Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (30 page)

***

Ben heard the crack of the man’s neck from five yards away and ran to join Max. Max’s clinical attack had left the guard unconscious in less than thirty seconds. This was no ordinary journalist, Ben thought.

Max tested Paulie for a pulse. He, too, was concerned that in his rage over Ma
ry’s death he might have hit one of the gang responsible a little too hard, but Paulie’s pulse was regular. The two men moved Paulie out of sight behind a large skip. As they set him down, they heard a noise. It sounded like metal hitting concrete.

“Well, well,” Max said. “Our friend
here was carrying. Excellent, when the police arrive he can explain why he’s carrying an unregistered gun.”

Ben checked the unconscious man’s pockets and withdrew the expected cell phone, which he handed to Max. In accordance with the plan, Ben then pulled a green wheelie bin from its place beside the skip and trundled it around to the front of the building. The wheelie bin, about four feet tall and two feet square, was then tipped on its side and wedged between the fire door and the wall. It didn’t quite fill the space, but anyone trying to push open the fire door from the inside would be able to open the door no more than four inches,
which was nowhere near enough to squeeze through.

Max, meanwhile, was looking through the glass panels by the side of the door. He could see the reception area, which was dark and deserted, but he could clearly hear the whump
, whump of the pneumatic press.

Everything was going according to plan. The two men stood together out of sight of the houses opposite and the main road and, using Paulie’s mobile phone, Max dialled 999. Ben listened as Max adopted yet another voice; this one was an accurate rendit
ion of a frightened Indian man.

“Please come, come quickly. There have been gunshots. Someone may have been killed. They are shooting out of a building at the corner of Miles Street and Wandsworth Road. We are in danger here.” Max took the phone from his ear as the emergency operator said that the police were on their way
and could he stay on the line.

“That’s do-able,” he said to himself as he dropped the phone, with the connection unbroken, in Paulie’s lap.

***

Max had said that the police kept vans all over London, with armed response officers at the ready, and the time it took for the police to arrive depended on how close they were parked. Max figured
they had at least five minutes.

Max ran around to the front of the building carrying Paulie’s gun and shot out four of the upper floor windows, using less than half of the bullets in the Browning’s ten
-round magazine. Ben stood at the reception door and loosed off four blanks. People could now be heard screaming inside the building, and the fire door came open before shuddering to a stop when it hit the up-ended wheelie bin.

Max joined Ben at the reception door, and out of sight of the houses opposite, then, after ensuring that the reception area was still deserted, he fired four rounds through the wooden doors,
sending splinters everywhere.

Panic was rife inside the building and lights started to come on in the neighbouring houses. Max placed Paulie’s gun back in the unconscious man’s belt band and he and Ben strode quickly away up Miles Street. They turned left behind the houses onto Bondway, keeping tall walls between them and the house windows.
Walking normally, so as not to arouse suspicion, they crossed Perry Street and carried on walking away from the scene of chaos they had left behind. Five minutes later, having taken a circuitous route, they arrived back on Wandsworth Road in time to see unmarked police cars and vans speeding off in the direction of Metal Tokens Limited, lights flashing and sirens blazing.

A cabbie waited on the taxi rank outside the Wandsworth Tube station, reading a newspaper with his light on. Max approached him and, in a strong American accent, he asked for himself and Ben be taken to Tower Bridge Station. The cabbie folded his paper, took off his glasses and placed them on the dashboard before pullin
g away with his two passengers.

A moment later the cabbie had to stop to allow three squad cars to cross in front of the cab and head down Wandsworth road. Still using his American accent, Max asked, “
Say, that’s a hell of a lot of police vehicles. What’s going on around here?”

“Dunno, mate. Somebody prob
ably made a homophobic remark.”

Ben and Max both laughed, mainly from relief, and the cabbie smiled, well pleased with his witty repartee.

Lambrook House, Peckham High Street, London.

Monday 22
nd
August 2011; 11pm.

The black BMW approached the junction of Peckham High Street and Clayton Road slowly, hoping that the traffic lights would change to green by the time he reached them, but the lights stayed on red and so the car came to a stop and waited. The last vestiges of light were still visible in the sky to the west, even though it was eleven o’clock at night. As they waited for the lights to change the car’s occupants glanced around. On their left stood Gaumont House, a purple metal clad residential building which filled the large corner plot left behind when the old Peckham Gaumont cinema had been demolished years earlier. The car driver remarked that, if you had to live in Peckham, Gaumont House would be as good a place as any to be. It was stylish, modern and was bedecked with shiny metallic balconies overlooking the High Street.

The lights changed and the BMW turned right onto Clayton Road. On their right hand side was Flamborough House, where they could safely park their car, and on the left hand side they could see Lambrooke House, their destination.
Lambrooke House largely overlooked Peckham High Street. The ground floor was mostly made up of small independent shops and empty retail units, with deck access flats above. The building was faced with sandy coloured brickwork for the most part, bisected with eighteen inch thick concrete slabs at every floor level. The BMW driver said that, in his opinion, if you had to live in Peckham, you wouldn’t choose Lambrooke House.

                                
                            ***

Rafe sat across the table from his two colleagues. He had been expecting a visit from someone; he was relieved when it wasn’t the police. Lambrooke House may not have looked
like much from the outside but inside the flats were much more spacious than their modern equivalents.

The BMW’s passenger spoke as his eyes took in the spotless and meticulously ordered fl
at.

“Where
are Maisie and the kids, Rafe?”

“I sent them off to her mother’s when the riots started. We live right over the High Street shops, as you can see, and I was convinced that some of the yobs around here would get drunk or get high and join in the rioting. I jus
t didn’t want the kids around.”

