them standing outside, smoking. Taras and his brother, Anton.
Then a piece of video: an empty lane, restrained sunlight. Several seconds without movement till a dark saloon comes into view, travelling towards the camera, going past, a face at the rear passenger window in dark outline.
Freeze-frame.
Zoom in.
Cordon staring out.
‘You recognise,’ Frost said, ‘where you are? The occasion?’
Cordon nodded, said nothing.
A number of images then, taken with a telescopic lens in fairly quick succession. Cordon moving between the car and the house; Kosach’s minions in their black turtlenecks, waiting to greet him. Search him. The front door opening. Anton Kosach, the pale blue of his shirt bleached almost white. Then nothing.
‘It’s been difficult,’ Frost said, ‘for us to gain as much access as we might have liked. Without alerting the target, propelling him, possibly, into flight.’ A discreet cough into the back of the hand. ‘But, to be crystal clear, that is you, Mr Cordon, paying Mr Kosach a visit? There’s no room for doubt?’
‘Evidently not.’
‘Then in what capacity, may I ask?’
No reply.
‘I ask, because, as far as I am aware, the remit of the Devon and Cornwall constabulary does not stretch quite this far.’
Supercilious bastard, Kiley thought.
What Cordon was thinking didn’t show, not even in his eyes.
‘Mr Cordon …?’
‘I was visiting a friend.’ Cordon’s voice flat and ungiving.
‘Anton Kosach, he’s a friend? Is that what you’re saying? Anton …’
He told them. With the dull precision of someone making a report to a superior, which, in a way, was what this was. Letitia. Her mother. Danya. The apparent break she’d made with Kosach and his efforts to get her to return. He said nothing of the work Letitia had carried out on Kosach’s behalf, in his employ — the brothel, the halfway house — other things he might only have guessed at.
Frost listened with interest, rarely taking his eyes from Cordon’s face. His companion was more distracted, bored even, as if none of this really mattered; wanting to be away.
Kiley stood, stretched; made an offer of tea or coffee, a little late in the day.
‘The investigation into Kosach’s affairs,’ Frost said, ‘it’s near to reaching tipping point, I suppose that’s fair to say, and any new contacts we’ve been monitoring closely.’ A nod towards the iPad. ‘As you can see. And we were a little intrigued at the nature of whatever relationship it was you had. But after the usual checks …’ He smiled. ‘No conspicuous spending, no unexplained large payments into either of your accounts …’
Cordon blinked; Kiley bristled, but held his tongue.
‘… the explanation you’ve given doesn’t diverge too far from what we know. Indeed, adds a little grace note here and there, and I thank you, Mr Cordon, for that. But one thing I would urge you both, where Anton Kosach is concerned, you don’t go near, don’t try to communicate with him in any way.’
He was on his feet, minder at his side. ‘Apple cart. Upset. You know how it goes.’ He turned back at the door. ‘The game tonight, who won?’
‘Orient,’ Kiley said. ‘The odd goal.’
Frost nodded. ‘Always been something of a Spurs fan myself.’
Figures, Kiley thought.
From the window he watched them get into their car and drive away.
‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ Cordon said. ‘Dragging you into all this.’
Bit late for that, Kiley thought. He fetched two beers from the fridge. ‘Leaving it alone, walking away, you going to be all right with that?’
Cordon popped the can. ‘Case of having to, wouldn’t you say?’
He saw Letitia, holding her son tight on the stairs; face betraying little or no emotion, giving nothing away.
55
The warrants were issued: Michael John Carter and Leslie Arthurs for the murder of Valentyn Horak and two others, identities as yet unknown; Carter also on three counts of inflicting grievous bodily harm with intent and for conspiracy to supply cocaine and cannabis; Kevin Martin, Douglas Freeman and Jason Richards for conspiracy to murder and inflicting grievous bodily harm. Gordon Dooley for the importation, repackaging and distribution of cocaine and cannabis and for conspiracy to inflict grievous bodily harm. Anton Kosach for money laundering, conspiracy to traffic human beings into the UK for the purposes of forced labour and conspiracy to traffic women for the purposes of sexual exploitation.
Officers from Serious and Organised Crime Command, Homicide and Serious Crime Command and SOCA were involved, along with others from SO 19, Armed Response, and Operation Support. Close on four hundred, all told.
An hour before sunrise.
Synchronised raids.
Two Metropolitan Police helicopters were on standby, their initial use denied by the noise involved, the necessity of surprise.
At the briefing, in a primary school just south of the river, Burcher had emphasised the importance of coordination, keeping all phone traffic and radio contact to a minimum, nothing that might constitute a warning.
‘And if I see some scumball reporter from the
He was clear.
Warren Cormack went over the details a final time: timing, location. Six addresses in South London, two within a couple of streets of one another, which raised potential difficulties due to the number of officers necessarily present in a relatively small area. The most recent information had all targets
Charlie Frost put in a few words about SOCA’s involvement and made a case for Kosach being the most important single target, with Gordon Dooley a close second. Karen stood a little to one side, not called upon to address the troops and not minding; her place at the top table clear and reserved, her team crucially involved.
‘Not wetting your feet on this one?’ Ramsden said to her with a grin, the briefing over, personnel moving away.
‘Too senior. Leave the heroics to others. Sit back and garner praise.’
There was a brightness in Ramsden’s eyes, the expectation, the testosterone dripping off him like sweat. All geed up to go over the top, in with the milk, what he was born for or so it seemed.
Karen looked around the now almost empty hall. In what? An hour, two at most, they would know how successful they had been.
Les Arthurs was tucked up in bed, sleeping like a baby.
Dougie Freeman, alerted by sounds below, bolted up the stairs to the attic, thence through a narrow window and out on to the roof, bollock naked, his efforts loudly applauded by the officers who had taken up positions on the rooftops to either side.
