should have been banked already with all the other credit slips but sloppy bookkeeping and a broken heart had enabled Jim to stare at Thornley's face and details. This was Jim's very lucky day. It read - Mr James Richardson. The detective joined Maurice in the storeroom where they ate their lunch and drank their coffee, discussing the woes of the world. The Duke thanked him for his discretion, telling him to keep safe.

Back at the station's control room, Jim checked the name to the face that had been staring at him and put an address to it; Thirty-four Oakdale House on the Merrydown Estate in Tottenham. Nothing else, James Richardson had no police record or any dealings with any law enforcement agencies so Jim decided that he would use his spare time to check him out.

He went back to his office where Teresa and DS Johnson were just finishing their run down on all the calls made from the Bobans after compiling a list of possible antagonists who had dealt with the legal firm of Sexton and Chappell. It had been a tiresome task. Maurice Sexton had represented at least thirty-four gentlemen of dubious standing in the last eighteen months. Teresa had cross checked every name to see if there was any who had come under police scrutiny. Sexton wasn't choosy! Not many of his clients could be labelled pillars of society. Even his corporate cases smelt of deception. Those who live by the sword died by it. Seemed about right, but whose sword? She deduced that it would be more likely to be someone who had opposed him in court than a hood he had defended. There were not many cases where this clever dick lawyer did not come up trumps or at least gain an advantage. He had obviously upset someone of unruly nature and had paid the price. Who? Which needle in his grisly haystack?

The tall, tanned DCI Andrews entered to check on their progress.

Teresa began. 'Well sir, we've checked through Sexton's history and there are a few instances of him getting in too deep, but lately he'd handled business clients who'd used him as a last resort to waste time in court pleading intricacies of little known statutes . . . that sort of thing. He retained some major no-goods on his books but they used him mostly for minor indiscretions. The people who suffered most from his dealings are small fry who wouldn't be in a position to shoot him.'

Jim interrupted. 'We presuming so Guv, but we're gonna check them all out anyway.'

DS Peter Johnson grimaced knowing how meticulous Brannigan could be. Pete had the misfortunate timing to meet the girl of his dreams just before the school kid's abduction. These and the recent killings meant that he was at his busiest since he had joined the Met. What should have been a flourishing love life turned to snatched fumbling and cross words. Kentish Town nick was a hectic place these days. Reporters, the frog film crew and Mannion coming back. He approved of Mannion though it was more to do with her looks than her talent as a detective.

Andrew's mobile phone rattled with its distinctive Big Ben tone.

'Yes, this is he . . . who's speaking?' he asked curiously before recognising the caller. 'Hello, stranger . . . when did you . . . get back?' He listened and answered, 'we've missed you, Sevy. All the gang are looking forward to meeting up.' He paused to listen, and then said, 'I'm with someone here, so we'll talk later? It's great to hear from you pal . . . we've missed your particular touch!' Johnson and Teresa looked at their boss blankly. DS Johnson smirked and made an imaginary golf swing, Teresa sighed. The DCI saw their cynicism and half-heartedly scoffed at them. 'Gotta go pal . . . the underlings are getting restless.' He listened again and said, 'have we got a show for you, give me a call tomorrow.' More listening then, 'see ya Sevy!' He gave a guttural laugh and pocketed his phone. 'Right, where were we?'

Teresa picked up. 'At least the Boban thing looks clear cut, as DI Brannigan has already said. It's unlikely that Mrs Boban pulled the trigger. She withdrew six thousand pounds from her building society account that is now nowhere to be found. For some reason she seems to have paid a professional to do the hit. Friends and colleagues know of no good reason why she would have done this, they seemed like Mr and Mrs Bliss. The question is-'

Andrews cut in. 'Who, who did the actual shooting. Why will come later . . . what about the phone records?

DS Johnson answered. 'We've been through all the listed numbers the Bobans called since March last year. I'm afraid to say there's nothing sinister. Over half the calls were to his office at the Williams pallet factory. The rest are,' he picked up a sheet and rattled through the remainder. 'The bakery on Arts Lane, gas board, travel agents . . . four times, the bank, their local church, the Samaritans . . . the Odeon ticket hotline. It's just mundane stuff Guv.'

### Jim was leaning back in his chair, scratching under his chin.

DCI Andrews looked at his right forefinger and grimaced. It's taking its time to heal properly, little bastard!

Teresa could not resist a playful dig. 'I thought golf was a non-contact sport sir?' No response, the DCI was at sea with his thoughts.

'Hmm? . . . oh no!' he said, trying to think. 'One of the kids, one of my grandchildren got a bit too playful, little devil, it just won't bloody heal.' Andrews paused momentarily, what a way to live, people just don't understand. Sevy's out . . . there's gonna be some party! He wiped his finger with a tissue and addressed the gathering.

'Now, talking of kids . . . it's been nearly four weeks. Four weeks of what must be absolute heartbreak for two devastated families. The press wants to know our daily enquiries. That reminds me Jim, that Blakley chap from the London Standard wanted a chat with you concerning Karabayro . . . seems he's been mouthing off about police brutality. Of course, we've ignored his brief's request for you to be cautioned. It was just a ruse . . . they should have more sense than to waste our time with it.'

Jim winked at Andrews. 'DI Mannion was in the mall beside me, nothing untoward happened, just a bit of eyeballing, that's all.'

### Andrews looked at Teresa who pressed her lips together and nodded in agreement.

'Anyway as I said, these missing kiddies, the matter is not closed, we're not going to sweep them under the carpet. We've got to intensify our efforts . . . anything on them yet?

### Teresa was about to mention Freddy's tracing of a possible peeping salesman at St Anthony's when Jim cut in.

'Nothing to report sir, a few minor peculiarities . . . but no results.'

Teresa was not impressed. She did not approve of him cutting her up in front of the DCI. She had wanted to know what he was up to this morning in the mall. What did a face from the past have to do with the price of sausages? Why did he put an inexperienced uniform on the trail of a possible suspect? She knew she owed him, owed him bigtime but that should not get in the way of them working together efficiently. Why had she sent down from the Yard? Not to bloody check through phone records or to cover up Brannigan's threats to Karabayro. She would have it out with him later, when they were alone.

Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro ran his hand through his closely cropped oily hair as he sat with his obsequious solicitor in the reception area of The Marriott hotel in Primrose Hill. Opposite them, dressed in slacks and leather jacket relaxed Steven Blakley of the London Standard. A crime reporter for the last seven years and nobody's fool, the thirty-two-year journalist knew horseshit when it fell. This was twenty-four carat, absolute shite. Karabayro had requested an interview to bemoan a certain police officer's tactics, surprise . . . surprise! Blakley already knew that he would ignore most of it but he would still run a lukewarm story of police accountability in order to pressurise Chief Linley into dealing with more important topics. Missing kids and a station suicide. Blakley had sensed more farmyardery at Kentish Town nick in the days following the two shootings. Since the other double fatality in Holborn, there had been a noticeable drought from the mouths of any senior copper.

Blakley looked at the grinning gold-toothed Karabayro and started to work out a story. Karabayro was mouthing off about his old partner Clegg who been found in the park. A drug killing, surely he would have enough sense not to mention Brannigan in the same breath. Brannigan was a lot of things in Blakley's eyes, but he was not a murdering vigilante. Karabayro droned on in his annoying Jamaican slang, rubbishing Brannigan and suggesting that the detective was out to kill him. Some of it stuck in the reporter's throat, comments about the coppers late wife.

'I only give the bitch what she was asking fa . . . ya see man, she come after Teddy, she want me. She want some of dat old Karabayro magic . . . she beggin fa some Jamaican rock!' Karabayro continued, slapping his hand on Blakley's knee as if they were long lost brothers; soul mates who understood each other. The Jamaican's solicitor asked why Blakley was not taking notes.

His client rebuked him. 'Shut ya dirty muth, ya natin to the brother . . . pussy skank lawyer boy!

'No need, it's a clear-cut case of police harassment.' Blakley responded.

Karabayro leant across the coffee table and with his right hand made a fist in a black respect gesture. Blakley reciprocated and they rubbed knuckles before clasping each other's half hand, finishing with two little nudges.

Teddy was beaming, 'I have respect for da raporta brother . . . you like me man. We take na shite from PC Plod.'

Blakley retrieved his sweaty limb, privately repulsed. I'll play one potato-two potato with you Karabayro . . . ya piece of shite. But it's for my own end. He would not have a career except for the likes of Teddy and his ilk, but that didn't mean that you'd wipe your arse without first washing your hands after shaking theirs.

Saying good-bye to them in the lobby, Blakley wondered what Brannigan would like to do with the narcotics fiend. He made for the gents to wash Teddy's fearful sweat from his hands. He knew that Karabayro was running scared and was trying to intimidate the copper. Twenty-four carat excrement, if it had been my wife he was dipping I'd have removed his testicles with a lighted candle. Blakley presumed that all men would have the same reaction and he did have sympathy for Brannigan regarding his loss but that did not mean that he had to like him. He had tried several times to get pally with him but never succeeded. Brannigan did not enjoy press attention and was a hard man to win over. The police and media needed each other but not according to Duke Brannigan. He was a type of loner, him and his westerns . . . fucking John Wayne?

Next morning Teresa greeted Jim excitedly at the station with news that his hunch about the loose laced salesman might have turned up something. It was pure chance that he had seen Briggs twice in the same spot tying his laces even though he did look as though he was scanning the playground. Lady luck had played her part and Briggs was subsequently checked out on the police databank to reveal that he lived on Henly Crescent and worked from Jason's Conservatory Manufacturers on the Regis Road Industrial Estate. Two miles as the crow flies and the route should not have gone near St Anthony's School. He was not banned from driving and Swansea DLVA records had him owning a new Mondeo estate. So why walk two miles to work and more importantly, why go up in a loop around the school when the shorter easier route is a pleasant doddle through the park? People do not relish their car's registration being clocked so they take a cab or walk if they have something to hide. Teresa could hardly get the words out. 'Your man Briggs, guess what . . . he's been done for interfering with a child.' She had forgotten all thoughts of having a clear the air chat with her colleague and now awaited his reaction.

He flashed her a rare smile, 'I bloody knew it, the first time I saw him tying his laces I thought he was taking too much time and effort. The second time in more or less the same spot I got a bad feeling, you know, that itch.' Teresa nodded but did not really. She knew that Brannigan was an exceptionally intuitive copper. It's like he had a sixth sense. She had her own hunches but they were non-league compared to his Champions Cup. Before Jim could get excited he wanted to know exactly what Briggs record contained.

### 'Remember the Newbridge affair,' she asked, 'widespread abuse at a care school up North?'

### 'Vaguely,' answered Jim.

'Well, Mr Gordon Briggs worked there. He wasn't one of the major offenders but still received a short-term sentence for abusing a twelve-year-old. He has not worked as a teacher since. He tried his hand as a swimming instructor but lasted a fortnight and afterwards drifted south where he's since married. Do you think he's involved with our abductions?' Jim was in deep thought.

A buoyant DCI Andrews popped his head in the door. 'Well done that man . . . what's your next step Jimbo?'

'Guv! . . . we were just discussing it. I suppose we either pick him up and sweat him or watch and hope he's our man and makes a move.'

'Well it's your call, I'll back you up either way.' The DCI stated backing off.

Teresa seized her chance. 'There's a meal on me bigtime if you've cracked it,' adding thoughtfully, 'if you fancy it of course?' Jim looked at her indifferently. He picked up the phone to order some back up, 'forget about your stomach for a minute, let's bring the bastard in and sweat him!'

Gordon Briggs had not left for work yet. His wife had cooked a bacon and egg breakfast as a treat. She was a domestic in the Royal Free hospital and was taking a day's leave to go shopping. She liked to look after him between caring for their two children and her mornings in the hospital. He was a good man who provided well for his family. She was laying the breakfast table when the phone rang.

She shouted for Gordon to answer it, which he did on the third ring. Ten minutes later, she shouted to him again to come down for his breakfast. Receiving no answer, she went upstairs. Strange, he would not normally leave without a good-bye kiss on the cheek. Why would he creep down and leave unseen? If Mrs Briggs had had the mind to look deeper she would have discovered his passport and a few essentials missing. She presumed he had taken an urgent work call. It was urgent but had nothing to do his work, which he would never see again.

The caller had asked her husband a question, 'could you handle an interview with two detective inspectors regarding the two missing school kids?' His heart had quickened, "no fucking way!" In that case, there was one thing left to do and to do quickly. His caller told him to leave and to take any incriminating phone numbers or material with him. He could not endanger others who wantonly shared his passion for youth.

Mrs Shelia Briggs wondered about his sudden departure, fussing about the house tutting to herself, he can cook his own tea when he gets back while I get some retail therapy.

Mrs Briggs would never see her husband again. In time, she would not want to.

'Try to be nice and what do you get . . . forget about my stomach . . . the asshole!' Teresa was mimicking Jim's words to herself as she sat on the bonnet of her car, close to Gordon Briggs address. With no answer Jim had left her there with a couple of uniforms while he and DS Johnson visited his work address on the Regis Road Industrial Estate. That also proved fruitless and by the end of the day, Jim began to suspect that the bird had flown the nest. After speaking to Mrs Briggs who returned at seven in the evening, laden down with shopping bags, his fears had been confirmed. She told him of her husband's telephone call and of his rapid exit. He asked her the whereabouts of her husband's passport and after a fruitless search Jim left, leaving the distraught housewife to her malaise and empty world. She had a thousand and one questions but Jim told her that he would have to complete his enquiries before commenting.

Bastard, thought Jim, how did he know? It seemed to prove one thing. Briggs did not want to talk to the police. He panicked and fled without so much as a question asked, not the actions of an innocent. Whether or not he was implicated in the recent abductions, there would now be a nation-wide search with regard to him helping police with their enquiries. If he had soiled hands they must be heavily soiled. There was the possibility that other people could have made him desert the family home in a hurry. Jim's gut feeling was that he was somehow involved in the Daniels and Neville disappearances.

#  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the South London middle class area of Dulwich, a conference was about to take place amongst brethren. Three men sat in comfortable armchairs in an elegant drawing room sipping an assortment of teas while the lady of the house fussed over them. The house owner, a retired Parachute Regiment Colonel in his sixties, favoured the taste of Ceylon, left to stand a full ten minutes by his attentive spouse. Darjeeling for the NCIS (National Crime Intelligence Service) officer and Assam, the choice of a former Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force. They sat for ten minutes or so making pleasant conversation about the unusual weather conditions and topics touched on in the broadsheets.

As the talk grew more political, the hostess made her excuses, 'my magnolias, a woman's work . . .'

Ceylon's guests shuffled as though to get up when mother left the room. As if prompting for an amateur playgroup she whispered to the empty hall, 'I'll leave the men to it.' She would soon be seen in the garden, clipping and pruning with a delicate touch.

While mother played house, father sat inside debating the wrongs of the world. The three men met fortnightly to discuss the latest aberration of the Criminal Justice Bill which allowed vicious criminals to would walk free. They would then suggest an act of retribution from Joseph and his two comrades. Britain was awash with do-gooding judicature, criminals were bleeding the system dry, paedophiles and psychopaths costing hundreds of thousands to catch and keep. Each tea drinker relished his Britishness, despairing for their nation's future. They did not regard themselves as supreme rulers of a kangaroo court nor did they see themselves as above the law; just guiding it through the turbulent waters of political correctness. They never meted out retribution to anyone for personal reasons. There were times when Joseph and the lads decided against taking action and these refusals were accepted without hint of enmity. After observing potential targets Joseph, would occasionally point out that the individuals present behaviour was enough to lead them to self destruct, flee abroad or even, in one case, ask to be put back inside.

'It's time we got a bit public,' said Ceylon, a distinguished grey-haired veteran who missed the aroma of soldiering. The others concurred; there was not much point in correcting the wicked without trying to deter the remainder with a subtle hint.

Assam asked about the men in the field. Ceylon informed them that all three men were healthy and that morale was improving after the lamentable death of Sexton's Russian escort. A regrettable mistake, a casualty of the crusade. There was murmur of consensus, morale was an important issue, as Joseph, Jamie and Danny were at the cutting edge of the crusade.

Ceylon had known Joseph for over twenty years, ever since he first appeared in front of him as a fresh faced young Para about to sail for the South Atlantic. Joseph was like a son to him, the son he had and had not. Ceylon's actual son was now beginning his third year in a coma. He had been a Captain in First Battalion Parachute Regiment following in his father's footsteps. But they were cut short one night; the result of a freak accident. The dashing, highly trained officer had been returning home from a night out with his wife when they had stopped at a late-night burger bar. A fight ensued between some yobs and while trying to protect his loved one, the thirty-two-year-old captain had been struck on the back of his head by a large glass ashtray thrown by one of the thugs. He had been comatose ever since, leaving his father increasingly bitter towards the lawless. He visited his son fortnightly, trying to come to terms with his grief. He had attended counselling sessions and group therapy where he met and befriended Darjeeling who had himself lost a small daughter to a drunken driver on a zebra crossing. The driver had been given a slapped wrist and smirked at the gallery on hearing the sentence. Assam also had reason to be bitter, his son had died in front of him, wasted away through Aids when hardly anyone had ever heard of it. A pusher had enticed him onto heroin at college and a contaminated needle eventually found its way into his veins. Assam, now in his late fifties, though you would not think it with his trim figure and full head of light brown hair, had refused entry into the National Association of Retired Police Officers on principal. He and Ceylon were friends since the sixties, belonged to the same club, enjoyed the same hobbies, thought the same thoughts. All three men were united in their sadness; they were brethren. They supplied Joseph's team with information and discreet contacts for up-to-date untraceable equipment.

Joseph had kind regard for the other two but Ceylon was his mentor, though they purposely had not seen each other for nearly two years. This was at Joseph's request. If they were going to be involved with killings then Joseph would no longer visit the Colonel's house, he did not want him associated in any way if the crusade ever became known to the police. He loved the old man but now made do with telephone contact only. Ceylon would walk a hundred yards to a call box on a leafy rural lane to phone Joseph's mobile or Islington home. If Joseph needed to contact him, he would also use a public phone. Ceylon knew the other troopers having also commanded them for years. He tolerated Thornley and had good time for Jamie, but his protégé was Joseph who he had promoted to sergeant in the mid eighties.

Two years ago they had been chatting when Joseph told him of a distraught pensioner who had contacted the Samaritan helpline and told of the daily intimidation she and her invalid husband had to endure from a gang of thugs on their housing estate in Highbury. The gang leader had demanded a weekly cut from their pension and had assaulted her in the basement when she went to the police for help. From then on, she and some other elderly residents parted with twenty pounds a week and suffered their reckless behaviour while the police stood idly by. One night the thugs went too far; dragged her husband from the lift and pushed his wheelchair down the stairs. A month after the old man's funeral, Joseph and Danny 'met' his assailant on a darkened fifth floor balcony and after feeding him two LSD tablets, persuaded him to fly. Two weeks later another gang member was killed by a hit and run driver near Finsbury Park tube station. The deaths resulted in the gang's demise and a pensioner's party on the once troubled Highbury estate. The police never found the reckless driver and put the other fatality down to misadventure through the misuse of drugs.

Ceylon congratulated Joseph on his public awareness suggesting he might broaden his scope. The dye was cast, the brethren extended. A clandestine, ruthless trio of men who killed for the people. Ever since, Joseph and his team had rid the capital of twenty-nine miscreants, all through unfortunate or unexplained means. Most of them were at the discretion of the three distinguished tea drinkers but five were low life's who had blighted the lives of distraught people who had phoned the Samaritans for comfort.

Darjeeling, a Sebastian Coe lookalike of thirty-seven, patted down his navy blue tie and proceeded to outline the newest 'Finian' threat. Being an officer of the NCIS gave him the opportunity to gather confidential information whilst meeting his counterparts in other policing agencies. Darjeeling was a fitness fanatic who blamed the media for many of society's ills, refusing to watch television because of the abundance of 'people soaps' that he considered morally decaying.

Ceylon and Assam listened as he broached a new, yet ever-present concern. A rogue Irish Republican splinter group were about to target Blackpool in the North West. The main antagonists were holding fire but a few fanatics still sought the reunification of Ireland by forceful means. A three-man active service unit on the English mainland, sympathetic to the rogue group had awoken, awaiting the orders of Seamus Callaghan who was due in the North West tomorrow. Callaghan, the splinter faction's leader was travelling personally to equip and lead the unit. The Provisional IRA had warned him off but he had gone to ground and was now in transit. Belfast had tried to contact the mainland team but the sleepers, like Seamus had had a bellyful of peace with all its demeaning treaties. Adams was a traitor in their eyes; he had dealt with the Crown and the new indifferent breed in Dublin.

