The first of the armed officers reached the top of the stairs, and with one movement he disarmed the last of Rashidi’s remaining bodyguards by thrusting the butt of his Heckler & Koch into his jaw. Only Donoghue was still putting up a fight, but the police light heavyweight boxing champion put him out for the count, then handcuffed him and read him his rights – not that he could hear a word.
Armed officers continued to pour into the slaughter, and began to round up what was left of Rashidi’s workforce, while half a dozen policemen dragged Donoghue and the two bodyguards unceremoniously down the stairs to the ground floor, where the first of a row of Black Marias was waiting to accommodate them. William was disappointed to find that the last of the resistance had already been dealt with by the time he reached the twenty-third floor.
He strode into the slaughter as one of Rashidi’s lieutenants was being led away, shouting and cursing, but not before he was able to throw a punch at William that landed a passing blow and stunned him for a moment. He quickly recovered as another officer slapped a pair of handcuffs on his assailant. As the smoke from the stun grenade attack began to clear, he turned to survey the carnage of what was left of Rashidi’s empire. A dozen or so menial workers wearing face masks and rubber gloves were kneeling on the floor. No doubt most of them were illegal immigrants who hadn’t been working there by choice, and who might even be relieved to have been rescued. The lower ranks of the drugs world always ended up carrying the can for their masters, and they knew they could never open their mouths. There was always another Tulip, always another gouged eye.
William was sure he hadn’t passed Rashidi as he came up the stairs, and Jackie had informed him on the radio that he wasn’t among the frightened passengers in the lift who had been rounded up as soon as they reached the ground floor. As there was no other way out, he began to look more closely at the pathetic rabble who remained in the slaughter. And then he noticed a couple of them were stealing fearful glances at one particular worker. William took a closer look, but could see no difference between him and the others kneeling in front of him. But he tapped him on the shoulder and told him to stand up. He didn’t move.
‘Probably doesn’t speak English, sarge,’ said a young constable, yanking the man to his feet.
‘I think he speaks several languages,’ said William. He removed the man’s mask, but even then he couldn’t be certain.
‘What are you looking for, sarge?’
‘The Viper,’ said William, but not a flicker of recognition crossed the man’s face. ‘Take the glove off your left hand,’ he said slowly and clearly. Again, no response.
The constable ripped the man’s glove off, to reveal that part of the third finger was missing. ‘How did you know that, sarge?’ he said.
‘His mother told me.’
The man continued to stare blankly at William, as if he didn’t understand a word he was saying.
‘If you hadn’t hugged her, Mr Rashidi, I might never have known you were her son.’
Still not a flicker of comprehension.
‘I wonder how she’ll react when I visit her in The Boltons tomorrow morning to tell her what her son really imports from Colombia, and then exports onto the streets of London, not from an oak-panelled office in the City as the respected chairman of Marcel and Neffe, but from a depraved drugs den in Brixton, where he’s known as the Viper.’
The man continued to stand there impassively, not even blinking.
‘The attentive son, who never misses an appointment with his mother on a Friday afternoon but doesn’t care how many young lives he destroys, as long as he makes a profit week in and week out.’
Still nothing.
‘One thing’s for certain, Rashidi. After I’ve told your mother where she’ll be able to find you for the next ten years, hopefully longer, don’t expect her to visit you in prison, because she’ll be too ashamed to admit to her friends at the Brompton Oratory that the real reason they haven’t seen Assem recently is because he’s brought a new meaning to the word evil.’
Rashidi leant forward and spat in William’s face.
‘I’ve never been more flattered in my life, Mr Rashidi,’ he said. The constable stepped forward, thrust Rashidi’s arms behind his back and handcuffed him as William read him his rights. He still didn’t speak.
‘Don’t let him out of your sight,’ said William. ‘There’s an armoured van waiting outside for Mr Rashidi, and a cell awaits him at Brixton police station. It may not need fumigating now, but it certainly will after he’s spent the night there.’
Rashidi leant forward and said, ‘Your days are numbered, sergeant. And I’ll be the one to tell your mother.’
‘No, Mr Rashidi, it’s you whose days are numbered, and I’ll be telling your mother why in the morning.’ Rashidi was unceremoniously led out of the room by two armed officers and escorted to the lift he hadn’t quite reached in time.
When he heard the noise of a helicopter somewhere above him, William walked across to the smashed window and looked out to see a chopper disappearing into the clouds. The colonel would be pleased to have it confirmed that the new lot were indeed every bit as good as the old.
He turned his attention back to the room, now a crime scene that had already been taken over by a different breed of policeman: an exhibits officer, who wouldn’t be joining his wife for dinner, and probably not for breakfast; photographers who were snapping anything that didn’t move; and the scene of crime officers in their white boiler suits and latex