“Sensible,” the BMW’s passenger said honestly. “Look, Rafe. Tony and me, well, we didn’t really want to come around here, but, you kno
w how it is.”

“I know,” Rafe said, the terror showing on his countenance
.

“Na, na, nothing like that,” Tony said, trying to settle Rafe’s nerves. “What we were told is that Gavin’s police friend is going to put some other poor sod in the frame for the old lady. To be fair, Gavin said she deserved it.” He paused. “Thing is, Rafe,
you worked over the Boss’s grandmother.”

Rafe’s eyes widened, and he looked scared.
“No-one told me! How was I supposed to know? Bloody hell, Tony, I’m sorry!”

Tony held up his hand in a gesture meant to stop Rafe’s bleating. “Calm down. Gavin thinks that, if
you write an apology, the Boss might give you a bit of a slap and that will be the end of it.”

“How much of a sla
p, Tony?” Rafe asked nervously.

“Dunno, really. Shouldn’t think it would involve hospital or broken bones, though. Too many questions, know what I mean?” Tony heard Rafe expel an audible sigh of relief. “And, if Jess and me are asked to take care of it, we’ll make it look bad but we’ll g
o easy on you, won’t we, Jess?”

“Course we
will, Rafe, we’re your mates.”

***

Rafe was careful to use his best handwriting. He was in enough trouble already, and so he wanted his apology to be sincere and neat. The finished note was more or less dictated by Tony. He was the one who had been to college up at Feltham somewhere. Tony even had a certificate of some kind. He was a proper scholar, Tony was. He knew all sorts of things about books and films and things, and he read the Telegraph. Rafe read through the note slowly, not because he was being careful but because it was the only pace at which he could read.

‘Sorry, I never meant to hurt the old ladies but they attacked me. Now I done and killed someone. I am heart broken. I’m also deeply sorry for the other old lady. I shouldn’t of done it. It has taken the light out of my soul and darkness is all that is left. Sorry. Rafe.”

It was a good apology. Rafe liked the last bit about the soul. Tony had suggested that. Rafe decided he would take a beating. After all, he had lost his temper and killed someone. After his punishment he would try doubly hard to get back into the Boss’s good books.

Tony and Jess stood up. Rafe folded the paper, walked over to Tony and handed him the letter. Tony put it in his pocket. Rafe was just about to thank them when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jess’s hand flying at his temple. It was too late to take avoiding action and the lead filled cosh se
nt Rafe reeling into blackness.

Tony took the folded note and laid it on the kitchen table. Being careful not to leave any prints, he wrote on the note, ‘To Maisie’, in block capitals, using Rafe’s own pen. Leaving the pen and the note where they would be found, he crossed the room and opened the door leading to the balcony. Jess asked Tony for some help with the dead
weight of Rafe’s body. They made sure no-one was around when they threw the body over the rail.

“Five floors, Tony. Wi
ll that be enough to kill him?”

“I would think so. If not, he’ll bleed to death. Did you see the blood pooling under his head
?”

***

Jennifer Peters was a light sleeper in any event, but it was so sultry at night that she slept with the windows open. An unusual sound broke the stillness, waking her. It took a few moments before she was fully awake, but the sound had disturbed her so
she decided to investigate. The scum around here were more than capable of climbing up to her third floor balcony and helping themselves to her belongings.

Wrapping her bathrobe around herself, she cinched the belt at her waist. The robe was more for modesty than warmth, as the night was warm and humid. She stepped onto her balcony and looked down. She wasn’t sure at first, but as she peered into the gloom she was able to see a shape on the paving at the back of the flats. It couldn’t be what she thought it was, surely? As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she felt her h
eart lurch as she realised that her suspicions were correct. Between the wheelie bins lay a body, eerily lit by the dim orange sodium security lights. She screamed, slowly composed herself and stepped back into her flat to dial 999.

***

Rafe’s companion on the disastrous visit to the Trafalgar House flats had been heading down Clayton Road on his way to see how Rafe was holding up when he saw Jess’s black BMW turn into the car park in the front of Flamborough House. He didn’t know what they wanted with Rafe but, whatever it was, he knew it wasn’t going to be good news.

Conn had blurted out Rafe’s name in the flat, he knew he had. Rafe hadn’t noticed because he was so mad, but the old lady had heard. Conn could see it in her eyes. As a result he spent the whole day expecting to get a call saying the police had pulled Rafe in for questioning. After all, how many Rafes could there be in the police records office with his history of violence? Their computers would surely have flagged him up as a suspect
, and they should have had him in a cell by now.

Connall Parker was hiding in the yard behind Rafe’s flat, contemplating events and waiting for Jess and his mate to leave, when he sensed something. Con looked up to see someone falling from the fifth floor. He knew instinctively it was Rafe. He stepped quickly back into the shadows as the body hit the ground with a squelching sound just a few
feet away from where he stood.

“Shit!” Con exclaimed quietly as he wiped a fine mist of Rafe’s blood from his face. “They’re cle
aning house. My God! I’m next!”

Conn ran back up Clayton Street towards home and safety, but he almost stopped in his tracks when he realised
that home was never going to be safe again.

Vine Street Crescent, Tower Hill, London.

Tuesday 23
rd
August 2011; 8 am.

Ben was already up and dressed. He was making breakfast and could hear Max in the guest bathroom. They had arrived home quite late and the adrenaline had kept them awake for hours, and so Max crashed in the spare bedroom. Ben was just about to turn on the grill when he heard a loud knock at the door. Someone had got past the security on the ground floor. Ben immediately knew who that must be; the police.