“Thanks, Sarge,” Danny said, without enthusiasm.
Faulkner chuckled. “That’s my keen lad.” His good humour faded. “Walk with me.” Danny dutifully fell into step with Faulkner. “I like you lad,” Faulkner continued. “You know how to follow orders – that’s a rare thing, these days. Most of the operators we employ these days are good at interpreting orders, but piss-poor at actually following them. When I tell a man to do something, I want him to bloody well do it, no questions asked.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Faulkner looked at him. “But you’re not an idiot, either. You’ve got a brain in that head. Another rarity. That’s why you volunteered.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“There’s a great future ahead of us, Danny. So long as we walk the path of the righteous, as laid out by our lord and master, Mr Nigel Cass.” Faulkner smiled as he said it. “Albion is the pre-eminent private military contractor in the western hemisphere. We took what others did, and did it better.” He paused. “A bit like curry, innit?”
“Sarge?”
“Never mind. There was a shooting last night.”
“Another one?” Danny said. “Where?”
“Out back of some dingy boozer. Same MO. One shot. Clean. Precise. The plods are all over it, but we’re going to stick our oar in.” He stopped. “The victim’s name was Colin Wilson. Know anyone by that name?”
“No, Sarge.”
Faulkner studied him for a moment before replying. “You sure? It was practically on your patch. The pub was over near the Locksley Estate.”
Danny felt a chill. “Which pub?”
“The Wolfe Tone.”
Danny grunted, careful not to let his sudden unease show on his face. Was that where Ro had gone last night, after she’d stormed off? “That’s a Kelley pub.”
Faulkner frowned. He knew who the Kelleys were. Albion operatives had produced stacks of dossiers on the Kelley Clan and the other criminal gangs who’d divvied up East London between them. The order hadn’t come down to move against the Kelleys or any of the others thus far, but privately Danny figured it was only a matter of time. The only real way to get the East End under control was to remove the gangs from the equation.
“So you do know it,” Faulkner said.
“Even my mum knows it, Sarge. Everyone does. The Kelleys don’t exactly hide it.” Danny paused. “Do we think they’re are involved?”
Faulkner scratched his chin. “Good question, my lad. I want you to find out.”
Danny looked at him in confusion. “Sarge?”
“You and Hattersley. I want you to look into this. You’ll start with the poor sod who got slotted last night.” Faulkner turned away. “Come with me.”
“Sarge, I’m not an investigator,” Danny said, as he hurried to keep up with Faulkner. “Come to that, are we are even allowed to investigate crimes in the borough?”
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Faulkner said, not looking at him. “Tower Hamlets is our forward fire support base. And these shootings are making the natives restless. The plods won’t solve it, so we need to – and fast. If that means a few politicians get their noses out of joint, well fuck ’em sideways, says I.”
“Yeah, but–” Danny began.
Faulkner glanced at him. “Danny, shut it and screw the cap tight, eh? Orders is orders, and I expect you to do as you’re told. Can you do that for me, lad?”
Danny nodded. “Yes, Sarge.”
“Good lad. Now, there’s someone you need to talk to.”
“Yeah, who?”
“A guest in the custody suites.”
The custody suite was a small block of a dozen temporary cells at the back of the warehouse. Each of the cells was soundproofed, with a steel door and a viewing slot. All were currently empty, insofar as Danny knew. Albion didn’t yet have official permission to hold suspects. But when they did, they would be ready.
“I thought we weren’t allowed to detain suspects yet,” Danny said, as Faulkner led him down the row of cells. “Or is this another one of those forgiveness permission things?”
Faulkner snorted. “Don’t play the clever clogs, Danny, it don’t suit you.” He led Danny to the cell on the end, tapped a code into the digital lock, and swung the door open. Inside, a man sat on the cell’s bench, looking very nervous and very tired. “I need to take a piss,” he said, as he stood. Faulkner hit him in the gut.
“What you need to do is tell young Danny here what you told me,” he growled. He shoved the prisoner back against the bench and turned. “This is Gary. Gary was at The Wolfe Tone last night, weren’t you, Gary?”
Gary wheezed and nodded, one arm pressed to his stomach. Faulkner sat down beside him, and put a companionable arm over the man’s hunched shoulders. “Gary got picked up for having a slash in public. Not exactly a criminal genius.” Faulkner looked at Gary. “Tell him what you told me, Gary.”
“If I do, are you going to let me go?”
“We’ll consider it. Now talk.”
Gary talked. He hadn’t witnessed the shooting, but he’d known the victim. Wilson had been a white van man, which Danny mentally translated as a courier for the Kelleys. He also knew where Wilson lived.
Faulkner patted Gary on the shoulder when he’d finished, and rose to his feet. “I want you to start with the flat. See if there’s anything there that’ll tell us what we need to know.”
“The plods will have picked it clean by now.”
Faulkner smiled. “Gary, tell young Danny what happened after the shooting.”
Gary looked away. “The Kelleys stripped the body. Took his Optik, his wallet, his keys. Everything that could identify him.” He paused. “They told us to keep quiet about it, until they say otherwise.”
Danny grunted. That was fairly standard for the Kelleys. The shooting would bring the police right to their doorstep. They’d be doing everything in their power to keep any investigation to a minimum. He was surprised they hadn’t moved the body – then, that might only have
