London Large: Blood on the Streets (25 page)

‘Let’s not get into the
politics of it mate. We’re all just getting a living. Business is business. Do
you want me to set up a meet with him or what?’

H gave Ronnie the look, but
nodded yes. Ronnie made the call.

‘We’re on. Four o’clock.
But…where exactly does he fit in? I mean, what exactly are we going to accuse
him of?’

‘Losing your bottle, Ron?’,
said H.

‘No, I am not losing my
fucking bottle. If it turns out he was involved in Tara’s death I’ll rip his
fucking throat out myself. I’m just a bit confused. Lay it out for me again
will you, all of it, before we go barging in there.’

‘Well, here’s how I see it’,
said H. ‘Tara and Jemima were executed, by a professional hit man. We don’t
know who he was, but he was obviously a top-notch professional. We know she was
involved, or dragged into involvement with, Agapov, a big man in the Russian
firm. I’m guessing she saw or heard something, or was getting in the way, or
was wobbling and trying to cut loose, and…I don’t know, Ron. But I know one
thing: thugs like Agapov never run the show. Someone further up will have been
pulling his strings, and we know from Amisha’s package that he and Kuznetsov
were connected in all sorts of ways. And on top of all that, we know he was
setting things up for and protecting Old Shitbreath and the other nonces. We’ve
got him bang to rights on that…I haven’t even mentioned that pop someone just
had at me. Who do you suppose was behind that? And what if you hadn’t been
there? If they’d hurt Liv?... I’m going to have him.’

‘OK, but how are you going to
have him? You’re suspended from duty, we’ve got no backup, and he’s practically
untouchable. These types always seal themselves off completely from the naughty
stuff, you know that. Not to mention he’s probably got a small army to call on.
Probably all former Spetzsnaz nutters, ruthless as fuck and armed to the
teeth’, said Ronnie.

‘They don’t scare me mate.
I’ve dealt with them before. Kuznetsov is going to help us with what we need to
know, on both fronts, or I am going to put it on him. Severely.’

‘I hope you’ve got this right
mate’, said Ronnie, ‘if he’s what you think he is, this is one man we do not
want to piss off.’

‘Hold your bottle, Ron. Eyes
on the prize. We’ll know what happened to Tara soon. Very soon. Just get me in
there.’

Beauchamp Place,
Knightsbridge. H’s mum had once had a cleaning job here, when he was a kid.
That was the closest anyone in his family had ever got to the place. Ronnie,
much more at ease in these surroundings, nodded to a few familiar faces but saw
that H’s jaw was working, and working hard; he was building himself up for a
big blast.

‘A few things before we go
in, H. I’ve good pretty good idea of how these blokes work. You won’t be able
to wind him up, or put the frighteners on him. You can go in all guns blazing,
but all you’ll get back is the super-successful legitimate businessman, the
smooth gentleman with establishment connections, civilised and confident as you
please. He won’t play ball with us unless there’s something in it for him, or
he thinks he has to cover his own arse.’

H looked him in the eye,
steadied his breathing and nodded: ‘Alright mate. You do the pleasantries. I’ll
give you five minutes.’

It was 4pm. The building was
all plush and good taste, but nothing too fancy. They were ushered into
Kuznetsov’s inner sanctum. He rose from his desk, gushing with charm, and in
accented but otherwise perfect English said:

‘Ronald, how good to see you
my friend. It’s been too long. And Detective Inspector Hawkins, such a pleasure
to meet you at last. Your reputation precedes you.’

Fuck me, Ronnie wasn’t
kidding. This bastard’s oilier than a giant slick in the Gulf of Mexico.

‘Something to drink
gentleman? No? May I assume this is not a social call?’

‘You may, Kyril’, said
Ronnie. H had his mouth clamped shut but was exuding waves of manic, aggressive
energy, like invisible solar flares bursting out into the space around him.
Ronnie felt the blast, and knew he didn’t have much time. He composed himself
and, in the measured tones of someone who knew how to negotiate with ruthless
and unyielding competitors, laid everything out. Step-by-step and
piece-by-piece: the evidence contained in Amisha’s package… the contents of Tara’s
phone… H’s assessment of the situation and of Kuznetsov’s position.

Ronnie’s presentation came to
an end. A long, pregnant pause followed. Kuznetsov looked at each of them in
turn, composed and unruffled, and considered his options.

