Carnal Acts (34 page)

Skender Spahia stood at the armoured windows at the rear of the house in Holland Park. Like his neighbours, he’d installed wire and broken glass on the top of the two-metre walls round the garden, as well as electronic alarms and CCTV. Unlike his neighbours, he also used armed clan members to watch the screens and check the equipment daily. He’d bought the house from a Greek shipowner who tried one insurance scam too many and made a rapid exit from the UK. The name Spahia appeared in none of the deeds or transaction records. He was the clan’s leader in the country and he answered only to his father, who had a thousand-acre estate in upstate New York. The old man had been unwell, a cancer gnawing at his belly, but he was still as sharp as an assassin’s blade. Fortunately he trusted Skender, the eldest of his four sons and heir apparent to the criminal empire. Unlike his brothers in Italy, Germany and France and his cousins in less profitable countries, Skender had both an analytical mind and two degrees in business management. He had invested in hedge funds and in both traditional and new technology companies. That was the future.

Except the old ways of doing things couldn’t be ignored. The money that fuelled the legitimate business interests came from the clan’s well-established activities – drugs, people trafficking, whoring, pornography, smuggling, kidnapping, luxury car theft and so on. The operation he headed in Britain was a pyramid. He smiled at the thought. Millions of his countrymen had lost their life savings in a pyramid scheme partly run by the clan a decade ago. That had been his first taste of the profits that could be made by appealing to people’s basest instincts – greed and lust. Fear was the other member of the triad. Between him at the top and the street-level operations that brought in the cash there were several layers of management, all of them connected to the clan and all with particular areas of expertise. As a business model it couldn’t be improved upon. Computers made running
the varied operations easy, while the exercise of extreme violence by clan members made the structure impenetrable. No Spahia clan member had ever given information to the authorities or been turned. Everyone knew what would happen to them and their families if they did.

All of which made the reports Skender had been receiving from Northumberland disturbing. One clan member dead and three in police custody largely because of the actions of a seventeen-year-old prostitute, who was still missing. In practical terms, there was nothing to worry about. The three members would never talk and the lawyer, Richard Lennox, was paid well to look after them. The whore would know nothing of the clan’s organisation – it was standard operating procedure to keep the women separate and fully disciplined. This one was obviously a rogue. He’d considered having her family back in the homeland brought over as bait, but that had its own risks. They would be killed later, when the bitch had been caught and could watch their long-drawn-out deaths on a satellite feed before her own. No, the issue was that of example. The clan code was clear. Any breach of security had to be punished in a way that terrified both insiders and outsiders.

And now a clan nightclub in Newcastle had been blown up. Losing face in such a public way was far beyond acceptable. Lennox had no idea who was responsible, despite the policemen he paid. The Bomb Squad had so far kept their conclusions to themselves, apart from saying that the explosive device was sophisticated.

Spahia turned as his secretary opened the door and ushered in two members of the Popi. They were not his family – what family would want such men in their midst? – but they had pledged their allegiance to the clan by killing one of their own relatives. They did this because they would be paid premium rates and to show that nothing was more important than their master’s wishes. The original Popi had been a band of brigands who harassed the Ottoman occupier for centuries, slaughtering
his troops, stealing his possessions and dying in droves when the columns of Janissaries eventually caught up with them. Contemporary Popi received one of the curved daggers their predecessors had used to cut the throats of the enemy when they made their first professional kill.

‘Gentlemen.’ Spahia spoke in English because he wanted to see how well the assassins spoke the language. He had used them before – and been impressed – but their handling had been delegated to his senior deputy. This time he wanted a more hands-on role.

‘My leader,’ they answered, lowering their heads.

‘You’ve been examining the situation in Cor-ham.’

‘Yes, my leader.’

‘How do you recommend we proceed?’

The elder of the men stepped forward. He was of average height, but even the well-cut suit failed to disguise his muscular frame. His feet were large and sheathed in black cowboy boots.

‘The men who’ve been caught do not represent any risk. The whore is also of little importance. The clan network will track her down and she can be dealt with at your pleasure.’

Skender Spahia raised a hand, then adjusted his silk tie. The white polka dots provided a pleasing contrast to the dark blue pinstriped suit that had cost him over three thousand pounds. ‘Do I understand that you discount the woman?’ he asked, the high forehead furrowed beneath his combed-back, raven hair.

The older Popi nodded. ‘Yes, my chief. We believe the priority is for a strong message to be sent to the local gangs who will attempt to profit from the enforced closures of the brothel in Corham and the nightclub.’

‘Both those matters can be handled by clan members in Newcastle.’

‘We would be happy to help.’

Spahia smiled. ‘No doubt.’

‘But, excuse me, chief. We also feel an important message should be sent by striking at the police detectives who are
hunting the woman. This will have the added benefit of bringing into line the businessmen, landowners and local politicians with whom the clan is dealing.’

