‘But why Briganti’s?’
‘Depends on the reason. An arrogance on whoever’s part that the English police are ineffective, a warning to the Romanians and the other criminals in the area.’
‘Are we ineffective?’
‘We go by the book. It’s still more effective than the alternatives, and we’re not dealing with terrorism here.’
‘It’s worse than that,’ Bridget said.
‘Terrorism is usually committed by low-intellect, religiously dogmatic and radicalised peoples. Organised crime overseas is not run by fools, but by people who are smart and know what they’re doing,’ Isaac said.
‘As I said, it’s worse.’
‘The upsurge in weapons in the area?’ Wendy said.
‘There are enough already, but there could be more. We’ll see what Larry’s got to say, and what Cojocaru tells us.’
***
Four men sat in a room heavy with the smell of ganja, the Caribbean name for marijuana. Their collective criminal empires overlapped and included the area covered by Challis Street Police Station: from Paddington in the east, through Bayswater and Notting Hill and Holland Park to the West, up north as far as Ladbroke Grove and then south taking in Shepherd’s Bush and Kensington.
The house where the men sat was not affluent Kensington or Holland Park, not even Bayswater, but Ladbroke Grove and a council property. The men, leaders of their various gangs, did not often meet, and then only on the street and mostly late at night when a dispute had to be settled that invariably resulted in violence.
Larry, who had smelt ganja many times before, had to admit to a feeling of light-headedness as he waited in an adjoining room. Across from him, two Rastafarians.
‘They’re not sure what to do with you, copper,’ one of them said. Larry could see the glazed look in the man’s eyes, the colourful and expensive clothes he wore. He could also see the knife in its sheath pushed down the front of his trousers. Larry knew him as Delroy Williams, a man who had spent time in jail for selling crack cocaine. He wasn’t the only one in the house who had served time, but of the four leaders, only one had. He had been caught in an affray three years earlier, stating that a man had come at him with a knife and he had defended himself.
‘Talk to me, that’s what they’ll do. They’re scared,’ Larry said. He had liked Rasta Joe, a former gang leader and part-time informer, when he had been alive, as big a villain as any of the four in the other room, but he had been charismatic too. Delroy Williams was not, and he had a surly manner about him and a hatred of the police.
‘We’re scared of no one,’ Williams said, although Larry had the measure of the man. Williams was a coward, feeling brave on account of the four men in the other room, and the fact that he was spaced out on ganja. Larry chose not to indulge in any more conversation with him.
The other man in the room, a short, unattractive individual, was unknown to Larry. ‘Your name?’ he said.
‘Liston Hayes.’
‘After the boxer?’ Larry said, assuming that he had been named after Sonny Liston, a former world heavyweight boxing champion.
‘Never heard of him,’ the man said.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘A couple of hours.’
‘This country, I meant.’
‘I was born here, up in Manchester.’
Larry looked intensely at the man, recognised the speech patterns, knew that the man had not been in England for more than six months to a year.
Liston Hayes was only small, but he had a look about him that Larry didn’t like. As if he was a man who was more than he seemed, a possible murderer brought into the country in anticipation of the gang warfare which could explode at any time.
The door beyond opened, a man stood at the entrance beckoning Larry to enter. The smell from the room was stronger than where he had been sitting.
‘Don’t worry, Larry. We’ll open the windows, put a fan on high for you. We don’t want one of London’s finest corrupted by us,’ the man said sarcastically.
‘Long time, no see,’ Larry said. ‘I thought you were doing five to ten in Pentonville.’
‘I served three, out for good behaviour. I’m a model citizen now.’
‘Not you, Marcus Hearne, you’ll always be a villain.’ Larry remembered the man from before his imprisonment: good-looking, polite and friendly, a dealer in drugs, a loyal friend to those he liked, ruthless to those he did not. In the end, he had served time for the drug dealing, not for the murders that had occurred on his orders. Personally, Larry liked the man; professionally, he did not. But he knew one thing: if Hearne was one of the four, then he would be safe. Outside on the street, two blocks away, an unmarked patrol car. Larry made a phone call. ‘I’m fine. Don’t stay where you are, leave,’ he said.
Information was coming through from sources on the continent about Briganti’s. Larry would use it if it helped with the discussion, keep it to himself if it would not. The information was dynamite, and the West Indians were touchy at the best of times; he didn’t want them rushing to mobilise their people. He also did not want them arming themselves more than they already were.
***
‘What did you find out?’ Cojocaru, an even-tempered man most times, said. He was sitting in a leather chair in his penthouse. It was early in the afternoon, and the view out over the area was excellent, not that he could enjoy it, not that day.
‘No one knows anything,’ Becali said. He was standing up, as was Antonescu. To sit in the presence of their boss without his express permission would be a marked show of disrespect, almost