Eyes like a shark. He’s
got eyes like a fucking shark.

‘Gentlemen’, the oligarch
said eventually, ‘I propose a deal. I will tell you everything I know about
everything I know, and provide you with detailed information that will aid you
greatly in your investigation. In return my name will never be mentioned,
documented or appear on anybody’s radar in this matter. I understand that the
evidence of which you speak is solid and is in safe hands, and might be used
against me at any time in the future; I will therefore take no further action,
and we will never meet again. Is this arrangement agreeable to you?’

H nodded, and said ‘Alright
son, start talking.’

‘First of all, I assure
you that I know absolutely nothing about the abduction of your colleague,
Detective Inspector Hawkins. None of my people are involved in that, and I
don’t know who is. I can, however, shed more light on the activities of Sir
Basil Fortescue-Smythe and his friends, though I must make it clear that I
myself am not a sexual predator, or any kind of “nonce case.” I simply provided
infrastructure and security for the paedophile ring. I took no part in their
“meetings.” Over the years I have worked hard to earn the trust of these
people, whom I cultivated as part of my strategy for gaining influence and position
in this country. I sometimes secretly filmed their activities as insurance.
They are very sick people, and I despise them. But they have been very useful
to me.’

‘What about the kids? Did you
provide those as well?’, said H.

Ronnie’s heart began to beat
faster: H was about to blow.

‘Yes and no’, continued
Kuznetsov. ‘Agapov had - I assume he is no longer with us, Detective Inspector?
- targets to meet. Financial targets. He employed the usual means: drug
smuggling and distribution, people trafficking, prostitution
etc.
Some of the
children were, I believe, supplied by him.’

‘You mean supplied by you,
you horrible cunt!’, shouted H.

‘Only indirectly’, said
Kuznetsov, calm as ever. ‘I don’t deal directly with any of those things. That
was Agapov’s job. His replacement is now doing the same. Business is business.’

H exploded out of his chair
and moved at speed towards Kuznetsov’s desk. Ronnie got his body in between the
two of them just in time.

‘Sit down H. We need more.
Keep to the deal!’, barked Ronnie. He turned to Kuznetsov: ‘Tell us about Tara.
Who killed my wife, and why did she die?’

The Russian fixed his eye on
him; he was unwavering: ‘Ronald, of this I know very little. Your wife’s tragic
death was not connected in any way to my activities, or those of any of my
people. Of this I can also assure you.’

‘He’s lying Ron’, H screamed,
‘give me five minutes with him. Cover the door and give me five minutes.’

‘There really is no need for
these histrionics, Detective Inspector’, said Kuznetsov. Ronnie almost admired
his cool. ‘No need at all. You must look elsewhere for your culprit.’

‘Where? Tell me now’, said
Ronnie, himself now on the verge of exploding. ‘I’m running out of patience
with this bollocks. Who killed Tara? And why?’

‘Look again to our nonce friends,
Ronald. As to the whys and wherefores of her death, for those you would have to
ask Lord Timothy Skyhill, that great peer of your realm: my guess would be that
it was he who commissioned her murder.’

‘It all makes sense if
you think about it, Ron’, said H, back in the car. ‘Tara comes across the clip
of Old Shitbreath and his pals, bang at it. She must have got it from Agapov
somehow. She watches it in horror and uploads it to her phone. Five minutes
later she phones Skyhill, in a terrible rage. Maybe she threatens him, maybe
she just needs to let it out. But she shows her hand. The next morning she’s
murdered.’

Ronnie was on fire.

‘He’s got to die, H. Skyhill.
He’s got to go. Help me find him. Just help me set it up. Then you can make
yourself scarce.’

‘There’ll be none of that
mate. We’ll go after him. Together’, said H.

Ronnie called Skyhill’s PA
and was told that His Lordship was out of the country. Business. Singapore.
Back tomorrow.

H was alarmed at this: the
clock on Amisha’s life was ticking loudly, and with Kuznetsov apparently out of
the running Skyhill was now the odds-on favourite; if it was true he’d had Tara
killed, he would certainly not be beyond a bit of kidnapping. He would need to
know what she had discovered, and to whom she’d passed the information. And
what about the attempt on H’s life? Skyhill was now also the main candidate for
that.

