Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by AVON 2018

Copyright © Jaime Raven 2018

Cover layout design © debbieclementdesign.com 2018

Cover photographs © Getty

Jaime Raven asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008253493

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008253509

Version: 2018-02-13

Dedication

To the new arrivals, in order of age – Evelyn, Lucas, Adam and Ella. May they all have a happy life.

Swansong: a metaphorical phrase for a final gesture, effort, or performance before death or retirement.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part Two

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Part Three

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

Also by Jaime Raven

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

It was a dry night so Terry Malone decided to walk home. He hoped it would give him time to sober up and get over the shock of what he’d been told.

The revelation had knocked him for six and even now, two hours later, he still couldn’t get his mind around it.

It didn’t help that he’d had too much champagne. He wasn’t used to it. He preferred beer and whisky, but his boss had insisted on cracking open two bottles of Moët.

‘Get it down you, lad,’ Roy Slack had urged him back at the club. ‘This is a big fucking deal and we have to celebrate.’

The West End was still buzzing even though it was almost midnight, but Terry was oblivious to the crowds and the incessant hum of the traffic.

Forty-five minutes. That was about how long it would take him to trek to his home across the river in Lambeth. Amy would be in bed, of course, but she wouldn’t be asleep. Whenever he was this late she stayed awake and worried.

He supposed it was only to be expected. The wives and girlfriends of most of the other gang members were the same. Being a villain wasn’t like being an accountant or a teacher or a bus driver. It was a tough, stressful business that entailed risk and uncertainty. And it put an awful lot of strain on families and friends.

Amy had become far more anxious since discovering she was pregnant four months ago. She kept asking him what would happen to her and the baby if he got shot, stabbed or banged up for years.

That was why Terry had been giving serious consideration to packing it in and going straight. It was also why he was dreading her reaction to tonight’s bombshell revelation. The impact on their lives was going to be considerable and she was bound to freak out.

In all honesty he wouldn’t blame her. He was struggling to come to terms with it himself and it was making his head spin.

When he reached Lambeth Bridge he broke his stride and sparked up a fag. From his pocket he took the letter that Slack had given to him. He read it through for the umpteenth time and once again he felt a flash of heat in his chest. The words were already embedded in his mind. They were shocking, life-changing, terrifying. And they sent a cold chill down his spine.

He put the letter back in his pocket and stood looking down on the inky black Thames, his heart thudding in his chest.

After a couple of minutes he decided that he wouldn’t break the news to Amy for at least a couple of days. That’d give him time to take it all in and assess the implications. There was so much to think about, not least the kind of future he wanted for his unborn child.

He drew smoke deep into his lungs and reflected on what a momentous year it had already been.

Seven months ago he’d been pushing drugs for an Eastern European outfit in North London before its leaders became victims of the Met’s latest crackdown on organised crime. Their arrests had caused chaos inside the organisation and allowed rival gangs to move in on the territory and the various businesses.

Just weeks later his mother had died, aged fifty-three, after a stroke. She’d managed to cling on in hospital for several days before taking her last breath.

Terry had been devastated and the future had looked truly bleak. But as one door closed another one had opened. He’d been approached by Roy Slack’s people and invited to join the biggest and most ruthless firm in the capital.

He’d then met Amy in one of Slack’s West End clubs. After only five dates he realised that he loved her and on the seventh date she’d announced that she was pregnant.

She’d thought he’d be angry and disappointed, but he couldn’t have been happier. At twenty-six he was ready to be a father and was determined to make a good job of it.

He’d been telling himself that he would always be there for his son or daughter, and he’d try to give them a better start in life than the one he’d had.

But was that going to be possible given what he now knew?

It was one of the many questions that were piling up inside his head as he stood on the bridge and fought against the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him.

He felt a little better by the time he got home. The walk had flushed most of the alcohol through his system and his head had stopped spinning.

It was just after 1am when he let himself in through the front door of their terraced house, within walking distance of the Imperial War Museum.

He’d been renting it for two years and the location was perfect. But now they’d have to move. After what he’d learned tonight there was no way that he and Amy could stay here. It just wouldn’t be safe.

‘Is that you, babe?’ Amy called out.

‘It is,’ he replied, closing the door behind him. ‘I’ll be straight up.’

He took off his coat and went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He spotted two new glossy wedding magazines on the table where Amy had left them. The date had been set for January fourth, three months from now, but the details still had to be worked out.

He wanted a cheap and cheerful affair in a register office and a few drinks in the pub afterwards. But Amy had her heart set on something more elaborate, and so they were looking at a hotel do with a combined ceremony and reception for up to eighty people.

As Terry fingered the edge of one of the magazines more questions popped into his head.

Would their wedding plans have to be put on hold? Would Amy still want to marry him after he told her what Roy Slack had said? Was it fair not to break the news to her straight away?

‘What’s keeping you, babe?’

Her voice wrenched him out of himself and he hurriedly filled a glass with tap water. Then he took a long, deep breath, switched off the kitchen light and climbed the stairs.

Amy was sitting up against her pillows, her swollen breasts resting on the duvet, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

She was the same age as him but looked at least five years younger. Her pale skin was flawless and her eyes were an electrifying blue.

He forced a smile and crossed the room to plant a kiss on her lips. As always he felt a rush of affection for her. She was the first woman he had ever loved and he couldn’t imagine ever being without her.

Since meeting her he had changed for the better. He’d mellowed and matured. He no longer kept trying to live up to his fearsome reputation as a short-tempered thug. Those days were behind him and he was glad of it.

He still sorted people out when ordered to do so but he no longer threw his weight around or started unnecessary fights just for the fun of it.

‘You look done in, Terry,’ Amy said. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Sure it is,’ he told her. ‘I’m late because I had a meeting with the boss.’

‘What about?’

‘Oh, just business stuff. But he got me drinking champagne and it’s gone straight to my head.’

She laughed. ‘I have no sympathy. You know that bubbly doesn’t agree with you.’

‘Yeah, well, best to keep the boss sweet.’

He went into the en suite, cleaned his teeth and emptied his bladder. He was anxious not to get drawn into a conversation because he might just blurt out something he’d regret.

‘I need to get some shut eye,’ he said as he climbed into bed. ‘I’ve got another early start in the morning.’

He gave her a cuddle and at the same time reached over to switch off the lamp.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Amy asked him. ‘You don’t seem your usual self.’

‘I’m fine. Honest. Just dead tired.’

‘Only I was hoping that maybe we could get it on. I’ve been so bloody horny all evening.’

Pregnancy had boosted Amy’s libido to the point where it seemed she couldn’t get enough of it, and normally he was only too eager to satisfy her craving. But right now a shag was out of the question. With what was going on inside his head he was sure he wouldn’t even be able to get it up.

‘It’ll have to wait until morning, babe,’ he said. ‘I’m so knackered I know I’ll disappoint you.’

‘Why don’t you let me work my magic then,’ she said as she reached under the duvet.

But she failed to get a rise out of him and he was relieved when she gave up after thirty seconds and rolled over.

It wasn’t long before she started snoring so he didn’t have to pretend to be asleep. He was able to lie there on his back with his eyes wide open, his mind wrestling with a growing anxiety.

He was still awake an hour later when a chilling sound reached him from downstairs – the sound of the front door being smashed in.

He knew instinctively what was happening before the shouting started. It was a police raid and they were sure to be mob-handed.

He heard their boots pounding up the stairs and he felt the floor shudder.

Then the landing light went on and there was another crash as the door to one of the other rooms was rammed open.

‘Armed police,’ a voice called out. ‘Stay where you are.’

But Terry was already on the move, throwing off the duvet and leaping off the bed.

As he fumbled for the lamp switch the bedroom door was flung open and Amy screamed.

Terry, naked and disoriented, spun round so fast that he lost his balance and lurched towards a police officer in full body armour who was standing in the doorway. The officer reacted by discharging two bullets in quick succession from his Glock 17 pistol.

Both shells slammed into Terry’s chest and he was thrown onto the floor.

The last thing he heard was Amy screaming, but he died not knowing that she was in the throes of a painful miscarriage induced by shock.

The police officer, a man with three years’ experience in the firearms unit, would later tell an investigation that he thought the suspect was attacking him.

The inquiry would also hear that the raid was one of a number that took place that night on the homes of individuals known to be involved in organised crime.

In Terry’s house the team found a quantity of Class A drugs, a sawn-off shotgun and a total of ten thousand pounds in cash.

They also found a collection of documents and magazines pertaining to a wedding that would now never take place.

PART ONE

1
Laura

Two months later

The man in the dock had already been convicted and this afternoon he was going to be sentenced.

That was why I’d come along on what was supposed to be a rare day off. I wanted to see the bastard’s face when the judge told him how many years he’d have to spend behind bars.

My colleagues and I were hoping for a long, long stretch. If he got less than twenty we’d be disappointed. With any luck he’d die in prison, and since he was in his mid-fifties there was every chance he would.

The man’s name was Harry Fuller, and at his trial, which had ended a month ago, he’d been found guilty of a range of offences from extortion and money laundering to drug trafficking and people smuggling. These were committed during the five years he’d spent as head of one of London’s most notorious crime gangs.

He had also been linked to at least six murders, but we hadn’t come up with the evidence to charge him with those.

It was still a great result, though. We’d managed to succeed where others before us had failed. Harry Fuller had at last been well and truly nailed.

I was watching the proceedings from the packed public gallery and switching my gaze between the judge and Fuller. The judge had indicated that he was going to make a statement before passing sentence, and he was now consulting his notes before getting on with it.

As usual I was in awe of my surroundings: London’s Central Criminal Court, more commonly known as the Old Bailey. I’d been here many times and it never failed to impress me. So many lives had been changed in this place and so many wrongs had been put right. For a copper like me it was nothing less than a shrine to the law and to the legal system.

I noticed that Fuller had spotted me and even across the courtroom I could see the devilish glint in his eyes.

I held his gaze, forcing myself not to waver. But it was hard not to be unnerved by the expression on his face. It reminded me of the old cliché that if looks could kill I’d be dead.

In appearance Fuller was the archetypal gangster, big and beefy with a bullet-shaped head and broken nose. But there was more to him than muscle and menace. He was also a shrewd businessman, and it was estimated that his firm had been turning over fifty million pounds a year.

Without him at the helm, the firm was already coming apart at the seams, and that was great because it had been one of our primary objectives.

It was DS Martin Weeks and I who had made the collar that day at Fuller’s office in Stratford. I was the one who’d done the talking, and I would never forget Fuller’s reaction when I’d showed him my warrant card and said, ‘DI Laura Jefferson. I’m with Scotland Yard’s organised crime task force and I’m here to tell you that you’re nicked.’

He’d raised his brow at me and the hint of a smile had played at the corners of his mouth.

‘Well, what do you know?’ he’d said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘I wondered if and when you lot would get around to me. But it’s only fair to warn you that I won’t be so easy to take down as those others you’ve collared.’

And he’d been right. But we’d got there in the end through an immense amount of effort and some good luck. Everyone had put in a ton of extra hours to ensure that we had a watertight case against the man.

‘Here comes the moment of truth.’

The voice belonged to the woman who was sitting directly behind me and it snapped me back to the present.

I turned my attention to the judge who had finished checking his notes and was ready to speak. The court bailiff asked everyone to be quiet, which prompted about half a dozen people to loudly clear their throats.

The judge, who was in his early seventies, remained completely unfazed. He simply paused until a deafening silence descended on the courtroom.

Then he read out his statement in a voice that was slow and measured.

‘I want to take this opportunity to commend those police officers who were responsible for bringing this case to trial,’ he said. ‘Organised crime is a shameful scar on this great city – indeed on the whole country. Men like the defendant have always acted with impunity, flaunting the law as they built their vast criminal empires. It’s true to say that the situation has progressed from a serious problem into a large-scale crisis.

‘That was why I was so pleased when Scotland Yard set up a special task force eighteen months ago to deal with it. And, as we learned during this trial, their successes so far have been nothing short of spectacular.

‘Harry Fuller is the latest gangster whose reign has thankfully been brought to an ignominious end. And I’m sure he won’t be the last thanks to the efforts of the task force.’

The judge paused to acknowledge my boss, Detective Chief Superintendent George Drummond, who was sitting in the well of the court with the prosecution team.

‘I would like to put on record my thanks to all of those officers involved,’ he said. ‘And I want them to know that they have the support of every law-abiding person in this country. We appreciate that this work they’re doing places them in considerable danger, and we can only hope and pray that no harm comes to them in the course of their investigations.’

The judge then turned to Harry Fuller and said, ‘I’ve already warned you to expect a custodial sentence, Mr Fuller. It’s clear that your crimes are such that I can show no mercy. For far too long you’ve acted as though you are above the law. But nobody is above the law, no matter how much power they wield or money they have.’

The judge paused again, twice as long this time, and then he told Fuller that he was going to spend at least thirty years in prison.

‘Fucking brilliant,’ I blurted out and everyone heard me, including Fuller, who shot me a look that told me he was as shocked as I was.

I curled a smile for his benefit, and he reacted by closing his eyes and blowing out his cheeks.

It was a far better result than any of us could have hoped for, and I was delighted because another vile gangster had been snared. But for the task force there would be no resting on its laurels.

Fuller was a terrific catch, but he wasn’t in the same league as the villain who was going to be our next target.

After the sentencing came the inevitable media scrum outside the court.

Reporters, photographers and TV crews had turned out in force to get reactions from all the main players, including DCS Drummond.

The gaffer was surrounded the moment he appeared on the pavement. This was something I’d anticipated, which was why I’d hurried out of the building ahead of him.

