London Large: Blood on the Streets (20 page)

‘Don’t worry Liv, whatever
he’s up to he’ll come through. He always has. He always will.’

H came to in an
unfamiliar bed, alone. It was 1pm, and there was a two-thirds empty bottle of
scotch on the bedside table. He felt as if some great animal, maybe a big brown
bear, had sliced the top of his head off, scooped out what was left of his
brain, and shat into the hole. Same old same old. He had some trouble figuring
out where he was, but focused hard and recalled that he was in one of Ronnie’s
high-end apartments, which were dotted around Rotherhithe, close to the river.

Not the best spot in the
world to go to ground in, but beggars can’t be choosers.

He still had no idea if he’d
killed old Oswald, put him into a coma or merely given him a proper old-school
pasting. He fumbled for a remote and switched the TV on. It was wall-to-wall
Carruthers. The Royal Richmond Hospital. The great man in intensive care. A
home invasion. Hilary doing the honours at the press conference, talking a lot
but saying nothing. No news on the culprit or culprits.

He moved to the kitchen and
pottered about, in ultra-slow motion, until he managed to put a cup of coffee
together. Now he was ready to focus. Yesterday’s highlights: Ronnie in bits;
Old Shitbreath’s paedo club; Carruthers on the deck, twitching in a pool of
blood; the summit meeting with Amisha.

He was in the shit now; bang
in it. He reviewed his position: suspended from the only thing he knew how to
do, a public laughing stock, soon to be a public enemy. His boy in the nick.
Hiding out in Ronnie’s flat, unable to go and see Olivia. Up to his bollocks in
the grief being caused by the Russians and the Albanians. And now, to top it
all off, he was on the scent, as a completely rogue element, of a nonce
conspiracy involving a bunch of the most high-profile and powerful men in the
country. His psychological and emotional state he left out of the reckoning.

Focus on the details.
Figure out a way through the maze.

He threw on his clothes,
snapped the battery back into his phone and sparked it up. Just a quick look to
see if there was anything, any message, he could use. He scanned his inbox:
nothing but aggravation there, except for a message from Olivia. He didn’t read
it.

First thing: get a few
burners. Got to call Olivia, she’ll be worried sick.

He turned the phone over to
take the battery out, but heard a Ping! as he slid the back off. Number
unknown. He opened the message, and read:

HAVE SEARCHED DARK WEB. WE
NEED TO TALK. URGENT. MEET AT EGG AND BACON BARRY’S. 2PM.

Amisha. She’s on board.
Fucking good girl! I’ve got half a chance now.

The big man was out of the
flat in a flash, pocketing the phone and pulling on his jacket as he swarmed
down the stairs. He jumped into his car, lit up the blue light and gunned
towards the Walworth Road for all he was worth.

It was 1.40.

Confident John had
stayed awake at his post all night, fuelled by the charlie he always kept round
him for emergencies and by his commitment to helping the big man. He’d
surprised himself at his staying power; 99 times out of 100 he’d have normally
given up.

He’d watched the four KGB
lookalikes patrol the area in turns throughout the night, and as dark turned to
light he’d watch the sunrise slowly shine its rays onto the dawning of a new
day. It was something he hadn’t seen for a number of years given his normal
routine: bed around 2am, up by midday, maybe a little later.

He’d taken the liberty of
nipping off for a quick breakfast but was soon back at his post at the rear of
the flats. A few more hours, a few more lines of cocaine to iron out.

He continued his vigil. The
sun reached its zenith. One of the sentinels did another round. He’d worked out
they were creatures of habit and that it would be at least half an hour before
another one came by.

Fuck it - enough hanging
about. Time for action

John did another line to
boost his confidence and went for it. He cut a comic figure as he scaled the
fence that secured the rear of the flats. Anyone watching would have creased up
in laughter as he tumbled down the other side. The eight or nine pints from the
day before hadn’t done much to help his co-ordination and spatial awareness,
but the marching powder drove him on and numbed the pain as he landed on a
broken bottle.

Fuck it!

He collected himself together
and, with as much stealth as he could manage, inched his way to the rear window
and knelt down below it.

