THE LONDON DRUG WARS (31 page)

“Yea, it was a bit hairy for a while
but John Barnes’ team are the business and they had a score to settle.”

It took several hours to deal with
events at the scene. Eventually Brookes got back to his office. He had told
John Barnes to look after his men; they would debrief in full the following
morning. Brookes’ team of detectives filtered back to the office where Eric
Brown did the initial debriefing. All those officers that had been at the
shooting would face long interviews with the force’s Internal Investigation
Branch, but that would take place the next day.

As the detectives told their stories
it became clear that the arrival of the tactical firearms unit could not have
been better timed had it been planned. As they entered the street, Bronchi, Dimitri
and their driver had already got into one car and the four heavies were just
getting into the second.

The relatively low level of injuries
to the police was due mainly to the fact that the Russians had to scramble out
of their vehicles before they could draw their weapons. They had ignored the
police command to raise their hands and had been mowed down one by one as they
attempted to use their guns; only a few had actually managed to get any shots
off. Only Bronchi and his driver were unscathed; they had remained in their
vehicle and had taken no part in the gun battle, ducking down during the
firing.

Middlemiss and his French companion,
Pierre Bruton, who had manned the tracking devices, were the only members of
the team not busy writing their statements; they had taken no part in the
arrests, and their evidence picked up on the listening device would be
inadmissible. When they saw Brookes had a moment to himself, they walked into
his office.

Middlemiss smiled. “We hit the
jackpot boss. Three bodies in the morgue and the other four in the bin and
twenty-five k’s of heroin, not a bad night’s work. Thanks to Pierre here and
his gadgets. What shall I do with the tapes, guv?”

“What tapes, Fred?”

“We got the whole confab in the kebab
house clear as a bell. We’ve even got Ivan talking to his banker in Zurich.”

“Really? What language is it in?”

“English boss.”

His brain was in top gear as he said,
“Good, this might be worth listening to.”

The three went to an interview room
where Middlemiss put the tape into one of the machines used to record
prisoners’ interviews. As the tape played Brookes smile widened. A plan was
forming in his mind. He said, “Fred, first thing in the morning, get Rocky over
here, I need his help.”

Brookes worked through the night,
reading his detectives’ statements and sending the officers home to sleep once
he was satisfied each had carefully recorded every detail of his involvement.
At 8am, only he and Bill Moore, who seemed impervious to lack of sleep, were
left in the office. Brookes felt like a zombie; it had only been the adrenaline
rush that had kept him going. The two men went for breakfast in the canteen.

That’s where Detective Sergeant
‘Rocky’ Rockowski found them. No-one ever used his first name, he was simply
Rocky. Brookes greeted him and told him to get a cup of tea and join them.

Between mouthfuls of bacon and egg,
Brookes said, “Rocky, there is something I want to ask you to do for me but
it’s not strictly kosher. It is not criminal but it is not strictly according
to the rules. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll understand and that will be the
end of it.”

Rocky grinned. “Sounds fascinating
boss.” His English was perfect, with barely a trace of his Polish origins in
it.

Brookes filled in the recent developments in the case
and finished by telling him what he had in mind.

Rocky’s grin had widened as he
listened. “No problem boss, let me hear the tape.” Finishing his breakfast,
Brookes took him to an interview room and played the tape. Rocky nodded. “Leave
it with me for a while; let me practice a bit.”

Half an hour later, he came to
Brookes’ office. “How does this sound boss?” He then read from a script he’d
prepared.

“Excellent.
All we need now is to make sure we know all the possible variations in the
personal details the banker might ask and I’ve an idea where we might get
those. We won’t need this for a while so you’ve plenty of time to practice.
You’ll have to be word perfect when the time comes.

“
Wynken, Blenken, and nod.

Sailed off in a wooden shoe

Sailed in a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew.
”

–
Eugene
Field

Brookes took a week’s leave. The case
papers had been prepared, checked and double-checked. The case against Bronchi
was solid, the papers had been scrutinised by the Crown Prosecutor and Brookes
was confident that they would get a conviction.

DAC Groves had
offered him the post of head of one of the Yard’s elite murder squads. Brookes
had planned to spend a few days spoiling Liza, and then casually mention the
offer to her. For the career detective, there was no greater accolade than to
head up one of those squads. The Bert Wicksteads and Nipper Reeds of the past
had earned their places in police history in such roles. But the move came at a
price; it meant that when he was on an investigation he would have little time
for his social life. It had also been hinted that he might be promoted but
further promotion would take him away from direct investigations; he would
become an administrator. That was not for him; he was a detective and wanted to
remain one.

