Edwards shouldered a path through the crowd of morbid onlookers who stood zombie-like at the perimeter of the police cordon. He ducked beneath the incident tape and approached the burnt-out car. It was now blackened away to nothing, and an unanticipated spatter of drizzle had extinguished the last semblance of the blaze. Much as he resented the presence of the bystanders, he could not bring himself to blame them. It was a gruesome sight alright. Enough to beguile even the most incurious soul. Two corpses, their outlines clearly visible in the ruined car; the driver, and his passenger in the back seat. The passenger was missing a large chunk of his skull, which, if the report Edwards had received was accurate, had been blasted away to nothing by a runaway bullet.
"Witnesses?" he demanded.
"Oh plenty," a uniformed constable informed him. "Unfortunately none of them saw anything." This was the kind of gibberish constables came out with all the time. But it made a kind of sense when you thought about it. The incident had taken place in public, but it had been a highly confusing set of circumstances. It had all happened so quickly. Any eyewitnesses would be utterly useless in a court of law.
Of course, Edwards knew all too well that there was not a chance in hell of anything related to this incident ever being presented in court. He recognised the car, even in its ruined state.
He had come straight from Gatwick, where he had just finished making a tit of himself after that dodgy tip-off from Carter. For the first time, David Carter had let him down. It was embarrassing, but he could forgive it because after all he'd had a pretty high success rate lately. Edwards wasn’t a stupid man, in spite of appearances – he knew the tip-offs he got from Carter were designed to distract from the real shipments that were being brought into the country. Edwards would have bet that if he could be bothered to check up on all his recent busts that each had coincided perfectly with the arrival of a new Mile End player from overseas. But Edwards was a capitalist at heart, and Carter was paying him to look the other way.
Approaching the ruined car, gently inhaling the aroma of charred flesh, he peered in at the dead man in the back seat. So that was Enrico Brigante. And the driver was obviously one of Carter's men. No doubt forensics would find traces of a shipment concealed in the car itself – likely a large one. Heroin, cocaine, whatever. Whoever was responsible for this, they were not interested in the merchandise. This was more about making a statement. Edwards would not have wanted to be in David Carter's shoes that day.
"No registration number?" Edwards asked. He was just going through the motions. He knew that an anonymous Range Rover had been seen in pursuit of this vehicle, and that its registration plates had been removed or disguised somehow. This was a gangland killing, pure and simple. And for the first time in a very long time, Edwards was ahead of the game. He knew more than David Carter wanted him to know. He was in a position to turn the situation to his advantage.
"I'm guessing that's Brigante in the back seat," he observed to no one in particular.
"Right, sir," said the constable. "And the driver's Rob Linley."
"Linley? Well, well." Edwards had met Linley a couple of times at Mile End events. Once or twice he had managed to bag himself tickets to charity galas, that sort of thing, as a reward for his loyalty to David Carter. And on those occasions, Rob Linley had been there to shake his hand and make all the right noises. He was Max Linley's son, and therefore right at the heart of the organisation. Last Edwards had heard, Rob was being groomed for CEO. Well, not anymore. This attack – whoever was responsible – was tantamount to a declaration of war.
Edwards took his mobile phone from the pocket of his overcoat and found Carter's contact details. He pressed the call button, but it didn't connect. David Carter was incommunicado.
Edwards got an address for Rob Linley and decided to head over there. If he was lucky, he might be able to catch Max Linley. It would be an unpleasant scene, but it had to be done. And he might be able to glean some more information about who was responsible.
Cameras flashed all around him as he headed away from the crime scene and back towards his car. Inevitably, the paparazzi vultures had descended to feast on the carrion. "Inspector!" they chorused. "Is it true that Enrico Brigante was one of the passengers?" "Sir, what can you tell us?" "Was this an accident, Inspector, or was it deliberate?"
Edwards ignored them all, clambered into his own car and roared away from the scene.