He sat for five minutes, as
once again fear gripped him and tried its best to determine his behaviour. Once
again he overcame it.

The things I fucking do
for H. Next time he can do this his fucking self

Slowly, ever so slowly, he
lifted his head. He had a sense of what it might feel like going over the top
of a trench and was half expecting to be met by a volley of automatic gunfire.
Through the net curtains he saw two men watching TV, and a third reading a
paper. The fourth, the one who had now clocked him twice, was nowhere to be
seen. On patrol somewhere in the locality, no doubt.

But asleep on the sofa, with
a drip of something or other feeding his veins, was Agapov. No doubt about it.

Bingo!

He got out his mobile. Even
he had a mobile now, and he’d learnt how to use it. He quietly tapped the phone
icon, then contacts, and pressed on H. Straight to voicemail.

Fuck it - the fucker’s
never about when you really need him.

He’d only ever sent a few
texts in his life but the recent lessons from his niece were standing him in good
stead. He got control of his quivering hands and started stabbing at the tiny
keys.

H. FOUND YOUR MAN. FLAT 72,
HUXLEY HOUSE, FARADAY STREET, WATERLOO. 4 GUARDS. THEY LOOK TASTY. BE CAREFULL.

He hit the send button.

Time to do the off.

H was bang on time. He
said his hellos to Egg and Bacon Barry, ordered a full-scale heart attack on-a-plate
and settled back into his plastic moulded chair to wait. His hangover needed
feeding and Olivia was not around to restrain him. He felt free; a man on a
mission, out in the world on his own, taking orders or advice from no one.

No Amisha yet. He surveyed
the scene and waited for her to walk in. His food arrived and he gorged on it
like a hungry dog, hunched low over the plate.

‘Any good H?’ asked Barry,
after the show was over.

‘Blinding. Top notch. Another
cup of tea please mate’, said H, leaning back in his chair. But where there
should have been contentment there was only unease. It was ten past two. H had
never known Amisha to be so much as a minute late. For anything. Ever.

I’ll give it ‘til half
past.

He gulped down a third cup of
tea and hit the street at twenty five past. His guts were churning; he was
electric with anxiety. High anxiety. He rushed into an all-purpose Nigerian
shop - ‘International money transfer. Cheapest rates’ - and bought the cheapest
dumbphone he could find, pay-as-you-go. He punched Amisha’s number into it.
Nothing.

He was certain now; something
was up. There was nothing else for it - he would have to risk going to her
place. There was no other option. He jumped back into the car and, for the
second time in less than a day, set a course for Greenwich.

H pulled into her street
slowly. No sign of her flat being watched. He parked up and crept round the
back and into the garden, as he had in the early hours. Straight away he saw,
with alarm, that the back door was open. It had been forced, by someone who
knew what they were doing. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out his cosh -
the good old spring-loaded he’d been cracking heads with for donkey’s years -
and eased himself inside.

All was quiet. His heart
pounding, he moved to the living room and sized up the scene immediately:
overturned chairs, bits and pieces strewn all across the room and, in the
middle of the floor, a baseball bat, flecked with blood.

That’s my girl, didn’t go
without a fight… fuck me, she’s got some bottle…but who’s taken her? And why?
What the fuck is going on?

His head span and his blood
surged. He sat down; he needed to breathe, to think. He needed a plan - but he
was out on a limb now, winging it, almost alone.
Almost.
He still had
Ronnie. And John. But how could they help him with his next move? And what was
that going to be, exactly?

Fact was, he was out of
ideas, or directions to move in. He’d go out, get another dumbphone, and let
Olivia know he was OK. And then…? Without thinking, he slid the battery back
into his proper phone. Scrolling down his inbox, he again saw an endless list
of messages that could only drive him nuts, text after text he would never read,
until he came to:

H. FOUND YOUR MAN. FLAT 72,
HUXLEY HOUSE, FARADAY STREET, WATERLOO. 4 GUARDS. THEY LOOK TASTY. BE CAREFULL
.

Bingo! Gotcha, you cunt!