Darjeeling's information concluded that Callaghan's front would be working as a mechanic in a Preston grease pit with the rest of his team and that within a week Blackpool pleasure beach would be targeted. The police would be watching his every move but as on previous occasions, the terrorists could evade their monitors and bring mayhem to the civilian population.

'That's the trouble with pussy footing around . . . these bombers are innocent until proven guilty, until the detonator is fired and the air turns to fire. They've all got blood on their hands. Most of them are still torturing and maiming innocent people on opposite sides of the Ulster divide,' offered Darjeeling.

'Let's get Joseph and the boys up North, no sense waiting for heads and limbs to hit the sand . . . let's take them out!' The other two nodded approval to Ceylon's impassioned objective, though stressing that this particular hit could not be public. It would have to look like an accident. There were far too many decent, law abiding Irish nationals contributing to the British economy to warrant upsetting them.

Assam asked if with Callaghan dead, the active service unit would carry on alone. The answer being negative, they all agreed on Seamus' tragic demise alone. Darjeeling then questioned whether Blackpool was too far off the beaten track and wondered whether Joseph would actually accept targeting terrorists.

'It's not exactly a bunch of drug dealers in Brixton . . . is it? he commented.

Ceylon gave a wry smile and assured the other two that Joseph would need no convincing to take on the Irishmen. He knew from Joseph's past that it would not be the first time their paths had crossed. They returned to the publicity topic. As long as Joseph, Jamie and Danny kept their anonymity intact it might be prudent to put on a show for the public and take out a couple of dregs who preyed on society's less fortunate. It would send a message to the lawless that England was no longer their unguarded field of opportunity. A few, maybe two showcase, vigilante style killings would promulgate the message without threatening the crusade's plans.

'Would Joe and the boys agree to it?' questioned Darjeeling again.

'I don't have any reason to believe they wouldn't, especially Danny,' replied the one-time Colonel of the elite Parachute regiment.

Assam had an idea. 'If we could make it something sinister . . . bodies found in the woods, that sort of scenario. Make it look like a group of concerned citizens kidnapped two drug suppliers and were going to give them a beating . . . but they went too far.'

Ceylon interrupted, 'I see what you're getting at . . . we have to lead the public into believing that a group of conscientious citizens grouped together and turned the tables on some low-lifes by kidnapping, say, a drug dealer and a racketeer . . . only for something to go wrong and the villains end up dead.'

Darjeeling had his say. 'Since we began our crusade to clean up this country, we've always asked the troops to make the killings look like anything other than murder. That way we've kept the media and the police oblivious, saving the taxpayer on prison care and costly court hearings. But if we now let Joe Public think that there is a group of fed up citizens taking the law into their own hands, then it has to be a rarity. We should make this vigilante thing look like an unprofessional snatch and grab that goes horribly wrong. Place the bodies somewhere where they won't be discovered for a while so it looks like the concerned citizens tried to cover their mistake . . . and in the meantime we carry on our crusade leaving Joseph to decide on whatever policy he implements regarding his Samaritan sympathies.

'Perfect summation,' remarked Assam.

'Absolutely!' enthused Ceylon, 'and any time we need to engage the public's consciousness we'll target another area but with one or two subtle differences.'

Mother tapped on the window and gesticulated as to whether they would like more tea. All nodded their approval and shortly afterwards they all sat sipping their respective tastes while discussing letters from the London Times. Ceylon's wife had taken off her gardening garb and joined them for refreshment. She perused the Daily Mail, focusing on a particular reader's letter. She begged Assam's attention, 'I see someone has enquired here about the job definition of the police force . . . do you still know it?'

He smiled kindly, clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he used to do in erstwhile days when facing down an imperious CID officer or two and politely informed her that it was no longer a force, but a "service!" The others smiled as he spoke with a hint of irony. 'The responsibilities and objectives of the Metropolitan Police Service are to uphold the law fairly and firmly; to prevent crime; to pursue and bring to justice those who break the law; to keep the Queen's peace, to protect, help and reassure people in London; and to be seen to do all this with integrity, common sense and sound judgement.'

'Wouldn't that be lovely!' enthused the lady of the house.

#  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

After the near miss with Briggs, Jim had decided to spend the rest of the evening watching what he thought was the Tottenham home of Jamie Richardson. They had nearly had a result with Briggs. Tomorrow, every police force in Britain would have the salesman's photograph and he would be hunted and hopefully located. Jim reflected on the thirty or so minutes that separated Brigg's doing a runner and the police's arrival. He scratched repeatedly under his chin. Strange coincidence? Rubbish, someone phoned and told him to scarper . . . but who, who knew? He put his paranoia to one side and resolved to get to bed having achieved something. He did not know what seeing that haggard face again would prove. It was not like him to be bugged like this over something or nothing. Yet that day in the mall was far different than any other when he had noticed someone sizing him up. Despite the fuss made by Karabayro, Jim had been the centre of the stranger's attention. That was it; I was being sized up . . . why? He was going to do some private snooping to find out.

The Duke drove onto Merrydown housing estate in Tottenham and reversed up against a closed unit that the council caretakers used for storing cleaning materials. His view took in both stair entrances of Oakdale House and the third floor flat of Jamie Richardson. Jim sat and observed the tower block. Its inhabitants were mixed, black and white, nearly all working class with an increasing number of half caste children in evidence. This was still a tough area of North London. Racial tension was still evident, mostly behind closed curtains in front of rented television sets. In the mid-eighties, the nearby Broadwater estate had erupted in rioting, resulting in the death of PC Keith Blackelock. Scars remained, only the aged of both races respected or viewed each other as equals. Most of the younger set had a chip or two on their shoulders.

Jim sat and watched. Were these people happy, were they content with their lot? Tottenham or Twickenham it didn't matter; no one knows what goes on behind closed doors. Peace of mind, that's the key that unlocks happiness. He was starting to feel hungry and boredom was setting in. Ask any copper what the worst part of undercover duty was and the unanimous verdict would be - observation. You cannot read anything in case you miss the split second scenario you came to see. You cannot listen to anything in case you draw attention to yourself or even worse, miss a radio call. This was his personal snoop but it did not make it any more exhilarating. Jim looked at the comings and goings on the third floor but all passed number thirty-four without giving so much as a sideways glance.

His hunger was becoming uncomfortable. He lowered his seat back and looking through the sunroof noticed the moon sharing the sky with the dwindling sun for the first time, as he did for the first time every year but somehow forgot. How can I notice an ordinary man tying his laces outside a school and forget something like this heavenly spectacle? You're a peculiar man Jim Brannigan. He saw a couple of children come running down the left stairway, one gleefully dousing the other with a heavier than normal water pistol. They stopped briefly when the sodden white child suggested that it was his turn to do the wetting. The black child refused and added more water. Jim watched as they played recalling his army days and the day when he called a halt to the career which he had thought was for life.

He had had enough of dealing with drunken Friday night barrack brawls and the visits to windy, Monday morning housing estates to reclaim dispirited, homesick squaddies. He wanted to be on the streets to right the wrongs and catch the crooks. If they listened to him they would be booked and brought to court, if they did not, they would feel pain and regret. He was known to favour clipping a young hoodlum or two at the bequest of their guardians to avoid the tedious paper work and the jail time in which they would broaden their criminal knowledge. Jim Brannigan had been occasionally brought to heel by the bureaucratic political correctness of the nineties, but never wavered from what he thought was effective policing. He had no patience for red tape, time wasting and procedural nonsense that said a suspect had rights. If he suspected you, he had reason and if you left your house with a balaclava or crowbar then you forfeited the pleasure to be treated with the minimum of respect. He was harsh on those who he expected to do their duty as he did his. Any colleague who ever showed cowardliness around him certainly knew about it afterwards. There were two ways of doing things at Kentish Town nick, the Duke's way and the wrong way.

Jim looked at his watch and decided to give Mr James Richardson twenty more minutes . . . and then maybe . . . another twenty. But that's all, tomorrow was another day.

The Duke was waiting in vain. He would eventually drive home after three hours of observing nothing except what passed for normality on the depressing Merrydown estate. Teenagers hanging tough, a ridiculously late community meal on wheels, the faint ranting of a domestic and the thirsty snogger; a Fosters tin in one hand, the other embedded within a scrawny girl, wearing more make-up than clothes.

Not only did Thornley not live there, but neither did Jamie Richardson whose credit card the craggy faced soldier had used.

While the ravenous Duke Brannigan was wasting his time in Tottenham, the man he sought was in leafy Islington, sharing a meal in the pleasant end of terrace house he and his two comrades co-owned on Cross Street. Joseph and Thornley had spent the day watching the Temple of Liberty in Holloway where Martin Love's brother, the Reverend Jordan Love, had taken charge. It seemed Jordan was a chip off the old Louisiana block, his brother's death had not deterred him from carrying on his debauched lifestyle which had already claimed the life of two teenagers, one who overdosed on smack after discovering she was pregnant. A Dulwich chin-wag proposed that the Reverend would join his brother after a respectable period of time had elapsed. Jamie had just returned after a full day sitting in the van in Camden where he had begun Whyte's surveillance. Cross Street was their refuge from the world, their covert hideout where they could relax. After demob, they had pooled their resources and bought their first property together. Each had their own private quarters upstairs but most of the living was done on the ground floor that combined the large kitchen and a living room that opened out into the rear lounge, complete with patio. Everything in the house was regimented, spotlessly clean. All three men shared cooking and cleaning duties in strict rotation with the odd exception being Jamie who sometimes missed a day when visiting his sister's Surrey farmhouse. Home was Cross Street, their anonymity secure. They treated Oakdale House in Tottenham as their mailing address, anything incriminating or to do with their cleansing operation was mailed there, with no mention or connection of their abode in Islington. Joseph had bought the Oakdale House council key from a hard up Irish couple who were returning to County Mayo to educate their offspring in a wholly Catholic environment. Haringey council received their rent and there had never been any problems.

During dinner, they began listening to the taped telephone conversation Jamie had made of convicted paedophile Duncan Whyte talking to a friend. They sat around their large kitchen table munching two large Hawaiian pizzas, some salad and three helpings of garlic bread supreme. They all drank mineral water, a strictly adhered-to rule when preparing for an operation. They listened incredulously to the bugged telephone conversation and before long they each began to lose their appetite. Whyte had phoned a West Hampstead number and after a few familiarities, began to open up. The man he called had halted him in mid sentence to go and close the door of his study to ensure privacy from his family's innocent ears. His profession soon became evident when Whyte asked if the law had made any progress.

'No chance. We are going around in circles but one of our lads put the finger on Briggs this morning . . . he's gone. Staying at the villa until we can sort something out.'

Whyte became agitated. 'Bob, for fucks sake, I ring up and you wait a couple of minutes before casually mentioning that Briggs is in the shit . . . for fucks sake?'

'Relax . . . my DI got lucky, a hunch he followed up, nothing more. I gave Briggs two options . . . do a runner or have the bottle to answer a few questions. You know him, good fun and all but all the backbone of a yoyo.'

### 'Is he going to be a problem?'

'Might be, if he is . . . then he'll be taking a swim.'

### 'What about this lucky DI, is he gonna be sticky?

'Relax man . . . you're forgetting, I'm his boss, his immediate superior. If he gets close in any way, I'll throw him a curve or detail him to another case . . . you haven't heard, have you? We had a shooting in the station. Some scatty old dear blew her head off in reception!'

'Fucking ell, sounds fun, so it appears you've got your hands full DCI Andrews.'

Joseph and Thornley eyed each other on hearing the pervert's name and rank. Jamie had heard it when recording the tape so he was now accustomed. Since getting back from the eavesdrop op he had not mentioned it; waiting to see their reaction. Thornley put down his impending last bite and grimaced. Joseph pushed his plate away. He coughed heavily then cleared his throat with some water. A fucking copper. A high ranking one at that! The people had been betrayed by someone paid to protect them. Instead, he was abusing their innocent. The taxpayer was paying his wages while he was killing their kids.

'Fucking scumbag copper . . . filth!' Thornley eloquently commented.

There was worse to come. Joseph pressed 'play'.

'How did you handle prison?'

'Oh, the usual bating, some fisticuffs, cons having a crap into our grub . . . bastard prison officers turn a blind eye to it you know. I don't know how anyone hasn't got dysentery from that dump. Anyway, enough of me, what's been happening party wise?

'You missed out pal, we had two little beauts, it was brilliant . . . we kept them going for a whole week.'

### Whyte interrupted Andrews who was now evidently excited.

'Let me guess, the little blond kid and that Daniels girl, we read about their disappearance inside. I thought you toe-rags might be behind it,' both men laughed. A bit close to home though, wasn't it?'

'It's just the way things worked out. Listen, we've got something lined up for the weekend. How do ya fancy a snuff at the villa?'

'Does a cat drink milk? Absolutely! . . . I'll have to make sure I'm not being followed, what's happening?'

'Were going to ease up on anything local so a few us are hitting Euston station. Catch a stray kitty . . . hopefully?

'Suits me, we can sort out Briggsy at the same time.'

There was a brief silence before a jubilant Andrews stated. 'We've missed you pal . . . it's good to have you back.'

Joseph switched off the tape, he felt nauseated. The three of them sat together in silence looking at the tape recorder. Any nonces caught - would be killed, no debate. Joseph would inform Ceylon after the fact.

The three crusaders checked their equipment and got ready for work. Joseph used his own transport, a two-year-old white Mercedes van, ideal for their task tonight. It could take three passengers up front and its rear was roomy enough to hold two motorbikes and the few shelves needed to stack equipment. Tonight it was empty; the only equipment they would need would be three baseball bats with protruding six-inch nails. A fear tactic more or less, they would be dealing with cowards. Joseph lit up a Marlboro, coughed at the first inhalation then set off to spread the word. London would be a slightly cleaner city tomorrow. Beside him sat the disgusted Danny Thornley. Jamie rode shotgun on his Yamaha eight hundred. Joseph drove through the clear London night wondering how Detective Inspector J Brannigan would react if he knew that his superior was a child murdering pervert. What would he say to him? Nothing at all, he won't be getting the chance. Andrews was involved with the little Neville boy's death, he was a dead man, a promise to be kept to a broken-hearted mother. It would need some articulate planning but it would be a pleasure. Tonight though, had already been earmarked for another's pain. The colonel wanted a deterrent. It was nearly ten o'clock and there were two targets to pick up before hitting Epping Forest by midnight.

The Kingdom pub was situated just off Kentish Town High Road, on the junction of a smaller street that ran parallel to it. A broad alleyway connected them in the middle. The Mercedes van fitted with false plates pulled up at the end of the alley. Jamie had already dismounted his bike and was waiting with two planks of wood at the first entrance.

Joseph and Thornley armed with the nail-studded baseball bats and two lengths of rope pulled down their balaclavas. Jamie deftly placed a plank of wood through one of the two entrance's exterior door handles. Joseph and Thornley burst in through the other main entrance kicking over bar tables in their path. As it was late, there were only a handful of drinkers left. Joseph immediately identified two men at the bar as Philip and Michael Gregory. He and Thornley distorted their voices as best they could.

'We'll fucking teach you animals'. They thrashed a fruit machines and made for the startled Gregory brothers. Michael attempted to lift a bar stool but was winded for his trouble by Joseph's boot. Thornley punched the younger Gregory in the side of the face, sending him unconscious to the floor. A customer who had been lurking behind another fruit machine made a dash for the unblocked door. As he opened it, a plank of wood connected with his forehead propelling him backwards into the pub. Jamie felt a slight tinge of remorse as the timber connected with bone. His brief glimpse of the would-be escapee showed that he was getting on a bit. 'Woops!' whispered Jamie, remaining unseen outside.

Ten seconds later Danny dragged Philip outside bound with a rope around his arms and waist. Joseph followed immediately behind but Michael Gregory was proving a touch more reluctant. Though bound like his brother he was kicking out, until Jamie having used the second plank of wood to bar the remaining entrance, lifted the villain off the ground with a crunching kick to his groin. Jamie had delivered his kick from behind, succeeding in keeping his profile from either. The unconscious Godfather had a hood dragged over his head, then abruptly dumped into the van alongside his brother. Danny guarded the vanquished hoodlums as Joseph drove down the alley to the main road. Jamie rode on ahead hoping that the old timer would understand. A piece of timber . . . ouch! . . . It'll get ya every time.

Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro slept in restful slumber. He had been partying in Camberwell the night before last and had had an energetic lady friend stay over, enabling him only two hours sleep. This morning he had gone to the gym to loosen up his tired limbs. A sauna was followed by a stroll around Holloway, drumming up new contacts whilst checking out old friends. The kids in Hornsey had been scag merchants before he went inside but they had graduated quickly. Next stop, crack; where the real money was. He had even spotted a potential replacement for the dearly departed Clegg; a twenty-year-old from Highbury Barn who he heard remark, "I like de wey dat Teddy mon strut!" One of his own, a King-s-tan bouy. It had been a hard day so he had grabbed a Kingburger meal and went home to the Harvist Estate in Hornsey. Shortly after eight o'clock the Jamaican disconnected the door buzzer in his ground floor flat, smoked a joint, then lay naked between his silky green sheets. He drifted to sleep anticipating seeing his interview in the London Standard. Dat fuckin' Brannigan bouy ain't gonna bust Teddy's balls! He drifted into oblivion. Shortly after eleven, his eyes popped open as he felt a chill at his throat. Cold steel, a hunting knife held by a masked figure in black.

The Mercedes van crept steadily over the speed ramps that littered the Harvist Estate. Joseph stopped and then reversed carefully down the slope that led to the underneath of a high-rise tower block. It was dark and gloomy; few residents cared to park their cars there because of the risk of vandalism. The van came to a halt and Joseph waited a couple of minutes before he saw Jamie drag the unconscious Teddy Karabayro around the corner and down towards the van. Joseph moved to the back of the van where Danny watched over Philip and Michael Gregory who lay bound, blindfolded and gagged.

Joseph pulled Michael out of the van by his hair, groans emanating from beneath the gag. An agitated Philip shifted uncomfortably, expecting his turn. They were leaving Michael behind and taking Karabayro and Philip. Karabayro landed in the van where he collided with Philip Gregory. Panic was overtaking the younger Gregory who sensed someone new beside him. Paco Roban aftershave swept over his senses as he began to detect noises from outside his confinement. It was what he had dreaded, someone was getting an unmerciful kicking, and it had to be Mikey? He listened as thuds rained down on his agonised brother.

Outside Michael lay curled up on the concrete basin, his clothes bloodied, various bones shattered, his face a mess. Danny Thornley lifted the Godfather's right arm, twisted it over and applied a heavy boot to the elbow joint, snapping the cartilage. Michael gurgled blood in an effort to scream only to be kicked again in the face.

'Right, that's enough . . . don't cabbage the prick, he's got to be able to talk,' Joseph ordered. Danny resisted the temptation for more soccer practice and joined Joseph in the van. Jamie disappeared to collect his Yamaha parked underneath Teddy's block. Karabayro was blindfolded and gagged, his hands in handcuffs. The prisoners would stay blinded until they got to their resting place. Joseph waited for Jamie on Hornsey Road and minutes later, they all set off for the forest.

Michael would be found on the Harvist estate tomorrow and Karabayro would be reported missing soon after. Michael would tell the police that all three had been picked out for a kicking by anti-drug vigilantes but something had gone wrong. His brother was missing and he suspected in serious trouble.

#  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Mercedes van pulled off the main road into a small cul-de-sac where it stopped. Jamie had ridden on ahead and was waiting to open the gate that led into the darkness. Joseph drove through, putting on his full beam to navigate his route through several muddy fields and around the slippery risen edge of a deep ravine. The van came to a halt and the kidnappers got out. Joseph flung open the sliding door. 'Let's go, it's show time!

Thornley dragged the terrified Philip Gregory from the vehicle. Teddy Karabayro proved slightly more reluctant to leave his hearse. He kicked and screamed under his gag but to no avail. His handcuffs tore into his wrists as he was pulled up and out by his face. Thornley had embedded two fingers up into his nostrils and yanked. He had resisted until all his body weight bore down on his nose. Soon Teddy was lying face down beside the shaking Gregory. Joseph went to the ridge of the canyon and looked down, flashing his torch until finding Jamie who had already made the forty-foot descent. Jamie called up giving him the all clear. With that, Joseph and Thornley grabbed a prisoner each and brought them to the edge of the abyss.