I was now standing just far enough away to hear him read out a pre-prepared statement, but in a position where I couldn’t be filmed or photographed.

‘On behalf of Scotland Yard and the task force team, I’d like to say how pleased we are that the judge has seen fit to impose on Harry Fuller such a lengthy period of incarceration,’ he said. ‘We believe it to be wholly appropriate given the nature of the crimes the man has committed over a number of years.’

Unlike me, Drummond relished being in the spotlight. He always came across as supremely cool and self-assured. The fact that he looked like a film star dressed up as a copper no doubt helped to boost his confidence.

He was a fit-looking forty-eight year old, with chiselled features and dark, wavy hair. At six foot four he towered over his immediate colleagues and I’d never seen him dressed in anything other than a smart two-piece suit or uniform.

His statement was short and sweet, and when he was finished the first question came from a BBC reporter who asked, ‘The judge drew particular attention to the task force that’s under your command, detective chief superintendent. Can you just remind us exactly what your remit is?’

Drummond pursed his lips and nodded. ‘The organised crime task force was set up to deliver a decisive blow to the hardened criminals who’ve infiltrated every area of society in London. We’ve been assigned a team of twenty dedicated detectives and thirty support staff, and we work in tandem with the National Crime Agency and Scotland Yard’s specialist divisions.’

As Drummond continued he had to squint against the harsh light from a sun that sat low in the sky. It may have been bright, but there was no warmth in it. I could feel the cold December air through my overcoat and jumper.

It made me shiver, and I suddenly realised how much I was looking forward to the team get-together in the Rose and Crown. A few gin and tonics would soon warm me up.

Drummond had organised the do to celebrate the outcome of this latest case and it was due to kick off in a couple of hours, at five o’clock. But I was sure that my colleagues would start arriving earlier since the pub was only a short walk from the office at Scotland Yard.

As if on cue one of those colleagues suddenly appeared on the scene and when she saw me she came right over.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Kate Chappell said. ‘I thought you were on a day off.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ I said. ‘The look on Fuller’s face when he was told he was going down for thirty years was priceless.’

‘I bet it was. I’m only sorry I missed it. I had a job over in Bermondsey that took longer than expected.’

Kate and I got on well, even though we didn’t have much in common. She was nine years older than me at forty-two and at least two stones heavier. Her hair was short and lifeless and about as hard to control as her weight.

She often joked that I was too pretty to be a copper and that it wasn’t fair that I could eat like a horse and still be a size ten.

But I had a sneaking suspicion that she resented the fact that I outranked her. And if she did I wouldn’t have blamed her because she was a better detective than most of those I’d worked with.

‘Did you drive or come here by tube?’ she asked me.

‘Tube,’ I said.

‘Well, I’ve got a pool car that’s parked around the corner. I can give you a lift to the pub, assuming you’re coming along for the booze up.’

‘Of course I am, which reminds me I ought to call Aidan to tell him what’s happened.’

Kate gestured towards Drummond. ‘I suspect your boyfriend already knows by now. Even before the governor’s finished telling the world how great we are I reckon that everyone with a TV, radio or smartphone will know about the fate of that ghastly gobshite Harry Fuller.’

The DCS was now being asked to reveal details about the crime syndicate which the task force would set its sights on next, and Kate and I listened with interest.

‘I won’t be drawn into naming names,’ Drummond said. ‘But I believe it’s an open secret that our aim now is to bring to justice this country’s most feared and revered organised criminal. He knows who he is and I’m sure he knows that we’re coming for him.’

2
Slack

It was the first time Roy Slack had heard himself described as the most feared and revered crime boss in the country, and it made him smile.

He knew it to be true, of course, just like he’d known for some time that the Old Bill were going to come after him with everything they had.

But he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. In fact he intended to ensure that it was a move they would come to regret.

He turned his attention away from the huge flat-screen TV on his office wall and said to Danny Carver, ‘Thirty frigging years. The poor sod might as well top himself because he won’t ever be coming out.’

Danny was his most trusted enforcer, a fifty-five-year-old former mercenary whose nickname in the underworld was The Rottweiler. He was a thickset individual with a boxer’s physique and a well-deserved reputation as a violent psychopath, qualities that made him perfect for the job he did.

‘My money was on a fifteen stretch, boss,’ he said. ‘But we should have guessed the bastards would use the poor bugger to send a message to us.’

Slack nodded. Danny was right. This was a crude example of the police and the judicial system working together to show they meant business.

‘The wankers are mistaken if they think it’ll have me shitting in my pants,’ Slack said. ‘Harry Fuller was a fairly easy target, but I won’t be.’

The two men, who were alone in the office, turned their attention back to the TV screen.

Sky News were reporting live from outside the Old Bailey and DCS George Drummond was still responding to questions. He was a smooth-looking bastard who clearly had an inflated opinion of himself.

Slack had met the man on two occasions and he knew their paths would cross again.

‘Seems to me that what that bloke is saying amounts to a declaration of all-out war,’ Danny said.

Slack leaned back in his padded leather chair and swung his shoes up onto the desk.

‘That’s exactly what it is, Danny,’ he said. ‘And if it’s a war they want, then it’s a war they’re gonna get.’

He’d known what was coming ever since the Home Office announced a major new offensive against organised crime in London. It was essentially a political move over widespread concern that the problem had got out of hand.

There had been an epidemic of gun and knife crime in the capital, and during the past three years no less than thirty people had been murdered during gang turf wars.

The press had also been making a big thing of the fact that the annual cost of organised crime on the London economy was now running at billions of pounds.

The task force that was put together was well resourced and had managed to rack up some early successes, Harry Fuller being the biggest scalp so far.

Before him there was Paul Mason, who’d run the East London mob for five years. And before Mason there were the Romanian brothers – Stefan and Anton Severin – who were known as the kings of crack cocaine north of the Thames.

Slack didn’t shed a tear for any of them. They were rivals, after all, and he’d been mopping up some of their business. But the downfall of such heavyweight villains was a sure sign that this time he couldn’t afford to be complacent.

The task force presented a credible threat to his illicit empire, which was spread across all of South London, as well as the lucrative West End.

But clinging on to what he’d built up over many years wasn’t the real driving force behind what he was planning.

And neither was fear of ending up behind bars like Harry Fuller and the others.

What Slack intended to do was motivated by something far more profound and much closer to his heart.

Revenge.

Slack hadn’t yet told anyone what he planned to do but that was about to change because he was going to confide in Danny Carver. He needed Danny to help him put the wheels in motion.

Now that the Fuller trial had ended they’d be coming after him with all guns blazing.

There’d be raids on his businesses and the homes of his employees and associates. Surveillance would be stepped up, all his financial affairs would be probed like never before, and the bastards would cause as much disruption as possible to his operations.

They’d push and squeeze and threaten in their desperate search for something to use against him. And if they weren’t successful then he wouldn’t put it past them to fit him up.

They were probably expecting him to batten down the hatches before pissing off to his villa on the Costa del Sol. So they were going to get a big fucking shock when he retaliated by launching a pre-emptive strike.

‘The slags won’t know what’s hit them, babe,’ he said to the framed photo on his desk. ‘Mine is going to be the loudest swansong this city has ever heard.’

His late wife’s smiling face stared back at him and brought a lump to his throat. Even after all this time he still found it hard to accept that Julie was gone.

The photo was taken on their honeymoon in Capri twenty-three years ago. They were standing together with the sea in the background and he had his arm around her shoulders.

She’d been at her most gorgeous then – blonde and tanned and slim, with a face that had squeezed his heart the moment he’d laid eyes on it.

Back then he hadn’t been so bad looking himself. His hair had been thick and black and there’d been no fat on his frame or lines on his face.

Now, at the age of fifty-seven, his hair was grey and wispy and he had a gut the size of a rugby ball. Years of hard living were evident in the creases on his forehead and neck, and in the dark pouches beneath his eyes.

‘You need to speak up, boss. I didn’t catch what you just said.’

Danny’s voice snapped him out of himself and he wrenched his attention away from the photo.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I was miles away and mumbling to myself.’

Danny was sitting on the sofa below the window that offered up a view of the rooftops of Rotherhithe. He leaned forward and picked up the TV remote from the coffee table in front of him. He used it to mute the sound of the Sky News reporter who was summing up what had happened at the Old Bailey.

‘This is serious shit, boss,’ he said. ‘So I think it’s time you told me how the fuck you intend to respond.’

Slack clamped his lips together and nodded. ‘You’re right, Danny old son. But what I’m going to say is just between you and me, at least to start with. I don’t want the other lads to freak out before the fun even begins.’

3
Laura

The media circus outside the court ended as quickly as it had begun. After giving his interview, DCS Drummond was whisked away in a car driven by someone from the Crown Prosecution Service.

Harry’s Fuller’s lawyer then made a brief statement announcing that they’d be appealing both the conviction and sentence, but he refused to answer any questions.

Kate and I were both on a high as we walked to her car. It was a terrific feeling knowing that we’d helped to end the career of another vicious mobster.

At times like this I realised why I loved being a copper. But it wasn’t just the exhilarating sense of achievement. It was also another result in honour of my dear departed dad.

I knew he would have been proud of me, and it was such an awful shame that he couldn’t tell me how much.

He was still alive back when I followed in his footsteps and joined the force twelve years ago. He’d risen to the rank of detective chief inspector in Lewisham CID, and he’d always been my inspiration.

‘Policing is a noble profession, sweetheart,’ he told me when I announced my intention to enrol on leaving university. ‘But as you and your mother know only too well it’ll take over your life. So you need to be one hundred per cent certain that it’s what you want to do.’

‘It is,’ I said.

‘In that case you’ll have my full support. But promise me one thing, Laura. You’ll always be true to the oath you’ll take at the outset. If at any time you feel you can’t, then pack it in and go work in a shop or a factory.’

He made a point of telling me that, because my first six months on the job coincided with a relentless wave of negative publicity for the police.

Corruption within the Met was being exposed on an almost weekly basis, and a lot of new recruits like myself became disillusioned.

But for me the scandals served only to strengthen my commitment and my resolve to be a good, honest copper like my father.

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been aware that the Met in particular was infested with officers who were on the take. While at university a report was published that claimed there’d been a sharp increase in the number of officers dealing in drugs and abusing their power for ‘sexual gratification’.

I’d since discovered myself that the force did indeed have its share of bad apples, but most officers walked a straight line and were a credit to the profession.

Of course, being above board and serving with distinction did not make it less likely that you’d come to harm in the line of duty. My father found that out the night he opened his front door to a man who shot him three times in the chest.

Seven years on – with the killer still out there somewhere – the memory moves me to tears and gives rise to a blast of anger.

It’s only about two miles from the Old Bailey to New Scotland Yard. But the traffic was murderous so it was slow going in Kate’s pool car.

She took us via the Victoria Embankment and there was gridlock for much of the way.

We were passing under Waterloo Bridge when my mobile rang. It was Aidan.

‘I gather congratulations are in order,’ he said. ‘I just heard it on the news. You must be pleased.’

‘I’m over the moon,’ I said. ‘We all are, which is why we’re going to the pub for a celebration drink.’

‘You deserve it, hon. Have a great time.’

‘Are you home already?’

‘No, I’ve only just left the school. I’ll grab a takeaway. Do you want me to get something for you?’

‘No, don’t worry. I’ll sort myself out.’

Aidan was a teacher and worked in a big comprehensive near our home in Balham. We’d been together for four years, having been introduced by my matchmaking mother who was one of his colleagues.

‘I’ll see you when I see you then,’ Aidan said. ‘And try not to get too tipsy. There’s still a big stain on the carpet from the last time you rolled in drunk.’

I laughed and told him that I loved him, then put the phone back in my shoulder bag.

‘From the sound of it, things are still great on the home front,’ Kate said.

I nodded. ‘It couldn’t be better. We’re a good match, and thankfully Aidan’s pretty understanding about all the unsocial hours and stuff.’

‘You’re lucky. I’ve come to the conclusion that good men are a dying breed.’

Kate had been bitter and cynical about men ever since I’d known her, but I had some sympathy. Her marriage came to a brutal end after only two years when she found her husband – a fellow detective working at the same station – in bed with another woman, for whom he promptly left her.

What compounded her suffering and humiliation was the fact that most of their colleagues had known he’d been having an affair for months and no one had told her.

But the sorry saga did not end there. Two months after walking out, her husband died in an accident outside his new home when he was struck by a car that mounted the pavement. So grief was suddenly added to Kate’s emotional burden.

‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ I asked tentatively.

She shook her head. ‘I was going out with a bloke until a couple of weeks ago. He was some kind of financial adviser, and that was the problem. He kept trying to get me to part with money. When he said he could double my savings I realised he was a wrong ’un and told him to sod off.’

I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, but then it was a familiar story. I knew a couple of other middle-aged women who’d had similar experiences on the dating scene.

‘I made the mistake of telling that lech Tony Marsden that I was single again,’ Kate said. ‘And he had the cheek to ask me if I wanted to go out for a drink with him.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told him that I wasn’t that bloody desperate and that he should be ashamed of himself.’

I grinned. ‘I’m sure he’s heard that before.’

‘Maybe so, but the slimy toerag then said I didn’t know what I was missing.’

We both laughed and I went on to tell her about how Marsden tried it on with me at the last Christmas do.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t by far the worst of a bad bunch,’ I said.

Tony Marsden was another of the detective sergeants on the team. He was an opinionated prick who despite being married with a young son was known to play away with anyone who’d have him, including prostitutes.

It was no secret that he was addicted to gambling as well as illicit sex, and he had always struck me as a pretty dodgy character, the kind of copper my dad would have hated working with.