This time Spahia didn’t smile, although he found the killer’s advanced grammar almost surreal. Whoever they were paying to teach them English was in line for a bonus. He didn’t smile because he took the proposal seriously, even though killing police officers was never a course of action to be taken lightly. And because he’d had an angry call from one of the people he was in business with in the north.

‘I approve the idea in principle,’ he said, sitting down at the wide mahogany desk. He knew better than to invite the Popi to take seats – the master-servant relationship did not include comfort for the latter. ‘However, if there is any danger of the clan being implicated, I will not sanction the murder of police officers, particularly senior ones, by Albanians – and that includes you.’

The younger Popi stepped forward. His face was unusually smooth and his eyebrows thin and arched. ‘We anticipated this, my leader. We have carried out background checks into two officers. It is possible to have them executed by persons unconnected to the clan.’ He took out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Spahia.

‘Interesting,’ he said. After reading it, he put the document in the top drawer of his desk and locked it. ‘You have located these individuals?’

‘Yes, chief,’ the elder Popi said. ‘Both were very enthusiastic, even before we discussed payment. We will meet them when we go north before finalising the agreement.’

‘And you are convinced that using them will send the message with sufficient force?’

‘We will instruct them. Although the woman is on her own, she has a mother who lives in the area. As to the man, he has a wife and children, and his father lives in the same house. They will provide audiences.’

‘And you are sure your operatives will manage to kill them in front of their families and get away unrecognised?’

‘If they don’t, we will step in.’

Skender Spahia knew what that meant – no witnesses left alive. He sat back in his leather chair and spun it towards the garden. His daughter Roza was playing in the garden with a small dog that he hated. She was two and a half, her dark hair in a pink bow, her chubby legs in traditional tight trousers. He waved at her and received a wide smile.

‘Very good,’ he said, turning back to the Popi. ‘I want this affair concluded by Sunday at the latest.’

‘Yes, my leader,’ the men said, bowing their heads again and making for the door.

Spahia went over to the humidor and selected a Havana, chopping the end off with a cutter. As he held his gold lighter under the cigar, he felt his heart rate return to something akin to normal. He couldn’t help it. He was a child of the rock fathers, the snow-glorious peaks of his homeland. Killing remained in his blood, no matter how many multi-million dollar deals he made. Even talking about it was exhilarating.

When Heck left the MCU, Joni was still at her desk. Morrie Simmons and Nathan Gray had hauled Goat Skin Shackleton in and were grilling him about his whereabouts and those of his fellow Steel Toe Caps before the bomb went off at the Stars and Bars. He insisted he’d been at home – with not even his bingo-playing wife to give him an alibi – and that he hadn’t seen Michael Etherington. Neither had anyone else. Either the general had gone to ground or he was in the ground. Heck shook his head. He liked Etherington and he was holding on to an ever-shrinking hope that he wasn’t mixed up in the bombing. But
why wasn’t he answering his phone? Maybe he’d gone fishing somewhere remote…

On the drive home Heck thought about Joni. She’d handled herself well with the Favons, though she’d trodden close to the line. She was predisposed against the aristocrats, no doubt because of her very different upbringing. Which reminded him: Michael Etherington and Joni’s mother – he found it very hard to believe the general wanted a spell from her. Then again, he could hardly believe that the dead boy’s grandfather was gay.

Passing trees in numerous shades of green, Heck thought about Joni again. There was something different about her, something beyond her colour and Met service. She was amazingly intuitive. It was as if she could see connections the rest of them couldn’t. Or was it just that she had more objectivity? Perhaps he and his colleagues had been taken in by the Favons’ status. No, he didn’t think that was the case. Then there was the missing Albanian woman. Joni seemed to be on a mission to find and save her from the brutes who had abused her. That was understandable given their shared gender, but was it affecting her judgement? He had the feeling that Joni’s interest in the Favons was dictated by the fact that Suzana – he’d remembered her name! – had last been seen on the moor that bordered the family’s estate.

Heck forgot Joni as soon as he pulled up in the driveway. Luke was stroking a tennis ball against the garage door with a cricket bat.

‘Hiya, Dad. Wanna bowl to me?’

Heck kissed his son on the crown of his head. ‘All right, kiddo. But you fetch the balls.’ The back garden was long enough for a makeshift wicket but if Luke creamed anything loose it would go into the fields. He’d once managed to land the ball in an old teapot that Ag had hung on the fence at backward square leg. They’d both collapsed in hysterical laughter; until his wife appeared and saw the damage to her pansies.

‘School OK?’ Heck asked, as he rolled his arm over, feeling
the muscles in his chest stretch. He was relived to find that he had no spasms in his lower abdomen.

‘Aye, Dad,’ Luke replied, playing a slick cover drive into a rhododendron. ‘Did you know the Spartans sent their kids – boys and girls – off to live in barracks when they were seven? They went about the place naked and beat the … fought each other all the time.’

‘Sounds a bit like the schools I went to.’ Although they could have afforded it, at a pinch, he and Ag had decided against private schools for Kat and Luke. They wanted to see them grow up day to day – to watch over them, truth be told. That didn’t mean Luke would escape the usual rugby injuries; just that he’d get them at the club rather than school.