H had no idea how, or if,
Agapov was connected to Amisha’s disappearance. But he was sure as hell connected
with Tara’s death. This was the break he’d been waiting for. He drove into
Greenwich and bought a handful of second hand dumbphones. They were getting
harder to find. With one of them he let Olivia know he was safe and well.

That was as much as he could
do for now.

John’s text had advised
caution. But it was too late for careful. Far too late.

H had sent Amisha into the
Dark Web, recruited her to his lone wolf campaign against a high level
conspiracy, and now she was gone. This was on him. He had no idea if the
bastards who had taken her would keep her alive. What had she found? How had
they found her?

If she was still alive,
though, he
would
find her. And if she was dead he would find everyone,
absolutely everyone involved, and he would take no prisoners.

In war he had always acted
under the constraints of the Geneva Convention; in Civvy Street he had, for the
most part at least, acted within the constraints of the legal system. Now he
was outside, outside of everything he had spent his life defending. All bets
were off.

Time was of the essence. He
needed to act and act quickly. He’d never memorized many phone numbers but
Confident John’s was one that had stuck in his mind along the way. He thought
about texting but it took too long. He needed proper communication so he
punched the number into one of the dumbphones and pressed call.

In normal times Confident
John didn’t usually accept calls from unknown numbers. But these were not
normal times.

‘John, it’s H.’

‘H, fucking hell mate. Have
you read my text?’

‘Yeah, thanks. Nice work
mate. I need a shooter, now. Something proper. Automatic.’

‘Thought you would ask that;
it’ll take some time.’

‘No time mate. No fucking
time whatsoever. What can you get hold of now?’

‘An old revolver. Six rounds.
But I shouldn’t think this mob want to play cowboys.’

‘On my way.’

H was on autopilot. He
unthinkingly navigated the route to John’s as he considered the situation and
constructed a plan. He thought the Russians might move Agapov to a new location
and he didn’t want to turn up and find him gone. He knew they didn’t know
anything about the kidnapping, didn’t, in all likelihood, know anything whatsoever
about Amisha. But he knew Tara, knew Tara well, and if the kidnapping was
related in any way to Amisha investigating Old Shitbreath and his chums...well,
it was the only possible link he had.

He arrived at John’s third
floor flat, gulping in air after his breakneck sprint up the stairs, and
hammered on the door.

‘John, lively mate.’

John opened the door. He
looked like shit, exhausted from more than twenty four hours of non-stop
surveillance. H could see he’d pushed the boat out to help him but this was no
time for niceties.

‘Thank fuck I’m not a
copper,’ said John as he passed the gun to H. H checked it was fully loaded;
all six bullets were present and correct.

‘Don’t suppose there are any
more bullets about?’

‘Afraid not H’, said John,
‘that’s your whack. Tell me you’re not going it alone? You’ll need more than
that with this firm.’

H made no reply. Just eye
contact, a faint smile and a nod of friendship. He turned and bolted down the
stairs as fast as his girth and joints would allow. Which was actually very
fast. He was inside his car and heading for Waterloo before John knew it.

Less than fifteen minutes
later the big man came to a juddering halt in Faraday Street, jumped out of his
car and ran at number 72 like a crazed rhino. Fast and direct had always been
his preferred option, once he’d discounted all the others.

To a casual observer it would
have appeared as if a man pulled up outside a flat and ran at the door without
thinking. But the casual observer would have been wrong. H was in the zone and
had assessed his options at lightning speed the moment he turned into the
street. He had a mental map of the landscape and every individual; the traffic
situation and options on a getaway were clear, and he’d stopped bang in the
middle of the road to make sure they stayed that way. He’d flipped the switch
to open the car boot, left the engine running and left the driver’s door wide
open. Now to use the best weapon he had - surprise.

He ran at the door, assessing
it as he moved. He reckoned it was light enough to knock through at first
contact if he hit it with everything he had.

Tasty are they John? We’ll
fucking see about that.

The door
gave way as if it were a plywood prop, like a flimsy saloon door in an old
Western. H stormed into the flat with pistol in hand.