Criminally Insane (37 page)

“There it is,” Sami pointed to a row of shops. “The North Pole?” he sneered. “I don’t get it. Why call a shop that?” A joke shop stood between a charity shop and a newsagent. A taxi office and a kebab shop flanked them. The shop fronts were decayed and scruffy looking, a mishmash of coloured signs and peeling paint caged behind metal security grills. “The garages are behind the shops.” He pointed to his telephone screen and an aerial photograph of the area zoomed in on the alleyway at the rear of the joke shop. “Google earth says so,” he laughed. “You want the one with the brown door.”

“What if there’s anyone around?” A young Turk leaned between the front seats of the black Audi to get a better look at the screen. “Can you see anyone on there?” He said, looking at the picture.

“Are you fucking stupid, Murat?” Sami laughed. “Take that bag and go get the boss’s drugs.” Murat looked offended as he grabbed a dark blue rucksack off the back seat. “Go with him,” Sami instructed a third man. “Make sure he doesn’t get scared on his own.”

“Fuck you, Sami,” Murat laughed as he climbed out of the car. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and get us a kebab. This won’t take long.”

“Why not, I’m starving,” Sami grunted and shuffled his huge frame out of the vehicle. “Don’t fuck it up, any problems, call me.”

“Blah blah,” Murat moaned as he crossed the road. It was late, and there were a few cars on the road. “Have you got the bar, Raba?” He asked his colleague. Raba opened his long coat to reveal a steel wrecking bar. The men walked by the taxi office, which was manned by a single radio operator. She glanced up as the Turks walked by but didn’t pay any notice to them. The smell of stale urine hit them as they turned into the alleyway. The yellow glow from the streetlights on the main road couldn’t penetrate the darkness at the back of the shops, and it took a while for their eyes to adjust. “I didn’t hear him calling me stupid when we torched that pig’s house, did you?”

“No, we did a good job there,” Raba chuckled. “No one was getting out of there, went up like a firework, boom!”

“I can’t see fuck all,” Raba muttered.

“Look for the one with the brown door.” Murat took a narrow torch from the bag and shined it along the garages. One of the garage doors was missing. Another was hanging off at an odd angle, a single bolt suspending it. There were wheelie bins dotted about and rubbish overflowing from the lids. The smell of garlic drifted from the extractor fans at the back of the kebab shop. “Smells good, eh?” Murat sniffed the air.

“All I can smell is piss,” Raba moaned. “There’s a brown one.” He pointed along the alleyway, two shops down. Graffiti covered the panels. The artist had wanted to tell the world that Carol G sucked cocks so much that he had sprayed it four times. The Turks approached the lockup and checked the alleyway for people. Apart from the bins and the rats, it was empty. Murat pulled the handle and the metal door rattled loudly. It sounded louder in the quiet of the alley. “It’s locked,” Murat said.

“What, they locked it?” Raba shook his head, “Sami is right about you, you are fucking stupid.”

“Get the bar under there and less of your shit,” Murat snapped angrily. He hated it when Sami called him stupid, but to be fair to Sami, he knew he was less intelligent than those around him. What he lacked in sense, he made up for in brawn. Murat was a big man packed with muscle. Related to the Oguzhan family, he was fiercely loyal. Raba forced the bar under the door and pushed down as hard as he could. The metal shook noisily but didn’t budge.

“Let me try.” Murat nudged him out of the way. He slid the bar further under and pulled the opposite way to Raba. The metal vibrated, the hinges creaking. There was a screeching noise and the lock snapped. He pushed the door up and over the opening. Plastic drums cluttered the garage. There was a grey filing cabinet against the left hand wall. Murat pointed the torch at the cabinet. He stepped inside the garage and picked his way between the drums. “Check that side,” he ordered Raba. Raba walked toward the darkness at the back of the lockup.