Time for some quick, and
clear, thinking. ‘Bollocks’, said H, ‘But…Skyhill will just have to wait. So
let’s go and have a word with Sir Basil, and learn what we can learn from him.
Let’s not go at this half-cocked. Let’s make sure we get the full picture, and
think things through. Do it properly. A day’s grace for Skyhill could work in
our favour.’

‘What if the old bastard
won’t cooperate?’, said Ronnie.

‘Oh, he’ll cooperate, don’t
worry about that. He’s got no backbone, there’s nothing underneath all that
old-school bollocks he comes out with. He’ll just want to try and save his
arse once he knows it’s all coming on top.’

Ronnie said nothing. He was
trying to control his emotions; but he was near bursting point. His leg was
pumping up and down like a steam piston, and H could hear his teeth grinding
above the roar of the traffic.

Jesus, I haven’t seen him
this agitated since Goose Green.

We’d better just get this
done. Too late to stop now.

‘OK’, said H, ‘round to Sir
Basil’s then. We’ll get him to lay it all out for us, and gather some more
evidence. Then we can take care of the others. Blunt and then Skyhill. Yes?’

‘Check. But when you say
“take care” of, what exactly do you mean?’ asked Ronnie.

‘I mean I want to nick Old
Shitbreath and Blunt, or at least tuck them up and arrange to have them nicked.
Skyhill, once we’ve got what we can out of him, I will leave to you.’

‘Is that a guarantee, H?’ said
Ronnie.

‘Nailed on. That is nailed on
son.’

I owe Ron that. Natural
justice. An eye for an eye…Anyway, it’s that or have the whole thing covered up
again, and Skyhill gets to carry on following his cock around the world in
pursuit of little boys.

At this Ronnie seemed to calm
down a little; he began to focus his negative energy, channel his hatred,
towards their goal: ‘Alright H. It’s five o’clock. He’ll be at his place in
Belgravia. He always has a kip at around this time, then goes back to his club for
dinner.’

‘Is anyone likely to be
about? Does he have any staff?’, asked H.

‘There’s a cleaner, as far as
I know, but I suppose she’s finished by now.’

‘Right. Buckle up Ron. We’re
going to bring the hammer down on the sick old bastard, and not before time.’

They found the old man
swinging from the ceiling in his bedroom. Ronnie was exultant, and laughed out
loud.

‘Well, he’s done the job
properly’, said H, feeling for a pulse, ‘he’s definitely brown bread. I’m no
pathologist, but I’d say he hasn’t been here long.’

Good riddance to bad
rubbish.

Couldn’t have happened to
a nicer bloke.

‘Have a root about, Ron, see
what you can find.’

Ronnie busied himself in the
lounge while H rifled through the bedroom drawers and wardrobes. There was
nothing to be found. Not that it seemed to matter much now.

‘In here H’, shouted Ronnie.
‘He’s left a note.’

H went through. Ronnie picked
up the letter from a desk, and read:

To Whom It May Concern

The net is closing in. I have
decided, now that my crimes are about to be revealed, to dispatch myself to
hell before somebody does it for me. I have been made aware that my lifelong
friend and partner in crime Lord Timothy Skyhill is responsible for the murder
of my daughters. This is a consequence of the way we have lived our lives. I
can take no more. I have been a weak man, and a bad man. I am ready now to
accept the judgement of God.

Sir Basil Fortescue-Smythe.

‘Fuck it’, said H,
‘Kuznetsov has put them all in the picture. They’ll know we’re coming for them.
We’ve got to get to the others before they do anything stupid as well.’

‘Skyhill won’t top himself’,
said Ronnie. ‘Think about his performance in that clip. And all those times
you’ve seen him on the telly, giving it. The cunt is so full of himself it’s a
wonder he can stand up straight. There’s no way he’s going to top himself.’

‘I hope you’re right mate.
OK, let’s go and deal with Blunt’, said H.

Sir Peregrine Blunt was
at home - an old pile outside Tonbridge Wells - considering his situation. He
had been instructed by Skyhill, in the aftermath of Joey Jupiter’s expose of
the shenanigans in Thailand, to work with his friends at the War Office and the
Press Association and get a D-notice issued. There was to be no uptake of
Jupiter’s findings in the news media, and his blog had mysteriously
disappeared. Anyone who wanted to run with the story would risk being buried
under a ton of hot bricks in the name of national security. Another cover up
was now in full swing; the method was tried and trusted.