And it was just our rotten luck that Marsden should arrive at the Rose and Crown at the same time we did, after Kate had dropped off the pool car.

He was a squat, bullish man in his late thirties, with a florid complexion and fair hair that was as short as putting-green grass.

When he saw us approaching, he opened the door to the saloon bar and treated us to one of his lascivious smirks.

‘Evening, ladies,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ll both be on your best behaviour. If not then I can assure you that it won’t be a problem, at least with me.’

‘Grow up, for pity’s sake,’ I said as I brushed past him, noting that his suit carried the heavy stench of cigarette smoke.

Inside it looked like the start of a boy’s night out, which was usually the case when the team got together socially. That was because Kate and I were two of only four women among the twenty detectives.

One of the others was Janet Dean, who was the same rank as me. She was already at the bar and waved when she spotted us.

Janet was in her late forties, and it was fair to say that she was the most unpopular member of the team. She was a miserable bitch most of the time and rarely attended social functions. When she did she tended to drink too much and slag people off.

‘So what’s your tipple, girls?’ she said as we approached the bar. ‘The booze is on the house so we might as well get stuck in.’

Her thin face was flushed and there was a wet patch on the front of her cream blouse. It was obvious she had already downed a few glasses of something.

I opted for a gin and tonic, and Kate had a white wine.

‘I’m surprised you’ve graced us with your presence, Janet,’ Kate said. ‘I can’t remember the last time you joined us for a drink.’

Janet lifted her shoulders and eyebrows at the same time.

‘It’s a special occasion,’ she said. ‘And besides, Ethan is spending a couple of days in Brighton working on the boat so I’ve got no reason to rush home.’

That was the other thing that people didn’t like about Janet Dean. She too often boasted about how well off she and her husband were. They lived in a town house in Chelsea, owned two BMWs, and their latest acquisition was a cabin cruiser that was moored in Brighton marina.

Of course, their lifestyle wasn’t funded by her copper’s salary. Her husband worked for an investment company in the City, although she’d always been vague about exactly what he did, and kept schtum about how much he earned.

I was on my second G and T when DCS Drummond decided to propose a toast to the team’s latest success.

‘You’ve all done a great job and I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘But make no mistake – things are about to get much tougher. Roy Slack is a master when it comes to evading prosecution. And there’s no one who’s as cautious as he is at avoiding surveillance. As you know from the intelligence packs you’ve been given, he uses unregistered mobiles and employs debugging devices in his home and office. He also has powerful friends and we suspect there are officers in the Met who are in his pocket. Those are among the people we aim to flush out during this investigation.’

We all knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Slack was London’s longest established crime boss and it was strongly believed that he had connections with senior officers, the Crown Prosecution Service and several MPs. It was one of the reasons he had managed to reign supreme for so long.

‘When we get together tomorrow I’ll give a full briefing on our approach,’ Drummond said. ‘But one of our main lines of enquiry will continue to be the disappearance of firearms officer Hugh Wallis. I still believe that it’s highly likely that Slack had something to do with it, despite his denials.’

Officer Wallis had vanished while returning to his home in Shoreditch from a late shift just a week ago. His car was then found the next day parked behind a warehouse a few miles away in Stratford. The keys were still in the ignition.

No one had heard from him since his disappearance and no clues to his whereabouts had been offered up by traffic cameras and CCTV.

According to his wife there were no issues in his life that he might have decided to run away from. It was therefore feared that something bad had happened to him.

The task force had been alerted because Wallis had been involved in a joint operation that had been mounted three months ago with the NCA. Raids were carried out on the homes of twelve known villains, including a man named Terry Malone, who worked for Slack.

Wallis had shot Malone dead when he thought the guy was about to attack him. But there was a bit of a rumpus because Malone’s girlfriend – who sadly miscarried during the raid – later claimed that Malone had not posed a threat, and that the officer had fired the three fatal shots because he panicked.

An investigation cleared Wallis and accepted that the action he took upon entering the couple’s bedroom that night was justified.

But the decision caused a ripple of alarm within the criminal community and the word on the street was that Roy Slack’s people had been using their contacts to try to find out the identity of the officer, which hadn’t of course been made public.

Personally I had my doubts that Slack would be so stupid as to seek retribution against the police, especially on behalf of someone who was fairly low down the food chain within his organisation.

But as we would soon discover, the man was far more ruthless than his reputation had led us to believe.

And he had secrets that would turn out to be just as shocking as his actions.

4
Slack

It didn’t take long for Roy Slack to reveal his plan to Danny Carver. It was a simple one, after all.

Danny’s reaction was predictable. His jaw dropped and the colour retreated from his face.

‘Is this a fucking joke, boss?’ he said, his voice stretched thin with shock. ‘Because if it ain’t, then I think you might have lost your marbles.’

Slack stood up and stepped out from behind his desk. It was uncomfortably warm in the office so he slipped off his cardigan and threw it on the chair. His white shirt had dark patches of sweat under each armpit.

He crossed the room to the cabinet with the bottles of spirits on top.

‘Care for a whisky, Danny?’ he asked.

‘Too bloody right I do,’ Danny answered. ‘And please make it a large one because I think I need it.’

Slack smiled to himself as he poured out triples of his finest malt, flown down from his favourite distillery in the Highlands.

He handed a glass to Danny. ‘You’ve been with me a long time, mate, and you’re the only person in this world who I’d trust with my life. It’s why I’ve told you what I intend to do and it’s the reason I’m now going to tell you why I want to do it.’

Danny’s hard face fisted into a frown and he rolled out his bottom lip.

‘Well, I’m all ears, boss,’ he said.

Slack sat down beside him on the sofa and sipped at his whisky.

‘I also need you to know that you’re going to be well looked after whatever happens,’ he said. ‘I’m going to transfer a large sum of cash into your offshore account first thing in the morning. If the firm survives then you can stick around if you want to. If it doesn’t you’ll have the option to fuck off abroad and enjoy an early retirement.’

Danny’s frown deepened and he tilted his head to one side.

‘Sounds to me like you’ve given a lot of thought to this, boss,’ he said.

Slack nodded. ‘It’s been rolling around inside my head for weeks. Now I can’t wait to get on with it.’

Danny grinned, showing off his two gold teeth.

‘Well, it sure is an insane idea,’ he said. ‘But for what it’s worth I reckon the fuckers have it coming. Most of ’em are more crooked than we are.’

Slack knew he could depend on Danny not to fill his nappy at the thought of what was going to happen. They didn’t call him The Rottweiler for nothing. He was a man of violence, a crazy fuck, who had maimed and killed more men than he could probably remember.

He was also fiercely loyal and had carried out heinous crimes on Slack’s behalf without a second’s thought. He was completely devoid of empathy and compassion.

For that reason Slack had absolutely no doubt that he would be able to count on him in the days and weeks ahead.

‘So come on, boss,’ Danny said. ‘There’s no way you’d be set on doing this just to hang on to what you’ve got. There has to be something else, something that you’ve been keeping close to your chest.’

So Slack told him, and for the first time since they’d met, Danny Carver was lost for words.

‘So now you know everything,’ Roy Slack said. ‘And that’s a privilege I won’t grant to anyone else. The rest of the guys will be fed information as and when I deem it to be necessary.’

Danny was slow to respond and Slack could tell that he wasn’t sure how. What he’d just been told had come as quite a shock, and he was shrewd enough to know that his world was about to be tilted on its axis.

‘I’m determined to see this through for the reasons I’ve just given,’ Slack said. ‘So don’t bother trying to talk me out of it. My mind’s made up, and since I’m still head of this outfit I’ll expect you to support me.’

Danny drained the whisky from his glass and found his voice.

‘I won’t try to talk you out of it, boss. Not because I know it’ll be a waste of time, but because if I was in your shoes I’d be tempted to do something similar.’

Slack was pleased but not surprised. He and Danny were very much alike in the sense that they had no respect for authority and both harboured a simmering hatred for the police.

It went way back to those early years spent on a rough council estate in Peckham when the cops were their enemy.

As teenagers they were sucked into the gang culture and from there they embarked on a life of villainy.

They eventually went their separate ways. Slack stayed in London and built a reputation for himself as a hard, uncompromising gangster. He served his apprenticeship as a thief, a pimp, a drug dealer and an enforcer. And all that time he managed to stay out of jail by outsmarting the law.

But Danny wasn’t so lucky. At eighteen he stabbed to death a man who came onto his girlfriend in a pub. He was convicted of murder and spent twelve years in prison. When released he went to work with a bunch of mercenaries in Libya. After a couple of years in that hellhole, he returned to London and offered his services to his old pal from Peckham.

Slack had been only too pleased to give him a job, and it wasn’t long before Danny became his right-hand man.

‘So have you got any questions, mate?’ Slack asked as he got up from the sofa to pour some more drinks.

‘I’ve got lots, boss,’ Danny said. ‘But they can wait. I’d rather we got down to business and you told me how we’re going to get this party started.’

Slack poured two more whiskies and then sat back down on the sofa.

‘It’s already started, mate,’ he said. ‘Yesterday I spoke to our friend Carlos Cruz in Mexico. He owes me a big favour and I called it in.’

‘What do you want from him?’ Danny asked.

Slack took a deep breath and held it for a second before speaking.

‘I want him to supply us with an assassin,’ he said, as though that were quite a normal request to make. ‘Someone who won’t be on the radar of any law enforcement agency anywhere in Europe. As we all know the best and most prolific contract killers work for the Mexican cartels.’

‘What was his response?’

‘He told me he’d be only too happy to help and that he’d ring me this evening.’

Danny’s brow peaked. ‘So assuming he delivers, what’ll be the next step?’

A slow smile spread across Slack’s face. ‘We then make use of the information that’s been passed onto me by our mole inside the organised crime task force.’

5
Laura

The task force had a temporary base at New Scotland Yard because the building we usually occupied around the corner was being refurbished. But it suited me because the interior was fresh and modern, and there were spectacular views across the Thames. It was also much closer to the Rose and Crown and a couple of other cosy little watering holes.

I was among the first to leave the pub after four gin and tonics, a ham sandwich and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

I would have stayed later if it had been Friday, but I had no intention of getting pissed on a Monday night.

I’d enjoyed myself, though. The banter, the camaraderie, the chance to talk about things other than work. Plus, I’d also managed to steer clear of Tony Marsden, who’d spent much of the time chatting up the buxom barmaid.

DCS Drummond had been on good form throughout and had taken particular pleasure in using the occasion to reveal some more good news – that the wife of our colleague, DI Dave Prentiss, had given birth to a baby boy that very afternoon, which was why he wasn’t with us. Prentiss was one of the detectives I got on well with, so I was really happy for him.

After leaving the pub I walked to Embankment tube station and travelled south via the Northern Line to Balham where Aidan and I rented a house just off the High Road.

I got home shortly after nine o’clock. Aidan was watching the television in the living room and he was surprised to see me back so early.

‘What happened?’ he said. ‘Did they run out of booze?’

I laughed. ‘I didn’t dare stay any longer. It was my day off, remember, and I had a couple of wines with lunch. One more alcoholic drink and no way will I be fit for work in the morning.’

He got up from his favourite armchair, pulled me into an embrace, and kissed me tenderly on the mouth.

As always it was just what I needed at the end of a day spent apart. His warm, minty breath and the feel of his body so close to mine gave rise to a familiar sense of gratitude for having him in my life.

I loved him beyond measure and I knew in my heart that I’d always be able to trust him. He wasn’t like Tony Marsden or Kate Chappell’s adulterous husband.

Having got my pulse racing, he helped me off with my coat and offered to make me a cup of coffee.

‘Sit down and relax,’ he said. ‘Fancy a couple of chocolate biscuits?’

‘Does the Pope believe in Christ?’

He gave me another kiss, this time on the forehead, and I watched him slide off into the kitchen.

He was wearing his ‘comfy’ uniform – a pair of black tracksuit bottoms and a baggy blue sweatshirt with more stains on it than a baby’s bib.

I was the only person who ever got to see him like this. Whenever we had visitors he’d put on jeans and a smart jumper and pretend that he didn’t live like a slob while at home.

But the truth was Aidan Bray was one of those men who looked pretty cool whatever they wore.

He was tall and trim with a sporty physique honed during regular sessions in the gym. But it was his face more than anything else that had attracted me to him in the first place. It was more interesting than handsome, and there was an openness to it that drew people in.

His eyes were large and green and set slightly too far apart. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled and his light brown hair was flecked with grey even though he was only thirty-three.

As he disappeared into the kitchen I realised yet again how lucky I was, certainly compared to Kate who had lost all faith in men, and was struggling to get her personal life back on track.

I dropped onto the sofa and exhaled a long breath. In front of me on the television a recorded episode of A Place in the Sun was drawing to a close. Aidan was a big fan, partly because he dreamt of moving to Spain one day to be nearer to his parents who’d retired to the Costa Blanca a few years ago.

I picked up the remote and turned to the BBC News Channel. Within thirty seconds they were running the Harry Fuller story and I watched DCS Drummond facing the media outside the Old Bailey.

‘So tell me more about this bloke Roy Slack,’ Aidan said as he re-entered the living room with my coffee. ‘I gather you’re gunning for him next.’

I looked up, surprised. ‘Have they mentioned him by name on the news?’

‘No. But he’s been all over social media this evening and he was trending on Twitter when I last checked.’

The force was always careful not to name people until they were questioned or charged, especially those who had the means and clout to cause a fuss. The mainstream media also tended to be cautious for fear of litigation. But on the Internet it was a different matter and people didn’t care about such things as libel and defamation.

Aidan handed me my coffee and biscuits and settled back into his armchair, waiting for me to answer his question.