“There’s a clock or something here,” he mumbled as he noticed a red glow from the corner. Murat looked over at it. They looked at each other with concerned expressions as the first drum of chlordane exploded. By the time the fourth drum ignited, Murat and Raba were cinders.

Nate Bradley swallowed a mouthful of whisky and felt the alcohol burning his throat on the way down. He watched the man walk by the window for a second more, then he walked to the back door. He unlocked the mortise and twisted the handle. When he opened the door, he caught sight of the figure of a man stepping through the back gate. It creaked closed and the figure was gone. Nate looked around the garden, but there was no one there. He looked down and saw a brown envelope wedged into the doorframe. Taking one last look around, he picked up the envelope and closed the door, locking it immediately. Nate switched the kitchen light off and picked up the whisky glass and the bottle. He walked into the living room and put the glass and the bottle down on the coffee table.

Nate peered out of the curtains again. The two detectives were still sitting in their vehicle. They could not have made it back to the car so quickly if they had left the envelope. Nate was convinced that he had recognised the man, but it seemed so bizarre that he doubted his memory. He had only caught a glimpse, so he could be mistaken. It didn’t add up. He put the curtain back and opened a door on the sideboard. Removing a pair of rubber gloves, he slipped them over his fingers and opened the envelope. Inside was the police file and photograph of Zamir Oguzhan. Nate took the file and sat down on the settee to study it. It made for interesting reading. The police suspected the Turk and his organisation were responsible for importing the bulk of the heroin and cocaine that came into the country. Nate twisted the top off the whisky bottle and filled up his glass. He took a mouthful and swallowed hard before filling it up again. Nate read on and learned that Zamir ran his business from London but had interests across the country. He knew that Salim was dealing from Connections nightclub, and he knew that Leon Tanner had been associated with him, but he hadn’t known who was at the top of the tree until now. There were newspaper clippings in the envelope. He tipped them onto the table. The police accused Jack Howarth of murdering Salim and his family, which troubled Nate, but it seemed that one of the children had survived and was recovering at the Alderhey Childrens’ Hospital. Zamir Oguzhan was responsible for importing the drugs which had poisoned his wife, and he was still in the city, waiting for the doctors to transfer his great-grandchild to a hospital in London.

Nate emptied the whisky glass and refilled it. He gulped it down. Someone wanted Nate to kill Zamir Oguzhan. Why else would they give him the information? Whoever had left the envelope believed he had killed the other dealers, despite the lack of evidence. Either they wanted Oguzhan dead or they were setting Nate up, or the third possibility was they wanted both. The man at the window was using Nate as an assassin, and Nate was almost certain that the deliveryman had been the officer who had arrested him the week before. He was a ginger man called Detective Smith. He swigged the remainder of the whisky and felt the alcohol numbing his senses. His thoughts were swirling around in his mind as he took another bottle from the sideboard. He decided to have a few more drinks before making his mind up. It was late, and nothing would happen tonight.

“It’s freezing cold,” Zamir shivered. “I’m too old to live in this climate, maybe it’s time to go home.” The wind from the Irish Sea penetrated his Crombie and tickled his skin with its icy fingers. A ferryboat sounded its foghorn as it docked a mile away on the Pierhead. It was just before dawn, but the darkness hadn’t faded yet and the only light came from ornate wrought iron lampposts which lined the river from the Pierhead to Otterspool promenade. “It doesn’t matter how long I live here, I still miss the sun.”

“You can afford to go home now, can’t you?” Gus Rickman shuffled his Rockport boots from side to side to keep the blood flowing to his feet. He rubbed his black leather gloves together as he spoke. “We can look after things here for you, no problem,” he laughed.

“Can you, though?” Zamir frowned and shook his head. “This is one mess after another.” He leaned against the thick metal railings which ran for miles along the promenade. There was a twenty-foot drop to the muddy flats below them. Rusty mooring rings protruded from the sea walls at regular intervals. “I have had nothing but trouble since we set foot in this godforsaken city.”