‘Come on, Dad!’

Heck came back to himself. There was something lurking in the depths of his mind that he couldn’t dredge up. He bowled to Luke and this time the ball was hoisted high in the air. He kept his eye on it and, rather to his surprise, took the catch.

‘Howzat!’ He was handed the bat by his son and took guard. Luke had been working on his bowling. The first delivery was a fast yorker that he struggled to dig out. The second was a bouncer he couldn’t resist pulling. The ball rocketed into a clump of early rose blooms.

‘Stop that, you silly boys!’ Ag shouted, from the back door. ‘Come inside, your tea’s ready. And wake up the old man, will you?’

Heck and Luke exchanged guilty smiles, the latter going over to the rear extension and shouting, ‘Tea!’ through the letter box David had insisted on, even though the postman delivered
everything
to the front of the house.

The three of them walked across the lawn.

‘All right, lad?’ David asked.

‘Aye, Dad.’ Heck liked being addressed that way, even though he felt far from young. ‘You?’

David grinned loosely. ‘Ag dropped me off in town. I went to see Maisie Lang.’

‘Yuk,’ Luke said, running ahead.

Heck shook his head. His father’s appetites were amazing, especially compared with his own. ‘Tea and crumpets?’ he asked, smiling despite himself.

‘More of the latter,’ the old man said, pulling his trousers higher. ‘She’s gagging…’

‘Hello, petal,’ Heck said, giving his father an admonitory look. He put his arm round Kat, who had come to the back door. ‘How are you doing?’

‘OK, I suppose,’ she said moodily.

‘Boys?’ he asked, looking at Ag.

‘They’re so stupid,’ his daughter said.

‘You can say that again,’ Ag said, carrying a platter of pork chops into the dining room. ‘They’re only interested in balls.’

The atmosphere improved at table. Luke went off on one of his rambling stories about the geography teacher, who was as gaff prone as Buster Keaton. There was a lot of laughter.

‘What have you been up to, Heck?’ Ag asked. ‘Apart from battering my flowers.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I’m only joking,’ his wife said, with a smile. ‘They can take it. Honestly, you men. You think you’re ace jokers, but we can do for you any time, eh, Kat?’

‘Ace jokers?’ Luke said. ‘Is that supposed to be clever, Mum?’

Heck laughed. ‘Sharp as a tack.’

‘Thick as a brick,’ Kat said, grabbing her brother’s arm and squeezing. ‘Submit?’

‘That’ll do on the gender war front,’ Ag said. ‘Well, Heck? Caught any bad men?’

He shook his head and then, without warning, what he’d been trying to remember came back to him. ‘The Corham Sevens. You were all at them, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Ag said, ‘you were feeling poorly so I took the others.’

‘Aye,’ David said. ‘I had my pipes. There was a – what do they call it?’

‘Jam session?’ Heck hazarded.

‘That’s right – round the back of the stand. Plenty of whisky flowed.’

‘So you obviously didn’t see much of the rugby, Dad.’

‘Luke and I did,’ Ag said. She glanced at her daughter. ‘Kat and her friends were off boy-hunting.’

‘We were
not
!’

‘Where were you sitting?’ Heck asked.

‘Near the top of the stand,’ his wife replied. ‘So Luke could get a good view.’

‘Yeah, it was great, Dad. I told you when we got back, don’t you remember?’

Heck had no recollection. He’d still been tired in March and spent most of the weekends in bed. ‘Remind me, lad,’ he said.

‘The Abbey School team was amazing. They nearly lost in the quarter finals, but they destroyed the Colts in the final. Nick Etherington was…’ Luke broke off. ‘Dad, is it true someone killed him? I heard it on the news.’

Heck tried to ignore the hostile look he was getting from Ag. ‘He came off his bike, son. We’re still not sure what happened.’

‘Oh.’ Luke instantly returned to his cheerful self, rattling on about the final and the tries the dead boy had scored.

Heck changed the subject as soon as he could. The evening passed calmly enough: baths, homework, half an hour of gin rummy. When the old man was back in his hutch and the kids in bed, Heck settled down to watch the news.

Ag joined him on the sofa a few minutes later. ‘What was that about the rugby?’ she asked. ‘Luke could have been upset.’

‘Aye, I’m sorry,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘The Etherington case, it’s doing my head in. I spoke to Andrew and Victoria Favon today.’

Ag raised her eyes. She wasn’t anti-aristocracy, but she had no time for that particular family.

‘Did you see them at the Sevens?’

‘Yes, they were right in the middle of the stand.’

‘What about Michael Etherington? Did you see him?’

Ag thought about that. ‘Yes.’ She turned to him. ‘Yes, I did. He was just behind Andrew Favon. Victoria presented the cup.’

‘Victoria Favon presented the cup to Nick Etherington?’

‘Yes, that’s …’ Ag stared at him. ‘No. Surely not.’