London Large: Blood on the Streets by Roy Robson, Garry Robson

the team had
amassed on them and committed it all to memory.
    He then turned to Agapov, who
had been a player in London for some time and was already well known to H. Him
and his small army had taken control of significant parts of the London
underworld and, in particular, cornered the market in people trafficking. For H
this was truly the vilest of all gangland activities, a modern slave trade at
the heart of the capital. He was determined to bust the thing wide open.
    I’ll give these bastards
what they deserve.
    Various parts of Agapov’s
organisation had been under surveillance for months. No arrests had been made
so far. H had wanted to move on their setup in Peter Street and take Agapov out
of the picture, but Hilary insisted on playing the long game. She had an
inkling there were bigger fish to fry so H was told to wait it out and gather
evidence.
    He then turned to the
pictures of the two headless bodies that had been washed up in the Thames, in
Deptford; bodies that fitted perfectly with the two heads the Russians had
tossed into the mix in Bermondsey. It had taken a while but both men had been
formally identified as being known associates of Dragusha.
    Ouch! Must be some serious
revenge being planned. Surprised it hasn’t happened already.
    H read through the rest of
the notes. It seemed Amisha had been very thorough in gathering evidence and
perhaps soon some major police assault and arrests would be prepared, hopefully
before it all kicked off again. He wanted to get back to work, to make sure he
was involved in whatever was being planned.
    Good girl Ames, good work.
    He turned to the second file
on his lap. Amisha had taken a big personal risk in doing what he asked but the
update on the Tara case sat before him. He opened the file and started reading.
His mood worsened. It was clear that there had been no progress. No progress
whatsoever. Nish. Nada. Nic.
    There was no information on
the identity of the nutter in the park. No connection to the gangland war
ravaging London’s streets. In all his years of coppering H had never known
anything like it. A murderer is taken out at the scene of the crime and six
days later not a single thing about him or his motives is known. Had it really
been just a random act of violence? An indiscriminate killing by a lone wolf, a
solitary, highly trained killer who had sprung organically from the St James’s
Park undergrowth?
    Not fucking likely.
    Sir Basil, drowning in grief,
was all but unapproachable. And despite the grand public shows of support from
Old Shitbreath’s friends, they appeared to be treating the hapless
Miller-Marchant with utter contempt. He seemed incapable of penetrating their
clique in order to garner even elementary facts about Tara’s personal life.
Anything that might provide the most basic of clues seemed beyond him. Rather
surprisingly H felt a ripple of sympathy for Little Manbot. H knew these
people, with their private clubs and associations, their old school ties, their
walls of silence.
    He knew these people alright;
and he knew he didn’t like them. He hated them.

28
    H’s anger was about to
burst out of his chest when Ronnie appeared from his flat. He suppressed it,
knowing that today, of all days, he had to keep it together.
    ‘Ready son?’ H said as Ronnie
clambered in.
    Ronnie said nothing, just
exhaled massively and shook his head. No. Not ready. Not ready for this.
    They drove down in near
silence. Ronnie could not have looked so forlorn and lost, H thought, since
Goose Green.
    Poor fucker. He’s in bits.
Don’t feel all that clever myself
.
    The miles rolled on - Ronnie
mute, H in the kind of agitated state he couldn’t put a name to - until eighty
or so of them had passed. The old house came into view. H pulled up next to the
high Cotswold Stone wall. Ronnie, in the passenger seat, was staring ahead and
gulping hard. H touched him on the shoulder; out they got. Through the gate and
into the grounds, and there was the clan, and