“What did you expect?” Gus snorted. “If you had come to me in the beginning, none of this could have happened. I wouldn’t have allowed it to.” He took out a slim cigar and his minder lit it without saying a word. Gus puffed the blue smoke out and the wind took it away. “Leon Tanner was a cokehead, and with all due respect, Salim was a lightweight. I control this city, always have and always will.”

Gus pulled the lapels of his thick black leather jacket together and stared the old man in the eyes. Zamir smiled thinly and held out a gloved hand. “If you can guarantee the safety of my shipments, then we have a deal in principle.”

Gus ignored the outstretched hand and spat over the railings into the murky water. The fast flowing river whisked the phlegm away in seconds. Sami looked annoyed at the action, and the big Turk stepped forward, but Zamir held up his hand to placate him. Gus laughed. In comparison, Gus’s build dwarfed Sami, and his minder was bigger still. “If you fancy an early swim, kiddo, let me know,” Gus smirked and pointed to the dark water below them. He laughed dryly, “You wouldn’t be the first one we’ve dumped in there, so have a word with yourself before you get hurt.”

He stopped laughing as he spoke and his face turned into a snarl. “If you want to sell your gear in this city, fine, but let me explain how it works.” Gus maintained eye contact with Sami although he was speaking to his boss. “Your shipments come through me, if I hear it’s coming in elsewhere, the deal is off.” He pointed to Zamir’s chest with his index finger. “I’ll pay you the wholesale price of the drugs plus ten percent; if I think you are taking the piss, the deal is off. My network distributes the gear to my dealers and dealers sanctioned by me; if I hear you are selling outside of my network, the deal is off.” Gus looked from one Turk to the other. “If you move any further north, the same deal applies, or the deal is off; take it or leave it.”

“Tell him to get fucked, Boss,” Sami growled. “We don’t do business like that!”

“It’s the best offer you’re going to get,” Gus smiled at the minder. “You’ve lost five kilos plus so far this week, I promise you that you will lose a lot more if you try to move into my city. Nothing moves here unless I know about it.” He turned his attention to the old man. “Ten percent and you don’t have to worry about a thing. You ship the stuff into the docks. I’ll pay you for it, job done. It’s a good business proposition.”

“Maybe it is.” Zamir looked away across the river. A tanker drifted in the distance, headed out to who knew where. The wind blew stronger and he shivered. A black cab appeared from the direction of the Albert docks, its diesel engine rumbling as it ambled past. The driver glanced at the four men and looked away when they returned his glance. Whatever the men were doing at this time in the morning, it wasn’t something he wanted to witness. He accelerated toward the city to pick up nightclub stragglers who needed a ride home. Across the road was a coach park which serviced tourists visiting the Beatles museum at the docks. The coaches were long gone and none would return until much later in the day. It was deathly quiet as they watched the taxi trundle away. Zamir looked thoughtful. “Fifteen percent on top of the wholesale price, and five percent of the final retail figure. If just one of my shipments goes astray, the deal is off as you say.” Zamir held out his hand again. “If I think you are taking the piss, the deal is off.” Zamir tilted his head questioningly. “Take it or leave it!” he smiled.

“You have a deal.” Gus gripped his frail hand and shook it firmly. “I think we can work well together.”

A nine-millimetre bullet punched through the back of Gus’s leather jacket, and he looked down at the gaping hole the flattened slug had made as it exited his chest. Blood spurted across Zamir’s face, and broken rib bones protruded. Gus’s eyes widened in shock, and his hands reached up for Zamir’s throat. He thought the old Turk had set him up, until a split second later the old man’s left eye exploded in a shower of vitreous jelly. The back of his skull burst, and the contents of his head sprayed over the railing and into the dirty water. As his knees buckled, Gus saw Sami blown backwards by a maelstrom of hot metal. He hit the railings and tumbled head first over them, falling face down in the water with a huge splash. Four more bullets slammed into Gus, smashing bones and ripping his internal organs to shreds. His spine shattered and his body seemed to fold backwards on itself. Two bullets to the face dropped Gus’s minder, the first shattering his cheekbone and ripping the top of his skull off, and the second tearing his lower jaw apart, leaving his tongue dangling from what was left of his face. In a matter of a few seconds, a full clip from a Mach-10 had ended four lives.