'Going down?' wisecracked Thornley as though he were an escalator attendant. Gregory and Karabayro tumbled down a bumpy decline flattening the occasional briar bush on the way. They rolled to the bottom in disorientated terror, both soiling their underwear as they cascaded to an unfathomable end. On reaching the depth of the gorge, both cried out in anguished terror. Agonisingly trying to catch their breaths, they were pulled to their feet and un-gagged. Both men let out a night piercing scream.

Philip pleaded with his unseen captors. 'I swear . . . on my mother's life . . . I've done nothing wrong!' He was terrified, the gangster persona replaced by confusion and terror.

'Bad pussyclat fucks!' roared the staggering Jamaican.

Gregory fell to his knees, his scream resonating into sobs and pleadings. Joseph and Thornley joined Jamie to begin proceedings. While the other two untied their bruised captives, Joseph caught his breath after a rib wrenching cough brought on by his hurried descent. He was no longer as fit as the other two, time, or whatever badness lurked inside him was catching up with him.

Karabayro and Gregory left their restraints and reached their aching limbs up to remove their blindfolds. They prised their eyes ajar to see three masked men, one holding a pump action shotgun, another brandishing a semi-automatic pistol and the other, holding two shovels that he promptly threw at their feet. Where the fuck is this place?

Karabayro spoke first. 'Fuck you mon! Teddy ain't diggin his own grave, you gonna sho-o-o-t Karabayro. So ya can dig it yeself . . . pussy boys in ya bad masks!' His words were rewarded by Thornley's size nine's. The Tai Kwon Do reverse kick caught him in his midriff dropping him on the spot, forcing bile into his arid throat. Gregory looked down in disbelief, pleading innocence to everything he had done since kindergarten. Karabayro rose gingerly to his knees. After catching his breath, he looked at his fellow grovelling captive and aimed a kick to his bent over form. He missed and tumbled over to the amusement of Danny Thornley. Crawling to his knees, Karabayro empathised the only way he could. 'Get up ya pussy white bouy . . . dese boys are gonna kill us, don't give em the satisfaction. Ya fuckin' chicken pussy clat . . .' He was about to add something when he observed a silencer being attached to the Browning pistol. The faint screwing sound vibrated into his brain. He changed tack. 'Hey com on bouys . . . wats de problem huh? If you bouys wan some green I can get you plenty . . . Teddy know a lat a people, money no problem to a man like me.'

'A man like you? . . . what would that be?' asked Jamie. 'A fucking crack dealer living on the Harvist estate? Shut your mouth bouy.'

The frightened Jamaican resorted to his old trusted self. 'Hey, fuck you mon . . . playing soldier in the woods. Put down dat shooter and Teddy will kick ya milky white ass all over Sherwood forest.' He paused as Joseph clicked off the Browning's safety. Philip Gregory instantly took one of the shovels and began to frantically claw at the clay beneath him. Jamie motioned him to stop and pointed to an earthier, more giving patch. He spat on his hands and set about his grave while Karabayro stood stubbornly awaiting his fate.

Joseph asked. 'Why do you presume that you're digging your grave?'

Karabayro winced, 'huh?'

'None of us are going to kill either of you, your digging for something we need.'

'Fuck you mon . . . Teddy not as stupid as dat pussy boy. I didn't come here in a banana boat . . . you three are serious bouys. Fuckin middle of da forest with ya pussyclat shovels!'

Joseph cupped his pistol in firing mode and aimed it at the bewildered Jamaican.

'I ain't doin' it mon, so ya can-'

Before he could utter another syllable, a round left Joseph's semi-automatic hitting the upper lobe of his right ear. He fell over in shock as much as pain, clutching his bloodied temple. The bullet had grazed his head taking the top of his ear off.

Teddy crouched on the ground and began to vomit. In between belches he shouted at his tormentors, 'ya fuckin crazy bouys . . . what da fuck da ya want?'

### Philip Gregory kept digging, adjusting to his fate. He looked around, nothing but the night and a deceptive moon, then he had an idea.

'I know where there is money . . . ' he was stuttering, nervous; this was his only chance. 'Twenty-five grand in used notes, hidden under a shed.' All three eyed him contemptuously. 'It's true, I swear on my mother's life . . . buried beneath a cupboard. In a shed . . . in a garden shed.'

'I'm surprised your mother is still alive asshole . . . the amount of swearing you do on her,' Jamie remarked sarcastically.

Karabayro picked up his shovel. He began to dig slowly, his mind racing, thinking of a way out of his impending destruction. Gregory stared at the three masked men hoping his words had touched a nerve. Thornley walked over to him and picked him up by the scruff of his neck. His huge hands gripped Gregory's windpipe.

'Fuck you little man . . . you been watching too many gangster films. Do you honestly believe we'd fall for that shit . . . just dig the hole.'

'What are we supposed to be looking fa soldier boys?' Karabayro cynically asked.

'You'll know when you see it . . . dig!' Jamie responded.

'What makes you think we're soldiers Teddy bouy?' Joseph enquired, mocking the Jamaican's drawl.

Before Karabayro could answer, Philip Gregory caught everyone's attention.

'Remember the Grays Inn post office robbery . . . last month? We pulled that and stashed the dosh away. We haven't touched a note . . . it's all there. I swear to ya . . . I'll take you to it!' He wiped his sweaty forehead, 'If I'm lying, kill me. If not, take the money . . . it's yours, take it!'

Jamie and Thornley looked towards Joseph who was giving it serious thought. Despite their masked features they all noticed the look in each other's eyes - easy money.

Fear washed over Karabayro; he had harboured the faintest hope that these men were actually using them to dig up parts of the canyon until they found what they came for. They had all kept their masks on, so maybe they are just gonna give us a kicking and leave us here while they make off with whatever it is they came for. Na, shit . . . stupid fucking idea! They look to be interested in the white pussy boy's stash. I got to think of my own little caper. Quick Teddy bouy . . . get thinking. Ya too young ta die. He recalled a story from his youth in Kingston. A story of narcotic treasure.

'Twenty grand . . . whats dat, fuckin chicken feed. Teddy bouy knows where ders ten times dat in pu-r-e heroin . . . all down on Brighton beach.'

Joseph was in deep thought. Jamie lashed out with a kick catching Karabayro on the elbow.

### 'Dig, nigger!'

Karabayro ignored the pain, he was just beginning to flow. 'It's stashed in a wata-proof bag, tied to a pillar on the pier . . . just waitin.' Before he could continue Thornley reapplied a size-nine to his kneecap. Karabayro doubled over in agony.

Thornley asked sardonically. 'What are you not clear on . . . dig, or nigger?'

Gregory sensed an improvement in his own welfare. He pointed to the retching Jamaican.

'Come on guys . . . take the money. You can shoot that black piece of shit for all I care. I won't tell a soul . . . I can take you to the dosh.'

Joseph had made up his mind before the grovelling Gregory had finished.

'Right, you're going nowhere, but one of my friends is. You're going to tell us the exact location and if he isn't back here in two hours . . . you'll qualify for the Guinness book of records.

Gregory looked perplexed, 'huh?'

'The slowest, most painful death in the history of mankind.' A fresh tide of terror swept over the youngest son of Ma Gregory.

'What? No, you don't understand . . . I've got to show you the place. It's -'

Joseph pointed his Browning, 'where?'

He thought as fast as he could, trying to block out the actual cache's true location. He did not want to give it up and die in the forest. He prayed his nerves would not betray him.

'Under the shed . . . it's under the shed at the back of Ronnie's. Thirty-one Devonshire Road, it's inside the shed . . . take the old cupboard away. It's buried in the ground beneath the floor boarding!' He gasped . . . done it! Everything was true, except the address. The money was in Pauly Kavanagh's shed. He quickly explained that he, Ronnie and Pauly had pulled the job and hidden the dosh. They had been pulled in and questioned for other reasons so Philip was the only one at liberty who knew the whereabouts. The rest of the Gregory family knew nothing of it. Michael had warned his crowd to lay low for a month or two so even he was unaware. Philip waited, waited in hope. Hope that whichever of these fucks would creep into Ronnie's garden would be set upon instantly by his two bastard Dobermans. The alarm would be raised and Ronnie's brothers would kick seven bells of shit out of the soldier dude until he told of his forest location. Big brother Michael would be on the phone to everyone, describing these fucks in black. Timing, that was the question . . . those savage dogs would chew on the bastard to make him talk. Joseph nodded to Jamie who handed Thornley the pump-action.

Joseph spoke with intensity. 'Okay tough guy . . . my colleague is on his way to thirty-one Devonshire Road. That's Devonshire Road . . . off Holloway, correct?

### Philip signalled nervous approval.

Joseph threatened. 'If the two hours elapse and he's not here standing with the cash in front of me . . . you will die slowly. Buried alive, you understand?'

### Karabayro smirked and Philip swallowed hard.

Thornley kicked Karabayro, 'keep digging black boy.'

Joseph squared up to the post office robber whilst pointing to Jamie. 'You'll die here in this place, if the exact money isn't exactly where you say it is. If my colleague falls off his bike, if there's undue heavy traffic or if he is delayed by Elvis. You are going to die horribly . . . slowly.' Joseph winked at Jamie who started up the slope to his bike. Philip was trembling, Karabayro painfully digging. Thornley moved menacingly towards Gregory as Joseph asked as blasé as he could, 'have you ever known a human being to suffer? I don't mean sickness, chemotherapy or anything like that. I mean slow death . . . very, very slow. If you're lying, my colleague here will slowly cut you open, then heal you with fire before waking you with battery acid and starting all over again. Then you get buried . . . alive!'

Jamie's motorbike could be heard starting up on the ridge.

Philip screamed out. Joseph smiled at Danny as their trembling prisoner admitted. 'The address . . . em. I got it wrong, it's eh . . . it's not Devonshire Road. It's thirty-one Crawley Crescent off Hornsey Road . . . sorry. I got mixed up . . . I was nervous!' He was kneeling down with his head bowed as if waiting for retribution. He started to sob uncontrollably. Jamie had come back down, never intending to leave. Thornley saw red, throwing the pump gun to Jamie, he moved on the quivering captive. Producing his large hunting knife, he held it to the distraught man's throat.

'What was waiting for my friend at Devonshire Road?' He could not answer; the words would not leave his trembling lips. Danny lowered the knife slightly and hacked it under his collar bone. Screams rang out in Epping Forest; the resident creatures burrowed themselves down, sensing additional pain. Danny retrieved his dripping blade and held it in front of Gregory's face.

'Dogs, me mates Dobermans . . . he-l-p m-e-e,' he roared to the world.

Jamie could not resist his anger, a mental picture of being set on by dogs propelled him to act. He took a step to the side of his would-be betrayer and lashed out with such ferocity that his boot laces came away with a small scattering of the man's shattered nose. Gregory collapsed in a heap. The labouring Karabayro sneaked a look of despair. You and me whitey are now missing, presumed dead . . . wasted by these evil fuckin bouys. Wat a wey ta go . . . fuckin Sherwood fuckin' forest.

Danny Thornley's urine splashed yellow onto the crushed remnants of the blacked-out Philip Gregory's nose. It was two in the morning, his bladder nagged after he had just finished his second Pepsi.

'Not much of a big-time gangster now are we scumbag,' he uttered sarcastically, relishing his bladders release. 'O-o-oh . . . that's goo-ood! Come on hoodlum, wakey-wakey . . . time to get up.' Philip Gregory started to come around and felt his bloated face. Agony curled him up, diverting Thornley's dwindling waste to the back of his head.

Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro peered out of the large crater he had dug. He was down to over three feet, hacking away at the sides to widen his swing. The earth was moist and giving away easily. He looked at the scene with dread. Two dudes were chatting, the other bad bouy taking a slash on the milky bar kid . . . oh Jamaica! The kid without a hooter . . . no nose ain't no good nose. Dese bouys are pure fuckin bad. Karabayro said The Lord's Prayer for the first time in two decades and kept digging.

Thornley zipped up his fly and slammed a shovel across Philip Gregory. 'Help the nigger, Pinocchio!' He was looking down indifferently at his victim, wondering where his pain threshold lay. Much the same way as the Iraqi Madani had pondered on his own limits. Never mind gangster, there's worse to come. Man's inhumanity to itself, Thornley thought. The Gregorys . . . tough guys? Fuck em! I've shit em. He then dragged the mumbling bloodied mess to Karabayro's pit and threw him in. Glancing at his watch, he looked over to Joseph and waited for a decision.

#  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next day Brannigan and DI Mannion were out talking to friends and acquaintances of Gordon Briggs. They had already been to see a newly released sex offender who had been housed by Camden council. They had checked the sex offenders register and noticed that a Duncan Whyte had just been released and was living in the same borough as Briggs. That was enough to have a polite chat. The man offered to make them lemon tea and put on an act of solemn domesticity. Whyte was coolness personified. He had never heard of a Gordon Briggs, should he? He did of course remember the Newbridge school scandal a few years back - "a shocking affair."

The unimpressed detectives moved on to Kings Cross where they were going to interview a close friend of the missing salesman. Johnny Masterson was a snooker buff. He and Briggs played most Thursday nights in the Cross' snooker hall. They parked and paid up behind the town hall and made for the club. Teresa gazed up at the old St Pancras Station marvelling at its architecture.

'I know,' said an irritable Jim. 'What's a building like that doing in a shitpit like Kings Cross?' Linley had ordered all available personnel to look for Briggs but The Duke considered it a waste of time. Briggs had moved fast, taken his passport, he would be long gone. Probably be spotted in a Tuscany guesthouse next month. Anyway, DI's should not be doing leg work. DS Johnson and co would be glad to get out of the nick for a day, so give them two days. They were about to enter the snooker emporium when Jim paused to look in his note book.

'Teresa, would you go on ahead, I'm going to nip across the road to see someone?'

Now Teresa looked peeved. 'Jim you can't keep leaving me the stuff you don't want, where are you off to?'

'One of the people that Sexton upset lives just across the road, I thought I'd see if there's anyone about.'

'The chief won't appreciate that, he's already told us to drop any notions of a serial vigilante and find Briggs. If he finds out that we're looking at the Sexton case he'll do his nut.'

### 'We?'

'Yea . . . I'm coming with you! What the chief doesn't know . . . ' she winked, 'won't bother him.' Jim shrugged his shoulders and pointed to a three-story tenement where Sidney Little lived on the ground floor.

There had been more Littles living there up until two years ago when Sidney's sister and her two children had died of gas asphyxiation. The landlord, Marcus Freeman had employed a shoddy team of cowboy builders who had cut costs to the bare minimum. Instead of contracting a reputable gas fitter they had installed a second-hand gas immersion system that leaked from the kitchen boiler overnight, flooding the entire landing. Sidney's eldest sister and her two children had been overcome as they slept. They were discovered early the next morning by their neighbour who luckily had stayed overnight at his girlfriend's flat. Marcus Freeman had been found guilty in a showcase trial but eventually acquitted on appeal. His lawyer, Maurice Sexton managed to convince the court that the entire blame lay with the building firm who had since gone bankrupt and whose owner had mysteriously died in a car accident. Even the testimony of a subsequently jailed corrupt official, who admitted that Freeman had bribed him into issuing a safety certificate, did not sway the court. Sexton had pulled a stroke and had it ruled inadmissible in the retrial after convincing the gas official's cellmate to reveal that he had bragged about getting Freeman jailed beside him. Sexton was also successful in having charges dropped against his client regarding an adjacent building he owned where three students had perished in a fire caused once again by dodgy fittings. The youngsters from Devon who were studying at North London University had returned home to find their flat dense with gas and instead of calling for help they had tried to open the windows only for a spark to ignite the gas and turn the entire top floor into an inferno. Freeman had since sold the properties and moved abroad whilst Sidney had stayed in the building, seeking confrontation with his departed nemesis. He had campaigned unsuccessfully for over a year to gain compensation for his sister's tragic death, hanging sheets daubed with slogans out his front windows and laying remnants of the now rusting pipe-work across the one-way road to disrupt the traffic.

Twenty-seven-year-old Sidney was at home when the two detectives knocked on his door. He stood on the doorstep in his cut off denims wondering what his Samaritan friend would make of the renewed interest. He knew there was nothing linking himself or Joseph Four to the bathtub toasting of the repulsive lawyer so he played it cool, answering their questions in his distinctive squeaky voice. The female was a nice bit of stuff . . . I'd give her one, he mused to himself as she made a perspicacious enquiry.

'I don't suppose you were sad on hearing of Mr Sexton's demise then?'

'Sad? I fell about laughing . . . blow dried to hell. Couldn't have happened to a nicer man! Lots of people wanted that shyster dead.'

Jim took a gamble, 'are you one of them?'

### Sidney sized up the cop and decided to play him at his own game.

'Am I one of them . . . you bet ya I am!' Sidney laughed at the coppers forlorn expression while sizing up Teresa, 'you see, I killed him!' Jim eyed him warily, 'every time I closed my eyes . . . a thousand times. Every night for the last two years. I'd go to bed and picture myself standing over his fat slimy mess . . . the bastard! That fucker got my sister's killer off when he should be rotting in jail . . . he was as bad as him, fuck him!' he finished his tirade and cackled again.

Jim and a humming Teresa thanked him for his time and crossed over to the snooker emporium. Sidney remained at the door watching Teresa's walk, wondering why she was a copper. You could make a lot of money around here luv, he mused and then thought of his friend. Don't worry Joe, they won't be back.

'Do you think Jamie has an appetite by now Sarge?' Thornley joked.

Joseph drove back along the same path he taken last night. He and Thornley were returning to Epping with Jamie's bike in the back of the van. They got to the ridge where Joseph cupped his hands over his mouth, making a whistling coo. Jamie stepped out from bushes behind them, making him and Thornley jump. Thornley had his pump gun primed and pointed it at his jesting friend.

'I could have filled you in for that, you stupid prick!'

Joseph smirked as he made his way down the slope to where the trussed up prisoners had spent the day in darkness. Before setting off, they had secured their captives tightly and left them in the freshly dug pit, covering it with an assortment of vegetation. Jamie had stayed nearby in the unlikely event of a country walker falling down the ravine and discovering the ghastly sight of their two prisoners.

'Where's my fucking nosh lads?' Jamie asked, 'I'm starving . . . I'm Lee Marvin!'

'I ate yours . . . fuckhead and I'm glad I did, scaring the shit out of us like that', growled Thornley.

'It's on the front seat Jamie! shouted Joseph from below. He soon got to the pit and after removing the camouflaged covering, stepped back to recover his breath. Nothing worse than day old shit. It reminded him of Northern Ireland where on occasion he had been caught up in Bandit country, watching a suspected republican safe-house. He once lay for a full day in the undergrowth, hardly moving a muscle and with no wrapper for his stools. There wasn't room to scratch never mind bury the shit and his pants had stunk.

Karabayro and Gregory stirred as the light invaded their cavity. Oh shit, thought Karabayro squeezing his eyes tightly shut, that one wasn't wearing his mask . . . we're fuckin' dead milky bar. Whisperings drifted up to the forest canopy as they were dragged from their pit.

'Ya gat a bad fuckin attitude bouy,' mumbled Theodore Karabayro as Thornley pulled him up by his nose. Joseph moved over and eyed Teddy's gold T.C.B ring hanging from his neck. He palmed it then ripped it from his bruised torso. More insurance - just in case.

Jamie and Thornley began to untie their prisoners.

What was happening now they wondered, as their restraints were released. Their limbs were aching. Philip Gregory's shoulder was on fire, his nose shattered and his body badly bruised. Karabayro was holding up slightly better though tenderised from Thornley's right boot. They eyed their captors and decided against asking for water just in case the big one's bladder needed emptying. Jamie brandished the pump action, ordering them to sit on the ground. They looked at the trio wondering who had put them up to this. Who was big enough to dare it, thought Philip. Their curiosity stretched to breaking point over the next hour as Joseph produced a laptop and began grilling them about their dealings and connections. Karabayro received a size-nine to his stomach for asking why they wanted to know about the Kentish Town copper Jim Brannigan.

The laptop was then put away, both had sung like the proverbial canary. They panicked when they saw Jamie descend the slope carrying two baseball bats, spiked with six-inch nails.

'How many people you reckon you've killed? asked Joseph.

Both stayed silent until a shaking Philip embittered. 'I haven't killed anyone . . . never!' He was terrified as was Karabayro who blurted out.

'Look . . . wat is dis shit? What de fack is gan on . . . I' ain't killed jack shit!'