He’d booked a room in a hotel in the
New Forest. He knew that Liza enjoyed walking and they spent the next few days
exploring the forest paths. The weather was kind to them, the hotel food was
good and, with the pressure now off, Brookes was good company. On the last
night at the hotel he ordered a champagne supper in their room. The
conversation between them flowed naturally and by eleven both were totally
relaxed and ready for bed.

Before he could suggest they retire
however Liza said, “Well, what is it you want to tell me?”

He looked at her innocently. “What
makes you think I have something to tell you?”

“Because I can read you like a book.”

“What page are you on?”

“The one before you gather all the
suspects together and reveal the murderer’s identity.”

“This isn’t about murder.” Then he
frowned and added, “Well only in a roundabout way.”

“OK forget the roundabout and tell
me.”

“Well its two things really.”

“Yes?”

“Well one thing, but that might lead
to another thing.”

“Are you ever going to get to the
point?”

“What point?”

“This thing you want to tell me.”

“Oh that.”

“Yes, that.”

There was a pause. Then he said,
“I’ve been offered a job at the Yard.”

“Which yard?”

“Scotland Yard, where do you think?”

“I don’t know. It could have been the
scrap yard for all I know.”

“Well it isn’t.”

“Isn’t what?”

“Isn’t the scrap yard.”

“What job is this?”

“You mean the one at the Yard?”

“I’ll throw the champagne bottle at
you if you don’t get to the bloody point.”

“What point? Oh, we’ve been there
haven’t we?”

“Yes we have.”

“Good then I can move on.”

“At bloody last.”

“The DAC wants me to head up one of
his special squads.”

“And you’ve put me through all this
just to tell me that?”

“Well what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About the job at the Yard. Should I
take it? ”

“Yes I think you should take it. And
yes I am aware of the implications. But I’m also aware of the implications if
you
don’t
take; you’d be impossible to live with.”

“OK then I will. Thank you.”

“Is that it then, can we go to bed
now?”

“Well there is the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“I told you one thing might lead to
another.”

“Yes?”

“Well, that other thing?”

“OK tell me about it.”

“Can we move in together?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Can we go to bed now?”

“Yes, all right then.”

The next morning Brookes phoned
Groves and accepted his offer.

*

Three months later, Bronchi and the
three gang members who had survived the gun battle in Little Turkey appeared at
the Inner London Crown Court. They were all charged with attempted murder and
drug trafficking. After a long, hard-fought trial the jury found them all
guilty and the judge remanded them in custody whilst he considered the
appropriate sentences.

In the meantime, Emil Smulevitch,
Bronchi’s accountant, had been arrested. He’d been given an alternative; either
be charged with facilitating the laundering of drug profits, or provide police
with information and face lesser charges. The old man had seen the writing on
the wall and co-operated. Something that clearly affected his decision was that
if he co-operated with police Bronchi would lose his fortune, and with it his
power base. This meant any threat of retribution would been removed.

In fact the old accountant welcomed
the opportunity of damaging Bronchi in any way he could. He’d remained loyal to
the drug dealer purely through fear. Remove the fear and he wanted his revenge
for the years of cowering under the man’s threats. What he told Brookes
answered all his questions and more besides. It seemed that Bronchi had left
virtually all money matters to Smulevitch.

On the morning of the sentencing
hearing, Rocky made a phone call to Zurich; his mimicking of Bronchi’s voice
was convincing and he answered all the banker’s questions correctly. Detective
Sergeant ‘Rocky’ Rockowski was living proof of the old adage, ‘appearances can
be deceptive’. He was six feet five inches tall and built like a Scottish cable
tosser. His already rugged features had been made even more so on the rugby
field. Anyone looking at him would naturally assume that in his case brawn had
ascendancy over brain.

But they would be wrong; he had a
fertile imagination and an active mind. When Brookes had given him the task of
convincing the Swiss banker that he was Bronchi, Rocky had applied his mind to
how he might convince the gnome of not just his identity, but of the reason he
was proposing what he was proposing. One thing was working in his favour. He
was not proposing that the money was to go out of his possession; simply that
it should be moved to another of his accounts in another bank. But sending it
to another bank would put it beyond the reach of the gnome and greed would make
him reluctant to do so. Rocky needed a good reason to convince the banker and
he invented one. He told the man that he was investing in the building of a new
skyscraper in London and he needed to show the money in his London account as
proof of his liquidity. Once the deal was done he would transfer it back to
Switzerland. When Smulevitch also spoke on the phone to him, confirming this, the
banker was convinced and complied with his wishes.