Alec awoke from a shallow sleep. He looked at his watch through bleary eyes and cursed the ringing phone. “What, what, what,” he muttered. “Ramsay,” his voice sounded rough and thick with sleep.

“Sorry to call you so early, guv,” Smithy apologised. “There’s been a shooting on the river.”

“What time is it?” Alec fumbled for his wristwatch.

“It’s six.” The detective sounded nervous. “I thought you’d want to know straightaway.”

“Don’t worry, if it’s important.” Alec sat up and switched on the light. The other side of the bed was unruffled. He still slept on his side of the bed, as if Gail was snoozing next to him. His mouth was like sandpaper. He rubbed his eyes as he spoke. “What’s happened?”

“There’s been a shooting on the prom, guv,” Smithy explained. “Get this, Zamir Oguzhan, his minder Sami Ahmed, Gus Rickman and a meathead called Darren Howes were blown away about forty minutes ago.”

“Where?” Alec swung his legs out of bed and scratched his testicles with his free hand. He caught his reflection in the mirror. It reminded him of a chimpanzee at the zoo. It was no wonder Gail had fallen into the arms of a younger man. He suddenly felt very old and lonely. Fifty-two wasn’t ancient these days, but he felt older, much older. His reflection backed up his feelings.

“On the promenade near the coach park, uniform found their cars a few hundred yards away parked up near the kerbs.”

“Can we tell what happened, have they shot each other?” Alec thought aloud.

“Doesn’t look that way, guv.” Smithy sounded certain. “It looks like they’ve been sprayed with at least one machinegun from across the road. They found the bodies in a group next to the railings. Ahmed was in the mud over the wall. Rickman was armed, but his gun was still holstered, guv.”

“Sounds like someone caught them with their pants down?”

“Definitely.” Smithy sounded nervous again.

“Well, my money is on Nate Bradley, have you spoken to his observation team?” Alec stood up and climbed into a pair of worn black underpants. His legs looked pale in the mirror. His potbelly protruded over the elastic. He sucked it in and turned sideways. Alec felt the anticipation of closing a case inside his stomach. He wanted Smithy to tell him that they had caught Bradley red-handed with the smoking gun in his hand.

“As soon as we identified the victims, we sent them in to Bradley’s house, guv.” Smithy paused. “Bradley was unconscious in the armchair with two empty bottles of whisky next to him. They’re adamant he hasn’t moved all night, guv.”

“Are they positive?” Alec was amazed and disappointed at the same time. “Could he be faking it?”

“They’re sure, but they thought the same and breathalysed him just in case. He’s five times over the limit, guv,” Smithy stuttered a little nervously. “They found a copy of Oguzhan’s police file on the coffee table, too.”

“What?” Alec frowned. “How the bloody hell has he got a copy of that?” Alec opened the wardrobe and fumbled for a clean shirt. His dirty ones were building up into a pile on the floor waiting for the tidy fairy to arrive. They would be waiting a long time. She was dead. “I don’t think we can charge him with that. That man is either incredibly good or incredibly lucky.”

“Maybe a bit of both, guv,” Smithy said ironically. “At least that bastard Oguzhan is dead. That’s payback time.”

“Yes, I suppose it is, Smithy,” Alec said quietly. He looked at a photograph of Gail he kept next to his bed. She was smiling and happy. “I guess what goes around comes around, eh?” Alec thought that he should feel a sense of satisfaction, but he didn’t. Gail was gone and he missed her terribly.