Joseph retorted. 'Okay . . . let's put it another way girls. How many deaths do you think your drug dealings are responsible for?'

Karabayro eyed him nervously. 'Who da fuck are you bouys?'

'We represent the people Mr Karabayro,' he paused. 'You and Pinocchio here are about to decide which of you shall live.'

Jamie threw the bats at the prisoner's feet with a warning, 'If you even point them at us, I'll drop you both!'

Gregory and Karabayro looked at each other disbelievingly and then at the bats.

The Jamaican scoffed. 'If you bouys think me and milky bar are gonna put on a show for ya, ya got another ting coming . . .'

Joseph grimaced. 'Fine, kill them both!'

Before the words had left his mouth, Philip Gregory had clutched a bat shoving the other one away. He got gingerly to his feet and raised his weapon before taking a swipe at his fellow sufferer. Karabayro tried to duck but a nail caught in his hand. He kicked out at his opponent who fell backwards holding the bat, which then tore through Teddy's hand provoking him to unsettle the forest's leaves with a piercing scream. Danny Thornley picked up the other bat and threw it at Karabayro who dodged aside and caught it. Philip regrouped and lunged forward catching Teddy again, this time with three nails, deep in his right thigh.

The Jamaican screamed then mustered all his energy into swinging his bat up and then down onto Gregory's foot. Two of the nails punctured through to the ground, through shoe, tendon, flesh and blood, leaving him writhing in shock. He dropped his bat, which the seething Jamaican grabbed.

'Black piece of shit, am I? . . . pussy clat milky bouy!' He pivoted around and exploded the weapon into the base of his spine. Ma Gregory's youngest son gasped; his sad dying eyes appealing for reason.

Thornley clapped. Jamie walked over and removed the bat from the crumpled Gregory's foot. Karabayro took a deep breath and fell to his knees. It's over . . . come on bouys, let Teddy go on his way. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a faint swish as Jamie propelled the studded bat through the air and into the back of his neck. Teddy Karabayro slumped face first to the dirt.

Joseph looked at his watch, 'dump them in the pit and let's get going lads. Let's see if there's any loot at the end of the garden!'

Teresa and Jim finished their day long search in the London haystack and decided to head straight home rather than go back to the station. They had missed all the earlier excitement when Mrs Thelma Gregory had barged in to Kentish Town nick to demand that the police look for the hotheads who had beaten the daylights out of one of her boys and to look for her other "angel" who had yet to be found. "Probably bleeding to death, while you wasters sit around drinking coffee," she scolded, banging the counter with her fist. Sergeant Grayson had contacted Jim and Teresa to tell them about the irate mother and inform the Duke that Holloway police had phoned needing a word with him, but it had since slipped his mind.

He sat in the traffic, concentrating on the electrical goods displayed in Dixons shop window. Sidney Little's words resonated through him, blow dried to hell? They both agreed that the whole day had been a complete waste of time, from the smoky snooker club to the vicarage where Whyte's pastor had been shocked to hear that one of his flock could desert his loved ones without a word of warning.

Teresa was giving Jim a lift home after agreeing to stop by in the morning to take him into work where his car was parked. She moved the gearstick, brushing her hand against her colleague's leg. No response, he was lost in his thoughts. Jim had been thinking about Sidney Little when her hand had touched his knee sending a pleasant feeling through his taut body. He remembered Sidney eyeing up his colleague, making little attempt to disguise his wanton interest, dream on pal. He recalled last night in bed when he had pictured her as he fell asleep. How can I ask a woman out that I don't particularly like but would love to be intimate with? He was beginning to ask himself if that was the case, if he actually did like her. She was good looking, could be funny, was good at her job and backed up her colleagues. His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of his newspaper vendor Mickey Flynn, loading up his boot after a hard day.

'Pull over Teresa . . . over by the paper guy,' he pointed to Flynn's well-worn Audi estate.

'What's up?' she enquired, looking at the smiling street seller.

'I'm just gonna have a word with Mickey.' He was about to get out when he added, 'his morning talking to Sidney Little about Sexton, he said something like . . . blow dried? I'm sure that detail was not reported by the media.'

She sat frustratingly watching the two men chat. Brannigan . . . John bloody Wayne cleaning up Dodge City on his lonesome. She saw the paper man go to his car and delve through a few stacks of papers before emerging with a copy of the London Standard.

Brannigan returned to the car. 'Knew it, the report released from Saville Row nick stated that he was killed when an electrical appliance made contact with his bath water . . . electrical appliance! Get it?'

'Yes, I get what you're saying Jim, but he could have just guessed that. What else would it have been . . . seeing as it was the bathroom?'

He paused briefly, then grabbed his mobile.

'Barney, it's Jim . . . listen, I had a chat with that Sidney Little article today and he seemed to know that Sexton was electrocuted by a hairdryer. I was just wondering if . . .' DI Taylor anticipated, saying he would have a chat with Sidney. 'Great . . . thanks Barney. Talk to you later.'

'You like flying solo . . . don't ya Duke?

Here she goes again, he thought, shelving the plans he had to invite her into his home for a cuppa.

Jim got home to discover a message from a friend attached to Holloway nick that said that the "Pillar of the community," Theodore 'Teddy' Karabayro had most probably been kidnapped along with Philip Gregory by the same people who had put his older brother in the Royal Free Hospital with multiple fractures. Five glasses of red later, Jim began to wonder who would have the bottle to carry out a kidnapping of three of London's nastiest drug dealers on the same night . . . interesting.

The three former soldiers visited the end of their rainbow at thirty-one Crawley Crescent where they discovered a hidden cache of twenty-five thousand pounds in used notes exactly where the deceased Philip Gregory said it would be. They were in and out in the space of five minutes without a soul being disturbed. Joseph declined Jamie and Thornley's offer of a good drink so that he could get some rest. His coughing was getting worse and his rib cage ached from the exertion. He would have to visit a doctor shortly, though an inner voice suggested he would regret knowing what the exact nature of his condition would be. Bedded down and succumbing to the first waves of drowsiness his thoughts drifted to Epping Forest. They had thrown the two bodies into the pit and covered it with branches. Anyone who ventured down there would stumble in and find its ghastly contents. They purposely did not fill in the earth so it would look like misadventure where the perpetuators had fled in a hurry after getting carried away.

As Joseph slept and his two colleagues drank themselves into oblivion, a beetle crawled across the forehead of Teddy Karabayro anxious to know who shared its space in the sprawling darkness of the undergrowth. The Jamaican had been first to be thrown into the hole and Gregory seconds later, landing across his midriff. Philip Gregory had died the moment the bat made contact with him, a heart attack sending him to the great gangland in the ground. His body had already begun to deteriorate when the beetle turned south and slid down onto Karabayro's fleshy eyelid. The insect hesitated and then felt the soft mound of flesh beneath him move as the eyelid popped open. Jamie's bat had not finished the job.

The Jamaican awoke to the sensation of excruciating pain mixed with numbness and the most sickening odour he had ever experienced. His swollen neck throbbed but he could not raise his hands to touch it, they felt like lead, as did his legs. He could not move. Teddy bouy was dead from the neck down, the undergrowth inches from his nose, as was the rotting smell of Philip Gregory. Insanity beckoned. He opened his mouth to scream just as something slide over his lip.

#  CHAPTER NINETEEN

The afternoon sun was breaking through the treetops, bearing down on the sparse greenery covering the immobilised, tormented figure of Teddy Karabayro. Every so often, an insect of the forest would crawl near the once profligate Jamaican's mouth and he would flick out his tongue in an attempt to eat it. The times he succeeded, he would crunch down on the tiny creatures forcing himself to think of his mother's black bean chilli with its toughened kidney beans. He had been sick once already and its residue lay around his mouth for Epping's insects to savour. His lungs cried out for breath though he could not feel Philip Gregory's rotting weight, just the smell which was now overwhelming.

While Teddy and the forest creatures dined, DI's Brannigan and Mannion were sampling their own dinner in the staff canteen of the Royal Free Hospital. Teresa chewed on her tuna lasagne with morning fresh coleslaw side salad while Jim was busy with his gammon steak and fries. They had been visiting Philip Gregory's older brother, who between grimaces had relayed a tale of outraged citizens wielding baseball bats. "What are you gonna do about Philip, why are you pigs not out searching London for him?"

'Yeah', replied the Duke fastidiously. 'I'm going to the canteen in search of a good meal.'

'Fucking pi-g-s!' could be heard echoing through the ward as Jim and Teresa made their way out. Michael had told them of three men with Midland accents, threatening that the police had better find them before he did. Jim smirked as Teresa suggested that the fallen gangster might have enough difficulty finding the ward toilet.

They finished their first meal together and sat back for a minute to let it digest. Doctors and nurses went back and forth, some pretending not to notice each other, others too tired to bother. Jim looked at their badges, noticing that a large proportion read - Mr, Miss or Mrs and not Doctor. Teresa explained that a lot of medical staff used their own titles, such as radiologists or anaesthetists because they were not qualified to call themselves doctors. Teresa had already prepaid for both lunches so they finished their tea and made for the car park. Pulling away from the hospital, Jim speculated as to whether or not a radiologist would be of any use at the scene of a traffic accident. Soon his thoughts turned to his colleague; she ate well for a woman so fit and shapely, nice of her to pay for the meals. While Jim tasked his brain to think of an appropriate situation where he could repay the compliment, former SAS Sergeant Joseph Cassidy was on the hospital's ground floor in the hands of an Asian doctor who was studying his x-rays.

Joseph read her name badge asking, 'well . . . Miss Hazan. How does it look?' She dished him her NHS smile and asked if he would take his results chart back to the oncology suite downstairs. An hour later, he was sitting before a Mr Reynolds who informed him that he would have to be admitted. There was a tumour that needed urgent treatment. He had at some time been exposed to radiation poisoning and Reynolds, having been told by Joseph of his soldiering past, asked the obvious question.

### 'Have you ever participated in a battle where Depleted Uranium ammunitions were spent?'

Joseph already knew from other case records that the devastating weapon used by the Allied forces to such deadly effect on the Iraqi's in 1991 was now being held responsible for numerous cases of cancer in the personnel who had taken part. Depleted Uranium was still killing; the Express newspaper had already run a story detailing a former soldier's wife who had given birth to a Downs Syndrome child. This had been blamed on the MOD for not protecting their forces against the harmful fallout from the exploding ammunitions.

'That war to free Kuwaiti oil was the most toxic ever fought in the history of our sad, warring planet,' observed Reynolds rhetorically.

Joseph had long suspected that he had cancer and it came as no shock, but he did not look forward to the treatment. He was in a way resigned to his fate and asked if it could be delayed a fortnight.

'Not if you want to live very long,' you need a course of chemotherapy immediately my friend.'

Joseph left the hospital and wandered down to the car park after telling the consultant that he would talk it over with his family. Reynolds had already informed his patient that even the more serious of cancer patients could now be treated at home, courtesy of a syringe driver; a cassette shaped instrument that fed chemotherapy into your body through a drip attached to the chest.

He drove by the cinema, looking at the short queue that had formed for the six o'clock showing of a new sc-fi movie. A kerbside newspaper boy asked if he wanted an early edition of the Standard.

A few coins later Teddy Karabayro stared at him from the front page, courtesy of a photograph he had supplied at his interview two days earlier. A footnote mentioned that 'Mr Karabayro was now being sought by the police in connection with a recent incident at a Kentish Town public house.' The Karabayro interview was granted one column while the rest of the front page devoted itself to the Home Secretary's forthcoming visit from his respective Japanese and German counterparts. It was a goodwill exercise jointly organised by Honda and BMW to promote their brands. Mr Tasuri and Dr Heidleman would be arriving in two weeks' time for a short visit during which they would be the principal guests at a ceremony in Hyde Park where an eternal flame would be lit at a specially designed monument to commemorate the war dead of all three countries. Home Secretary Straw insisted that the visit was to cement relations between the former World War II adversaries whilst building stronger economic ties.

Joseph put the paper aside and went into the chemists to collect his prescription of Morphine painkillers. He would have to return to the hospital on Monday for an ultrasound to see how far the cancer had advanced through his pancreas. It was all so sudden; he had expected a series of lengthy visits to the out patients before the word cancer came up. A little voice in his head had been telling him for months that something was amiss. Now he knew, though he still could not understand what his pancreas had to with his fits of coughing, even though it had just been explained to him. He would know all in three days according to Reynolds, who had not seemed too optimistic after the x-rays. He insisted that Joseph come in for an overnight stay so he could be fitted with the syringe driver and for observation in case of any unforeseen problems. Joseph had tasks to see to before then, he would go back to the house to see if Jamie had heard from Danny who was on ob detail in the van on Pratt Street. Duncan Whyte would be itching to go to his snuff party and Joseph would make sure they were followed. Reynolds's ominous words swarmed across his mental plate causing him to curse the Queen he cared little for and the country he loved. Why? . . . I've always known something bad was lurking inside me. But why me . . . why now? In the past when he had felt a bit down, he would talk to Lucy, his Samaritan controller. He missed her now, her relaxed feminine tone. He had not volunteered for any shifts recently and he missed it. It helped him to help others. Why me Mister JC . . . why not one of those that harm your faithful?

Danny Thornley reclined in the front seat of the van and watched as Duncan Whyte left his house. He sat up behind the steering wheel preparing to follow. Whyte crossed the road and approached the nearest pay phone. Go on scumbag, use it . . . use it you dirty nonce! As though acting in accordance with Thornley's thoughts, Whyte stopped to size up the phone booth as though he were Clark Kent looking for a place to don his cape. Yes . . . Y-es! mimed Danny as Whyte shuffled inside. He pressed 'record' and listened in dismay at the weekend plans of his target. Got ya! Whyte was arranging to meet a contact on the Northern Underground Tube line. The man would wear an outfit identical to Whyte's, brown jeans, red baseball cap and a beige windbreaker that he had bought on Camden Market that morning. They would not make contact; the man was a decoy for Whyte in case he was being followed. Whyte would take a tube all the way to Colliers Wood where he would disembark and go to the pub directly opposite the station. His contact would be waiting in the toilets, dressed identically. He would give Whyte a change of clothes and immediately leave the pub after a few minutes to go next door to the mini cab office and take a cab back to North London. If anyone had followed Whyte by tube they would have to use the same firm or hail a black taxi, both of which would be noticeable. Duncan Whyte would change his clothes, order a drink and then catch another tube to meet his friends at Euston station where they would wait for an opportunity to meet an inbound youngster off a train. Someone new to the big bad capital who might take advice from a senior police officer. Thornley watched Whyte walk briskly back to his flat before calling Jamie to gear for action.

While DCI Andrews sat reviewing the week with Teresa and Jim in his office, a young Geordie art student made her way anxiously up to PC Freddy Chalmers in the station's reception.

She wanted to speak to someone in connection with the disturbances at The Kingdom public house on Wednesday . . . "if it was okay?" Freddy asked her to take a seat and dialled the CID room. Kentish Town and Holloway Police stations had mounted a joint effort with house to house enquiries regarding the disappearances of two men, one male Caucasian and one Afro Caribbean. There was also the matter of a serious assault on a Kentish Town publican, though they hardly bothered mentioning him. Whoever abducted Michael Gregory had also snatched the other two gems.

Jim joined Teresa downstairs in the interview room where Freddy had deposited the anxious looking girl. She looked sheepishly at the two officers before relating her tale.

A police constable had knocked on Annie Webster's door the day before to ask her if she knew anything about the disturbances on Wednesday evening. She lied saying she was at her mothers in Newcastle that evening. Her boyfriend had been standing beside her when PC Jeffries called so she had had to tell a lie. On the Wednesday night in question, while her boyfriend had been visiting friends in Bristol she had been entertaining a 'friend' in their shared flat. While her expectant visitor was taking a bath Annie noticed a good looking, heavily built male in his thirties outside the pub.

'Am I in trouble for lying to the police?'

'Don't worry about that,' Teresa reassured her. 'Could you describe him to us Annie?'

Up to now, Jamie Richardson had led a charmed life, dodging bullets on three continents but his luck ran out when an unfaithful art student's lover decided to take a wash. Annie reached into her rug sack and produced an A4 sheet folded in two.

### 'Better than that,' she said unfolding the paper.

Jim and Teresa looked at each other in amazement and then at the sketch of Jamie Richardson. The detail was unbelievable.

'How long were you looking at him for?' asked Jim.

'I suppose about two minutes in all . . . he's quite dishy. Don't you think Inspector?

Teresa brushed off the question asking. 'He stood still for two minutes and you did this from your window?'

'More or less . . . I shaped his features and then sketched it in after he rode off.'

Jim was on his feet, scratching under his chin. 'Did you say rode . . . as in motorbike?

'Yea . . . he left his friends and went down the alleyway to his bike . . . you can see the alleyway and the front of the pub from our bedroom window. We've got the second floor flat.' She looked down at the ground, guilt ridden, 'my boyfriend and I.'

Jim asked if she saw anything . . . did the man do anything.

'He could have, he was partially blocked from my view whenever he stepped to the right of the doorway, there's a canopy that comes out to the Kingdom's pavement so I couldn't see properly. Don't forget . . . I only saw him in snatches, looking up from my sketch pad.' Annie left after agreeing to come back to the station at four o'clock to help a police sketch artist do a complete E-fit of the bike rider. She could supply no details about the man's friends because they had been partially covered when she saw them outside the premises and it had been only fleetingly. Before leaving, Annie made Teresa promise that the police would not mention it to her boyfriend. Teresa winked at her while Jim thanked her for her community mindedness and praised her artistic ability.

Jim and Teresa went back upstairs to confront Chief Linley as DCI Andrews had already left for a golfing weekend. After half an hour with him, they left with his permission to start investigating a series of vigilante style crimes that could be linked by one or men using motorbikes. They were going to look more closely into the death of Cedric Boban and ask for co-operation from Stoke Newington, Holloway and Saville Row CID with regard to Clegg's murder, Sexton and the Russian escort's dodgy looking scenario along with the recent disappearances of Karabayro and Philip Gregory. Before leaving Chief Superintendent Linley's office, they were told in no uncertain terms that they were to keep the investigations quiet, no media. The chief agreed to the investigation fearing Teresa would go over his head to her Scotland Yard bosses if he knocked them back again. He did not believe the motorbike theory but gave his consent, in the unlikely outcome that it could be true. He did not want egg on his face so close to retirement. Why now, he fretted, why not in eight months' time when I'm no longer responsible. Jim and Teresa decided to go back to the Royal Free Hospital to re-interview Philip's older brother.

#  CHAPTER TWENTY

Danny Thornley and Joseph Cassidy mingled with the commuters on the plaza of Euston train station. Both men dressed in dark trousers with Joseph preferring a sweater to Thornley's leather jacket. Jamie was outside on his bike; he had followed Whyte's decoy buddy back to the imposing Centrepoint building on Tottenham Court Road where he discovered that he worked as a telesales team leader for an Insurance firm. Jamie could be quite persuasive when it came to chatting up receptionists and the like. The opposite sex were fair game. Whyte did exactly as he had said on the phone; he came back on the Northern line, unaware that Danny, who used a separate carriage, was following him. Joseph stood a discreet distance behind Duncan Whyte, DCI Andrews and a foreign looking man wearing an expensive cashmere jumper. The men scanned the board that announced the incoming trains while keeping an opportune eye on the hustling throng. Joseph watched them talking in hushed tones, just about hearing Whyte excitedly ask 'that one . . .?' every time a vacant looking teenager came into view. Thornley stood at a coffee bar watching Joseph watching them. He eyed the senior police officer with contempt. Fucking perverts . . . I wouldn't like to be in your shoes! After a while Joseph moved away and sat upstairs in the bar's balcony. At ten past six, the three men separated. Whyte and the foreign chap moved three feet away from Andrews. They were all feigning interest in the giant information board after a young looking Scandinavian girl separated from her group. A few minutes earlier Whyte's eyes had been popping out of his head when a small group of her classmates had filled by with their escort, presumably a teacher. The youngster had been delayed and was now trying to catch up with her mates and negligent guardian. Andrews looked her over while moving slowing after her as she searched for her fellow students. She could only have been thirteen, maybe twelve, he mused as he looked up in the direction she was heading. It was to the exit on Evershot Street where there were CCTV cameras. She walked outside and he edged his way along behind a group of people until diverting to an 'entry only' door being opened inwards by people arriving. He slipped out and turned sharp left in order to avoid the field of view of another CCTV site. Her friends had left via the opposite street exit and she was becoming anxious. Joseph phoned Jamie to get ready on Evershot. Seconds later, he saw the pretty young girl with a "London Dungeon" carrier bag come down the steps. The smiling DCI Andrews followed, catching up with her as she looked up and down the street. Jamie saw him approach and engage her in conversation. A minute passed when Andrews appeared to tilt his head back and laugh. He then took out what looked like his police warrant card and let her take a close look at it. Inside the station, Joseph saw a panic-stricken teacher come rushing back onto the plaza looking frantically about for her lost lamb. Joseph's mobile rang. It was Jamie to tell him that the "stupid kid" was in Andrew's car and he was in pursuit - "a green metallic Rover . . . licence plate T37 HCW . . . heading west towards the river." Joseph signalled Danny who ran out to get the van. Three minutes later, they set off from the front of the station's steps. Up ahead, Jamie spotted Duncan Whyte and another in a Mondeo estate closely following their prey in the Rover. By the time Joseph and Thornley caught up, they had turned left off Blackfriars Bridge and were heading west again.