He rarely asked me about my work and the characters we pursued because he knew that there was so much I couldn’t tell him. He had only ever demonstrated a vague curiosity anyway, and that could more often than not be satisfied by reading the Evening Standard.

‘Roy Slack can best be described as a tyrant who presides over this country’s biggest criminal enterprise,’ I explained. ‘He’s the closest we have to the old Mafia godfathers.’

Aidan didn’t want a detailed character assessment of the man, just the lurid headlines. So that was what I gave him.

‘Slack’s whole life has been spent as a criminal but would you believe the bastard has never seen the inside of a prison cell?’ I said. ‘He’s got a hand in every illicit pie across Central and South London. That includes drugs, extortion, fraud, prostitution, porn, money laundering – the lot.

‘He’s been the subject of intense investigations by the NCA and before them the Serious Organised Crime Agency. But he’s kept a clean sheet, thanks to witness intimidation, bent coppers and by being more careful than any other villain out there. And he’s still going from strength to strength after more than a decade at the top of his game. We now know that he’s even established strong links with a notorious Mexican cartel that’s flooding the whole of Europe with cocaine and heroin.’

‘He sounds like quite a guy,’ Aidan said. ‘But you’d never guess it from the photos I’ve seen on the web. He looks like a kindly uncle who’s ageing before his time.’

‘Well, over the years a lot of people have learned to their cost that his appearance can be more than a little deceiving. He’s a vicious bastard who surrounds himself with men who are even more vicious, including some nutter known at The Rottweiler.’

‘What about his private life? Does he actually have one?’

‘He lives well,’ I said. ‘But that’s about all we know. He’s got a fancy apartment overlooking the Thames, a big country house in Kent and a luxury villa in Spain – all paid for through legitimate businesses that are fronts for his dodgy activities.’

‘Is it a family-run organisation?’ Aidan asked.

I shook my head. ‘If it was we’re sure he would have retired by now and handed over the reins to a son or daughter. But if you ask me that’s down to poetic justice.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he lost his wife ten years ago in a car crash. They never had children.’

‘That’s tough,’ Aidan said. ‘But even so it’s hard to feel sorry for the guy.’

I didn’t bother carrying on even though I could have revealed a lot more about Roy Slack. I could sense that Aidan had heard enough and, besides, it was only fair that we talked a bit about his day.

He jumped at the chance to tell me that he’d been asked to organise the staff Christmas party this year alongside my mother, who always got involved in her capacity as school secretary.

I feigned interest even though it wasn’t something that I could get excited about. But at least it was a timely reminder that it wasn’t all about me and the work I did. Too often I gave that impression whenever I got wrapped up in a case. I withdrew into myself and thought about little else. And I knew that wasn’t fair on Aidan, even though he never complained.

To be sure Roy Slack and his minions were going to dominate my days for the foreseeable future, along with every other member of the task force.

I told myself that this time I would do my best to keep the investigation separate from my home life. I was determined not to let Aidan suffer in any way.

6
Slack

Danny Carver was a man of many talents. He was proficient in the use of most guns. He could strangle the toughest of men with his bare hands. He knew exactly how to torture someone to get them to cough up. And he could go days without sleep and still be a match for anyone in a street brawl.

But in recent years he had acquired a particular talent that didn’t involve violence – and yet it had proved just as useful to Roy Slack.

Danny had become a computer geek. He wasn’t up there with those cyber criminals who terrify the likes of governments, banks and big corporations. But his newfound skills had helped to develop new revenue streams for the firm through scams involving online fraud, hacking and identity theft. He’d also helped to make it difficult for the Old Bill to eavesdrop on their communications by installing sophisticated defence software in their mobiles and laptops.

It was therefore going to fall on Danny to get the ball rolling.

Slack took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and held it up.

‘This is a copy of the list I just told you about,’ he said. ‘It contains the names and contact details of every detective on the organised crime task force. Next to each individual there’s a home address and the names of the people who are closest to them – wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, children, etcetera. Our mole has also provided me with a separate file containing photographs of most of those on the list. It’s been uploaded as a password-protected page on the web.’

‘So what is it you want me to do, boss?’

‘To start with I want you to send an anonymous text message to every detective so they receive it at the same time. You have to make it impossible for the message to be traced back to us. Can you do that?’

Danny nodded. ‘Piece of cake. So what’ll be in the message?’

Slack handed the sheet of paper to Danny.

‘I’ve written it there under the names. It’s short and to the point and there’s no way it can be misinterpreted.’

Danny read the message and gave a little whistle through his teeth.

‘Well, if this fails to put the fear of God into the bastards then I don’t know what will,’ he said.

Slack’s office was above a pub/restaurant the firm owned in Rotherhithe, a quiet suburb of South East London.

It was used as their base of operations and had round-the-clock security.

There was a meeting room next door and from its rear window you could see across the Thames to the spectacular skyline of Canary Wharf. One of the high-rise buildings had been home to Slack for the past four years. It was where he stayed when he was in London, which these days was most of the time.

It was just after nine o’clock and usually when he was here this late he would go for a meal downstairs. But tonight he had no appetite – at least for food.

‘Call Mike and let him know I’m ready to go home,’ he said to Danny. ‘And tell him I’ll be making the usual stop along the way.’

Mike Walker was one of his regular drivers. Long gone were the days when Slack drove anywhere himself.

He put on his suit jacket while Danny made the call, and filled his pockets with his phone, wallet and pack of Havana cigars.

‘Mike’s warming up the car,’ Danny said. ‘He says he’ll ring Jasmine to tell her you’re on your way over.’

Slack nodded. ‘That’s terrific. The last job for you tonight is to tell the lads that I want them here for a meeting tomorrow at eleven o’clock. I need to warn them that the shit’s about to hit the fan.’

They headed off in different directions – Danny to his house in Streatham and Slack to the home of his mistress in Vauxhall.

Jasmine Tinder lived in a flat he paid the rent on and it was an arrangement that suited them both. He wasn’t interested in another long-term relationship because he knew that no bird could ever match up to his Julie.

But it didn’t mean that his sex drive had hit the buffers, and so he made sure he got his end away on a regular basis. He was lucky in that the nature of his business meant that horny little muffins were always on tap.

Jasmine was one of several he currently had on the go, and the moment he entered the flat he realised yet again why she was his favourite.

‘I was hoping you’d drop by, babe,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘The thought of you fucking me senseless has had me dripping between the legs for hours.’

She stood before him in nothing but a black bra and panties, a twenty-one-year-old sex siren from Manchester with metallic red hair, tits the size of melons and the face of an angel.

It was all part of an act, of course, a performance designed to get him excited. But it was exactly what he wanted. What he paid her for.

She took his hand and led him into the bedroom and as she started to slowly take off his clothes, his cock rose to the occasion.

Sex with Jasmine was always good, and it was the only time he never used a condom. He didn’t have to because he’d had the snip years ago and he made sure she had regular check-ups at a private STD clinic.

He didn’t try to drag it out because he had a lot on his mind and there was a risk he’d lose his erection. But it was no less enjoyable. He came inside her from behind and she did a pretty good job of faking her own orgasm.

His timing, as it turned out, was perfect because he’d just got his breath back when his mobile rang. He’d placed it on the bedside table, and as he picked it up he told Jasmine to leave the room.

‘It is me, my friend,’ Carlos Cruz said when he answered. ‘Are you able to talk?’

‘Give me a second,’ Slack said as he pushed his back up against the headboard. His heart was still hammering and his face was drenched in sweat.

Cruz was probably calling from one of several homes he owned on the west coast of Mexico. It was from there he ran the infamous Sinaloa cartel, the one that the US government had described as the most powerful drug trafficking organisation in the world.

Cruz himself had approached Slack just over a year ago and offered to supply the firm with cocaine, crystal meth and heroin at a discount. He’d promised to undercut all other suppliers because they were eager to break into all the European markets. So far the guy had been true to his word and they’d both done well out of it.

‘So does this relate to the conversation we had yesterday, Carlos?’ Slack asked.

‘Indeed it does, my friend. You have helped me, and so now I am prepared to help you. But this is still a business arrangement and the sum of money you have offered needs to be increased from two million dollars to three million. And that is non-negotiable. For that price the trigger will stay with you for up to two weeks. If you want to extend the contract it will cost more.’

Slack didn’t balk at the figure. In fact he’d been prepared to pay a lot more. After all this was a job that required expertise and experience, and since the world’s most experienced killers for hire were in Mexico it seemed like a sensible move.

‘Your price is acceptable,’ Slack said. ‘But don’t let me down, Carlos. If your operative doesn’t live up to my expectations then it could be very damaging to our relationship.’

‘Have no fear, my friend,’ Carlos said. ‘I have chosen well. The person I’m sending has been working exclusively for the cartel for about eight years, and in that time has carried out over fifty hits on our behalf.’

‘That’s mightily impressive,’ Slack said.

‘I’m glad you think so. You’ll need to make all the arrangements at your end including accommodation, transport and weapons.’

‘I’ll sort it. So how soon can your man be here?’

‘Late tomorrow should be possible.’

‘Then I’ll have him picked up at the airport.’

‘That’s great, but there’s one thing you need to be aware of.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The person whose services you are acquiring is a woman, not a man. She’s the best in the business and goes by the name of Rosa Lopez, but the Mexican media have labelled her La Asesina, which in English means The Slayer.’

7
Rosa

Acapulco used to be one of Mexico’s most popular tourist destinations, with its spectacular beaches and bustling nightlife.

Its heyday was in the 50s and 60s when it epitomised tropical glamour and became a playground for the rich and famous.

But over the last decade or so the glitter had turned to blood and it had become one of the most violent towns on the planet.

Rosa Lopez reflected on this as she prepared to leave her hotel room overlooking the bay.

She’d first come here twenty-two years ago when she was just six. It was the last vacation she ever had with her parents before they were slaughtered in their sleep.

The memories hadn’t faded, and she still remembered how busy the beaches were then and how rare it was to see police officers on the streets. These days the beaches were often empty and the tourist areas were patrolled by heavily armed cops and soldiers.

But heightened levels of security had failed to stop the drug cartels from fighting each other for control of the smuggling routes along the Guerrero coast.

And it was this conflict that had brought Rosa back to the Pacific town.

She had arrived earlier by plane from Mexico City, and after checking in she’d had time for a short nap and a hot eucalyptus bubble bath.

Now she was ready to go to work. But before leaving the room she checked herself in the full-length mirror and nodded approvingly.

She was dressed to kill and that was deliberate because after the job was done she planned to visit one of the town’s famous nightclubs.

She was wearing her tightest designer jeans, faded and low-slung on the hips, and a V-neck T-shirt that revealed most of her ample cleavage.

Her lipstick was garishly red and her hair hung loose about her shoulders.

Her aim, as always, was to stand out from the crowd, which required a degree of effort in venues that were loud and dark and filled with pussy.

Killing always made her juices flow and she had no intention of spending the night alone. She’d discovered long ago that the best way to wind down and relax was to have sex with a beautiful stranger.

‘Time to hit the town,’ she said to herself, as she draped a little red purse over her shoulder.

A few minutes later she was walking through the hotel’s luxurious reception area to the sound of Going Loco Down in Acapulco by the Four Tops. It made her smile because it had been her father’s favourite song and he’d played it constantly at their home in Culiacan. It was one of the reasons he’d been so keen to visit the place.

As previously arranged there was a car waiting for her in front of the hotel, the driver standing next to it, waiting to open the door for her. He was tall and dark-skinned, and wearing a black shirt over jeans. He introduced himself as Miguel.

The only thing she knew about him was that, like her, he worked for the Sinaloa cartel. Carlos Cruz, their boss, had given her his number and she’d called him from the hotel.

His face broke into a wide grin as she approached.

‘I have heard many things about you, Miss Lopez,’ he said in Spanish as his eyes gave her the once-over. ‘And I can see that the tales of your beauty were not exaggerated.’

She got this a lot from the men she encountered and it used to drive her crazy. Now she just ignored it.

‘There’s no time for small talk,’ she said sharply. ‘Just get me to where we’re going.’

His smile vanished and he quickly opened the rear door for her to climb inside.

As soon as they were on the move, she said, ‘So tell me what I need to know.’

She already knew that there were two targets and they were top lieutenants in the Los Zetas cartel, which had been at war with the Sinaloa cartel for some time.

Carlos wanted them taken out because a month ago they had given the order for a local politician and his entire family to be murdered. The man, his wife and their two teenage daughters had had their throats cut and were then beheaded. Video footage of it happening had been then posted on the Internet.

‘The pair have been under surveillance throughout the day,’ Miguel said. ‘They are now at a restaurant on Avenue Escencia. The place is busy and the two are sitting next to a window with a view of the ocean.’

Rosa had seen photographs of the two men and had committed their faces to memory. They were both in their early thirties and were known as a pair of brutal enforcers whose speciality was torture.

‘Is there anyone looking out for them?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘There’s one minder. A few minutes ago he was sitting on a wall to the left of the entrance. He’s wearing a dark suit and if he moves I’ll be informed.’

Rosa was impressed. It was always good to know well in advance what to expect.

‘I’m taking you to a side road a few hundred yards from the restaurant,’ Miguel said. ‘We’ll be there in about ten minutes. It’s where the motorcycle you requested has been parked. Everything else you asked for is in the trunk.’

‘Sounds good,’ Rosa said, looking at her watch. ‘With luck it’ll all be over within half an hour.’

Rosa was driven to a narrow, unlit road that looked as though it was rarely used. There were no properties nearby, and the darkness was oppressive, as though it carried weight.