At the hearing, the judge sentenced
each of the defendants to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.
Prosecuting counsel asked that money and property in the UK owned by Bronchi be
confiscated, as all were the proceeds of drug trafficking. The judge asked for
details of the amounts involved. As he spoke, DI Richard Mann arrived in the
court and handed the prosecution counsel a form. He quickly scanned it,
eyebrows raised.

He turned to the judge. “My Lord, I
have just been handed a statement of Mr. Bronchi’s holdings in his London bank
account.” He paused for effect. “It shows a balance of £21,374,219 and 20
pence. This is in addition to an estimated £12,000,000 in property, investments
and a string of racehorses that he owns. To my knowledge there are no dependent
relatives to consider, M’lud.” He passed the statement and other documents to
the court usher who passed them on the judge.

Having read the documents he looked
at the defence counsel over his glasses. “And what legitimate businesses does
your client have?”

“In this country, none M’lud but he
has investments abroad.”

“And have you proof of these
investments?”

The barrister hesitated before
answering, “No, M’lud.”

“Then it seems your client’s perfidy
is matched only by his arrogance.”

After a further moment’s
deliberation, the judge looked at Bronchi. “It seems you have been rather busy
Mr. Bronchi, making a large fortune from the misery of others. I see no reason
why you should profit from your evil enterprises. The whole sum of cash and
your possessions will be forfeit to the Crown. I am sure that the appropriate
authority will put the money to good use in funding drug rehabilitation units
and in educating our children on the effects of using such substances.”

Bronchi was no longer listening; he
was talking loudly to his defence counsel who was shaking his head.

The judge said, “Take him down.” Two
burly policemen stepped forward to lead the Russian away.

Sitting in the court watching proceedings
were John Brookes, Bill Moore, and DAC Groves. As the judgement was made, the
DAC looked at Brookes with a twinkle in his eye; he nodded and said nothing. As
Bronchi was led away, he glared at Brookes, his eyes bright yellow with hate.
The detective smiled and winked.

That evening, the team was
celebrating, this time with their partners. As always, Fred Middlemiss was the
centre of attraction with his stories. “‘Ave you ‘eard this one?” he asked
those around him. “What lies shivering at the bottom of the ocean?”

He paused then provided the answer.
“A nervous wreck.” They all laughed despite the age of the joke; they would
have laughed at anything.

Sitting beside Brookes, Liza said,
“So John, I see what I’ve let myself in for. I expect I will get used to it.”

“Not all of his jokes are that bad,
love.”

She smiled and moved her hand under
the table up his inner thigh. “I wasn’t talking about his jokes, darling.”

*

 Six weeks later in a high security
prison outside Brentwood in Essex, Bronchi lay on his prison bunk, his mind
full of hate. He was thinking about what he would do to John Brookes and his
family when he got the chance. But at that moment he was powerless to do
anything. The prison authorities had wisely separated the Russian gang, sending
each of them to a different high security prison, Bronchi was alone and had
no-one to protect him. Nor did he have any power; the court had confiscated his
fortune and without money he could persuade no-one either in the prison or on
the outside to do his bidding. He thumped the hard pillow in frustration.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts
that he failed to notice four huge black men wearing prison uniforms who had
paused outside his cell. The prison security was aimed at stopping the
prisoners from escaping; inside the blocks they were permitted to mingle for
most of the day. The men outside the cell looked carefully around them. Then,
satisfied that there were no guards nearby, three of them entered Bronchi’s
cell, the other remained on guard. One put a potato sack over the Russian’s
head and held it there. The second sat on his chest and grabbed his right arm
by the biceps and the wrist. The third inserted a needle in his arm and
injected the contents of a syringe into a vein.

Within a minute Bronchi’s struggles
ceased, one of the men removed the sack from his head and looked into the
Russian’s eyes, they were glazed, the pupils enlarged. The man with the sack
stood looking down at him. He spoke, in the distinctive accent of the back
streets of Kingston, Jamaica, “We will teach you not too mess with Jamaicans.”
The men then unfastened Bronchi’s belt and turned him over.

 Hours later when the effects of the
heroin were beginning to wear off, Bronchi woke slowly. He was lying on his
face with his prison trousers around his ankles. As his mind slowly surfaced,
he began to feel a searing pain in his anus.

 Over the next few weeks the
‘treatment’ was repeated several times. At the end of that period Bronchi was a
gibbering wreck. Whilst not to be in any way condoned by the powers that be,
prison justice is often more poetic than that handed out by the courts.