Jim and Teresa were sitting beside the bed of injured citizen Michael Gregory who had been transferred upstairs to the sixth floor of the hospital. He was in better spirits than this morning when he thought that the police had not taken him seriously. He smiled at Teresa and apologised for his earlier 'fucking pigs' comment.

'It was the painkillers talking.'

Jim regarded him with contempt and let Teresa do the talking.

### 'Did you hear a motorbike being used by the gang who attacked you and your brother?'

After serious thought, he rebuked himself. 'What a bloody idiot . . . yes, there was a motorbike. We were shoved into a largish van, but I remember the hum of what must have been a bike.' Michael pushed himself up onto his elbow, grimacing with pain. 'How could I have been so stupid? When I was blindfolded I listened out for every sound to try and figure where those bastards were taking us . . . there must have used an out-rider!' Jim looked at him without pity and started to walk away, leaving Teresa to thank him for helping with their enquiries.

'Is that it . . . what about Philip? Gregory asked, trying to raise himself from the bed.

### 'What about him?'

'Are you looking for him, our bleedin' mother is heartbroken . . .'

'Yea . . . yeah . . . we'll find him. When we find who abducted him.'

'You lot don't care do ya . . . if it was your brother?'

Teresa interjected. 'We'd be combing the streets for him bigtime! Thank you, Mr Gregory!'

Jim waited at the lifts for Teresa. He saw her coming just as Michael Gregory's repetitive words resonated after her. 'Fucking pi-g-s!' He held the lift and they both got in just as a man in a rabbit's costume came around the corner shouting for them to hold the door. He hopped in and immediately petitioned them with a 'Friends of London Hospitals' collection tin.

'Ground floor bunny?' Jim asked.

### The man made a goofy face and nodded.

Wanker, thought Jim. His costume was raggedy green with the face cut away so he could plead with his victims. Jim reached into his pocket and gave the grinning rabbit a pound but Teresa refused to follow suit. The man was contorting his face like a mime artist in an attempt to make her laugh when suddenly he turned away abruptly. She took no notice while a bemused Jim shrugged his shoulders. The lift stopped at the third floor where Mr Rabbit hastily hopped out.

They left the hospital for the second time in a more confident mood after Gregory had more or less confirmed their biker theory.

### Jim asked. 'Why didn't you give the rabbit anything?

### 'Because he's a conman.'

'What . . . how do you know he is?'

'Remember when you took me in to Gregory's Pub last week and that big Scotch pillock got rowdy?'

'Yea . . .?'

'Well, the blind guy you gave his card money to was none other than Mr Rabbit.'

Jim let out a groan. 'Why didn't you say something . . . I'd have called uniform.'

'I was waiting for you to spot it. I thought with your intuition and everything . . .' She smiled coyly.

'Oh yea . . . very funny! I'll see him again,' he mumbled as Teresa smirked.

DCI Andrews pulled up in an alleyway about a hundred yards past the London Dungeon entrance. It was in off the road under the vast railway bridge that cast a giant shadow over the archaic cobbled streets. The Mondeo drove up behind them; Whyte got out and slipped into the back of Andrew's shinning Rover.

Jamie had alighted from his bike and was watching from behind a commercial waste bin. He spoke into his mobile - "Sarge, one of the other pervs is getting in with the kid and the cop . . ." Joseph and Thornley were closing in so Joseph told Jamie to wait on line and keep them in sight. Inside the DCI's Rover, Whyte made his move. He pulled the terrified girl into the back seat and punched her. Jamie started to get agitated, but Joseph told him to hold on. Whyte grabbed the dazed girl's arm and after finding a vein, injected her with a heavy sedative. She slumped to the floor of the car and it pulled away after letting the Mondeo take the lead. The dark-skinned driver gave Andrews the thumbs up and headed south. Joseph and Thornley waited for Jamie to remount and then they took it in turns to track the two cars all the way through Bermondsey until they arrived in Lewisham. The Mondeo suddenly speeded up so Joseph gave Jamie the word to get after it. He and Thornley decided to take a closer look at what was happening in the rear of the Rover. They pulled out to overtake and Thornley casually sneaked a look down into the car. Whyte had his head down and his hands busy under a rug on the floor. Joseph eased his foot off the accelerator and fell back.

Danny Thornley was disgusted.

'We'd better make a move now Sarge or the girl will be for it.'

Joseph breathed heavily; he had wanted to track the car the whole way to their nest. He mobiled Jamie and told him to keep the foreigner in sight at all costs.

Thornley was now very agitated. 'Come on Sarge . . . let's get these fuckers, one of them is messing about with the kid.'

Joseph made his move on Lewisham Way. Andrews pulled out to overtake a slow-moving lorry when Joseph put his foot down and caught the rear of the Rover, bumping it slightly. He beeped his horn indicating to pull in.

Andrews swore loudly and drove over onto the disused forecourt of an old wine warehouse followed by the Mercedes van that came to a halt behind him.

'Leave this to me Danny.' Joseph got out.

Andrews got out and approached him. Joseph decided to play the road raged 'White Van Man.'

'What the fuck's the matter with you pal . . . didn't you just see me indicate? Just look at my van . . . my boss will kill me.'

Andrews smiled meekly and surrendered the blame to avoid procrastinating. 'Yea . . . sorry about that mate. I didn't see you.'

They both looked at their vehicles that were barely scratched.

Andrews reached for his wallet. 'Listen mate . . . there's not much damage, it's hardly anything. Say if I give you a twenty . . . how does that sound?'

Joseph was having none of it.

Thornley joined the fray. 'What's this geezer's problem,' he asked in an intimidating tone. Whyte disembarked and Andrews, fearing a passing patrol car changed tack.

'I am a police officer,' he showed the badge that had so impressed the now unconscious Swede, 'I'm sure you don't need me to take a close look at your van? Who knows what flaws I'll find the way you drive it.'

Thornley called his bluff and went to the van's passenger side reaching for the mobile phone.

'We'll see about that . . . won't we? You cops think you can do anything on the roads, let's call your cop mates and see!'

Whyte whispered to Andrews who grinned and walked over to Thornley.

Joseph remarked. 'It's probably just as well . . . our boss will skin us if we don't report it for the insurance. He's warned us before.'

Whyte joined Andrews at the side of the van as Thornley pretended to dial a number.

'Come on lads . . . it's just a bloody scratch. How does fifty each sound to you,' he took out his wallet. Thornley swung open the side sliding door and sat down on the edge. Andrews and Whyte made a tentative grab for his phone not noticing Joseph's fist as it connected with the back of Andrews head. Thornley pulled Whyte into the van immediately pressing a stun umbrella to his chest and punching hard into his freckled face. Joseph pushed Andrews further in catching him on the jaw with all the force of his elbow, sending him dazed to the floor. Danny applied the weapon to his neck causing the detective's eyes to glaze over. Both men were then gagged with masking tape and handcuffed. A frightened scowl appeared on the battered face of Duncan Whyte who now relished the safely back in Broadmoor. Andrews thought of his wife and the shame there was to come. His mobile rang repeatedly before Joseph turned it off and threw it in the front of the van. Thornley bound both men with heavy ropes pausing occasionally to hit out at them.

Joseph went to the Rover and examined the motionless girl beneath the blanket. He gently lifted her head and looked under her eyelids. 'Sleep little girl . . .' he whispered trying to gauge her age. He patted her head saying 'you don't know how close you came to not growing up.' He redressed her clothes, put the blanket back over her and went back to the van, his fury awoken.

Thornley saw him coming and knew what it meant, having seen it before. For all Thornley's brutality, he knew that it did not compare to his former Sergeant's infrequent rage. Danny Thornley was still frightened of Joseph even though he was a few years older and now slowing up with his cough. He had witnessed Joseph cut the throat of an Iraqi aid worker who had stolen medicines destined for released Allied prisoners of war. He had seen him shoot an IRA man from twenty-five yards and then empty his magazine into him as he lay on the ground; he'd done it without flinching. Joseph could be bad when he got pissed off and he was pissed off now.

Thornley watched him get into the back of the van and use the butt of his Browning on the groins of the two perverts. He was calm, yet enraged, a deadly viciousness that was upsetting to witness.

Thornley cleared his throat. 'We still have to question the wankers Sarge.'

Joseph finished smashing their heads on the floor of the van and withdrew. Calmly he walked to the Rover and ordered Danny to follow in the van.

Forty minutes later, Joseph drove the Rover up to the Ambulance bay of St Thomas' hospital and walked away, leaving the girl in the car but carrying off evidence of perversion found in a golfer's holdall in the boot. Thornley picked him up telling him that Jamie was waiting outside a large detached house on the outskirts of Lewisham. Joseph joined him there just as a scattering of men and two women came out of the house driving off in different directions. Jamie joined them in the van after dumping his bike in the back, letting it fall heavily onto the heap of moaning flesh and bone. The trio looked on as the vipers fled their nest and marked down the address. The party had been abandoned when it became clear that someone had rumbled the guest of honour. Joseph drove away and made for the old dilapidated house in Stoke Newington, stopping off in Cross Street to view the golf bag's contents and collect a video camera and a set of garden clippers.

As they pulled up at the slaughter house, Jamie suddenly gasped as though he had been holding his breath for an eternity. He looked to be a state of shock and his face was ashen.

'What's your problem wanker?' Thornley joked.

### Jamie remained silent.

'You okay mate,' asked Joseph.

They sat in the van for a few minutes before Jamie suddenly spoke in a hushed tone. 'I think I've just seen a ghost!'

Danny smirked, 'you are losing it Richardson. All that pussy has rotted your brain.'

'Is Taribh Madani definitely dead?'

His question sent a shiver through Joseph who casually asked, 'why would you ask a question like that, Jamie?'

'That Iraqi scum is burning in hell-'

Joseph interrupted Danny. 'Don't fuck around Jamie! Why are you all suddenly green-faced? Why ask that question now?'

'Back at the traffic lights,' mumbled Jamie.

'Saddam turned on him and had him whacked back in 1992, you fucking idiot!' Danny suddenly vented.

'Why ask that question,' Joseph asked again.

Jamie leaned forward and rubbed his face. 'Back there at the lights . . . I saw-'

'What! What did you see?' Joseph was getting edgy.

'I dunno . . . I guess nothing?'

'Fuck head!' remarked Danny. 'Let's get on with the job.'

'Tell us what you thought you saw Jamie!'

The youngest of the trio gathered himself together and spoke slowly. 'There was a Taxi back there at the lights and as it pulled away, I could have sworn I saw . . . Madani in the back seat?'

Joseph and Danny looked at each other in amazement.

'And you wait till now to say something,' queried Joseph.

'You cunt!' Mouthed Danny, 'that Iraqi piece of shit is dead. He's in hell, burning along with all his fellow scumbags. He is not being driven around London. 'You can be a right fucking wanker mate. Too much fucking pussy!'

'Forget it,' said Jamie, the colour slowly coming back to his cheeks. 'Just nerves I guess, sorry lads.'

Joseph opened the van door but gave his comrade a weary glance, 'you're slowing up Richardson! Get your fucking act together!'

'Sarge,' replied Jamie, thinking all along of the shadowy figure in the London Taxi.

### Joseph had already determined to make a call as soon as time permitted.

#  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The next morning while Jim and Teresa sat in the CID incident room discussing the revamped serial biker theory, they received a call from Southwark police. It appeared that someone had stolen DCI Andrew's Rover and used his pride and joy to take liberties with a young Swedish tourist who had been abducted from Euston station last night. Mrs Andrews said her husband was still away golfing and his mobile remained switched off. Confusion reigned with Chief Linley on his way in to work for the first Saturday in living memory. No one even considered for a moment that the respected DCI was in any way involved, he was held in too high a regard. They were all glad the girl had been looked after and hoped their jocular CID boss would soon call to clear up the mystery.

By three o'clock Linley had gone home, commenting to Jim on his way out.

'Obviously he's on a golf course somewhere, unaware that his car has been stolen.' Jim and Teresa had been down to Euston station and spoken to the Kings Cross officers dealing with the case. It looked like a serious case of premeditated child snatching. The drug found in the girl's blood was a heavy sedative, which an opportunist would not have carried. Jim scratched under his chin the whole day. What a bloody nuisance, the DCI's car being used to kidnap a girl . . . no, don't even think it Brannigan, not in a million years. What if Andrews had come upon the kidnapping and tried to intervene . . . where was he now? I hope you're okay Guv . . . I hope you're enjoying your golf.

Saskia Anderson, from Stockholm was still in St Thomas' and in no condition to be interviewed. It appeared that she had been interfered with; by one, maybe two men.

'Scum . . . they're the worst of the worst.' Jim said to Teresa leaving the station on their way to the empty Boban household. They had been delayed throughout the day so they were going to take a quick look inside before heading home. Later on, Jim would casually ask if she was hungry.

'I know, every parent's nightmare . . . they deserve hell. I don't care what these do-gooding psychologists say . . .'

'I agree Teresa, it's not a sickness. It's just evil . . . hell is welcome to them.'

The abducted duo were already there, but it was a living hell. Joseph and Thornley took it in turns to question the once handsome detective about the Neville and Daniels children and any other information he might volunteer. The rules of the interrogation were explicitly simple. When it was your turn to sit in the chair, you would be asked a question; then you would have to speak constantly for a full five minutes with no hesitation. A silence of more than five consecutive seconds would result in you losing a finger, courtesy of a powerful set of garden clippers. Every time Andrews stopped, Jamie would tear off a digit beneath the knuckle. Each time he stopped, Joseph would press pause on the video camera. A large bowl full of blood lay on the Formica table top, severed fingers lay strewn on the floor. Soon it would be Whyte's turn again. He lay snivelling in his own excrement, his right hand bandaged with three fingers missing and a set of headphones blasting music into his eardrums. He had blacked out every time Thornley ripped a finger away only to be aroused and asked the same questions. Questions about who owned the house in Lewisham, who were the group of people waiting there, who killed the Neville boy and Daniels girl and where were their remains? He was told that if he did not connect a Christian name with a surname they would move to his feet. While one paedophile was being questioned the other's hearing was being impaired so as to insure they did not copy each other's testimony. DCI Andrews lay slumped, with his arms tied to a chair, his shirt carefully ironed yesterday by the mother of his children, now a blood-soaked rag. Joseph asked him again to relate the whereabouts of the missing bodies, the camera clicked on and Andrews, head bowed and swollen, maintained he did not know. Jamie put his gag on to condense the screams and was about to use the sharp garden clippers when Joseph addressed his pain strapped captive.

'Andrews . . . you are gonna tell us where they are' he paused, 'you're not going to die. Mister JC will have to withhold retribution for a while longer. We are not going to deny the jailer. A paedophile cop in prison would be a juicy target for every hard-man there. But before we dump you somewhere public we are going to remove from you what you cherish most.'

Joseph stood up and pulled back the table with the camera. He took Jamie's clippers using them to tear away the clothes from the detective's groin. Whyte looked up from under a boot and cried under his gag. The Rolling Stones' ¶Has anybody se-en my wo-man¶ deafening out the sound of his own self-pity.

Andrews shook with fear. 'No . . . for pity sake . . . no! Please, not them . . . in God's name! Have mercy . . . I'll tell you!'

Jamie grabbed his hair and punched him repeatedly. 'In God's name? Mercy . . . like the mercy you showed those kids . . . you bastard!'

Joseph put the clippers on the messy table, warning him to tell the truth. He did, as did Whyte moments later, both on camera.

The trio left them tied up and went outside for some fresh air, away from the stench of fear and human degradation. Inside, Andrews and Whyte both realised that they were dead men if their fellow enthusiasts ever got hold of them. Prison seemed welcoming; they still had their genitals. They no longer cared about the forthcoming shame. The door opened and both inhaled the fresh incoming breeze as the three men returned.

Andrews watched as one of them gagged Whyte while another knelt over him with a large knife.

'No . . . I beg you don't . . . pl-e-as-e!!!' screamed Whyte. Blood spurted upwards and Whyte writhed in agony beneath his gag.

Andrews cried out as a gag came from behind. A man knelt down in front of him and smiled.

He felt a hand pull on his genitals as he struggled desperately to shake off his restraints. Seconds later, he blacked out, his skin matted with blood; his wife a widow. He would take more punishment before the day was out, before a heart attack would cease the pain inflicted by three vicious men who put themselves above the law of the land. Between bouts of torment he would imagine the scenes at his house when a high-ranking officer would call and prepare his wife for the unbelievable news that her Bob, her children's father, had been a chameleon, a wolf in sheep's clothing armed with a badge of justice. The very man given the responsibility to catch the men who stole the innocence and youth of those he had been entrusted to protect. What would Jim Brannigan and the chief think when the news came out? Disgust . . . revulsion? What did it matter, hell was waiting.

Duke Brannigan followed his colleague up the stairs of the Bobans, watching the denim shift gracefully around her bottom. She did not seem to be in a hurry to get home, late as it was. She must not have anyone either. Teresa was dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, the rebellious code favoured by some CID who worked a weekend shift. She looked like one of those elegant women who strolled through weekday supermarkets, a woman to get close to, a woman to make you wonder who the lucky bastard was waiting at home. Jim was wearing a nice grey flannel suite, debating how to casually ask if she might be hungry and how to back track deftly if she mentioned a fortunate partner.

They took a room each; Jim was in the main bedroom when Teresa called out from the adjoining spare room.

### 'Fancy something to eat when we're finished Jim?'

Jim stopped his prodding and schoolboy pondering to smile. During the brief silence, she would not be able to see his relieved and happy expression. Think the words first Jim. Get it right . . . don't be too hasty.

'Yeah . . . sure. I was going to invite you anyway . . . I owe you for lunch at the hospital.'

She wandered into the bathroom that now gave off that semi-clean unused smell.

She replied indifferently. 'Fine . . . that's nice of you.'

Jim felt like an idiot. What was that all about . . . I was going to invite you? Sounds like a date or something . . . why couldn't I just leave it at fine!

He would take her to the Village Bistro in Highgate, not too pretentious though there was still the chance of running into a celebrity or two. Highgate was like that these days . . . stars drifted around being noticed until they bumped into one another, exclaiming surprise. Then they would sip and compare the levels of curiosity aimed in their direction.

Jim finished his probing in the bedroom and joined Teresa on the landing. She asked about the attic, which the late Mr Boban had made into his den. DS Johnson had been through it twice but they decided to take another look. Jim, being courteous, invited her to go up the steep narrow stairway first. She climbed the slope, not presuming for one second that his motive was anything other than gentlemanly conduct though half way up she decided her denim display would be wasted without a little wriggle or two. Jim lapped it up, pretending not to notice. He wished he was more able to conduct himself in these situations, a witticism would be appropriate, but which one? There must be something to say about a gorgeous behind without sounding like a sack of shit or coming across as a sexual harasser.

Teresa glanced at the Airfix models hanging from the ceiling. 'Whatever secret Mrs Boban uncovered . . . that made her have him shot is here somewhere, right?' He nodded tentatively, 'so if some secret became known to her . . . how did she find it?'

The Duke surmised. 'If it was another woman . . . though I doubt it at that age, would she have had him shot for it?' Teresa looked amused, Jim added, 'the other woman would have come forward by now. It wasn't money because they were quite comfortably well off.'

'That leaves us . . .?' They looked around at the cosy attic . . . 'clutching for straws.' They poked through his reading material, everything from puzzle books to gardening and model assembly. Mrs Boban was responsible for her husband's death, that was a fact, whichever way you looked at it.