A motorcycle was resting up against a hedge. It was an old Honda Cargo 150 and the engine was still warm. Rosa had been riding motorbikes for years and she was familiar with the controls.

Miguel handed her the key and said, ‘It was picked up earlier today and is in a very good condition.’

From the trunk of his car he took out a helmet, a one-piece leather motorcycle suit, gloves, and a small rucksack containing a Glock 19 machine pistol and a commando knife.

Rosa slipped into the suit and heaved the rucksack onto her back.

Miguel then told her how to get to the restaurant and she mounted the bike.

‘I wish you luck, Miss Lopez,’ he said. ‘But I am sure that you won’t need it.’

The restaurant was set back from the main road and was clearly a popular establishment. The lighting inside was subdued and there was a parking area in front with about a dozen cars.

Rosa spotted the bodyguard straight away. He was sitting on a low wall smoking a cigarette and he was the only person in sight.

She brought the bike to a halt against the kerb just a couple of yards away from him.

He stood up stiffly to attention as she dismounted. She’d already removed the commando knife from the rucksack and with her back to the guy she unzipped her suit top and reached for it with her gloved hand.

She then used the element of surprise to her advantage by whirling around and rushing at him.

Before he could react she plunged the knife deep into his stomach with a fierce upward thrust.

His eyes ballooned in their sockets and he staggered backwards, allowing Rosa to withdraw the knife and stab him in the chest. It sent him sprawling over the wall and onto a patch of grass where his body convulsed in a death shudder.

She then threw the knife onto the ground next to him and took the pistol from the rucksack, which she simply discarded.

Without a moment’s hesitation she burst into the restaurant. It was about half full and there was soft music playing in the background.

Heads turned towards her as she strode across the room with her pistol arm raised. But she stayed focused on the two men at the far table next to the window.

As soon as they realised what was happening, they both jumped to their feet, which made it less likely that Rosa would miss them.

She took aim and let loose with the machine pistol. Amid screams all around her she watched as the bullets tore into her victims, spraying blood over the window and the white tablecloth between them.

Both men hit the floor like bags of cement and she shot them several more times for good measure.

Then she turned around and fired a few more rounds into the ceiling so that none of the customers or staff would be tempted to approach her.

But she needn’t have worried because those who hadn’t already dashed out of the restaurant were cowering under the tables.

Outside, she dropped the gun, mounted the bike, and with a screech of rubber she made her escape.

It was another job well done and she was pleased with herself.

Five minutes later she was back in the car, having removed the helmet and leather suit.

She told Miguel that it had gone without a hitch and that the two Los Zetas enforcers were dead.

‘Carlos will be pleased,’ he said. ‘You did well. Now I will take you back to your hotel.’

‘I’m not going back yet,’ she said. ‘I want you to drop me off at a nightclub that you know will be lively tonight. I need to wind down.’

His response to this was to laugh.

‘You are a strange one, Miss Lopez. I’ve never known anyone to want to party straight after committing murder.’

Rosa ignored him and looked out the window. She didn’t need someone to tell her that she was strange. After all, anyone who made a living killing people could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be right in the head.

But it was OK because she was happy with herself and life was good. She was never troubled by the constraints of a conscience or the burden of a moral compass. It made everything so much easier.

When she was detained in a juvenile detention centre after her first murder she saw three counsellors and they all agreed that her traumatic childhood was to blame for her damaged soul – as if that hadn’t always been strikingly obvious.

‘There’s a nightclub I can recommend,’ Miguel said. ‘It’s always busy, especially in the run-up to Christmas.’

‘Then take me there,’ she said.

On the way she phoned Carlos as arranged.

‘It’s done,’ she said. ‘You’ll have no more trouble from those two.’

‘You are a star, Rosa,’ he said. ‘I knew I could trust you not to let me down.’

‘I’ll stay over tonight and head back in the morning.’

‘Well, actually there’s been a change of plan,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a new assignment. It’s in London of all places and there’s a big bonus in it for you.’

‘How big?’

‘Half a million dollars.’

‘That’s a lot of money, Carlos.’

‘This job is special, Rosa. And you could be there for a while.’

After he’d filled her in, she said, ‘I’ve always wanted to go to London. When do they want me there?’

‘Tomorrow. So you’ll need to get moving. We have a private jet on standby at Acapulco airport. Flight time to Mexico City is just over an hour. There’s a British Airways flight to London at eleven ten. A first class ticket’s been reserved. Think you can make it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Then buy whatever you need at the airport or when you get there.’

Rosa’s job for the cartel involved a lot of travel, usually within Mexico and the States. But in recent years she’d also had assignments in Canada, Columbia and Brazil. This would be her first trip to Europe and there was no way she was going to turn it down.

‘Call me when you’re in Mexico City and I’ll give you more details,’ Cruz said.

After hanging up she told Miguel that she’d be going back to the hotel after all, but only to pack. She then wanted him to take her to the airport. A late night was now out of the question. She was disappointed, for sure, but that was the nature of the game she was in. Business always had to come before pleasure.

8
Laura

I felt pretty good the next morning, so I was glad I hadn’t drunk too much the night before.

It was another cold day and the sky over London was a nauseous grey.

Aidan and I left the house together before heading in different directions. On the way to the tube station I popped into Sainsbury’s to get a card to mark the birth of Dave Prentiss’s baby. While there I noticed that Harry Fuller’s jail sentence featured on the front pages of most of the newspapers. The headlines made for pleasant reading:

London gangster gets 30 years

End of the road for Mr Big

Crime boss set to die in prison

I bought a copy of the Mail, which devoted two inside pages to the story. There was a detailed account of what was said in court, plus quotes from various people, including DCS Drummond, the Met Commissioner and the Mayor of London.

There were also a couple of sidebar articles. One, written by the paper’s chief crime reporter, summarised Fuller’s criminal career and outlined the extent of his nefarious activities.

The other focused on the task force and our previous successes investigating Paul Mason and the Severin brothers. It also made a carefully worded reference to our next target and threw caution to the wind by naming him.

We understand the task force will now investigate several other high-profile individuals who’ve been linked to organised crime. Among them is businessman Roy Slack who runs a number of clubs, restaurants and import companies across London. He has always denied any involvement in criminal activities but has been interviewed by police on a number of occasions. Most recently he was questioned about the disappearance of firearms officer Hugh Wallis, who shot and killed a man during a raid several months ago. The man, Terry Malone, was a known criminal and was employed by Mr Slack …

It was all positive publicity for us, I thought, and it was sure to make Slack and his people nervous.

I wondered what extra precautions he’d be taking to protect himself and his businesses. Or would he believe that he was powerful enough and savvy enough to ride it out?

After all, he’d managed to get away with it for so long. Year after year the Met had tried and failed to breach his defences. So maybe he’d actually come to believe that he was invincible.

The thought of it made me smile because it brought to mind another famous gangster who reckoned he was too smart for the forces of law and order.

His name was Al Capone, and he ended up in America’s notorious Alcatraz prison.

I was among the last of the team to arrive at the office because of delays on the Northern Line. But the morning briefing was still a way off so it wasn’t a problem.

Some of the detectives were nursing hangovers, including Tony Marsden and Janet Dean. Marsden was sallow-faced and unshaven, and his tie hung at his throat in a loose knot.

Janet, on the other hand, was smartly dressed in a dark blue suit that seemed sober to the point of austere. But the heavy make-up failed to conceal the dark crescents under her tired eyes.

By contrast Dave Prentiss was positively glowing. He was an affable, portly guy with a smile that produced deep creases around his eyes. His desk was already covered in baby cards and I gave him mine.

‘Congratulations, Dave,’ I said, kissing his cheek. ‘Have you named him yet?’

‘We have. He’s Josh.’

‘Good choice. And how’s Karen?’

‘She’s great. She’ll be coming home tomorrow.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve come in.’

‘Well, I’d rather be here than sitting at home. I’m taking next week off to help Karen out and get to know the little one.’

Baby talk always reminded me that my own biological clock was ticking away. It was an issue I tried not to think about too often because it made me anxious and confused.

The fact was Aidan and I had been trying for a baby for six months and I hadn’t yet conceived, which was troubling. So far we hadn’t told our parents we were trying because we wanted it to be a surprise when it did happen, along with the announcement of our wedding plans.

We were both of the view that it was easier to pretend that we had no plans in place to start a family and get married anytime soon. That way we wouldn’t come under intense pressure, especially from my mother, who was desperate for a grandchild.

Prentiss held up his phone to show me a photo of the baby a few hours after the birth.

‘He’s gorgeous,’ I said and couldn’t help feeling a little broody.

Drummond chose that moment to clap his hands in order to get everyone’s attention, and it came as a welcome distraction.

He stood at one end of the large, open-plan office between two whiteboards. Pinned to the boards were various photos and documents relating to Roy Slack and his organisation.

The photos were of Slack and some of his henchmen, including Danny Carver, Frank Piper and Terry Malone, the man killed when police raided his home in Lambeth. There was also a picture of Hugh Wallis, the missing firearms officer who shot Malone.

The documents contained snippets of information that had already been gathered, including biographical notes and a breakdown of the legitimate businesses that were in Slack’s name and through which he laundered money.

The impression given in the media was that we were starting this investigation from scratch. But that wasn’t so. A small group of detectives and support staff had been working on it for months while the rest of us concentrated on the Harry Fuller case.

Drummond began the briefing with another verbal pat on the back for us all.

‘I’ve just come from a meeting with the Commissioner,’ he said. ‘He wants you all to know that you’re doing a cracking job. But now we have to work even harder to keep up the momentum.’

In some ways Drummond reminded me of my father. There was an aura about him, a sense of control and power that inspired confidence and loyalty among his staff.

‘This scumbag is our next target,’ he said, pointing to a picture of Roy Slack. ‘Our mission won’t be complete until he’s banged up and his organisation lies in ruins. But it’s not going to be a pushover. We estimate that Slack has over a hundred people working for him full time and he’s therefore able to distance himself from the day-to-day stuff.

‘Also, there’s still a hell of a lot we don’t know about his operations. With the others we were able to gather a fair amount of intelligence. We had someone undercover in Paul Mason’s outfit and we managed to turn two of Fuller’s guys so they fed us inside information.

‘But so far all attempts to infiltrate Slack’s mob have failed because anyone even suspected of doing the dirty either disappears or turns up dead.’

Drummond then went on to outline our approach to the investigation. He talked enthusiastically about tactics and strategy and read out a list of priorities. He took questions and invited us to put forward constructive ideas.

It turned into one of those meetings that draws everyone together, and the longer it went on the more excited everyone became. We were all eager to get on with the job, to use all the skills and resources to depose another crime lord.

There was a look of determination on the faces of the officers around me. I was aware of a restless energy that was almost palpable. Everyone was feeling optimistic about the case and the mood in the room was buoyant.

But then suddenly something weird happened and it changed everything in the blink of an eye.

The mobile phones of every detective in the room pinged or vibrated at the same time, signalling an incoming text message.

I’d never known it to happen before and it took us all by surprise. Even Drummond stopped speaking mid-sentence and a frown creased his brow.

Kate Chappell, who was standing next to me, was the first to open up the message and read it because she’d been holding her phone in her hand.

And judging by the look on her face I knew it was something serious.

The message did indeed contain a serious threat, and it sent a ripple of unease around the room.

I read it through twice and felt an icy knot form in my stomach.

Kate Chappell was the first to react, her voice tight with stress.

‘This has to be someone’s idea of a sick joke,’ she said.

Drummond was the next to speak, and it sounded like he was struggling to keep his composure. His face was firm and stoic, but his eyes were dull with shock.

‘First I need to know who among you has received this text,’ he said. ‘So would those who have please raise your hands?’

There were fifteen detectives in the room and five support staff. Only the detectives put up their hands.

Drummond twisted his lips in thought and shook his head.

‘Now there’s no need for anyone to panic,’ he said. ‘My gut tells me that DS Chappell is right and that this is a nasty, pointless prank. Hopefully it won’t take us long to confirm that once the techies find out who the sender is.’

But I for one wasn’t reassured by his words. It was an anonymous text and whoever had sent it would have covered his or her tracks. Plus, I didn’t feel that the threat contained in the text could be dismissed so easily.

I read it again as the air around me began to oscillate with tension:

I demand that the organised crime task force be disbanded. I know that Scotland Yard chiefs will ignore me so I’m calling on you and all the other detectives attached to the unit to step back from it. Those of you who refuse will suffer the consequences and either you or those close to you, including family members, will be killed. You are advised to take this seriously. Do not make the mistake of treating it as an empty threat.

Most of us tried to reply to the text but we all got the same message back – that the recipient could not be contacted.

The message threw up a ton of questions, and not just the obvious one of whether we should take it seriously. If it wasn’t a prank then was it conceivable that the threat would actually be carried out? Would this person really go so far as to launch a murderous campaign against a team of police officers and their families?

It was the stuff of nightmares, but in the age of rampant terrorism it wouldn’t come as such a massive shock if it did happen. London was already on high alert following ISIS-inspired attacks on coppers in the streets.

But this had nothing to do with terrorists. I was sure of that. And so too was Tony Marsden.

‘I reckon this is the work of some villain who wants to put the frighteners on us,’ he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘And the main suspect has to be Roy fucking Slack.’

‘Let’s not jump the gun,’ Drummond said. ‘Anyone could have sent it.’

‘But surely it must be someone with a vested interest, guv,’ Marsden persisted. ‘And the timing of it points to him.’

‘Tony’s right, sir,’ Dave Prentiss said. ‘It’s just the kind of thing the bugger would do to stir things up. He’s desperate to throw us off track, if only to give him time to come up with ways to keep us from bringing him down.’

