the court.
Reporters, photographers and TV crews had turned out in force to get reactions from all the main players, including DCS Drummond.
The gaffer was surrounded the moment he appeared on the pavement. This was something I’d anticipated, which was why I’d hurried out of the building ahead of him.
I was now standing just far enough away to hear him read out a pre-prepared statement, but in a position where I couldn’t be filmed or photographed.
‘On behalf of Scotland Yard and the task force team, I’d like to say how pleased we are that the judge has seen fit to impose on Harry Fuller such a lengthy period of incarceration,’ he said. ‘We believe it to be wholly appropriate given the nature of the crimes the man has committed over a number of years.’
Unlike me, Drummond relished being in the spotlight. He always came across as supremely cool and self-assured. The fact that he looked like a film star dressed up as a copper no doubt helped to boost his confidence.
He was a fit-looking forty-eight year old, with chiselled features and dark, wavy hair. At six foot four he towered over his immediate colleagues and I’d never seen him dressed in anything other than a smart two-piece suit or uniform.
His statement was short and sweet, and when he was finished the first question came from a BBC reporter who asked, ‘The judge drew particular attention to the task force that’s under your command, detective chief superintendent. Can you just remind us exactly what your remit is?’
Drummond pursed his lips and nodded. ‘The organised crime task force was set up to deliver a decisive blow to the hardened criminals who’ve infiltrated every area of society in London. We’ve been assigned a team of twenty dedicated detectives and thirty support staff, and we work in tandem with the National Crime Agency and Scotland Yard’s specialist divisions.’
As Drummond continued he had to squint against the harsh light from a sun that sat low in the sky. It may have been bright, but there was no warmth in it. I could feel the cold December air through my overcoat and jumper.
It made me shiver, and I suddenly realised how much I was looking forward to the team get-together in the Rose and Crown. A few gin and tonics would soon warm me up.
Drummond had organised the do to celebrate the outcome of this latest case and it was due to kick off in a couple of hours, at five o’clock. But I was sure that my colleagues would start arriving earlier since the pub was only a short walk from the office at Scotland Yard.
As if on cue one of those colleagues suddenly appeared on the scene and when she saw me she came right over.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Kate Chappell said. ‘I thought you were on a day off.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ I said. ‘The look on Fuller’s face when he was told he was going down for thirty years was priceless.’
‘I bet it was. I’m only sorry I missed it. I had a job over in Bermondsey that took longer than expected.’
Kate and I got on well, even though we didn’t have much in common. She was nine years older than me at forty-two and at least two stones heavier. Her hair was short and lifeless and about as hard to control as her weight.
She often joked that I was too pretty to be a copper and that it wasn’t fair that I could eat like a horse and still be a size ten.
But I had a sneaking suspicion that she resented the fact that I outranked her. And if she did I wouldn’t have blamed her because she was a better detective than most of those I’d worked with.
‘Did you drive or come here by tube?’ she asked me.
‘Tube,’ I said.
‘Well, I’ve got a pool car that’s parked around the corner. I can give you a lift to the pub, assuming you’re coming along for the booze up.’
‘Of course I am, which reminds me I ought to call Aidan to tell him what’s happened.’
Kate gestured towards Drummond. ‘I suspect your boyfriend already knows by now. Even before the governor’s finished telling the world how great we are I reckon that everyone with a TV, radio or smartphone will know about the fate of that ghastly gobshite Harry Fuller.’
The DCS was now being asked to reveal details about the crime syndicate which the task force would set its sights on next, and Kate and I listened with interest.
‘I won’t be drawn into naming names,’ Drummond said. ‘But I believe it’s an open secret that our aim now is to bring to justice this country’s most feared and revered organised criminal. He knows who he is and I’m sure he knows that we’re coming for him.’
Slack
It was the first time Roy Slack had heard himself described as the most feared and revered crime boss in the country, and it made him smile.
He knew it to be true, of course, just like he’d known for some time that the Old Bill were going to come after him with everything they had.
But he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. In fact he intended to ensure that it was a move they would come to regret.
He turned his attention away from the huge flat-screen TV on his office wall and said to Danny Carver, ‘Thirty frigging years. The poor sod might as well top himself because he won’t ever be coming out.’
Danny was his most trusted enforcer, a fifty-five-year-old former mercenary whose nickname in the underworld was The Rottweiler. He was a thickset individual with a boxer’s physique and a well-deserved reputation as a violent psychopath, qualities that made him perfect for the job he did.
‘My money was on a fifteen stretch, boss,’ he said. ‘But we should have guessed the bastards would use the poor bugger to send a message to us.’
Slack nodded. Danny was right. This was a crude example of the police and the judicial system working together to show they meant business.
‘The wankers are mistaken if they think it’ll have me shitting in my pants,’ Slack said. ‘Harry Fuller was a fairly easy target, but I won’t be.’
The two men, who were alone in the office, turned their attention back to the TV screen.
Sky News were reporting live from outside the Old Bailey and DCS George Drummond was still responding to questions. He was a smooth-looking bastard who clearly had an inflated opinion of himself.
Slack had met the man on two occasions and he knew their paths would cross again.
‘Seems to me that what that bloke is saying amounts to a declaration of all-out war,’ Danny said.
Slack leaned back in his padded leather chair and swung his shoes up onto the desk.
‘That’s exactly what it is, Danny,’ he said. ‘And if it’s a war they want, then it’s a war they’re gonna get.’
He’d