On the way to the car Jim asked his colleague what could be so bad as to kill an elderly man on the day of his retirement when they were due to go off to the pyramids and enjoy a well-earned rest. Betrayal, lies, something very bad, something unforgivable . . . what? They spent another two hours debating the motive, but not in the Village Bistro where Teresa's denim had been considered too casual for the delicate senses of a posse of film people relaxing. They used a crowded Holloway pub where they each grabbed a toasted cheese and ham sandwich followed by too many drinks to drive home. Jim dropped Teresa home and continued on in his empty taxi asking himself why he was not more modern. They had discussed the Bobans and Sextons of the world in between casual questions about each other's personal lives.

Reading between the lines, she reckoned that he should forget the past; no matter how hard it was and get on with his life. She would have liked to have said it to him, but could not. She liked the man, his directness; she admired his integrity. Teresa would take her time.

Jim poured himself a drink and sat down to watch his namesake's 'Rio Lobo'. He did not take in too much before drifting off to sleep, thinking of Andrews making birdies and of him and his colleague making love.

Jim sat at home, as he did most Sunday reading through the papers while Teresa pottered about her flat tidying and thinking of her next free time with him. The evening had ended with them both saying that they would "do it again," but when? She wanted to be with him now, to dine together, to idle together. She thought about picking up the phone but every time she did, she reasoned not to rush. She was looking forward to tomorrow, to see if his behaviour was anyway different around her. Today she would just loll about, phone a few friends and watch a video with a pizza. Jim would later watch the 'Rio Lobo' which his sleep had deprived him of, thinking again of Andrew's stolen car. He rang the DCI's mobile a few times and then phoned his house and spoke to his wife who reassured him not to worry, "Bob often went a golf day without calling." Sarah Andrews gave her husband space, he worked hard and deserved to play anyway he wanted. She presumed that his battery must be dead and his swing improving, either that, or the clubhouse thriving. When Jim thought about phoning Teresa, he would sigh and wish for a better, braver more reckless self. Someone like DS Johnson, who wouldn't mess about; Goatee would have been over at her place now, enjoying their breakfast in bed.

Jamie Richardson had awoken early and spent the day on the coast. At Joseph's suggestion, he had pitched a spot on a remote cliff and made himself at home, as bird watchers tended to do. His binoculars had not been trained on the feathered flyers but on the grounded metal ones that lay around the peaceful airfield outside St Mary's Hoo. He watched the nearby road that passed the Bird Sanctuary, checking any vehicles from a list obtained through pain. Whyte and Andrews had eventually provided car colours, makes and some part registration of their former partygoers. They had also given reasonable descriptions of their associates though Jamie himself would need no notes to recognise the Mondeo with the foreign driver.

He ate his digestives and craned his neck to see a far off fishing boat trawling the greenish waters of the English Channel. His peepers were army issue enabling him to see Southend in the distance where he had once spent a weekend with his soul mates, doing what soldiers do best. Danny was still up to a bit of chasing though Joseph now rarely bothered. Jamie was worried about his former sergeant and had volunteered to drive him to hospital on Monday when the perv operation was over. For now, it was the seagulls and biscuits and the promise of a pretty nurse's smile in the morning. He laughed to himself thinking of Danny who had received the shorter straw, keeping watch on a large house near the humid, exhaust fumed Lewisham Way.

Jamie and Thornley arrived back in Stoke Newington just before midnight. Joseph prepared a quick meal of toasted cheese sandwiches, chicken wings, coleslaw and strong black coffee. At three o'clock Monday morning, they set off in different directions. Jamie went back to the coast with a parcel and the DCI's mobile phone. Thornley drove Joseph to the home of London Standard reporter Steven Blakley where he deposited two bubble wrapped video cassettes through his letterbox. Thornley drove on carefully, knowing that the police had a habit of stopping vans on the road in the twilight hours. He used the back streets for the entire journey while Joseph grabbed some sleep. Joseph had told his friends that he would not be driving for a while because of the painkillers he was taking for his ulcer. Seemed a bit much for a stomach complaint thought Thornley, though he was not going raise the issue with Joseph. No chance of that! Very soon, they would be heading north to check on a group of mischievous Irishmen intent on disturbing the peace on a grandiose scale.

The Monday morning sun shed its yawning glory over a sleepy London skyline. It was encroaching on alarm time. 06:59 AM and counting. Disc jockeys eyed their wall clocks awaiting their producer's nod. Another day, another struggle. Ned Kennedy roused himself and then trod to his council bathroom to face his jaundiced complexion and empty his sagging bladder. An early morning vow to not to look at the gym teacher bending over, a cup of tea and then across the road to St Anthony's Primary school. Ned had been caretaking at St Anthony's since the war, sandwiched between occasional bouts of residence at various drying out clinics.

It was 07:22 and counting. A lot to do this morning, the gym equipment at eight, the play-swings second coat of paint before ten and the quart of Smirnoff, hidden under the netting. Ned unlocked the sleeping padlock and swung open the heavy gates to grant access to the impending milk lorry. Wiping the morning from his thick-rimmed spectacles, he made his way to the rear of the main building; making a mental note to remind the principal to have ready the wet paint signs for the swings. Ned unlocked his tool shed and decided to gather the rubbish from the rear playing field. He wheeled his barrow through the narrow passage separating the outer west perimeter and the large assembly hall. The rear playing field was Ned's baby, verdant green grass in the winter, bare trodden ground thereafter. It was the only glimpse of nature at the school, extending eighty yards to the tree lined rear wall and fifty yards across from the perimeter fence to the basketball court. Ned reached his pride and joy and shook his head. This is going to take some sorting out, the little rascals, one day they'll appreciate a bit of green, if there's any around when they reach their day. Might as well get on with it. At 07:32, old Ned Kennedy stopped counting. He was looking in the direction of the adjacent basketball court. He had not looked around much on arriving at the back so he never took in the figures silhouetted to the clay court by the early morning sunshine. He strained his eyes to focus on the figures behind the chicken wire net of the court. His eyes were playing up so he removed his glasses and exhaled on the lenses. Rubbing his weary eyes, he failed to hear the skipping footsteps behind him. The scream pierced his eardrums. He quickly replaced his spectacles and looked around to see Angie, the milkman's ten-year-old daughter trembling in terror. What Ned's failing eyes could not make out, her innocent ones did. She saw them clearly as did Ned seconds later when he edged forward to see what the figures were. On seeing the men's mutilated bodies hanging from the basket net stanchion, Ned made the sign of the cross and knelt down. For a few moments, he felt his sanity being sucked from within him. Last night's whiskey chasers had left him edgy enough, now there was this. Was it real . . . am I seeing right, did I just see what I saw? Or was this more of the dreaded fears? His thoughts were broken by more screams from the terrified girl who ran through the passage into the arms of her startled father. Ned, a devout Catholic, remained on his knees, glimpsing up at the horror between pleadings to Our Lady and all the saints in heaven.

'Holy Mother of God . . . who could do such a thing'?' he mouthed as milkman Billy Simons came racing through the passage. Billy saw the kneeling caretaker before skidding to a halt on the grassy surface and seeing the tortured, castrated remains of two middle aged males.

Mary Austin sat in her dressing gown, legs curled up underneath her, sipping her third morning cuppa. She had been on the sofa for the last hour, after another night of tossing and turning. Another day, another day without Neville. The telephone blurred into action and she wondered who could be phoning her at half past seven in the morning. Her heart raced, was it news of her boy? Better pick it up before the slumbering drunkard upstairs threw a fit.

'Good morning Mary.' Her heart soared, it was her friend Joseph.

'Joey . . . I thought you had deserted me?'

'No chance of that Mary,' there was a brief silence. 'I have some bad news . . . the bad news that you knew would arrive one day. Neville won't be coming home . . . your little lad is dead. I'm so terribly sorry Mary . . . I really am.'

Mary grasped the receiver tightly, tears welling up under her eyelids. Broken-hearted drops of relief.

She asked how, where and who. How he knew as the police hadn't been in touch.

'Mary, I'm sorry to break it like this but you've got to listen to me. Listen carefully . . . very carefully, okay?' She sobbed affirmatively, 'the least amount you know now the better it will look when the cops call and tell you themselves. You will hear terrible things about evil men . . . but rest assured, they'll be doing no more harm. Are you dressed?'

'Not yet . . . why?'

'Get dressed Mary and I'll call you back in five minutes . . . hurry!'

Mary Austin stood beside the east perimeter fence of St Anthony's school where she had erstwhile watched her darling little Neville play with his friends. She felt faint at the images that confronted her. Repulsed by the sickening scene of the purplish, ghost-like figures that hung limply from the basketball frame. Last night she had seen horrible images of poor Jews who had been hanged by the Gestapo in a BBC documentary. Now she was staring at real life, she was looking at her son's tormentors, hanging lifeless in a school yard on a beautiful sunny morning. Ned, the old caretaker was on his knees in the grass, his trembling hands guiding a measure of vodka to the quivering lips that protruded from his ashen face. The milkman was attempting to console his daughter and avert her inquisitive innocence. Justice! Mary stayed behind the wired off boundary and watched. She had promised Joey that no matter what, she would stay at the fence and not bring attention to herself. The two men must have suffered unbearably. She had no idea. Their stomachs were opened and their genitalia missing. They were a blob of bloodied dripping flesh. One of them looked vaguely familiar. It was hard to tell; their faces had been marked. Mary stayed around until a horde of vehicles descended onto the school. Young police officers held their breath whilst cordoning off the entire school with yellow tape. Two ambulances reversed across Ned Kennedy's once luscious grass onto the playing field and up to the court. People appeared from everywhere. Soon the young constables were pushing back Mary and all the other intrigued onlookers. She melted into the throng of early morning commuters and watched a man photograph the dead. Reporters were confronting police officers on every part of the grounds demanding information, citing freedom of the press.

Steven Blakley of the London Standard had a secret. Last night two video tapes of sickening magnitude had been dropped through his letterbox. One showed adults abusing and killing children; the other, two men confessing their perversion under torture. One man featured in both. He was DCI Robert Andrews of Kentish Town Police, the senior detective who had been leading the hunt for himself. The other man was identified as Mr Duncan Whyte who had just been released from prison; Chief Linley would be busy today. Blakley had made copies of the x-rated horror and was waiting to hand them over to him. He would be going national with his exclusive tomorrow, once the London Standard had led with it in their night edition. He had already prepared Monday's copy about vigilantes targeting the underworld when Santa had delivered an early present. London's consciousness would soon ask the same question that he was about to put to the beleaguered Linley; was there a person or persons at large in the capital who were dishing out their own brand of justice on a scale never seen before?

Mary waited around for another half-hour before police reinforcements arrived and sealed off the entire area around the school. She and the throng were directed away to restart their day. She tucked her hands into her cardigan pocket and walked off in the direction of home. Vengeance had been done, was it sweet . . . do I feel better? Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if it was what she had really wanted. What type of man was Joseph? Those perverts were cut to pieces . . . they deserved it, but what kind of a man does that to another? Her senses reeled and she stopped five doors from home to get sick on the pavement. She gasped for breath, delayed shock at the horror perpetuated. She gathered herself and wondered where the missing body parts could be? Why use wire around their necks when they must have already been dead or dying and what was that carved into their faces? Did Joey really do that?

Mary had not been able to see Danny Thornley's artwork, as she had not been close enough. If she had been, she would have seen 'pervert' embedded across their foreheads and 'child murderers beware' knifed across their naked backs. Tomorrow, every tabloid and broadsheet in Europe would carry the story. The London Standard would lead the way tonight with video still pictures that would enrage the Press Commission and an editorial that would question the Metropolitan Police Service's ability to police London. Joseph had chosen the nightly London Standard to receive the coup as opting for one of the morning papers would have alienated the others, producing a negative effect.

Duke Brannigan had been right, there was somebody out there assisting the police with their enquiries and the laws of society did not govern them. Though unaware of the event, Ceylon and his tea drinking friends had received more than they bargained for when wishing for a deterrent. Revulsion had temporally replaced common sense within the cool decision making process of the former soldiers. A subtle deterrent was one thing, mutilated paedophiles hanging from school posts was quite another. The plight of a twelve-year-old Swedish girl had compelled the trio to take action. The lid had come off the can of worms.

#  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Joseph awoke at 5:00 PM in the Hopgood ward of the Royal Free hospital. He had already undergone a day of tests and more tests since Jamie walked with him to his bed earlier that morning. Throughout the doctor's questions and examinations, Joseph had overheard patients and visitors alike discussing the brand new heroism of a group of tough nuts who roamed the capital butchering criminals. He had been heavily sedated and was only now coming around to some sort of normality. He remembered Jamie leaving this morning after numerous attempts to persuade a rosy cheeked Irish nurse to go out with him for a drink. She had finally relented and agreed to meet him later. Nice one Richardson, your radar prick is in no need of tuning. Joseph felt his chest, recalling how the doctor had inserted the syringe driver. It bloody hurt! But what the hell, if it gave him more time to atone, to realise his epitaph . . . so be it. He could have done with a stiff brandy or two but looking around he saw nothing except dreamy old men wasting away in their sleep. On top of one lay an early edition of the Standard.

Joseph grimaced as he got back into his warm bed. He had already second-guessed Blakley's new found journalistic patriotism on the front page leader when he turned to page two to see the face of his comrade in arms, made up from an E-fit. Jamie Richardson . . . no bloody doubt. How the fuck did the police get a description of him? The trio had been extra careful through over thirty assassinations but here was a photo-fit of his soul buddy for all of London to see.

He struggled from his bed with enough small change to use the public telephone in the corridor adjacent to the ward.

'Sorry to bother you, boss. I need a name check on a possible UK border entry. This is not a secure line by the way?'

'Go.'

'Tango-Alpha-Romeo-India-Bravo-Hotel. Iraqi national. Mike-Alpha-Delta-Alpha-November-India.'

'Is that who I think it is?'

'Roger that!'

'Damn! Let's hope not . . . intel said he got caught up in a spot of internal house cleansing?'

'I remember, but just call it a hunch sir?'

There was a brief pause before the recipient asked. 'If its affirmative, I take it that it that this will temporary interfere with our main objectives?'

Joseph looked around to see a nurse approaching. 'If it's him . . . it will be very quick!'

'Good for you, not so good for him I would gauge. From what I can recall, he deserves what's coming!'

'If it is him boss?'

'I know the exact man to provide us with that intel. Call me later.'

The line went dead as the irritable nurse came to a halt in front of Joseph, her hands wedged to her tired hips.

The veteran of so many energetic and violent clandestine operations was so unable to resist a slip of a nurse's impeding restraint that he fell back onto his bed.

He lay there breathless, 'shit!' I should have warned Jamie . . . if he has not been recognised already. If he has not been spotted . . . he was safe and then he would have to go. Anywhere but England, anywhere but Europe . . . he would have to get out of the country. To Australia . . . America maybe? He was blood, family that would not, could not be risked . . . but he was now in danger. The photo fit was an uncanny resemblance. Danny and I will have to carry on the crusade without him. Where was he? The drugs given earlier were weighing him down, he wanted to use the telephone again to call home but he could not, he started to think of his father, his long-gone family and his earthly father in Dulwich. I've got to warn Jamie . . . I've got . . .

### Joseph followed the ward's other, older residents into limbo land.

Jamie had used all of his boyish charm to persuade Kathleen Hegarthy to go on a date. She had finally consented to meet him at the unusually early time of 3:00 PM and got herself made up for her first date in the six months that had elapsed since she left her cheating boyfriend. She arranged to meet him at the French cafe, just around the corner from the hospital in Belsize Park.

She was early and was sitting outside nervously glugging a glass of wine when she saw him pull up on his motorbike. She could not believe that he would turn up and hand her a crash helmet. Two minutes later, she was holding on to him as they swerved in and out of traffic heading for nearby Regents Park. The afternoon breeze wafted up her legs and she enjoyed its tingling sensation while trying to speak to him above the hum of the Yamaha's powerful engine. She clung tighter, inhaling deeply the musky, manly leather aroma coming from his jacket. To her dismay, they were soon in the park where Jamie pulled to a halt at the open-air theatre.

'I hope you like Neil Simon gorgeous!' he remarked, removing a rug from his carrier box.

'Eh . . . yes. I do?' she replied, taking a bottle of wine and a small picnic hamper from him. 'This is a surprise . . . a nice surprise.' She was being swept away and loving every minute of it. Kathleen had fallen for him instantly; she liked her men masculine.

She was just what he needed, a fresh faced girl who liked the unexpected. A picnic in the park . . . gets them every time! He had not expected it after all the persuading it took to get her to out with him. He had sat on Joseph's bed chatting her up, finally asking his friend to plead his case with her so she "couldn't refuse a dying man." If Jamie knew that his words echoed the truth, he would not have said them and he would not be sitting on the grass watching two part time waiters perform 'The Odd Couple' to a few hundred stressed out urbanites. He could tell she liked him straight away, though she would surely change her mind if she knew of his past activities in her homeland, and what his present activities involved. She already knew that she would invite him in to her small cosy abode when the evening was spent. She was not to know that within a few hours her handsome date would be facing incredible danger.

Jim Brannigan cut a sad figure as he sat opposite his Chief in his office. He and Teresa had been down to the school and seen the tangled mess that had yesterday been their boss. The Duke had seen things over the years but nothing could prepare him for the sight of seeing Bob Andrews hanging in the breeze with his entrails hanging over his empty groin. The Metropolitan Police Service were now looking for some serious boys, they were not the bat wielding conscientious citizens they had tried to make everyone believe. They were killers, highly organised killers.

By the time Jim and Teresa caught their collective breath they were treated to a spectacle of gross depravation, viewing their once respected DCI in a homemade movie. He and other men took it in turns, sexually assaulting the Neville boy. Gordon Briggs could be seen on the carpet nearby committing an unspeakable act with the dying Daniels girl. The CID incident room had been cleared while Linley, Teresa, Jim, two senior Yard Investigators and a couple of CID officers watched the sickening images unfold before them. All were shocked, some felt like walking out to go home to their families. Teresa could not understand why Andrews had allowed the evidence to be filmed. Jim knew that it added to the men's perversion. Not one viewer went for lunch; there were no appetites, just emptiness. Jim felt sick that he had actually known and liked his former boss. Linley felt betrayed, fearing for his job. His fears were then realised as his secretary informed him that the top brass were on "hold."

### The call from Scotland Yard explained that there were too many unanswered questions in Kentish Town and a new approach was urgently required. There would be an outcry and heads would roll, scapegoats sought. Linley would be spared and put on compassionate leave until his time was up. The Commissioner at least had the decency to call himself, thanking Linley for his loyal service and wishing him luck in his enforced retirement. Jim stood appalled before the day's second senior causality asking what the new approach was.

'That would be me . . . who wants to know?' announced Chief Superintendent Peter Bradley, a small thin man of fifty with hunched shoulders and a pointed nose protruding between thin rimmed spectacles. He has not got the manners to knock on his predecessor's door, thought Jim, who then introduced himself. Indecent haste.

Freddy Chalmers walked in after tapping discreetly on the door, carrying the new Chief's personal effects in an apple box. He did not know where to put them or who was now in command; the station was in turmoil. He cleared his throat and waited.

Bradley ignored him to address Jim.

'So you are the famous Duke Brannigan . . . so how come you never noticed a paedophile working under your own nose? You can't be that good . . . either that or you're slowing up? Freddy coughed conspicuously but Bradley ignored him again, intent on using the PC's presence to announce his authority. Embarrassed, Linley thought of his waiting pension and remained muted.

'I've had my moments sir!' Jim retorted.

Bradley adjusted his spectacles. 'Have you indeed . . . well! You and the rest of this ineffective station are going to have to have a lot more moments . . . if you want to keep your jobs.' The new man's voice emanated along the corridor for all to hear, 'how come you never suspected Andrews? I mean . . . the man was working right under your nose. I'd call that unbelievable negligence fella!' Jim was just about to defend himself when the mutilated image of the Neville lad came to him. The very idea that Bob had been a paedophile had still not sunk in; it was going to take a little more time to hate. Bradley was now behind his new desk, beckoning Freddy with a rude forefinger.

'His wife never suspected and she reared children with him sir, so it's hardly fair to blame the best copper in the nick!' All three looked in stunned silence as the words left PC Chalmer's mouth.

Bradley collected himself. 'You we're not asked for your opinion sonny!' He read Freddy's number as he took the apple box from him. 'This place needs sorting out . . . quickly.'

Jim was surprised that Freddy had come to his aid. He was grateful but would seek him out later to advise him to tread carefully around Bradley.