A thought occurred to me and I said, ‘What worries me is that whoever sent this has all of our personal phone numbers. Now that can only mean one of two things – the personnel files have been hacked or someone leaked them.’

It was suddenly obvious to everyone that even if this did turn out to be a prank, it still gave serious cause for concern.

‘I need to refer this upstairs to the Commissioner,’ Drummond said. ‘In the meantime I don’t want anyone outside this office to learn about this. That includes families and friends. And call those detectives who aren’t here to find out if they’ve also received this message.’

He told us to crack on with our jobs as though nothing had changed. But that was wishful thinking on his part. Everything had changed and it was impossible to concentrate on anything other than the words contained in the message.

… those of you who refuse will suffer the consequences and either you or those close to you, including family members, will be killed …

9
Slack

So the die was cast, and Roy Slack wondered how long it would be before the cops came knocking on his door.

He was sure to be their prime suspect, but since there was no hard evidence linking him to the message all he had to do was deny knowing anything about it.

Before sending the text, Danny had asked him if he was sure it was the road he wanted to go down.

‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,’ he’d told him. ‘The bastards have got this coming. And it won’t be enough to kill a couple of detectives. I want to put the Met itself on the spot. I want the world to see what a useless bunch of tossers they really are. And this is the only way I can think of doing that in the time I have left.’

That conversation had taken place an hour ago. Now Slack and his eight top lieutenants were sat around the long table in the conference room above the pub in Rotherhithe. These were the men who effectively ran his businesses. They carried out his orders and were paid handsomely for their loyalty. There was a hierarchy of sorts and even an organisational chart.

Danny Carver was second-in-command and had a roving remit. The others oversaw different parts of the operation. Frank Piper took care of the drugs. Billy Lightfoot was in charge of the clubs and restaurants. Adam Clarke ran the brothels and protection rackets. Clive Miller looked after the warehouses – and so on.

Below them was a small army of enforcers, bean counters, lawyers, bent coppers and a bevy of corrupt local authority officials.

Slack kicked off the meeting by telling them what they already knew – that they were now in the Old Bill’s line of fire.

Frank Piper voiced the concerns of all of them when he said, ‘After what’s happened to Fuller and the others we’re all worried, boss. The bastards are really gonna put the squeeze on us.’

Slack leaned forward, elbows on the table, and a spark of irritation flashed in his eyes.

‘There’s no need to get your bollocks in a twist, Frank,’ he said. ‘We’ve known for a while that this was coming and we’ve already put some measures in place to protect ourselves. You guys just have to keep your nerve and avoid making any stupid mistakes.’

He wasn’t going to tell Piper and the others what he planned to do and why. It’d serve no useful purpose. Unlike Danny they wouldn’t understand and they couldn’t be trusted not to turn against him when the killings began and the pressure really stacked up.

He didn’t care if they refused to believe that he wasn’t responsible. All he cared about now was using this opportunity to go out with a bang, and to punish the Old Bill for what they had done to him.

It was why he was willing to shell out three million dollars to a Mexican drugs baron in order to get the job done.

Throughout his life he’d been in conflict with the police. He blamed them for what happened to his Julie and the last straw came when they killed Terry Malone.

It was the reason he hated them with every fibre of his being. And why he wanted to settle the score before it was too late.

Slack did not like having to lie to his crew, but he felt he had to. If he told them the truth then they’d go into panic mode and start deserting the firm like it was a sinking ship.

In time that wouldn’t matter, but he didn’t want to give the Old Bill the satisfaction of seeing his empire fall apart too early in the game.

Danny Carver played his part in reassuring the others that the firm would be able to weather the storm that was coming. He put on an act that was worthy of an Oscar, inspired in part by the £500k that had been transferred earlier into his offshore bank account, and the promise that another £500k would be sent in a week’s time.

Danny was a realist, after all. He could see that events had conspired to bring about the end of an era.

Slack had filled him in on the conversation he’d had last night with Carlos Cruz and the information he had subsequently gleaned through Google about the Mexican contract killer nicknamed ‘The Slayer’.

‘Seems like she’s the stuff of legend, Danny,’ he’d said. ‘The media are not even sure she really exists.’

Slack had spent an hour on his laptop and had learned that The Slayer was one of a number of notorious female assassins who were working or had worked for the Mexican cartels.

And from the sound of it they were a right bunch of bloodthirsty crazies. Dubbed Las Flacas (The Skinny Ones), they were now commonplace in the major cartels. They were considered ideal sicarias (hired killers) because they were young, beautiful, reckless, and attracted less attention than their male counterparts.

One glamorous hit-woman known as Juana made headlines in 2016 when, after being arrested, she confessed to having sex with the beheaded corpses of her victims and to drinking their blood.

Others included La Güera Loca, or ‘The Crazy Blonde’ who had appeared in a video posted online in which she’d beheaded a man with a machete. She was currently one of the most wanted women in Mexico.

And then there was the infamous Maria Lopez, or La Tosca – ‘The Tough One’ – who was caught in 2011 and went on to own up to twenty murders.

‘Our girl has more than twice that number of kills to her credit,’ Slack had told Danny. ‘She calls herself Rosa Lopez, but Cruz says it’s not her real name. He says she’s the best in the business but he wouldn’t tell me anything else about her.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything more you need to know, boss,’ Danny had said. ‘For the job you want her to do she sounds fucking perfect.’

10
Rosa

While Slack was holding court in Rotherhithe, Rosa Lopez was just over halfway through her flight to London.

She’d managed a few hours’ sleep, disturbed as usual by the same recurring dream that took her back to that morning twenty-two years ago when she walked into her parents’ bedroom and found them lying on their blood-covered sheets.

She tried to wake them and when she couldn’t she just lay on the bed between them, crying and screaming until Mr Torres from next door broke in and discovered the carnage.

The dream was always so chillingly vivid and it served as a constant reminder of the event that changed the course of her life.

She was told later that her mother and father had each been shot twice from close range by an assassin or assassins who almost certainly used a silenced pistol. It was never established how they’d got into the house in the dead of night, but she did find out why.

Her father had been a drugs dealer for a local gang and had been targeted by his own people who accused him of stealing money from them. In order to make an example of him they decided to kill his wife at the same time.

Rosa was adopted by her father’s sister Teresa and her husband Enrique. But she hardly knew her aunt and had never met Enrique before the day they came to collect her.

For a while they were kind and considerate and made an effort to make her feel comfortable. But it didn’t last long. Teresa had three other older children and Rosa soon got the impression that the family regretted taking her in.

Enrique first came to her bedroom two nights after her seventh birthday. He kissed her on the mouth and touched her between the legs, making her promise not to tell anyone.

The next time, a week later, he made her touch his penis and told her what to do with it.

Soon he was raping her on a regular basis and when she cried he slapped her and pinched her cheeks and threatened to strangle her if she didn’t act like she enjoyed it.

It was obvious that her aunt knew about it and chose to turn a blind eye. But then she was also afraid of Enrique because he was a violent, controlling man with a fierce temper.

The abuse carried on for four years, during which time she was farmed out on occasion to Enrique’s perverted friends.

Then, just three days before her eleventh birthday, Rosa decided she’d had enough.

They were sitting around the kitchen table eating dinner – Rosa, Enrique, Teresa and their youngest son Pedro.

When Rosa was handed the bread knife and told to slice the loaf, she was gripped by a sudden rage so fierce that it propelled her out of her chair. A second later she was lunging at Enrique and thrusting the knife into his chest.

He fell back on his chair and she went down with him. Before Teresa and Pedro could pull her off she managed to stab him twice more – in the mouth and in the right eye socket.

Enrique died before the ambulance arrived and Rosa spent the next seven years in juvenile prison where she learned that life is cheap and you have to be strong to survive.

She cultivated friendships with seasoned criminals, especially those with ties to the cartels. And through them she eventually learned the identity of the man who had murdered her parents.

His name was Antonio Garcia and she swore that one day she would get her revenge.

That day came shortly after she was released at the age of eighteen. She tracked Garcia down to a house in Durango and stalked him for several days. He was arriving home late one evening when she decided to strike. She rushed up behind him just as he was opening his front door. She shoved the muzzle of a gun into his back and ordered him to go inside where she quickly rendered him unconscious with a blow to the head.

When he woke up five minutes later he was handcuffed to a chair and that was where he stayed throughout the night while Rosa systematically tortured him.

She forced him to tell her the name of the man who had got him to kill her parents and before he died she cut off his penis and both his ears.

A week later Rosa walked into a bar in Camargo and put three bullets into the head of the gang boss who had ordered the hit on her parents.

After that she was snapped up by the Sinaloa cartel. She helped move drugs, committed robberies and got involved in kidnappings. But it was soon obvious that her real forte lie in killing people. She had a natural aptitude for it, and over time they started calling her The Slayer.

But she didn’t mind. In fact she found it rather flattering. And neither did she mind that behind her back she was also described as a psychopath.

It was true, after all. And it was no doubt why she enjoyed doing what she did.

And why she was so looking forward to what lay ahead in London.

11
Laura

The air of enthusiasm that had prevailed at the start of the day quickly evaporated. In its place there grew a stifling sense of foreboding.

The thoughts of everyone on the task force were dominated by the anonymous text message and its chilling warning.

As hard as I tried I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. The job we did was often a test of sanity, but I felt that we were now being tested to the limit.

At lunchtime word came back from the experts in the cyber-crime unit that they were unable to trace the source of the message, which was what we’d expected.

Anyone can send an anonymous text or email through apps that can be downloaded from the Internet or websites that offer it as a service.

DCS Drummond also reported back on a brief conversation he’d had with the Commissioner.

‘His view is that we shouldn’t take it too seriously,’ Drummond said. ‘It isn’t the first time that officers in the Met have received threats of this kind and he’s sure that it won’t be the last. His advice is to be extra vigilant and at the same time raise the issue with those we interview as part of the investigation into Roy Slack’s mob.’

It was true that police officers were often threatened. Early on during the investigation into Harry Fuller, a man called my mobile and left a voice message threatening to rape me if I didn’t stop pursuing the gang boss. It gave me a shock, and I was dismayed to discover he’d used a burner phone so he couldn’t be traced.

But his threat just did not ring true so I didn’t lose any sleep over it.

However, this latest threat was different and far more unusual. It had been sent to a whole team of detectives and to my knowledge that had never happened before. It also referred to our families, and that made it all the more alarming. Was it really possible that Aidan and my own mother were in danger? Did I need to warn them? Or was it best not to scare them since we still couldn’t be sure this wasn’t just a prank?

Amongst the detectives, Dave Prentiss appeared to be the most affected by it, presumably because he had only just become a father.

When a group of us gathered in the canteen for a sandwich lunch, he told us he’d been searching Google for stories about serious attacks on the police and what he’d found out had clearly worried him.

‘I didn’t realise there had been so many, especially in the States,’ he said.

He mentioned the case of a former soldier who shot five cops dead in Dallas in 2016. The same year gunmen in Mexico’s western state of Michoacán shot down a police helicopter, killing the pilot and three officers. And as recently as February 2017, a plot was uncovered to assassinate eight officers with the Pecos Valley Drug Task Force in the US state of New Mexico.

‘This is scary stuff,’ Prentiss said. ‘It’s as though nutters everywhere have declared open season on us.’

It might have been an exaggeration, but Prentiss did have a point. There had never been a time when coppers had felt so vulnerable. That was why the debate as to whether all officers in the UK should carry weapons was heating up again.

I had always been opposed to it, along with the majority of my colleagues in the Met, but in view of this new threat I began to wonder if I’d feel safer with a gun strapped to my waistband.

The afternoon was spent getting our act together and deciding who would do what in the weeks ahead. But it was difficult to focus because of the threat.

My thoughts kept turning to Aidan and my mother and I succumbed to the urge to text them both to make sure they were all right. Aidan replied with, ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ But I didn’t respond for fear of making him suspicious.

Get a grip, I told myself. Aidan and Mum are OK. They’re safe. So stop worrying about them and get on with the job.

We needed to familiarise ourselves with the various files on the system relating to Roy Slack’s firm.

While we’d been tied up with the Harry Fuller case most of the information had been updated. Surveillance reports and financial records had been added, along with more photos and notes on members of Slack’s inner circle.

Needless to say no new evidence linking Slack to any criminal activities had emerged. But then he hadn’t been subjected to the kind of scrutiny and pressure that we were about to apply.

I spent the best part of an hour studying everything we had on Slack, and making copious notes along the way.

Included in the paperwork was the interview that was conducted just under a week ago following the disappearance of firearms officer Hugh Wallis who shot and killed Slack’s employee Terry Malone.

Slack, accompanied by one of his high-flying lawyers, presented the officers with a cast-iron alibi for the period when Wallis vanished. He insisted he had not asked his people to seek out the identity of the firearms officer after the shooting and claimed Malone had been employed as a bouncer with the security company he ran.

He was asked why Malone had a shotgun and drugs in his house, to which he replied, ‘You should ask him that question. Oh, but you can’t, can you, because you murdered the poor bugger and at the same time killed his unborn baby.’

What had happened that night was indeed unfortunate and it was questionable as to whether Wallis had made the right call. But the inquiry into the incident had given him the benefit of the doubt.

However, the manner of Malone’s death might well have prompted someone to seek revenge against Wallis. And since Malone had no living relatives, suspicion had fallen on Slack.

But if he had arranged for Wallis to be kidnapped and killed, then I was sure we would never be able to prove it.

The story was always the same with Roy Slack. He managed to avoid any link between himself and the dirty deeds carried out on his behalf.