*
Rochelle was feeling fretful. She didn’t look it, of course. She was always the picture of professionalism. But she was antsy. David Carter had been in a conference call for the last hour, making arrangements with George McMinn and a few others. But this was an emergency. She got up from her desk and headed over to the boss's door. She rapped a couple of times and entered the room.
She caught David mid-sentence. "...And of course we'd have to up our distribution rate..." he trailed off when he saw her, arching his eyebrows.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but it's an emergency."
"Just a minute, gents," said David, "my secretary wants a word with me." He clicked his computer mouse, evidently muting the conference call. "What is it, Rochelle?" he said.
"I'm afraid there's been a road accident, sir, involving the car carrying Enrico Brigante."
"What sort of accident?" David asked in a disturbing monotone.
"A bad one, sir. I don't have all the details, but early reports are indicating that Mr. Brigante has been killed."
Before she had even finished speaking, David was on his feet and heading for the door. "Shit, shit, shit," he kept muttering under his breath.
*
Inspector Edwards surveyed the ruins of the Linley home with a look of bemusement. He had arrived in that quiet, middle-class street to find two fire engines tackling an intense conflagration.
"Oh, it was just so awful," one of the elderly neighbours was crying, "oh, I swear I could hear the little ones screaming..."
This was no accident. Something was going on. Edwards knew full well that David Carter was a kingpin, and that Rob Linley had been pretty high up in the organisation that used Mile End as a front. Now, a pretender to the throne had appeared on the scene. And if Edwards played his cards right, he might just be able to get in on the ground floor.
He approached one of the firefighters – an older man who looked to be in charge of the operation. "Edwards, Scotland Yard," he announced, presenting his ID card for inspection. "What happened here?"
"Arson," said the firefighter, mopping his brow. "And in broad daylight. One of the worst cases I've ever seen. If we hadn't got here so fast, the whole street could have gone up."
"Anyone inside?"
The firefighter nodded. He was not looking at Edwards; instead, his eyes were glued to the house, as though he expected the survivors to come spilling out of the front door. "Four," he said. "Two adult women, and two kids."
"Oh shit," said Edwards. "Did you get them out?"
"We tried," was the answer. "But we were too late."
Edwards nodded solemnly. "Any witnesses?"
"Neighbours. They say there was a car in the street that disappeared around the time they first began smelling the smoke. I'll bet my pension they were the ones behind it."
*
Wayne Carter straightened his tie and practiced his grin in the mirror. He was about to step onto a stage in the gym hall of a brand new sports academy in the East End of London. This was the sort of thing he did these days: cut the ribbon at cushy media events. He didn't mind it – most of the kids still looked up to him as a hero, even though they knew he would never kick a ball again. And in their round, youthful faces, he perceived the same sense of hope that he himself had known not too long ago. That optimism; that naive certainty that everything would work out alright in the end.
There was a tap on the door. "Two minutes, Mr. Carter."
"No problem," Wayne answered. "On my way."
He stepped out and the PR person for the academy was waiting for him, all smiles. "We've got a lovely crowd," he said, "plenty of press, and a few of the local kids have come down for the photo opportunity."
"How do I look?" asked Wayne.
"Perfect. Very smart. Right this way, sir."
Wayne was led along a corridor towards the main hall, his footsteps echoing. The double doors were held opened for him, and a cheer rose from the crowd as he entered the room. He flashed that grin of his and stepped up onto the stage, waving at the kids.
"Without further ado," the announcer said into the microphone, "here's Wayne Carter!"
Cue more cheering. Wayne stepped up to the mike. "It gives me great pleasure to declare the Tower Hamlets Institute for Wellness and Physical Training open!"
Riotous applause. Cameras. Cheers. Wayne grinned and waved.