'I want to see all my CID personnel in here in ten minutes . . . understood?'

Jim concurred and went in search of Teresa.

'So you know him?' Jim asked.

She had worked with him for a few months at the Yard before he was sent over to East Ham Station to clean up a messy situation.

'Oh yea . . . I know him. You'll love 'The Ferret' . . . he's a stickler for the rule book. Just like yourself?'

Jim knew of his own reputation but had hoped that people who knew him regarded him as harsh but adaptable. He cancelled any thoughts of asking her for a drink afterwards.

Reputation counted for nothing with Peter Bradley, it was what you did today that held sway with the dogmatic, career policeman; the last of his dying breed. After a tense meeting in his overcrowded office, Kentish Town's new chief had sent Jim and Teresa to the Yard to meet an Intelligence officer who would brief them on recently demobbed soldiers with a history of violence. Teresa drove while Jim reflected on Andrew's golfing past. He allowed himself a sneak of admiration for his new boss' intuitive thought. Bradley had asked Jim who would be familiar with the IRA's policy of using one or more motorbikes during assassinations. He replied that it might be service personnel, past or present who served in Ulster. That was enough to convince the Ferret, who suspected that the people they were looking for were highly trained and dangerously efficient.

They spent an hour at the Yard going through a rogue's gallery of soldiers who had been in trouble since leaving the army in recent years. The E-fit from the Kingdom public house abduction was not among them. They thanked the officer from the National Criminal Intelligence Service and headed back through Hyde Park.

Teresa rolled down her window, breathing in the slightly humid London air. She looked at Jim, 'who did that Intelligence guy back there remind you of?'

No answer, he was lost in his thoughts. She could not think of the celebrity's name but she was sure he was now a politician. After negotiating a heaving Park Lane, she decides to cut across the Edgware Road and take in another park - Regents. She drove past the park's mosque, moving along the outer circle until she saw a throng of people exiting the open-air theatre. She ran her hands through her hair wondering if she and the man sitting beside her would ever indulge in such laid-back afternoon casualness. She liked to drive through the park; it was always a nice alternative around teatime traffic. You could take five or ten minutes off your journey whilst soaking up some of London's sparse greenery.

The Park's traffic lights coloured red to signal the beginning of Camden Town's bottleneck congestion. Teresa pulled up at the lights and looked to her right where a big Yamaha motorbike pulled up. That's the way to travel on a day like this. She cast a casual glance at the easy rider and his girl, stuck to him like a second coat of paint. He obviously fancies himself. I can't believe the cheek of the guy, right in front of his girl!

Jamie Richardson was giving DI Mannion the eye from behind his visor. Humming to herself, Teresa looked back to see what his leach-like moll thought of his roaming eye, when Jamie got a bit cheeky and lifted his visor. Teresa tensed, the warning bells rang on seeing the man from the E-fit. She breathed deeply and prepared to inform the introspective Jim as casually as she could.

Jamie was clocking Teresa when he decided to slouch down to check out her companion. On seeing Jim Brannigan, he sat up on his saddle and pulled down his visor. Teresa noticed his expression change on seeing her colleague. Jamie had been preparing to turn left but switched his indicator to signal right as she followed suite and grabbed Jim's leg.

'Jim, look at the guy on that bike . . . it's him. The guy from the E-fit!'

The Duke's attention was now as focused as the unfaithful art student's was when she dropped Jamie Richardson into his now troubled waters.

'What . . . you sure?' he asked incredulously.

'One hundred percent . . . the guy from outside the Kingdom, he was ogling me!'

'Right! Drive carefully Teresa. Keep him near . . . if he attempts to-'

A nervous Teresa interrupted. 'He'll try and get away, he saw you, he must know we're on to him!'

'Shit! . . . just stay with him, we'll play the blues and pull him over if he speeds up.'

Immediately in front of Jamie's bike was a large Brewery lorry that was preventing him from overtaking right away.

Jamie was worried, he was almost sure that the coppers had spotted him though he did not know how. His contiguous concern was to get Kathleen off the bike; get some distance between him and the old bill and warn the others that their identities might be blown.

Jim used the car radio to call for back-up. Jamie decided to test if he was actually being followed. He rode carefully through Park Crescent and back over Marylebone Road onto the outer circle. He revved the engine as though to move forward but suddenly signalled left to go back on himself. Teresa Mannion repeated the manoeuvre.

Fuck it . . . I've been made, Jamie pressed his accelerator and the Yamaha roared through the park. Kathleen was in her element until she heard the siren behind them. The bike went up on the footpath and broke the red lights onto Park Road with the unmarked police car making a valiant but slower pursuit. He sped across the roundabout and pulled over.

'Get off Kathleen!' he shouted at the startled nurse. She hesitated until he reached around and dragged her forcefully aside. Her paranoia increased as she pleaded with him to explain.

Jamie decided to be cruel to be kind. 'Fuck off okay!' He snapped before accelerating away.

Seconds later, she saw the blue flashing light sweep around the roundabout to follow her date down a side street leading onto the busy Edgware Road.

Jim had radioed in Jamie's number plate.

His face lost its colour when it came back over the airwave as "Mr James Richardson, 34 Oakdale House on the Merrydown estate N4." What? . . . this guy's not craggy face? But I'll bet even money they're a team. Got ya, where's your fuck faced friend? Suddenly, Jim's gulf war memories come hurtling back from the past.

Teresa blared her horn at a dozy road sweeper in her path. The Duke now knew where he had seen that face.

'Remember the face from the mall Teresa?' she nodded, climbing the pavement to avoid a bumper. 'I knew I saw it before . . . it was at the debriefings back in the Gulf. He was one of the Special Forces guys who had been taken by the Iraqi's . . . I think your admirer on the bike is connected to him!'

Jim's words over their sirens wailing suddenly become lucid. Teresa's fearful expression matched the anxious thoughts inside. Fuck . . . SAS!

Jim called in for an armed response vehicle and the help of the Firearms Support Group whilst hoping they would not be needed. If these guys are just wasting people like Karabayro they might think twice about confronting the police?

Jim's wishes were not to be realised. Jamie reached down into his boot for his loaded Browning. He thundered across the main road and swerved into Bloomfield Road with its idyllic canal to the left, known to Londoners as 'Little Venice.' Up ahead he saw the flashing lights of an area patrol car that had answered the emergency call. Jamie looked behind and saw Teresa pull into Bloomfield and stop. All three vehicles were stationery.

It's a standoff, Jamie breathed heavily and pointed his pistol in the direction of the squad car whose occupants quickly ducked down. From forty yards away, he aimed and fired into the two front tyres, instantly blowing them out. People who had heard the sirens and witnessed the standoff dived for cover when the two cracks rang out. Jim expected his car to be next but Jamie, having demobilised the police car at the other end near the bridge, decided to speed past it leaving the detectives behind and unable to pursue. Teresa was unable to reverse as a steady queue of cars had built up behind her. A uniformed officer was getting out of the damaged patrol car when Jamie screamed by colliding with his door. The foolhardy constable crashed to the ground while Jamie received a blow to his knee. Within seconds Jamie's bike did an about-turn and was re-entering Bloomfield, passing the fallen officer on the way.

An ARV (Armed Response Vehicle) had skidded to a halt in front of his bike, its officers ready for engagement. He decided to backtrack and use the deflated car to block their more dangerous, armed pursuit. He slowly propelled his bike towards Teresa and Jim, who had abandoned their car at an angle to prevent even a bike passing by.

Crouching behind the car Brannigan shouted to Jamie. 'Pull over . . . you're trapped! Put down the weapon!' Teresa ran to the side of the canal edge in an attempt to block off the narrow dirt pathway that lead up to the roadside. 'What are you doing?' raged Jim. 'Get back, he'll go for you!'

His ominous words rang in the air as Jamie sped towards her, hoping that she would jump clear. Duke Brannigan was not about to take the chance. He frantically wedged out a large steel mooring pole from the bank. Jamie was only yards away from Teresa, when Jim threw the heavy object at the wheels of his speeding Yamaha that flipped over violently, hurtling Jamie into the underside of the bridge. His helmet cracked open and he bit through his tongue as his head smashed into the concrete.

A horrified Jim watched as the impact hurtled Jamie's lifeless body under the bridge only to rebound and drop into the canal. Teresa rushed to Jim's side and clung to him. He looked incredulously at the bloodied, leather clad figure bobbling silently in the muddy waters. For the first time in his life, Brannigan stared at a corpse he had taken the life from. Oh God . . . what have I done? You left me no alternative, you foolish man.

Armed officers come running along the bank looking at the hissing bubbles emanating from the sinking Yamaha, yards away from its unfortunate rider.

Brannigan rubbed his dirtied hands over his face. 'Come on . . . let's get him out of there.'

Within hours, an incident room was set up at Scotland Yard and all ex-SAS members from Desert Storm were being located. An armed police unit was waiting at Oakdale house in Tottenham while sharpshooters hid in neighbouring flats with their sights set on the stairwell entrances leading to number thirty-four. Nobody would show up. Joseph was in a deep sleep in the same hospital where Thelma Gregory had earlier visited her belligerent son.

#  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

At eleven in the evening, Joseph awoke with a throbbing headache and slipped in to the toilet with his clothes hidden under his dressing gown. He used the last of his change to phone for the information he now dreaded hearing.

'It's him Joseph, he's alive. He got out of Iraq - July 92 with his wife and brother but his kids were butchered by the Republican Guard.'

'Sir!' Joseph answered eventually on hearing the current whereabouts and alias of his Gulf War nemesis. A man who had inflicted weeks of degrading, inhumane torture on him, Jamie and Danny. Special Ops Missions Bravo 1-0, 2-0 and 3-0 were known to people but their own special operation to guide bombers onto Saddam's palaces had been kept hidden due to the fact that it had been inadvertently leaked by their US allies. They were overcome by devastating firepower and ran out of ammunition, forcing their surrender. The animal Madani was alive and living in his beloved England, a man unfit to wear a uniform. The deranged Iraqi had taken pleasure in his work and now he was running a small garage a mere seven miles away from where Joseph stood trembling with a hate filled heart. His emotions ran riot, considering the vow they had all taken to put the crusade first. The brutal secret police chief and his final personal mission were exceptions in anyone's book! Madani would die but first he needed to get in touch with his fellow victims; his comrades who had been fed poison mixed with excrement on a daily basis for the amusement of a man who he had believed deceased a long time ago.

Having seen the papers E-Fit of Jamie he realised he would have to get to him. Ten minutes later, he slipped past the night nurse and was in the lift descending to the ground floor. As Joseph stepped out from the lift, an armed police unit was ascending to the Hopgood ward in an opposite one with instructions to detain a patient who had been in Richardson's company earlier in the day. Nurse Kathleen Hegarthy had come forward after hearing a news broadcast on the radio about an armed bike rider who died in the city after a chase with the police. They had been looking for a fair-haired woman who detectives believed had been in his company just moments before. She had been interviewed for over two hours before being driven home in tears.

Kathleen eventually turned off the light in her lonely flat and made plans to return to her homeland. London was not a good place to be anymore, and she had had enough.

By the time she was asleep, Joseph had been at home for hours, waiting for Danny to return. He had left earlier leaving a tragic message. A Ceefax television page had been left on 'hold' in the event of his former sergeant returning early. Danny's scribbled note read - 'Sarge, the bastards have killed Jamie, I'm out looking for you.'

Not knowing which hospital, Thornley had been phoning around, asking for news about Joseph Connolly or Joseph Dawkins, the two aliases his former sergeant most often used. Joseph had only told Jamie that he was using an old pseudonym. The hospital admissions had asked for his details and he had given - Mr Joseph Anderson, 34 Oakdale House - N4. If he eventually died in the hospital, he wanted to be remembered by his Christian name. Cross Street, Islington was unconnected with the Tottenham address and was still safe but Danny had been unsure. A saddened and sore Joseph stared at the Ceefax screen that told him of his friend's death. He phoned his old colonel again to be told that DI's Brannigan and Mannion had been chatting to their crusading friend in the NCIS. Their intelligence man had informed him that the police were close but not too close to be overly concerned. The colonel asked about his plans for Madani. Joseph dodged the question and enquired whether Jamie's death would change the overall crusade agenda but Ceylon allayed his concern and after commiserating, suggested a trip up north to check on the malevolent Callaghan after Madani had been despatched.

Joseph agreed saying it would be good to get out of London for a few days. Danny and he were good enough to work on their own, which pleased Ceylon who was genuinely concerned about his protégé's health. Joseph had not told anyone about the seriousness of his illness but he had to tell Ceylon about his hospital stay before he heard it somewhere else. Now all Joseph could do was wait for Danny and grieve for Jamie. He worried for his volatile comrade, knowing that he himself would soon be joining Jamie. Death was waiting inside.

He could not return to the Royal Free or any other hospital because his condition and description would now be widely known. He had earlier disconnected his syringe driver and left it in the toilet of the Hopgood ward for a nurse to find along with his dressing gown and the battered copy of Blakley's exclusive. He did not want to deprive a fellow sufferer of essential equipment that would be wasted on someone who knew he was going to die. He had a bottle of morphine tablets he hoped would dull the pain for as long as possible. The injections received before Desert Storm had ignited his pain and the dust from the Depleted Uranium munitions were in no doubt responsible for his cancer. Madani's barbaric treatment had affected him in particular as he had been singled out as the leader of the team. He had fought and murdered for his country and then seen its government turn its back on him and others. He now reasoned that his government's only objective had been to win the war at whatever cost. It reminded him of General Haig sending a generation of lambs to the slaughter on the muddy battlefields of the Somme. The Allied forces and their enemy were not the only causalities of the West's determination to rid the Middle East of Saddam Hussein. Baghdad hospitals were presently full of young Iraqi children who had cancer resulting from the use of DU weaponry. There were areas of Southern Iraq that would be contaminated for decades to come. The 'win at all costs' attitude and the means used, disgusted thousands of veterans who blamed President Bush and the other Western leaders. Politicians who put them in harm's way only to call a halt when a total victory had been in sight. They lacked the fortitude to actually carry on to Baghdad and prosecute the evil Iraqi dictator. Today, they believed that the likes of Home Secretary Straw cared more about building bridges with their former enemies than the welfare of their former service members.

Joseph reflected on the day when British veterans, mostly former Japanese camp inmates of the Pacific campaign, turned their backs on their Queen as she drove up the Mall seated beside the murderous Hirohito's son. That was the very day Joseph vowed to redress the nation's shameful pain.

He read the Ceefax report again and listened to the local news bulletins on Capital Radio. The newsreader mentioned that police from Kentish Town had been involved in the incident that led to the fatality. Please don't let it be you Brannigan . . . don't let it be you!

He got to his knees to offer a prayer for his fallen comrade. As he said his prayers, his mind drifted to a dusty compound outside Baghdad years earlier. He could not believe he was about to alter his schedule but the Iraqi sadist deserved to die. It was totally unexpected and personal and the colonel and his friends would understand. It was a shame that Jamie would not get to participate in his tormentor's doom. Joseph closed his eyes tightly to concentrate on the prayers he remembered from his innocent childhood. No matter how hard he tried to pray, thoughts of Madani's demise, the crusade and his personal final audacious act before his own death kept popping into his troubled mind. An event that would shock the world.

#  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Jim and Teresa finally made it home to his house after hours of filing reports. Investigations revealed that Mr Richardson had been a paratrooper before joining the elite SAS with whom he served with distinction in Ireland, the Gulf and other classified theatres of operation. Bradley requested that Scotland Yard Intelligence liaise with their SAS counterparts at their Hereford base to garner information about soldiers he had served with. The Ferret wanted to know what cereal Richardson liked for breakfast and the colour of his mother's eyes. Teresa had been a little distraught at the sight of Jamie's body so Jim had put a reassuring arm around her shoulder whilst Sergeant Grayson made her a cup of tea. Jim had suggested that he drive her home but on the way, asked if she would like to stop off at his place for a coffee. They were both jaded and in need of each other's reassurances that nothing could have been done to avoid the unnecessary death of Jamie Richardson.

They sat in Jim's kitchen for almost an hour, going over everything they had told Bradley and the special investigators sent down from the Yard. Both felt remorse at his death but neither blamed themselves. The former soldier had played the major part by driving straight at Teresa, regardless of whether he intended to swerve past her. He had put himself in that situation and had unfortunately paid the ultimate price. That he had killed before was not in doubt, only how many? The art student's keen eye had put him outside the Gregory's pub on a motorbike so he was definitely involved in the beating of Michael Gregory and the abduction of Philip and later, Karabayro. A biker was involved with the executions of Boban and the lawyer Sexton so it had to be assumed that Richardson was connected with the sudden wave of vigilantism. They reasoned between themselves that it was too much of a coincidence, especially after the paedophiles murder, to believe otherwise. They sipped their coffee wondering if the ex-soldier had taken a knife to Andrews and Whyte. Karabayro's kidnap and possible death pointed to Richardson also having something to do with the butchery of his old sidekick, Jason Clegg. He was one of three, possibly more, highly trained and motivated men who seemed to be waging war on perversion and villainy. Jim had felt sorry for him as they dragged him from the water but what else could he have done. He had assumed that he was trying to run down a woman who he could not stop thinking about, though he would have done it regardless of who it was. Nobody could have foreseen the tragic outcome of him hitting the bridge.

Jim asked Teresa if she would like a glass of wine. She readily accepted. They adjourned to the rear lounge where she asked if he was okay.

'I suppose,' he paused, 'I hate to see death up close, but if these guys are going to play big boy games then they've got to accept the risks. I feel sorry for the lad though.'

Teresa took a sip of Californian red and tossed her head back, she felt groggy. Bradley had poured her a glass of scotch at the station and asked if she wanted to use his bathroom to freshen up but she declined thinking she was heading straight home. Her shoes and feet still felt sticky from the mucky waters of Little Venice.

'Do they think he was married Jim?'

'Dunno . . . I hope not. I know what it is like to lose someone,' he realised what he had said and thought of the trial. He felt a pang of guilt having Teresa in Susan's house.

'I know you did Jim and I know that you loved her big time . . .' He smiled at her soothing words. 'And from what I gather from Sergeant Grayson, Susan loved you at one time.' The minute the words left her mouth she regretted them.

Jim stared at her. 'You and blabbermouth Grayson were discussing Susan . . . why?

Nervously, she took a sip of red. 'Oh . . . it was just . . . you know,' she smiled again. 'I asked him about you and how you coped after her death.'

### 'What did he tell you?'

Teresa made her second gaffe. 'Things . . . just general stuff. He told me about the night she died.'

'Did he tell you that he found her around the corner from here . . . she was coming home. I could-'

She interrupted with gaffe number three. 'She what?'

### Her expression said it all for Jim who became agitated.

'Does that surprise you . . . didn't Grayson tell you when you discussing my business! Yeah, she was coming home, what else would she have been doing around the corner?'

Number four. 'Karabayro had thrown her out, telling her to get herself sorted . . . she was on the street. Poor woman injected herself in some doorway.'

Jim was on his feet. 'I've heard that bloody garbage before . . . and that's what it is, garbage! Grayson should learn to keep his mouth shut! You're all the same . . . can't leave someone to believe what is helpful for them to believe. I'm a copper, right . . . and my wife gets taken off by a scumbag like Karabayro! So I'm supposed to just put it away and get on with it,' he took a mouthful of wine. 'Well no . . . that's crap! I'm still hurting . . . not just for her. For me, for what we had. We were a couple; we made vows that should have been stuck to.'

Teresa almost dropped her glass, spilling a drop of wine onto Jim's well-worn carpet.

'I'm sorry Jim, have you got something for me to clean it up . . . I'm really sorry.'

Jim looked at the red stain on his pale blue carpet and lied. 'Forget it, I was due to have the place re-carpeted anyway, leave it.'

### Teresa looked sympathetically at her crestfallen colleague.

'It must have been dreadful for Jim.'

'It was . . . still is. Karabayro is a witness to it, wherever the hell he is. If it hadn't been for him . . .'

'Jim, she was human . . . just fell into bad company. You don't have to make her into something she wasn't . . . she wasn't dragged away. She went of her own accord . . . willingly.'

Jim was furious. 'How dare you comment on my wife, she was a decent person.'

Teresa cut in. 'Yes, she was. She was a good person and then she met Karabayro.'

'That's right . . . and we all know what happened to him afterwards . . . in court! Don't we DI Mannion?'

'Oh for God's sake . . . how long are you going to torment yourself?' She paused briefly. 'Look, Susan made a mistake . . . and so did I.' She raised her voice, 'I'm sorry okay . . . for the last bloody time Jim. I'm sorry!'