I had never interviewed or questioned the man myself but those who had had generally formed similar opinions of him. He was smart, they said, and paranoid. And he treated all police officers with utter contempt.

The profile we’d been building also included descriptions provided by underworld figures who had dared to tell us what they knew about him.

Certain words cropped up repeatedly. They were: cruel, brutal, heartless, tyrannical and vicious.

Reading back through all the stuff we had on the guy, I found myself hoping to God that he wasn’t the person who had sent the text. Because if it was him then I feared that there was a good chance it wasn’t just an empty threat.

12
Slack

Everything was in hand for Rosa Lopez’s arrival. The plane was due to touch down at Heathrow just after four o’clock and Danny was going to pick her up.

He would then drive her to the hotel she’d been booked into before taking her to the pub where Slack would meet her. There she’d be given a detailed briefing and the equipment that she’d requested via Carlos Cruz, which included weapons.

Before then Slack had some business to attend to in Dulwich. It was something he’d been putting off for a week because he’d had other things to deal with. But now seemed like a good time to get it done, since he had to go out anyway in order to rendezvous with The Slayer.

Before leaving the building he had lunch in the pub’s restaurant with some of the lads. After a few wines and beers with their steaks, they were more willing to express their fears about what was happening.

‘Most of my days are now spent making sure the plods are not watching or listening to me,’ Frank Piper said. ‘I know that a couple of Harry Fuller’s guys came unstuck because they didn’t know that the task force had placed bugs in their homes and tracking devices in their cars.’

‘They were fucking careless,’ Danny Carver said. ‘It’s not that hard to stop the snooping if you know how to.’

‘And we do know how to,’ Slack said. ‘That’s why they’ve struggled to get close to us.’

But he could see that whatever he told Piper and the others it was not going to ease their anxiety. So after a while he gave up trying and focused on his meal.

At three o’clock he told Mike Walker to bring the car around the front.

‘We’re going to the house in Park Crescent,’ he said. ‘And you need to make bloody sure we’re not followed.’

It’s only about six miles from Rotherhithe to Dulwich, but the route Mike took to get there added two miles to the journey.

He used to be a cabbie so he knew the area like the back of his hand. There was no way the Old Bill could have tailed them without being spotted.

Dulwich was one of the more serene parts of South London with a picturesque park and a famous college. It was also a good place to invest in property, which was why Slack had bought the house in Park Crescent a few years ago.

It was one of four the firm owned south of the river and three were being rented out. They’d been purchased through fake companies so they wouldn’t fall victim to seizure warrants if ever he was arrested and charged with an offence. The place in Park Crescent was currently occupied by two of his most reliable crew members – Johnny Devonshire and Pat Knowles. He let them live there for free because the place was frequently used for all kinds of activities, including the storage of drugs and stolen goods, clandestine meetings with corrupt coppers and officials, and as a safe house for those who needed to drop out of sight for a while.

It was a detached property close to the hospital, with an integral garage and a small front garden enclosed by high hedges that provided a degree of privacy.

Johnny and Pat were expecting him and, as the car pulled up at the kerb, the front door was opened and they both stepped outside.

They were tall, muscle-bound hard cases, and had worked as a team since sharing a prison cell at the Scrubs some years ago.

Slack told Mike to wait in the car while he got out to shake hands with Johnny and Pat.

‘Good to see you, boss,’ Pat said. ‘We weren’t sure you’d ever manage to get here.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s been hectic guys. Plus, I was playing safe because the Old Bill have been watching me.’

He entered the house and took off his overcoat, which he handed to Johnny.

‘Any problems with our lodger?’ he asked.

Johnny shook his head. ‘None at all. We’ve been feeding him sleeping pills so he’s been as quiet as a mouse.’

‘Right. Well after tonight he’ll be off your hands.’

Slack walked along the corridor to the door that led to the basement.

‘I’ll go down and sort him by myself,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour and put the kettle on. I’m sure I’ll fancy a cuppa when I’ve finished.’

He pulled the door open and stepped inside. The light was already on and as he descended the stairs he felt his pulse quicken.

The basement was large and gloomy and was often packed with illicit contraband. But now it was virtually empty except for the man who was sitting on a bare mattress with his back to the wall and one hand cuffed to a metal ring secured to the floor.

He was a sinewy guy with a crew cut and a face half covered with stubble. Pale and glassy-eyed, he was wearing a roll-neck sweater and jeans.

There were two blankets next to him on the mattress and the air around him stank of shit.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Slack spoke first as his face morphed into a mask of pure hatred.

‘So you’re the trigger-happy cunt who murdered both my son and unborn grandchild,’ he said.

It was the first time he’d laid eyes on Hugh Wallis since arranging for Danny and a couple of the other lads to snatch him.

That was a week ago, shortly after one of the bent coppers on the firm’s payroll had leaked his identity.

He’d been brought here to await his punishment, which Slack had been determined to administer himself.

‘Please let me go,’ Wallis pleaded, his eyes wide and bloodshot. ‘I have a family, for Christ’s sake.’

Slack made a sneering shape with his mouth.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he yelled.

Wallis nodded and a tear streaked down his right cheek.

‘You’re Roy Slack.’

‘That’s right. And I’m here to pay you back for killing Terry Malone when there was no need. And you did it only a few hours after I broke the news to him that I was his dad. That can’t be allowed to go unpunished.’

Wallis tried to respond, but Slack held up his hand to stop him.

‘I don’t want to hear what you have to say. This is not a fucking court of law where you get to plead your case. As far as I’m concerned you’re as guilty as sin. Terry’s girlfriend was there, as you know. She told everyone what happened. But your lot chose to believe you over her and that ain’t right.’

Wallis pulled himself up on one knee and started pleading for his life.

Slack responded by stepping forward and saying, ‘You should count yourself lucky that you’re not being tortured. As much as I’d like to make you suffer I haven’t got the time to piss around.’

He thrust his right hand into his trouser pocket and when he pulled it out he was clutching a brass knuckle-duster with spikes.

The fear shone out of the copper’s eyes as Slack clenched his jaw and bared his teeth.

‘You took my son away from me before I had a chance to get to know him,’ he said. ‘I had big plans for that boy and you fucked them up. And because you’re a copper you thought you’d get away with it. Well, you were wrong.’

The first blow tore a chunk out of Wallis’s arm as he raised it to shield his face. He screamed and toppled onto his back.

Slack jumped onto the mattress and started aiming kicks at the man’s head. Wallis was too weak to put up a fight. He tried to roll onto his side and bring his legs up against his chest, but he wasn’t quick enough.

Slack dropped down heavily on top of him, and sat astride his stomach. And then he let rip with the knuckleduster, his weapon of choice for the past thirty years.

He smashed it against his victim’s face, head and throat, tearing flesh and crushing bone and teeth. And he didn’t let up for a full two minutes, by which time Wallis was unrecognisable. And he was dead.

He’d made a right mess, though, and there was blood everywhere, including on his hands and shirt. But that wasn’t a problem because there was a wardrobe full of spare clobber upstairs.

He dragged himself to his feet and used his hanky to wipe his blood and prints from the knuckle-duster, which he then slipped back in his pocket.

He paused to look down at his victim, or, rather, what was left of him.

‘That was for you, Terry my son,’ he said. ‘The bastard got what he deserved.’

Slack walked back up the stairs where Johnny and Pat were waiting for him in the hallway.

‘I’m ready for that tea now,’ Slack said.

‘Is the guy sorted, boss?’ Pat asked him.

Slack nodded, a little breathless. ‘It’s time to call the clean-up crew. I want the body to disappear, along with every last trace of the cunt.’

13
Laura

There was another briefing at four o’clock. By then our approach to the new investigation was taking shape.

Tasks had been assigned and everyone had been brought up to speed on what intel the Met had on Roy Slack’s firm.

There was a lot of hearsay and speculation, along with a list of all the known faces who worked for him. Most of them had criminal records and violent reputations. But what was lacking was hard, incriminating evidence against them and their boss.

There had been some successes over the past few years. Two of the firm’s drug dealers had been caught red-handed and sent down, but had refused to say who they were working for. And a major haul of cocaine from Mexico – with a street value of ten million pounds – was intercepted on a ship at Dover. But although we were certain it belonged to Slack and came from his cartel partners, we couldn’t prove it.

The London gangs had managed to grow and prosper partly because of the huge cuts imposed by successive governments on police manpower and resources. The Met in particular had often been stretched to breaking point.

But it was a different story now with the task force initiative and the government’s determination to get on top of the problem.

The tide had turned in our favour and we were now getting results. Of course there was no way we could ever entirely eliminate organised crime in the capital, but at least we could inflict enormous damage and reassure the public that we were doing our job.

And my job in respect of this new case was to focus on the main man – Roy Slack. It was the same brief I’d had on the last investigation, which was why I’d been one of the two officers sent to arrest Harry Fuller, the other being Martin Weeks.

This time Drummond had teamed me up with Kate Chappell because Martin had since moved over to the National Crime Agency. I was happy with that; Kate too.

‘I want you to dig up as much as you can on Slack’s private life,’ Drummond said to both of us. ‘For instance, we know he has at least one mistress. But are there others and can we get anything out of them? And what about his enemies? I’m struck by the fact that in the past so little was done to squeeze them for information. So draw up a list of those you think we should talk to.’

He told us to arrange for surveillance to be stepped up on Slack and his top henchmen.

‘We’ve been watching his flat in Canary Wharf and his office in Rotherhithe,’ he said. ‘But it hasn’t been round-the-clock because we’ve been short of people. From now on we need to know where he is and what he’s up to 24/7.’

‘What about the text message and the threat to kill us all?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t we go and ask him if he knows anything about that?’

Drummond shook his head. ‘I don’t see the point at this stage. Even if he did arrange for it to be sent he’ll only deny it.’

‘But we could use it as an excuse to seize his phone and laptop.’

‘We had him in under a week ago after Officer Wallis disappeared,’ Drummond said. ‘As you know he was questioned for several hours and his properties were searched. If we haul him in again this soon without any solid new evidence then his lawyers will go ape-shit. So I think we should hold fire until we have something concrete to confront him with. Besides, the techies are still trying to find out where the message came from and it’s only fair to give them more time.’

I wasn’t happy with that and I could tell I wasn’t the only one. The threat we had all received was still hanging over our heads like a dark cloud – and there seemed no prospect of it going away anytime soon.

On the way home I saw my first Christmas tree. It lit up the window of a charity shop close to the tube station in Balham.

The big day was still three weeks away but the city was already gearing up for it. This year Aidan and I had made plans to spend it with his parents in Spain. The flights were booked and I was really looking forward to it. Usually we stayed home and had my mother round, but she’d made arrangements to spend Christmas with her best friend Sylvia who lived in the New Forest.

Mum had also arranged to come round to our house this evening and I’d completely forgotten. It wasn’t until I walked in and saw her sitting at the kitchen table that I remembered.

It was six o’clock and Aidan had already sorted the dinner – cheese-filled jacket potatoes – and he’d even poured me a glass of white wine.

‘You forgot I was coming, didn’t you?’ Mum said as I leaned over to kiss her. ‘I could tell from your face.’

‘It’s your imagination,’ I said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.’

She grinned and I wondered why I ever bothered lying to her. She could read me like a book.

I took off my coat and gave Aidan a quick cuddle.

‘Looks like you’ve had a tough day,’ Mum said. ‘Is everything all right?’

I’d decided on the way home to adhere to Drummond’s instruction and not to mention the threatening message, at least until the techies had spent more time looking into it. It was best they didn’t know. Mum, especially, would be unnerved by it.

‘We launched a new investigation this morning,’ I said. ‘That’s always a bit stressful. It means reading lots of files and attending long, drawn-out meetings.’

‘Aidan’s been telling me about it, and I saw your boss on the news,’ Mum said. ‘I’m really proud of you, Laura, and I know your father would be too.’

As she spoke I could see the glint of unshed tears in her eyes. The mere mention of my father always provoked an emotional reaction even after all this time. She had never really come to terms with his death and that was why she hadn’t been able to move on. She wore grief like a chain around her neck and the weight of it showed on her face.

She was fifty-eight but looked much older. Her eyes, which peered out through thick-rimmed glasses, had lost their sparkle, and her skin was stretched too tight across her bones. It was as though the life had been sucked out of her.

I walked over and gave her another kiss on the forehead.

‘It’s nice of you to say that, Mum. It means a lot.’

And then I quickly tried to lighten the mood by changing the subject. I told her about Dave Prentiss becoming a father. I knew she’d be interested because she’d met him not so long ago. I’d agreed to go along to the school to give a talk about careers in the police force, but had to pull out at the last minute. Dave had done me a favour by stepping in.

‘They’ve named him Josh,’ I said. ‘And he’s so cute.’

It did the trick. My Mum smiled and said, ‘What a coincidence. My neighbour became a grandmother yesterday as well.’

Babies were her favourite subject and she stuck with it as Aidan served up the potatoes. We both waited for the inevitable question and it wasn’t long in coming.

‘So have you two given any more thought to getting married and starting a family?’

It was always so tempting to tell her the truth, but now wasn’t the time to start building her hopes up, especially if, God forbid, I wasn’t able to have children.

‘I keep telling you, Mum,’ I said. ‘You’ll be the first to know when we do. I promise. We just want to wait for a while and concentrate on our careers. There’s no hurry, after all.’

She kept her eyes on me and pointed her fork at Aidan.

‘Well, let me tell you, young lady,’ she said. ‘You’ve struck gold with this one, and if I was in your shoes I’d tie him down with a wedding ring and children so he can’t get away.’

Aidan couldn’t help but laugh as he reached across the table and placed a hand over my mother’s.