In many ways, it was just a textbook personal appearance. Wayne posed for photos, he signed autographs. He looked the part in his tailored suit. He stayed for a cup of weak tea and a sausage roll, and then he made his excuses. His driver was waiting for him in the freshly tarmacked car park, but as he approached the car he became conscious that the reporters were gathering once again. This was unusual – as a rule, the press beat a hasty retreat. These kind of events were deadly dull, after all.
"Mr. Carter!" someone called out. Wayne paused.
Then another voice: "Mr. Carter, can we get a reaction from you?"
Wayne was curious. "Reaction? To what? I'm very happy to be here..."
"About Enrico Brigante!"
"Ah, yeah, well, I'm delighted he's here, I'm sure he'll be a great addition to the team..."
"What, you mean you haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
So they told him.
Once the whole story had been laid out for him, Wayne tried to mask his shock by repeating "No comment," again and again as he dived into the back of his car.
"Get me out of here," he told the driver.
As the car coasted away, he dialled the number Mikhail Popov had given him, but there was no answer. "Fuck," was all he could say when an automated voice prompted him to leave a message. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."
*
Max Linley stood with his hands buried in the pockets of his tracksuit, gnawing on his chewing gum as he watched the Mile End first team go through their training exercises. He was a little distracted this morning. He felt like a schoolkid again, with a whole world of opportunity opening up in front of him. He had checked in with Rob first thing to ensure that everything was going according to plan. The last he had heard, Brigante's plane had just touched down at Heathrow. Which meant of course that David's colossally oversized shipment had also arrived.
Max fidgeted a little, shifting his weight from foot to foot and back again. It dawned on him that he was excited. He smiled to himself. It was a long time since anything had made him feel like this. He checked his watch. If everything had gone according to plan (and why wouldn't it?) the shipment should already have changed hands. They'd have to blacken Rob's eye for him, but it was all in a good cause. You can't break an omelette, et cetera.
He was only a little bit bothered that he had not yet received a call. After all, Rob would have to talk to both police and to David – he probably just hadn't had the chance to ring his dad yet. It wouldn't be long. And who knew what would happen next? By the end of the day, the balance of power would have shifted inexorably. They might even manage to oust David in the next twenty-four hours.
Max had been resisting the urge to keep checking his phone – Rob wouldn't text him; he had promised to call. So, when he felt it begin to vibrate inside his jacket, he fumbled a little while getting it out. The anticipation! It wasn't good for a man of his age.
But when he looked at the screen he saw that it was not Rob on the phone at all. Maybe that was to be expected; maybe his phone had been damaged in the melee and he'd had to borrow somebody else's.
"Hello?" he said.
"Hello. Is that Max?”
"Edwards? What do you want?”
It seemed an unfortunate coincidence that Edwards should be the one looking into the stolen shipment. But it couldn't be helped.
"Mr. Linley, I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you."
"Oh no, what is it...?"
"It's about your son..."
Max tried not to overdo the "shock," but couldn't resist a quick gasp.
"...And your daughter-in-law. And your grandchildren."
Max's heart stopped. This wasn't right. What did Chloe and the kids have to do with any of it? "I'm not sure what you mean," he heard himself say, "has there been some sort of accident?"
"I'm sorry to do this over the phone, Max, but I thought it would be best if I told you before you heard about it in the news. I'm afraid your son, your daughter-in-law and your grandchildren have been killed."
The phone dropped from his hand. He didn't even hear the soft thump as it hit the turf. His chest was tight. He couldn't breathe.
The players carried on playing.
Max felt a kind of heaviness in his limbs. Was he having a heart attack?
But no. That would have been too merciful.
Instead, he turned and saw David Carter approaching him across the field.
The players spotted that something was afoot, and so they stopped what they were doing so they could watch. It wasn't every day that the big boss man came to watch them train.
“Max,” said David.
Max looked at his old friend, his head swimming with terrible thoughts. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to kill David Carter with his bare hands. He didn’t say a word; just stood there and let David give him a hug. He heard his old friend saying “I’m sorry, mate. I’m so sorry.”