He looked at her pitifully. 'You know that cliché about there being only two types of people in the world?' She nodded, 'well as far as I'm concerned, there is, especially in our job. There are the ones who dump on you when you need them to come through, the ones who break your heart.' He paused to take a drink. 'Then there are the people who do it for you . . . the ones who no matter what the circumstances, they do it. They come through for you when it matters.'

Teresa's eyes started to well up.

Jim sat silently in his chair, hurting as she cried. 'What happened to you in court Teresa, you had the chance to drill Karabayro, but you had a bad day . . . so bloody what! Teresa Mannion has a bad day, so the whole world stops?'

'Fuck you, you arrogant bastard! Do you want to know why I had a bad trial? Do you know why I had the worst three days of my life?'

'Tell me . . . go on tell me. You had a row with your boyfriend?'

'Close! I split up with Frank, remember Frank . . . my husband?'

'Yeah! I remember him . . . so that's a bit stiff. You split up with your husband.'

'No, you stupid man, the reason I had three days from hell was', she stopped to compose herself. 'I had so much wanted to be there for you, that I attended Karabayro's trial after losing my husband because . . .' she tried to hold back more tears and Jim suddenly realised that it did not matter anymore. He was falling in love with her and for the first time since his wife's death, he wanted the closeness of someone else.

'Don't upset yourself, it doesn't matter anymore.'

'It does bloody matter . . . I had a miscarriage two nights before the stupid trial! Frank and I split up because I lost our baby, I was agitated at the time, more concerned with putting Karabayro away.'

Jim was speechless. The cocky Jamaican had doubled his pain, even after three and a half years. He was about to speak when Teresa stood up 'But . . . to hell with you Brannigan, I didn't dare miss the trial because I wanted to be there for you.' She sat back down in tears.

Jim went over to comfort her. 'My God Teresa . . . a miscarriage? If only I'd known. God, I feel guilty,' he put his arm around her, 'I am sorry.'

Teresa was sobbing heartily as much in relief as in sorrow. No one in the job ever knew about it, but now she had told Jim and here he was cradling her face.

'I wanted to be there for you so badly Jim,' she sobbed, wiping her nose. Kneeling at her feet, he turned her face to his, kissing her on the forehead. She looked at him and closed her eyes feeling his lips on hers for an instant before he pulled away.

He had wanted this, ached for this, but something held him back. Jim Brannigan could not rid his mind of Susan Brannigan's image. He poured them both another glass of red and asked if she was hungry.

'Not now,' she shuddered, 'maybe later?'

### 'Are you cold?'

'Just a bit draughty after the canal, that's all,' she looked down at her shoes that had since dried but still felt a little squelchy. She had held them under the hand drier in the station's toilet but the lining had not quite dried. She took a sip of wine and swirled it around her mouth before swallowing, relaxing in its warmth. The aftertaste provoked another slight shudder as she got up to take a closer look at his film collection.

'Is the wine too severe . . . I like it just above room temperature?' Jim asked in his forgotten host manner.

'No, it's absolutely fabulous . . . perfect. I like it just above as well.' She stated thumbing through the reels and cassettes, 'you've got some classics here. I'd love to watch Liberty Vallance again.'

'Right, that settles it. We'll watch it and I'll get a nice Indian meal sent in. I'd like to see it again. Lee Marvin is some bad article in that.' He returned her smile secretly hoping that the evening would lead to something. He had not had a visitor in years; this was his own private utopia but she somehow made it better. She was gorgeous and surprisingly homely.

'Jim, have you got any newspaper I can stuff my shoes with?'

Jim laughed as he returned moments later with a pair of thick socks.

'Why don't you go up and have a shower, there's plenty of clean towels up there. I'll nip out for some more wine? He added, trying not to make it sound suggestive.

'You're on . . . and I'm going halves on the food and wine.' Tongue in cheek she cheekily added, 'I'm a modern girl!'

'That you are . . . I'll get down to the off licence. Make yourself at home Teresa, we'll have a nice night. It's not as if we don't deserve it after the day we've had.' Contented, she slipped off her shoes. 'The towels are in the airing cupboard on the landing,' shouted Jim on his way out the door.

Jim decided to walk to a nearby off licence rather than drive from the area as was his usual custom. Teresa being at home made it seem less like secretive drinking and more like social sipping. Mind you, she could sink a few herself. Jim walked along happily wondering where the evening would lead. Would she stay the night? Would she stay the night in his bed? He was so out of touch with everything, the moves and the anticipation . . . the thrill. Was tender love making the order of the day? He knew his feelings for her were more of the heart than lust though that did not stop him imagining erotic images of them together.

Teresa lay relaxing in the tub. She had discovered the bath complete with some ancient looking Radox salts. This was even better, she only had a shower at home so this was a bonus. She hoped he would not mind, envisaging the day when he would share the bath with her. Teresa stretched out and looked down at her ample chest . . . not bad for thirty-five? A lot of younger women would envy her size and firmness. Tits to die for! She laughed to herself. That's what a young admirer had told her in the Algarve last year. Sergio worked in the hotel bar and occasionally tended to the pool. Origin, Lisbon; grey cells, hardly evident; body, nice; She had fancied him from the start of her holiday but didn't let him near until the last night when she and a friend sank one too many vodka Martinis with Sergio and his 'convenient' friend. Teresa's nipples ripped through the water's surface as she recalled that momentous night in Portugal. It was very innocent, a case of heavy petting but Jilly was ravenous, always had been. Holiday time was party time for Miss Jilly Stephens. Inhibitions vanished along with her dress sense. Since her divorce from Frank, Teresa had been wary of meeting someone serious but now there was Jim. Since meeting him again, she had asked herself what she found attractive about him and it always came down to his masculinity, he was all man. A touch rounder above the belt but still desirable. Teresa let out the plug and stood up in the bath. Stepping onto the mat, she eyed herself in the mirror. Her nipples pronounced themselves from her breasts. She began to feel flush, that raw sexiness that made her glow just slightly. She was excited. Drying herself with the large towel, she imagined Jim's manliness next to her and the sensation felt good. She was tired of jerks in pubs and the sadness that had invaded her single life. Jim Brannigan was a good bloke and she wanted him. Go for it girl!

Jim arrived back with four Californian reds and some bacon and eggs for the morning. He let himself in wondering if she was out of the shower. He called out but the emptying bathtub dulled his voice.

He smiled at the thought of her making herself at home. After uncorking a bottle of Zinfandel, he pottered up to the bedroom intending to leave his large, comfortable robe on the landing banisters for her use. The bathroom door clicked and Teresa came out holding a towel in front of her modesty. Hearing her call out from the landing, he grabbed the robe and came out. Teresa was bending over the banisters holding the towel to her chest.

'Jim . . .?' she called again, unaware of whether he had returned.

He stared at her perfectly rounded nudity, still glistening from the bathwater. What a gorgeous looking woman! He had been about to speak but seeing her in that pose he could think of nothing else other than to clear his throat. Teresa spun round, genuinely shocked to see him. She held the towel to herself and looked sheepishly at him.

Grimacing like a schoolboy, he said. 'Sorry . . . I was just getting you this. I'm sorry,' he offered her the robe.

'Don't be Jim.' There was a brief silence before she let the towel drop to the ground.

Brannigan needed no further invitation; she was in his arms. Their tongues entwined feverishly while their hands sought pleasure in each other's flesh. Jim broke away from the clinch to pick her up and take her to his bed. Food and drink would have to wait. They caressed each other, kissing frantically, then tenderly. Frantically again as Teresa felt him fumbling awkwardly. She lowered her hands and guided him. He hesitated to look deep into her eyes. She panted and pulled him inside her. Pleasure ripped through her body, his words adding depth.

'I want you Teresa!'

She could not get the words out but her actions spoke the same . . . I want you Jim. I always have.

Teresa awoke to find herself alone in Duke Brannigan's bed. She felt alive, yet sleepy and cosy. Her cheeks were glowing with the freshness of that after-sex rawness. They had made love once last night, had a meal on the bed with some wine and then made love again. At four this morning she had awoken and they had talked for a while before drifting back to sleep in each other's arms. This was how it should be . . . where was he?

She smelled the aroma of sizzling bacon. Looking around, she could not see his dressing gown so she slipped on his suit jacket and made for the kitchen.

He heard her coming down and turned to see her exquisite sexiness. God, I'm in love! He was standing over a bristling frying pan in front of the kitchen's small window as she sauntered up, nestling into his back.

'Naughty boy, you should grill your bacon . . . you need looking after.'

'Good morning gorgeous.' he turned around, kissed and hugged her, causing her breasts to rise up in his jacket. 'You look beautiful!'

She pouted girlishly. 'You mean I don't look horny . . .?'

'That as well . . . that as well! Breakfast will be ten minutes . . . do you fancy tea or coffee?' Keeping her in his arms, he turned her around, her back to the cooker. He prodded the bacon and flicked on the kettle while keeping her in his arms. She looked into his eyes while reaching inside his dressing gown to amuse herself. Jim put his head on her shoulders and gently kissed her ear. He started to laugh when suddenly the morning light disappeared from behind the leaded kitchen window. He looked up to see the haggard face of Danny Thornley. Before he could move, the glass shattered and Teresa's body thudded forcefully into his chest. It was a round from the Browning automatic that Thornley was pointing through the remnants of the window.

Another loud crack and Teresa jolted again, this time knocking her backwards and onto the tiled floor. Jim was stunned, having fallen under the worktop and cooker beneath the window. His heart pounded as he heard the gunman knocking bits of glass away to gain manoeuvrability with his weapon. Jim was looking over at Teresa who was slumped on her back a few feet from him. Her head was turned towards him and she was mumbling his name. He put his hands to his face immediately attracting Thornley's fire. A bullet whipped past Jim's right leg which was partially in view. Thornley was craning his neck through the smashed window frame, trying to get a clearer shot at Jim.

'You fucking bastard Brannigan! You killed Jamie . . . you and that tart . . .' Thornley fired another round into Teresa's body, which jerked again on impact. 'So now I'm gonna kill you . . . you fucking piece of shite!'

An agonised Jim tried to make out Teresa's wounds. One through the back . . . above the heart? The second . . . I don't know where! That last one, God no . . . in the chest!

'You sick bastard!' he screamed out. Then there was silence, he looked above him and seeing a fallen kitchen utensil he hurled it upwards where it knocked his phone off the wall frame and onto the floor. He stuck out his leg and pulled the phone to him just as Thornley fired two rounds in his vicinity. He dialled 999 as he listened for movement above him . . . it was quiet. He's waiting for me to stick my head out. He looked at Teresa's wounds again. Blood was gurgling out from her open chest . . . her breathing was hard. He then heard the side door handle start to turn.

He looked at the bolt . . . it wasn't locked; he'd been out to the garbage bin earlier. The door started to open at which Jim sprang forward and pulled down the large fridge that stood beside it, slamming the door shut. Thornley fired three rounds through the door that embed into the appliance blocking his path. Thornley tried to kick at the door but the fridge remained jammed solid against opposite walls. Jim heard Teresa moan and then heard the gunman's footsteps run around to the window.

Jim saw him arrive, priming his weapon, but before he could fire Jim grabbed the frying pan and hurtled it through the shattered window, its boiling fat hitting Thornley in the face and hands. He screamed in agony, blindly letting off two more shots through the window. Jim sat beneath the worktop and waited. He heard a pain stricken Thornley ranting outside. A few minutes elapsed during which Jim became totally overcome with emotion, looking at life's second chance ebb slowly away from him on the floor. Teresa was now bleeding profusely, slipping into unconsciousness. He started to doubt himself, should he have called his station instead of the nines . . . no, that would have wasted vital seconds. Hold on Teresa darling . . . please hold on. Suddenly, Jim heard his rear lounge window smashing.

Right Thornley, you bastard, gun or no gun . . . I'm having you! Jim pulled open a drawer and grabbed hold of his carving knife but almost immediately, he heard the sound of screeching tyres. A short silence was followed by the sound of footsteps running away from the back of the house.

#  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

It was a further seven minutes before an ARV arrived outside Jim's house to back up the speedy area car from Camden that had arrived just as Thornley had broken into the house. He had gone, vanished, possibly over the back fence thinking that the initial screech of tyres might be carrying weapons.

Jim was now sitting in a small room at the hospital, the bad news room. The ambulance had arrived between police cars and a paramedic had treated Teresa on the kitchen floor. She was semi-naked; her body punctured three times by a deranged killer who held Jim responsible for his comrade's death.

Brannigan was distraught; the beautiful, intact body he had spent the night caressing had been transformed into a swollen mass of bloodied tissue; lying amidst blood stained, broken crockery for all the medics and police to see. Jim tried to control his emotions as he sat staring at a coffee table plant. Get a grip Jim, she's alive? She's not . . . dead. His nervous system felt like it was going to implode. It was though there was a giant hot air balloon inflating within his head. He had been helpless as he watched the maniac pump bullets into his sweet innocent Teresa.

He ended up in the day chapel, praying for the surgeons to keep Teresa alive. 'Alive would do, God . . . I'll take care of her . . . I promise . . . just please keep her with me . . . I beg you.' Duke Brannigan began to cry. Teresa had taken three Rounds! One shattering her breastbone and passing out through her arm, the second hitting her shoulder and the third, the one that did most damage, had ripped through her stomach. She was in a bad way and her chances were thirty-seventy . . . against.

Jim Brannigan took out his warrant card and angrily tossed it aside where it landed beside a waste bin near the door. His position in the Police Service had robbed him of his wife and now it had caused the possible destruction of a woman he worshipped.

'Fuck this!' This is not worth it! A plan began to form in his thoughts and though it might cost him his life, he would not settle for anything less than the death of the vigilantes who had brought the stench of death back into his life.

As Jim ruminated on his forthcoming actions, Joseph Cassidy walked calmly up to a rundown garage on a darkened Industrial Estate not far from The BBC Television Centre. As he peered inside the poorly lit vehicle repair shop, he made out two figures in overalls.

'Taribh Madani?'

Both men spun around from a greasy workbench to see a hooded figure pointing a silenced automatic in their direction.

'Who you say friend?' Asked the former Iraqi police chief. His brother looked at a heavy wrench on the workbench, anticipating the time to get to it.

'I'm looking for a sick fuck by the name of Taribh Madani? That would be you!'

'I am Nazmi and this is Qadi. We are not looking for trouble friend, just to earn a living in this wonderful country?'

'Is that right?' Joseph remarked as he walked over to the man eyeing the wrench.

Madani's brother swallowed hard as the stranger put the tip of the silencer to his forehead.

'Is that right?' Joseph repeated as he shot the man through the temple.

Taribh made a dash for the garage's darkened office but was halted by a bullet that tore through his thigh.

'Remember me Madani?'

The Iraqi sneered as his gripped his wound, 'how could I forget a man who ate the shite from my arsehole!'

Joseph lashed out with his boot, shattering his tormentor's right cheekbone.

The Iraqi blanked out whilst Joseph set about his foe's destruction. He poured everything flammable he could find into the six feet garage pit used to inspect the underside of cars. By the time he had emptied the available oil and petrol into the hole, it amounted to a two feet deep slush of ignitable death.

Within a few minutes, Joseph had tied Madani's hands and feet with electrical cord and then wrapped the remainder around his body to render him motionless. He aroused Madani with another kick, this time to his kidneys.

'Before I kill you,' Joseph paused to straddle a filthy chair. 'You do know that I am about to kill you?'

'Fuck you,' mumbled his prisoner through blood coated teeth.

Joseph walked over and pulled the Iraqi to his feet, placing him against a bank of welding gas cylinders for support. 'I have a question for you, two to be precise.'

'Fuck you!'

Joseph took up his position on his chair a couple of metres from his unrepentant foe.

'Why come to Britain . . . why risk living in London? A bit stupid don't you think?'

The Iraqi's nostrils twitched as he began to realise the car pit had been soaked with fuel. Fear swept across his face for the first time. Joseph noticed it and smiled.

'London is beautiful city,' he began to sob. 'I not do things to you in war because I want! I do it because Saddam wanted prisoners treated this way . . . I am sorry.' Tears filled his eyes.

Joseph recognised them to be fearful rather than regretful, 'shut up you fucking animal!' He placed his weapon inside his waistband and retrieved a matchbox from his coat pocket. 'Not all Iraqis treated prisoners with the sadistic contempt that you so enjoyed. Scum like you should never put on a uniform, no matter the colour.' He took out a match and was about to strike it along the box when he heard movement from behind.

'This is true Englishman! Madani is as disgusting to us as he is to you. Move one muscle and you die right now!'

The hairs on Joseph's neck stood up as he felt a hand pull his weapon from his waistband. Even more alarming was the sheer terror showing on Madani's face as he struggled effortlessly with his constraints. Two figures emerged from the side and he could hear another closing the garage door they had deftly opened.

Madani began to plead rapidly in his native tongue which fell on deaf ears. The armed newcomers focussed on Joseph and the semi-filled fuel pit.

'You want this man dead Englishman . . . as do we. He is coming with us now but I assure you he will meet a grisly end, a very grisly end. It is an order from the highest authority which we have to carry out.'

'More of Saddam's boys I take it,' remarked Joseph with a smile.

'You could say that. We have been watching this traitor for two days and saw you enter so we had to intervene . . . unfortunately for you I'm afraid. Matches please?'

Joseph took in the situation as he handed the matchbox to a tall man cradling an Uzi to his chest. The talker was smaller as was the third man, who looked to be a civilian. Always a spook on hand, surmised Joseph as he weighed up his chances against the trio.

'My enemy is your enemy?'

'Yes and no,' retorted the leader. In this case . . . it is no. We cannot allow you to live, knowing of our existence on British soil.'

'As if would tell anyone,' remarked Joseph wryly.

'A chance we cannot afford to take. I can only imagine why you want this scum dead . . . the war of 1991?'

### Joseph nodded, noticing that Madani had urinated on himself.

'It makes it harder to put a bullet inside your brain but that is what must happen now.' He readied his revolver, 'a soldier should not die like this but-'

'One request then, just a favour from one soldier to another?'

'Ask Englishman, but don't be so stupid as to ask for anything like a lighted cigarette okay?'

Joseph looked up from his seated position and made his play. 'I wouldn't insult your intelligence by suggesting that but I would ask you to let me do one thing before I die?'

'Go on?'

'That sadistic animal tortured my team in 91 and if I cannot kill him, allow me the small pleasure of spitting in his face? I have despised the man since I first set eyes on him.'

### The leader looked to his two companions. The spook nodded his head slowly.

'Okay, you may do this . . . but one wrong irregular movement and you get it in your back. Understood?'

Joseph arose slowly, feeling the singular match hidden between two fingers. 'Thank you.' He inched slowly towards Madani whose eyes were frozen in fear as though they were marbles caked in ice.

Jim Brannigan left the small room at the hospital when he heard a commotion outside in the corridor. The cackle over police radios was low but increasing in regularity. He spotted a surgeon leaving the operating theatre where Teresa had been taken. He slumped against the wall and removed his surgical mask in a gesture of defeat. Jim could just about hear the sound of frantic police officers talking of a huge explosion near The BBC Television centre but his sole objective was to reach the medic before his legs gave way.

'What's wrong . . . how is she?' he gasped as he stood before the deflated medic.

'I'm sorry,' he stuttered, taking in the sudden increased police chatter.

'Is she dead?'

'No . . . but I'm afraid she has suffered a . . .'

Jim could not hear anything above the din but the surgeon's face and blood soaked tunic told him that it was nothing good. Duke Brannigan hunched down by the wall as his mind caved in to the thought of his second chance in life being taken so swiftly. He trembled with fear and hatred, unable to hear an anxious looking nurse who was attempting to communicate with him.

The End

Anthony Vincent Bruno ©

#  BOOKS BY ANTHONY VINCENT BRUNO

### THE WICKED WILL PERISH 1 – SAS: BODY COUNT

### THE WICKED WILL PERISH 2 – HELL HATH NO FURY

### THE WICKED WILL PERISH 3 – THE ASSASSIN

### THE WICKED WILL PERISH 4 – NO PRISONERS

### THE WICKED WILL PERISH 5 – SAS BELLATOR

### \----------

### And then some ONE

### And then some TWO

### \----------

### COURAGE

### HOLDING ON

### THE PSYCHIC KILLER

### SEX, LIES AND THE BOMB

### NEVER AGAIN

@Anthony_V_Bruno on Twitter