‘There’s no way I would ever leave your daughter,’ he said. ‘She’s the best darn thing that’s ever happened to me.’

Aidan had a knack for saying things that stirred my emotions and made me want to make love to him. And if my mother hadn’t been with us I would have dragged him upstairs to the bedroom and done just that.

Instead it was going to have to wait until after he had taken her home.

But as always she was keen to be off as soon as she’d finished dinner.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a coffee?’ I asked her.

She shook her head. ‘It’s almost seven and you know I like to be in bed by eight during the week. But thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘It’s been our pleasure,’ Aidan said, as he pushed back his chair and stood up.

At that moment his mobile pinged with an incoming text message. It was lying next to me on the table so I picked it up and handed it to him.

While he checked it I started clearing the dishes but then stopped suddenly when I heard him gasp.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said, turning back to him with a plate in each hand.

He looked up, his eyes bulging, his mouth agape.

‘What in Christ’s name does this mean?’ he said and held the phone towards me.

I put the plates down and grabbed the phone. And as I started reading the text every muscle in my body went still.

This morning I sent the following message to every detective on the organised crime task force. Thought you should know.

It was the same message with the same unambiguous threat.

‘Is this for real, Laura?’ Aidan asked, thrusting his chin towards my mother. ‘Are our lives in danger?’

14
Slack

He was on his second pint when Danny called him on his mobile.

‘I’m sorry for the delay, boss. The plane got stuck in a holding pattern over the airport for ages. Then we had to contend with the bloody rush hour.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘I’m just checking her into the hotel. What about you?’

‘I’m in the pub. Arrived about half an hour ago.’

‘Great. We should be there in ten minutes.’

It was why that particular hotel had been chosen. It needed to be within walking distance of the pub.

‘What about the second text message?’ Slack said. ‘Did it get sent?’

‘It did. I had confirmation a few minutes ago.’

The second message had been Danny’s idea. He’d come up with it late last night as a way of raising the fear factor even before the killings began. It was sent to those people close to the detectives whose phone numbers they’d been able to obtain.

‘Just so you know, boss, I’ve not had a chance to talk to Jack about the gear,’ Danny said.

‘Don’t worry. He’s taken delivery of everything and it’s all out the back.’

Jack Pickering was the pub landlord and he worked for Slack who owned the building. There was a yard at the rear with a lock-up garage that the firm made extensive use of. It was the perfect place to store the stuff that Rosa Lopez needed to do her job.

After hanging up, Slack sipped at his beer and looked out the window. The evening rush hour was over, but in this part of Lambeth the roads were still busy.

It had taken them almost an hour to get here from Dulwich – a distance of about four miles. On the way he’d told Mike to drive past the house where Terry Malone had lived and died.

It had made him feel sad and yet pleased with himself at the same time. Sad because of what had happened to Terry and pleased because he’d been able to avenge his untimely death.

He didn’t give a toss about that gun-toting copper or his family. The bastard determined his own fate when he shot a defenceless Terry in cold blood.

Just six months ago Slack wouldn’t have cared. He’d never met Terry and had no idea that he’d worked for the Romanians in North London before the gang’s leaders were snared by the task force.

But then, out of the blue, he got a call from an old girlfriend who was in Guy’s Hospital having suffered a severe stroke.

Chloe Malone had begged him to visit her, saying she had something important to tell him. So he’d gone along out of curiosity and she’d revealed that just after they’d split up twenty-six years ago she’d discovered she was pregnant. Eight months later she gave birth to a boy.

‘He’s your son, Roy,’ she’d told him. ‘I want you to know now because there have been serious complications and I might have only days to live. And Terry needs someone to look out for him, otherwise he’ll end up dead or in jail.’

She’d gone on to say that she didn’t tell him about the baby because their relationship had ended badly after he decided to dump her for another woman.

‘It would never have worked out,’ she’d said. ‘You would have wanted the baby but not me. I was sure that you would have made my life a misery or even taken steps to get rid of me.’

To say that he’d been shocked would have been a gross understatement. The revelation had shaken him to the core. He was angry with her even though he knew that what she’d said was true.

Their affair had lasted five months. It was fun but he’d never loved her and when someone better came along he dropped her like a hot brick.

Before he left the hospital she gave him a letter she’d written to Terry in which she disclosed that Slack was his father.

‘I’m not going to tell him before I die,’ she’d said. ‘That wouldn’t be fair, if you decide that you want nothing to do with him. But if you do want to be part of his life then show him the letter.’

Three days later she passed away and for weeks afterwards he wasn’t sure what to do or whether or not to even believe her.

So he made enquiries, found out that Terry was looking for work, and got the lads to recruit him onto the firm. Then he took steps to secretly obtain samples of his DNA, which confirmed what Chloe had said.

That was when it really hit home that he had a son. The effect on him was profound. Julie had never been able to conceive and he had always wanted a child.

So he came to a decision. He would promote the lad within the firm and get to know him. And then when he felt the time was right he would drop the bombshell and show him Chloe’s letter.

After that he would groom Terry to be his successor. The idea pleased and excited him, and suddenly he had a purpose in life other than making money.

But then something happened that changed everything and that was why he confided in Terry that night in the club.

He gave him the letter from his mother and told him that he wanted him to eventually take charge of the firm. And he told him why his plan had been brought forward.

Naturally the lad reacted as though he’d received a jolt of electricity. But Slack had assured him that he had what it took and that it was meant to be.

‘So go home and think about it, son,’ he’d said. ‘Your mother asked me to look out for you and that’s exactly what I plan to do. You and my grandchild will have a bright and prosperous future. And you’ll want for nothing.’

They were the last words he said to Terry. Hours later the lad was dead.

Rosa Lopez was not what he was expecting. The eyes of everyone in the saloon bar were drawn towards her as she came in ahead of Danny who held the door open for her.

Slack felt the urge to whistle as she walked towards where he was sitting in an alcove next to the window.

She was disarmingly attractive, with thick, lustrous black hair and naturally olive skin. Her face was smooth and narrow, and she moved with the sinewy grace of a catwalk model.

She had on a smart leather jacket with a fleece lining that looked brand new and probably was. It was open at the front and underneath she was wearing torn jeans and a tight brown sweater.

She was slim but endowed in all the right places, and it struck him that she was so unlike any of the contract killers he had ever come across.

Rosa Lopez was stunning, and he reckoned she probably stood out even among the beautiful sicarias in Latin America. He found it strange that someone so young and beautiful could be a sadistic killer. He wondered if she had been born a psychopath or whether events in her life had turned her into one.

As she approached, he held out his hand and introduced himself. She smiled and it lit up her face, but there was something unconvincing about it.

‘Welcome to London,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Not too much I hope,’ she replied.

She spoke perfect English with only the faintest trace of an accent.

‘Please take a seat,’ he said. ‘Danny will get the drinks in.’

‘Just an orange juice for me,’ she said, sitting down opposite him without removing her coat. ‘I never touch alcohol when I’m on an assignment.’

‘Very sensible of you,’ Slack said.

As Danny went off to the bar, Slack studied the woman who had come all the way from Mexico. Her eyes were the colour of dark chocolate and there was no emotion in them. In fact they quite unnerved him.

‘How was the journey?’ he asked.

‘Very pleasant. But then it usually is when one travels first class.’

‘And is the hotel to your liking?’

She shrugged. ‘Not really. It’s cheap and cheerful, but that’s OK because I understand it was chosen for its location. And anyway I’m not here on vacation.’

‘That’s true enough,’ Slack said. ‘And can I take it that your boss made you aware of how unusual this job is?’

‘It’s not that unusual, Mr Slack. I’ve taken out plenty of police officers over the years. Once I killed three in a single day and in different locations. I’m not in the least bit intimidated by the scale of this assignment.’

Slack was impressed. He could see now why Carlos Cruz had sent her and why she was so highly rated. She had the one essential attribute of all successful contract killers; she was not troubled by the conventional standards of morality.

Danny came back to the table with their drinks and Slack was struck by a jarring thought. To the other customers they no doubt looked like normal people, friends enjoying an evening out. But in reality they were the opposite of normal. Between them they had carried out scores of abhorrent crimes and were planning to commit many more.

Rosa suggested they steer clear of small talk and get straight down to business. So Slack told her about the organised crime task force and the text messages that had been sent to the detectives and their immediate family members.

Rosa raised her brow. ‘And do you really think that killing some detectives will stop the rest of them coming after you?’

He grinned. ‘Not at all. But that’s not why I’m doing it. This is just the opening salvo in a war I’ve declared against London’s police. I want to start by making them think it’s just about the task force. That’ll confuse and unsettle them before the real fun begins.’

At this point he took a mobile phone and a buff-coloured envelope from his pocket and handed them to her.

‘It’s an unregistered phone and you can use it to contact me and Danny,’ he said. ‘Our numbers have been programmed in and we have your number. The envelope contains the list of targets. Names, addresses and contact details of the detectives and their loved ones. There’s also a link to a website on which we’ve uploaded photographs of all the officers and many of the family members.’

‘Where did the information come from?’ Rosa asked.

‘There’s someone on the task force who’s working for us.’

Rosa picked up the envelope, folded it and slipped it into the inside pocket of her jacket along with the phone.

‘The stuff you requested is in the lock-up garage at the rear of these premises,’ he said. ‘It’s in a secure position and you’ll be given a key to access it when you need to. When you’ve finished your drink we’ll show it to you. Now have you got any questions?’

She drank some of her juice, then wet her upper lip with her tongue.

‘I’ve got two questions,’ she said. ‘I’d like to know how long you expect me to stay and how many people you want me to kill.’

Slack leaned towards her. ‘Under the deal with your boss I have you for two weeks. I’d like you to carry out the hits at a rate of one a day, although I do appreciate that it might not be possible. And, if I’m not otherwise disposed, I might well ask Cruz to extend the contract. It all depends how much fun I’m having.’

The garage behind the pub was set back from the road. Danny unlocked it and raised the door, and Slack and Rosa followed him inside.

In front of them was a motorbike with leathers and a helmet on the seat. Saddlebags were attached either side of the seat.

‘We were told only that you wanted two wheels,’ Danny said. ‘Is this thing OK?’

She looked it over and nodded. ‘It looks perfectly fine.’

‘Good. There’s a bunch of fake stick-on number plates in the left-side saddlebag. Change them as often as you need to avoid street traffic cameras.’

On the table to the right of it there was an iPad, a takedown sniper rifle in an open briefcase, a pistol with silencer attached, a large knife, a garrotte with plastic handles, and five mobile phones.

‘These are all burner phones so you can dump them after you use them,’ Slack said. ‘It means you don’t have to use the phone I’ve already given you. The iPad has been set up so you’re ready to go online.’

Rosa stepped forward and ran her hands over the weapons.

‘You’ve been very thorough,’ she said.

‘That’s because like you we’re pros,’ Slack told her.

Danny then handed her the key to the garage. It was attached to a plastic keyring that enclosed a photo of the pub’s exterior and the words: Three Crowns, Vauxhall. They then stepped outside, and Rosa locked up.

‘Would you like another drink?’ Slack asked her.

She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I need to go back to the hotel to start planning. And since this is my first time in London I have to get my bearings.’

‘Well, if there’s anything else you need you only have to ask.’

‘There is something I need to know,’ she said. ‘Do you want to be the one who decides who I target and when? Or are you leaving that to me?’

‘That’s your call, Rosa,’ he said. ‘You have the names and plenty of information on all of them. The only thing I ask is that you don’t hang around.’

‘No problem,’ she said. ‘All being well I’ll start tomorrow.’

15
Laura

‘I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me about this threat,’ Aidan said, and the words hissed through his teeth. ‘I had a right to know and so did your mum.’

It was an hour since Aidan had opened up the message and still the atmosphere in our house was taut with tension.

Aidan was angry as well as shocked and my mother was a bag of nerves. Her reaction was completely understandable because the same message had been sent to her mobile, which had been on silent mode in her handbag. She discovered it only after I asked her to check the phone.

To make matters worse I’d received calls from two colleagues informing me that their family members had also received the message.

‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ I said lamely. ‘And the gaffer ordered us not to tell anyone about it.’

‘But I’m not anyone, Laura,’ Aidan said. ‘I’m your partner and I have a right to know if my life is being threatened.’

‘But we can’t be sure it’s not just some vile prank,’ I said. ‘We therefore have to be careful not to create unnecessary alarm.’

‘So you and your colleagues decided that the best course of action was to keep quiet and ignore it.’

‘No, not at all. It’s being looked into to determine whether it’s a credible threat.’

‘And while you do that you think it’s all right to leave us in the dark. Is that it?’

I didn’t answer, just stood there in the middle of the kitchen, the breath trapped in my lungs.

‘Well, whoever is behind it obviously knew that you wouldn’t tell us,’ he went on. ‘And the fact that they have our private numbers suggests to me that this is not the work of some harmless prankster.’

I couldn’t disagree with him on that point so I didn’t try.

‘I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you about it,’ I said, looking from Aidan to my mother who was still sitting at the table twirling a hanky between her fingers. ‘I wish now that I had.’

‘So what should we do?’ my mother said, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘Is it going to be safe for us to carry on as normal?’

‘Of course it is, Mum,’ I said. ‘Lots of people make threats and most times that’s all they turn out to be.’

My father’s face pushed itself into my thoughts suddenly and I wished he was here with us now. He’d know how best to handle the situation, how to respond to the genuine fears being expressed by my mother and Aidan.

It was difficult for me because I was just as worried as they were, and just as creeped out by what was happening.

Aidan had already asked me who we thought was responsible and I’d told him we had no idea. Now he jumped to his own conclusion.

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